‘In that case, may I ask for a favour? I’ve just arrived in Paris from America. I want to ask the waiter how many stamps I need to post this letter, but he doesn’t understand me.’
Popinga called the waiter over, translated, and looked at his companion, who was effusive in his thanks as he stuck stamps on a letter for New Orleans. ‘You’re so lucky to speak French,’ the stranger sighed, folding the blotter. ‘I’ve been really miserable since I got here. People don’t understand me when I ask my way on the street. You know Paris?’
‘A little, yes.’
It amused him to think that in a week, he had had time to explore every quarter of Paris.
‘Some friends have given me a tip, about a bar run by an American, where all the Americans in Paris can meet. Do you know it?’
The man was no longer young. He had grey hair, broken blood vessels in his cheeks and a cherry nose which revealed his liking for strong liquor.
‘Apparently it’s somewhere near the Opera, but I’ve been looking for half an hour without finding it.’
He took a scrap of paper from a pocket of his large overcoat.
‘It’s in Rue . . . wait a minute . . . Rue de la Michodière . . .’
‘Yes, I know the street.’
‘Is it far from here?’
‘Five minutes on foot.’
The other man paused, then said hesitantly:
‘Would you be willing to accompany me there for an aperitif? I haven’t spoken to anyone for two days.’
And what about Popinga? It was a week since he had spoken to anyone.
Five minutes later, the two men were walking along the boulevard, and a street hawker, hearing them speak English, offered them some ‘special’ postcards.
‘What are those?’ the American asked.
And Kees blushed as he replied:
‘Oh nothing, just some stuff they try to sell tourists.’
‘Have you lived in Paris long?’
‘Quite a while, yes.’
‘I’m only here for a week, before moving on to Italy, then I’m going back home to New Orleans. Do you know it?’
‘No.’
People turned round to look at them. They were typical foreigners, strolling along the boulevards with an air of confidence, talking loudly, as if no one could understand them.
‘Here’s the street,’ Popinga said.
He was cautious enough to think he should say nothing too compromising to this man. If by chance he was connected to the police, or to Louis’s gang, there would be a heavy price to pay.
He pushed open the door of an unfamiliar bar, and was at once impressed by the décor and the atmosphere.
• • •
This was something quite new for him. It wasn’t France, it was the United States. Around a high mahogany counter, a number of tall and burly men were talking in loud voices, drinking and smoking, while two barmen, one of them Chinese, were busy serving whiskies and huge glasses of beer. On the mirrors, writing in white chalk listed the beverages.
‘A whisky for you?’
‘Yes, please!’
For Popinga, it was a change from the French brasseries of the last few days, which he was getting to know by heart, with their nickel bowls on cast-iron stands for rinsing out cloths, their little bookcases holding the telephone directories, their cashiers perched on high chairs, their waiters in white aprons.
Here, the bar made him think of something else, a long sea-voyage, landing at some faraway port. Kees listened and realized that most of the customers were discussing that afternoon’s races, while the largest man, who had four chins and a brown check overcoat, like French caricatures of Americans, was taking bets.
‘Are you in business too?’ his new friend asked him.
‘Yes . . . I’m in wholesale grains.’
He was saying this because he knew something about grains, which had been part of the concern of the De Coster firm.
‘I’m in leather. Would you like some sausages? Yes, you really should. I’m sure the sausages are excellent here, because this is America and American sausages are the best in the world.’
People were coming and going. Thick cigarette smoke surrounded the bar and the walls were decorated with photographs of American sportsmen, mostly with dedications to the café owner.
‘Say, it’s swell here, isn’t it? The friend who told me about it said it was the friendliest place in Paris. Two whiskies, barman.’
Then straight away with a moist-lipped smile:
‘Is it true that French women are friendly to foreigners? I haven’t had time to go and sample the nightlife in Montmartre, I must confess it scares me a bit.’
‘What’s there to be scared of?’
‘Well, back home, they say that there are plenty of crooks up there, more cunning than our gangsters, and that foreigners are often robbed. You haven’t been robbed, have you?’
‘No, never. And I’ve often been to Montmartre.’
‘And you’ve been with women?’
‘Yes.’
‘And they didn’t have an accomplice hiding in the bedroom?’
This helped Popinga to forget for a while the treacherous behaviour of Chief Inspector Lucas. Here, he was the experienced person, the one who could advise a beginner. The more he looked at his companion, the more naive he found him, more naive even than a Dutchman.
‘Their pimps aren’t in the bedroom, they wait for them outside.’
‘What for?’
‘No reason. They’re just waiting. You don’t need to be scared.’
‘Do you carry a revolver?’
‘No, never!’
‘In New York, when I went there for business, I always carried a gun.’
‘But this is Paris!’
The sausages were good. Popinga drained his glass and found it full again.
‘Are you staying in a good hotel?’
‘Yes, very good.’
‘I’m at the Grand,’ the stranger said. ‘It’s excellent.’
