Rigadoon

by Louis-Ferdinand Celine

  “Lili, I can’t go on … you must be all in yourself … just a minute!”

  We sit down, I wouldn’t call it grass, on a pile of creepers and brambles … they dig into us! … we’re torn to pieces! … we get up, we keep going … ah, now I remember! … I’ve got it! “This way, Lili! … this way!” … now I remember perfectly … it’s a sandy path, funny color, almost pink … years since I’ve been here, long before the war … hey! … this is it! … it all comes back to me … the bench! … and down below, on the other side of the path, the ruins … even the name: the Citadel … well, what’s left of it … a demolished Citadel, razed … a war? … which war? … nothing left but the dungeons in the basement … the bars and chains … all eaten with rust … kind of like lace … all this right beside the sea, I should have remembered … you can hear the pebbles, the lapping of the water … the gulls … good place to rest, not a soul … I’d noticed that before the war … this path was very well kept, clean pink sand, but nobody there … hardly ever … in that case, you’ll say, I must have been easy in my mind! … not at all! … I was worried all the same! … but not enough! I should have thought ten times harder! realized exactly what was lost … and would knock us for a loop! now I know, what good does it do me at the end of my rope? scratching paper for Achille … even insulting him, calling him every name in the calendar, he doesn’t give a shit! gliding ahead to his second billion! I’m at the oars, he’s buggered me good! pretty near a hundred years now that he hasn’t lifted a finger … tomorrow I’ll be gone, so will he … some people circumnavigate the globe in the stratosphere, it’s okay in a galley too, depends how you’re situated, at the oars or on deck … when they came to la Rampe du Pont, Courbevoie, where I started out, it was only to get galley slaves … come on now! my duty! … let’s get on with this story and cut the crap … we’re resting there, I was telling you … across from the Citadel, remember? … the ruins … nobody on the path … at last I could take inventory … I’d been thinking about it for months, so had Lili for sure … but maybe you’ve noticed, we never talked about it, never! … very important, though … we could have been searched, especially, I don’t have to tell you, in Zornhof! … shady characters like us! and just now at the border, in Flensburg … they’d certainly have found it … oh, no explosives! … only our real passports, our marriage certificate, and four ampules of cyanide … all perfectly respectable, you can see … but this cyanide, I was sure, wasn’t wet like Laval’s … genuine potassium cyanide, dry and fatal … I’d gotten it from … from … no, even at this distance I wouldn’t want to compromise anybody … one of these days a Communist historian, yellow no doubt, will write a book: the Martyrdom of the “Collaborators” … in a century, let’s say … my hour will strike … they’ll study my “memorial” in the high schools … are you lucky! you so hungry for novelty thrills, firsts! … and me letting you in on a historic moment that nobody else will find out about for a century … which puts us, you and me … as you can’t fail to realize … plunk in the middle of “relativity”! … we were so early out there, I was sure nobody’d disturb us … Lili knew what I wanted … to see if the stuff I’d put in Bébert’s musette bag in Bezons was still there, our cyanide, our two passports, and our marriage certificate … nothing so important, when everything else is gone, as your marriage certificate … the general hue and cry hadn’t started yet, but I already had a good hunch … “when all is over,” when you’re absolutely down and out, a pustulant leprous criminal! you can expect three things: one, to be accused of going by a false name, false passport, false everything … nothing wrong with our passports, they could put them under the microscope! … sure I could have gotten phony ones, but I didn’t! … naturally my name was no help, article 75 and so on! but there were worse “war criminals” … the ones on the lists in Washington and London … Chief Justice … for two years they poked around, while I was in the lockup, to see if I wasn’t a real “war criminal,” escaped from someplace … and “camouflaged” as Céline … two years they kept me in the pit, while my dossier was ripening, a pretext, a rotten chunk of meat on the dump … pretty much what I still feel like, talking to you now … the second peril of the chase is if they think you’re not married … legally, I mean, no monkey business! … I can assure you that when tomorrow the Communists, Slav, yellow, or black take over, even the Balubas, the first thing they’ll investigate is whether you’re properly hitched … and not just a couple of dissolute pornographic jokers, uncertified … we’d have been separated, we’d never have seen each other again! …

  Even absolutely regular, God knows we had enough trouble! … two years, minute by minute … absolutely dazed in the pitch darkness … wondering if those howls came from “14” … or from across the way … the other pit … some people went through a lot worse, I admit … take Eichmann, the renegade Jew, or Sachs° or Riefensthal, those raving masochist perverts, the punishment they asked for and got!