And he proffered a box of cigars, from which Kees took one without embarrassment, because just once, after all this time, and especially in this environment, he could allow himself the luxury of smoking a cigar.
‘You don’t know where they sell American newspapers, do you? I’d like to check the Stock Exchange reports.’
‘In all the kiosks. There’s one about fifty metres from here, along the street.’
‘Do you mind if I nip out for a moment? I’ll be right back. Order us a couple more sausages!’
There were fewer customers now as it was one o’clock and most of the other drinkers had left to have lunch elsewhere. Popinga waited five minutes, was surprised not to see his companion return, then thought about something else, and when he next looked at the clock, it was a quarter past one.
He had not noticed that the bartender was watching him closely, nor that he turned round to whisper something to his Chinese colleague.
The whisky had done him good. He felt in better shape. He would still be fit enough to deal with whatever Lucas or Louis and their like could throw at him, and he promised himself that this very afternoon, he would devise a plan that would amaze them and would oblige the journalists to refer to him in very different tones.
Why hadn’t the American come back? He surely couldn’t have got lost! Popinga opened the door, and looked out on to the pavement, saw the newspaper kiosk at the corner of the street, but of his companion there was no trace.
Then he laughed bitterly at the idea that he had just been swindled, and that the other man had left him to pay the bill.
Just another little misfortune! He was getting used to them.
‘Barman, another whisky, please.’
He could get drunk. He was sure that whatever happened, he’d keep a cool head, and would not do anything to give himself away.
To pass the time, he went over to a machine that distributed chewing-gum, then he asked for another cigar, because he had dropped his on the
floor, then he looked round, and became aware that the bar was now completely empty and that the Chinese waiter was eating his lunch, alone at the back of the room, while the other bartender was sorting out the glasses.
How cunning of the other man to have tricked him into paying for four sausages and several whiskies! He wasn’t rich, certainly. He needed his money more than anyone, because for him it was, so to speak, a matter of life and death. One detail summed up the whole story: when a shirt was dirty, he couldn’t have it laundered, so he had to buy another and throw into the Seine a shirt that had only been worn for a few days, and was practically new.
Why not order another sausage, and then that would do for his lunch? And it occurred to him that he might go and spend the afternoon at the races, which would do him good, since it was exhausting walking round the same places all the time.
He was about to open his mouth when the barman too, as if by chance, began to speak. Popinga let him begin first.
‘Excuse me for asking, but do you know the gentleman you came in with?’
What should he reply? Yes or no?
‘Well, slightly.’
The barman looked awkward and went on:
‘You know what he does?’
‘He’s in the leather trade.’
The Chinese waiter from the back of the room was listening and Popinga realized that something was in the air, and for a moment was tempted to run out of the door and disappear at top speed.
‘Well, he’s fooled you, then!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I didn’t dare warn you, because there were other people about, and also because I didn’t know whether you were a friend of his.’
And the barman, as he picked up a bottle of gin, sighed:
‘So it’s the same old story, I should have known.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I know. You soon will. Do you have a lot of money on you?’
‘Quite a bit.’
‘Well, check your wallet. I don’t know which pocket you usually keep it in, but I’m prepared to bet anything you like it isn’t there now.’
Popinga patted his pockets and felt his throat constrict. As the barman had predicted, his wallet was no longer there.
‘You didn’t notice that while he was chatting and joking, he kept digging you in the ribs? That’s his speciality. I’ve known him for ten years. The police know him too. One of the most skilful pickpockets in Europe.’
For a second, Kees closed his eyes. For that same second, his hand went to the pocket of his overcoat.
As if the theft of all his money, his only resource in his struggle, were not enough, the American had also taken his razor, deceived no doubt by the shape of its wrapping, and thinking it contained something valuable.
Thousands of people might have been victims of a pickpocket that day in Paris. For most of them, if not all, it would simply mean that they lost a sum of money, great or small.
But there was one person, and only one, whose twelve hundred francs and his razor were, so to speak, his lifeline! Kees Popinga! And this man, more than anyone else, was on the defensive. Since that morning, fate had shown him, in the shape of a newspaper article, a threatening face.
And he had thought he could take a break, a kind of respite. He had accepted the whisky and sausages, and the conversation, which was such a change from his perpetual soliloquy.
‘I was on the point of warning you. But you weren’t looking at me. And then, as I said, I thought perhaps you were a friend of his, even a partner in crime.’
Popinga addressed a weak smile at the barman, who was apologizing.
‘Did you lose a lot of money?’
‘No, not much,’ Kees, replied, maintaining his near-angelic smile. No, he hadn’t lost a lot of money, or a little. He had lost it all! Everything a man can lose, stupidly, by chance, yes, it was the fault of chance, which had decided to cheat him, the same way both Louis and the police were cheating him.
He couldn’t make up his mind to leave. He looked at the floor, because he had felt a prickling under his eyelids and he was afraid of letting tears fall.
It was too much! Too stupid! And too gratuitous!
‘Do you live far from here?’