  Hey, where are we at? … got to get you back! … on that bench, I’ve told you, not a soul far and wide … Lili knows what I’m after … she puts our bag on the bench … Bébert comes out, stretches, I know him, he won’t run away … he’ll stay right near us, in the grass …

  I know what we’ve got to look for, our treasure in the false bottom … lots of times … since Paris … I’ve wanted to take a look … in Sigmaringen they suspected … here it is! the false bottom! … I unfasten it … I look … it’s all there … we haven’t lost a thing … our two passports, our marriage certificate … and a lady’s Mauser … the rest was at the bank, well, supposed to be, I’ve told you, in the city, Landsman Bank, Peter Bang Wej … the bank, in due time, when we’ve rested! … first things first! … I fasten the false bottom … it’s all ready for Bébert again … he catches on right away, he jumps, he settles down, he purrs … he isn’t just any old cat, he understands our living conditions, I’m sure he knows more than he lets on, even about what’s going to happen … an animal’s silence is something … I ask Lili … “you think it’s all there?” … she’s not so sure … “Come on! … to hell with it! … we’ll come back and look another day …” this path is really deserted … but say! … Lili’s eyes are better than mine … it’s nothing … over there in the grass, a bird … but not the usual kind of bird … “collector’s item,” I’d say, from the Jardin des Plantes … about the size of a duck, half pink, half black … and ruffled! feathers every which way … I look further … another! that one I know! … I saw him first! … an ibis … fancy meeting you here! … and an egret! … certainly not from Denmark! … now a peacock … they’ve come here on purpose! … and a lyre bird … they want something to eat … it’s not a very nourishing spot, ruins, brambles, and stones … still another! … a toucan! … they’re only ten fifteen feet away … they’d make friends if we had something to give them, but really we haven’t got a thing … I tell Lili … “close the bag good, don’t let him put his head out!” … I’m thinking of Bébert … surrounded by birds like this, if somebody came along they’d wonder what we were doing, if maybe we wouldn’t be charmers … bird charmers …

  “Let’s get out of here!”

  For us, I think, everything’s dangerous … these birds … I’m sure they’ve escaped from their aviaries … they must have come from down south like us, from zoos in Germany, bombed … anyway, my canes! … I struggle to my feet … and back to the streetcar! … I’ve told you, the terminus … where we came from … we’ll find the way …

  If you ask me, that’s enough … 791 pages … whew! … enough? … enough? … not at all! I’d signed up … I had to finish … oh, not that I gave a damn! … but Achille wasn’t going to shell out any advances for asking myself questions … being neither a queen nor a cokehead nor a common-law criminal, I have no excuse … if you’re a cabinet minister, your debts don’t count … if you belong to some Academy, they’ll understand your weaknesses … but me, suppose I start talking about Journey, that i
t’s a date in history, that everything that’s been written since is “clumsy imitation, lukewarm gook” … they’ll tell me to go fuck myself! …

  “You arrogant old fool! nobody’s even read your Journey!”

  No answer to that one! … the younger generation are absolute idiots, can I help it? … all they’re interested in is the movies! … not a single producer knows how to read … all the more reason! … the movies know nothing, stop at nothing … what audacity! bravo! … you tell yourself that if you manage to turn out 791 pages more or less right side up, it’s plenty! especially as this chronicle isn’t so very gay … and the rest if I finished it wouldn’t exactly make you laugh … not that I go looking for tragedy, mind you! … I do my best to avoid it … but bam! … naturally in the conditions we’re reduced to it tends to catch up with us … if we’d stayed on rue Girardon, we’d have been rubbed out right away … murder with trimmings, “Dental Institute”° or “Villa Saïd”° … Achille’s galley is pretty rough, I admit, especially at my age, but all the same a breeze compared to what we’d have been in for … step one, flayed alive … step two, larded and spitted with small onions and green peppers over a low fire … maybe you think I’m partial … holy cathouse, not at all! … they were the same in both camps! Cousteau was as stinking mean ferocious as Sartre … true as I’m standing here, the Petiots of both camps have the same instruments of torture ready for me … I’ve seen them … same perfected racks and … where? you’ll ask me … okay, I’ll tell you, it won’t cost you anything to look … down under the L.V.F.° office that used to be the “Intourist” … corner of Caumartin and Auber, a deep, enormous cellar, straight out of Piranesi, absolutely incredible! … go see for yourself, they’ve thought of everything … I’ll repeat the address: across the street from the Turkish baths … you see how impartial I am, pure historian … equally sadistic in both camps … only one aim in life: murder! blood and guts! fricasseed brains, slaves to the barracudas, Christians to the jaguars, collaborators to Villa Said … you’ll see a thing or two tomorrow! … foaming kettles on every street corner … for who? … who do you think? for you! to simmer you with the season’s slogans … but one little thing that bothers me … sticks in my craw … their bad manners … if Hitler, for instance, had won, and he only missed it by a hair, take it from me, they’d have been all for him … mad scramble to see who could hang more Jews, who could be a bigger Nazi … extract Churchill’s guts, exhibit Roosevelt’s heart, make the most love with Goering … whichever way it turns out, they all come running, all the same to them which organ they land on as long as they got a thorough fucking … believe you me, a hair and they’d all be sucking Hitler off! …

  I had a right, you’ll admit … 796 pages … to take a breather … oh, not to deliver messages! … the “messagiers” are a different breed, philosophico-addlepated, heaven help you if you mess with them, if you lose yourself in their waves, urinals, terraces, abbeys … complexes, seaweeds, and complications, you’ll never get your bearings again … knock knock! somebody’s there! … wah! grrr! miow! tweet! tweet! … I’m imitating the pack for you … and the trees, you know, the birds … ding-a-ling! the door! … and Flute, the cat … he’s a bold one!…

  “Come in! … come in!”

  “Ah, how are you?”

  It’s Ducourneau! this is serious! … he hasn’t come for nothing … right away we get together … just a few minor questions … that does it! … just an accent here, a comma there … you’ve got to watch out for copyreaders, you see, they operate with “plain common sense” … “plain common sense” is the death of rhythm! … all fuckers of imperfect women, I know whereof I speak … Ducourneau has come to see me for the N.R.F… . you suspected as much, about the last little trifles, the p.e.‘s and tr.‘s … on that God-awful paper from Madame Bolloré‘s vats in earth’s end° … a few slight changes if possible, nobody dares! … imagine! Journey and Death on the Installment Plan … coming out at the end of the year, under his command … and don’t forget it! … as long as he’s here, we talk about one thing and another … Balzac, for instance! … it seems that Balzac came to Meudon … and stayed in Bellevue at the house of Count Apponyi, the Austrian ambassador … Ducourneau is a “Balzacien” and no dilettante … far from it! … serious and thorough! … knocked himself out trying to find a trace of Balzac and this Count Apponyi … no luck! … at the town hall … at the land office … at the notary’s … nothing! … if a reader has any information, would he be kind enough to write … ? Ducourneau changes the subject … “and what about you?” he asks me … “your affairs?”

  “My dear Ducourneau, it’s not the Pléiade with its four percent royalty that’s going to put me on easy street! four percent is kidding the Muses … the Pléiade authors won’t complain, they’re all dead … except two … or three … survivors …

  ‘Lacquer Lock’ … ‘Walking Bust’ … and me-that-gripes … ‘Lacquer Lock’ is rich, ‘Walking Bust’ has no need of anybody, eminent patrician, Olympus’ con man, toast of the Academies …”

  “Your case is hideous indeed, a semi-living ‘Pléiaden,’ virtually unknown, except for your abominable past…”

  Ducourneau was telling the truth, but if I complain about the four percent and tell them their Pléiade is a shameless racket, they’ll tell me to go chase myself, shower me with a new batch of insults, and kick me out of the “cemetery” …

  Ducourneau agrees.