He gave a smile. A real one. He still had the strength to do that.
‘Yes, quite a long way.’
‘Listen. I trust you, I’ll lend you twenty francs for a taxi. I don’t know whether you’ll be reporting this to the police. It would really be a good thing for everyone if they could arrest him.’
Kees nodded. He wanted to sit down and think, put his head in his hands and burst out laughing or crying. It wasn’t just stupid. It was revolting, and he was convinced that he had not deserved this.
What had he done? Yes, what had he done? Apart from . . .
Apart from one small thing, obviously, but he had considered it justified. Only he hadn’t thought it through. It had been because of his hatred for Rose . . . An instinctive hatred, that had no precise grudge to explain it . . . And he had written to Chief Inspector Lucas to denounce the gang.
But did that deserve, as a consequence . . .?
He took the twenty francs the barman gave him. He looked up and saw his own face in the mirror, through the chalked-up lists of drinks on the glass, a face that expressed nothing, neither sorrow nor despair, nothing at all, a face that looked like one he had seen ten years before in Groningen, the face of a man who had been knocked down by a tram, and both of whose legs had been cut off. The injured man did not yet know that. He had not had time to register the pain. And while other people were fainting on the street all round him, he had been looking at them with an incommensurable astonishment, wondering what was wrong with them and what had happened to him, why he was there on the ground in the middle of a screaming crowd.
‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered. ‘Thank you.’
He opened the door. Then he had to walk, but he was unconscious of the direction he had taken, the people he was jostling against, or the fact that he was talking to himself.
They had cheated. That was the only self-evident truth. They were all cheating, in their fight with him. They were cheating because he was too clever, and could not be beaten by playing straight.
That famous Chief Inspector Lucas, who did not dare publish his own photograph, was the number-one cheat, and was not above making bad poker moves, letting people think he was in Lyon and knew nothing about any car thieves.
Louis had cheated, because he was doing deals with the police. And Jeanne Rozier, she was a cheat too.
Popinga would not have believed it of her. If the attitude of the others filled him with indignation and disgust, her treachery hurt, because he had always thought there was something between them.
And the proof of that was that he had not killed her!
And now chance had cheated him too, by sending him this vulgar American, who did nothing but pick the pockets of his drinking companions.
And who would have no use for a razor that had cost sixteen francs.
It was too stupid.
And simply nauseating.
11.
How Kees Popinga learned that a tramp’s suit of clothes can cost as much as seventy francs, and how he preferred to strip naked
It was possibly even more exhausting to think than to walk. Especially since Popinga had decided to do so seriously, to get to the bottom of things, to think it all through from A to Z, and review everything that could possibly concern himself, Kees Popinga.
Hadn’t the despicable Chief Inspector Lucas and the insignificant Louis decided that he should no longer have the right to think in peace, and had not an amiable pickpocket robbed him of even the possibility of sitting down somewhere?
Because to sit down in Paris requires money! Kees had been reduced, at about five o’clock, to go and think inside a church, where rows of candles were burning in front of an unfamiliar saint. Afterwards, he had no recollection of what he had done. No
t that it mattered in the least. What mattered was that he should think, that he suddenly stopped dead in the course of his thinking because a passer-by was staring at him, and that Kees gave a start and felt the need to run away, but that he reasoned with himself, then had great difficulty retrieving the thread of his ideas.
Or sometimes, it was a trivial little idea that came and perched on top of the others and became unduly important, distracting him from his main train of thought.
The number of hours he had been walking was nobody else’s business and he had no need for anyone to feel sorry for him, since he did not feel sorry for himself. But the fact was that he had no right to stop walking! With only twenty francs in his pocket, he could not go into a hotel. As for the cafés that stay open most of the night, they were just the sort of place where he might get caught.
If he had been wearing shabby clothes, it might have helped. Then he would be able to sleep under a bridge: but a tramp wearing clothes of good quality like his own would have aroused suspicion.
So he walked. No one distrusts a man who is walking along with the air of going somewhere. Only he was not going anywhere, and from time to time, when he was sure of being alone in a street, he would stop on a doorstep.
And where had his thinking got him? Here came a new idea, to distract him, a thought or perhaps a sensation.
It felt like when Frida had been born.
Why? He would have found that hard to say. He was walking along the banks of the Seine, very far from the centre, perhaps already outside Paris. At the water’s edge, there were huge factories, their many windows illuminated, while their chimneys lit up the sky with a blaze of flame.
It was raining, slanting rain. Perhaps that was it, since when his daughter had been born it had been raining too. It was in summer, but the rain was falling at just the same angle. And it must have been about the same time of day. No, because it was summer, and the sun rises earlier. Well, never mind. It had been before daybreak, and Popinga had gone to pace about outside the house in the rain, bare-headed, hands in pockets, looking up at the windows on the first floor. In the working-class district across the bridge, other windows were lit up, and he had imagined people struggling out of bed and washing their faces.
The Man Who Watched the Trains Go By Page 17