  Same as my father and mother at Père-Lachaise … their names were rubbed out…

  “My dear Balzacien, this state of affairs won’t last!”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? I’ll tell you! … I keep informed! the Chinks, the genuine Chinese, the hard-core, the ones that are going to occupy France … right now they’re bivouacking in Silesia … Breslau and environs … mines and blast furnaces … and there’s more coming! lots more across the steppes … hordes and hordes! … Kirghizes, Moldo-Finns, Balto-Ruthenians, Teutons … you’ll see them at the Porte de Pantin, welcomed by the biggest crowds you ever saw! howling with wine, happiness, freedom!”

  “Bravo! bravo! when are you expecting them?”

  “Soon … say in two three years.”

  “All Communists?”

  “Naturally! but that’s nothing! … the big thing is their blood! … it’s only the blood that counts! they’ve got the ‘dominant blood’ … and don’t forget it!”

  I point out to him that in Byzantium they were worrying about the sex of the angels when already the Turks were shaking the ramparts … setting fire to the low quarters, like here now in Algeria … you won’t see our Great Transitioners worrying about the sex of the angels … or the yellow peril! what they’re interested in is eating … better and better! … and wines to match … menus a yard long! are they or aren’t they the masters of the swillingest nation in the world? and the most saturated? … let the Chinese come if they dare, they won’t get any further than Cognac! the famous yellow peril will end up in the cellars … happy, stewed to the gills! besides, it’s a long way to Cognac … billions and billions of them will be out for the count by the time they get to you know where … Rheims … Epernay … those bubbling depths that cancel our existence …

  CHRONOLOGY

  1894 Louis-Ferdinand Destouches born on Courbevoie (Seine),

  son of Ferdinand Destouches, minor employee of an

  insurance firm, and Louise-Céline Guillou, lacemaker.

  1905 Certificat d’études. Starts work as an apprentice and

  messenger boy.

  1912 Enlists for three years in the 12th Cavalry Division.

  1914 Wounded in Poelcapelle, Flanders. High military honors.

  Severe head and arm injuries resulting in 75 percent disability

  rating and withdrawal from active service.

  1916 Trip to Cameroons with Occupation Services. Malaria.

  Amoebic dysentery. Travels to London for Armament Service.

  19
17 Obtains baccalaureate degree. Preparation completed on

  his own.

  1918 Begins medical studies in Rennes.

  1919 Marriage to Edith Follet, daughter of the director of the

  medical school.

  1920 Daughter, Colette, born.

  1924 Diploma from the Faculté de Médecine in Paris. Doctoral thesis

  on Semmelweis. Missions for Rockefeller Foundation in Geneva

  and Liverpool.

  1925 Further travel in Cameroons, United States, Canada and Cuba.

  Divorced.

  1928 Sets up practice in Clichy. General practitioner, specialist in

  children’s diseases.

  1932 Voyage au bout de la nuit published by Denoël and Steele.

  1933 L’église, Celine’s only play.

  1936 Mort à crédit. Trip to Russia financed by royalties from

  Russian translation of Voyage by Louis Aragon and Elsa Triolet.

  Upon return, denounces communist society.

  1937 Bagatelles pour un massacre, racist pamphlet, followed by two

  similar works ( 1938, 1941 ).

  1939 Attempts to enlist. Rejected due to ill health. Ship’s doctor,

  then runs dispensary in Sartrouville. Leaves Paris.

  Ambulance service. Returns to practice in Montmartre.

  1942 Trip to Berlin.

  1943 Marriage to Lucette Almanzor, a dancer.

  1944 Guignols band published by Gallimard. Leaves Paris in an

  attempt to reach Denmark, accompanied by his wife, his cat

  Bébert, and a movie actor, Le Vigan. Imprisoned in Berlin,

  then goes into exile in Sigmaringen.

  1945 With his wife and cat, crosses Germany on foot amid bombardments. Hides in Copenhagen. French legation asks for his

  arrest. Fourteen months in the prison of Vensterfangsel.

  1947 Released. Lives in an attic on the Princessgade, then in a hut on

  the Baltic Sea.

  1950 Condemned by a French court to a year of prison,