by Claude Izner
‘It seems that Gauguin has gone off to Brittany to nurse his resentment.’
‘It’s his new passion. Armorique does rhyme with Martinique, after all. He painted The Mangoes there. Have you seen them on the left?’
Shut up, please make them shut up! Victor moved aside to escape these remarks.
‘What’s this then? Painting with Petrol? Why not in charcoal? And who is Nemo?’
Victor withdrew to the back of the room, in desperate need of a tonic.
‘You! What are you doing here?’ Hanging on the arm of the bearded painter he had seen in Montmartre, Tasha did not hide her surprise. ‘Maurice, this is Monsieur Legris, bookseller and amateur photographer. Monsieur Legris, this is Maurice Laumier, painter and engraver.’
Victor reluctantly shook the outstretched hand. He instantly took against Laumier: Tasha spoke to him in a familiar way and called him ‘Maurice’!
She noticed Danilo Ducovitch, lost in the sea of tables. ‘I’ll be back. Why don’t you get to know each other?’ she said to them as she walked away.
Laumier laughed disdainfully. ‘Bookseller-cum-photographer, eh? There certainly aren’t many of you around!’
Victor sensed that Laumier had decided to provoke him. He restrained himself and tried to be friendly instead. ‘I spend more time in libraries and dark rooms than in galleries, and I’m very ignorant about artistic terminology. What do. you understand by synthetism?’
Laumier pushed back the hair from his forehead. ‘Do you know Berthelot? No? He successfully performed the first synthetism experiments in organic chemistry. We now know that there is no living organism that cannot be reconstituted by science. Some painters, of whom I’m one, apply this discovery to their work. So we manage to recreate external reality by using modern techniques.’
‘Forgive my naïvety, but what’s new about that? Isn’t the only thing an artist can truly express: here is how I see and feel about the world at a particular moment in my life?’
Laumier did not favour him with a reply.
‘Despite modern methods, my latest negatives merely reproduce what I saw through my viewfinder,’ Victor continued. ‘They were clean, sharp and artificial. I had not been able to imbue them with the slightest puff of life and —’
‘You are surely not claiming to raise photography to the level of painting!’
‘I would never dare risk making such analogies. They each take different routes.’
‘You’re playing with words! It takes months of labour to produce a pictorial work: one’s hand, heart and spirit are all involved in its creation. What you do takes no skill: you just press a button.’
‘What rubbish! One has to know above everything what one wishes to express. One has to get inside the subject, be aware of shadow and light and find the right angle at the right moment. And wait. Sometimes when I’m developing my photographs, I feel a tremendous joy. I think: the photograph of this man or that woman is expressing some profound truth. I’m not touched just by the expression on a face, or a pose, it’s what they suggest to me and what my personal vision, my own sensibility, has screened out. This fleeting moment may have a different meaning for one, ten, a hundred other photographers and the public —’
‘The public! They are always thirty years behind! When they finally understand the artistic revolution of the 1880s, research will have advanced so far that the Academy painters, who are now so fêted and have so many commissions, will seem like prehistoric men!’
‘When contemporary painters accept photography is an art, they will nearly be fossils too!’
They had defied each other and both now turned away. Laumier stomped off.
‘So you got on well, then?’
Victor looked down and his eyes met with a low-cut neckline. Nothing more charming in the world than a bosom, half-hidden, half on view. ‘How long have you been standing here?’ he murmured.
‘A moment or two. You reminded me of a swashbuckling pirate tickling his adversary with the tip of his foil.’
‘Do you think I injured him?’
‘Oh, he’s tough, he’ll get over it. Are you interested in synthetism?’
‘No, I had a business meeting at the bar with an amateur collector of ancient books, a Russian — maybe you’ve heard of him.’
‘Lots of Russians live in Paris. I can’t be expected to know all of them!’
‘No, of course not, but this one is an eccentric. He lives in a rather unique house in the Monceau neighbourhood, stuffed with trinkets, antiques, paintings, plants. The atmosphere there is suffocating.’
‘And what’s this strange bird called?’
‘Constantin Ostrovski.’
‘Ostrovski? Who doesn’t know him! He’s been by the studio several times. Laumier sold him some canvases.’
‘And you?’ Victor asked in a strained voice.
‘Oh, I’m just feeling my way at the moment. I’m far from being ready to show my own work.’
‘Even your Macbeth illustrations?’
‘Oh, I do that just to earn a living.’
‘I’d still like to see them. Did you get much work done yesterday after our outing to the café?’
‘I painted until dusk.’
He was staggered at her sang-froid. She was such an accomplished liar! She looked up at him with a totally innocent expression.
‘We have one thing in common, don’t we, Monsieur Legris: light.’
There was an ambiguous gleam in her eyes. He put a hand on her arm and felt his grip tighten. He became tense; his casual nonchalance had evaporated. The smell of her body at such close proximity awakened his desire. ‘Tasha … this may seem … my God, yes, silly, I imagine …’ He stopped, surprised at what he was about to say, and hurriedly continued: ‘What’s your perfume called?’
She looked as though she could hardly believe her ears, asked him to repeat his question and gave a little laugh. ‘Benjoin,’ she said. ‘It’s also called Encens de Java.’
His fingers pressed even harder. Java, Kenji! Benjoin … What was the name on the label he had found in Kenji’s apartment? It sounded the same …
‘Can you let me go please? I need to say hello to some friends.’
He let go of her arm, touched the pocket of his frock coat, which was misshapen with the little canvas bought in Rue Clauzel. Her voice seemed to come from far away.
‘Don’t forget my Caprichos, Monsieur Legris,’ she ventured.
He did not hold her back. He was relieved she had left with a light-hearted remark. However, his jealousy had grown even stronger.
His head was spinning. He needed to get out of this damned café. He was looking for an exit when somebody rocked him with a slap on the shoulder.
‘Monsieur Bookseller! How delightful! Are you leaving? I’ll come with you. Too many people here. Mademoiselle Tasha is my salvation: thanks to her I’m going to sing at the Opera House. Just think, the Opera-Garnier! I have to audition tomorrow. If my voice is right, and it will be, goodbye to jack of all trades and master of none! Do you sell opera scores?’
‘No, only books,’ Victor said quickly. ‘The second-hand booksellers along the river sell them.’
‘Are you sure you don’t need a second assistant? I’ve read a lot, you know. Mademoiselle Tasha has lent me works. Oh, Balzac, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky! Stories of blood and madness! Where is your bookshop?’
‘Rue des Saints-Pères.’
‘I’ll come and see you … I’ll come and see you.’
‘Of course,’ muttered Victor.
The freshness of the night took him by surprise. He shivered.
‘How beautiful!’ cried Danilo, looking up.
Like the blade of a shining dagger, the Tower tore through the dark sky.
They walked along the French garden. Projectors were casting coloured lights on a monumental fountain with an allegorical theme. Around Humanity, sitting naked on a sphere, five female figures were arranged, each symbolising a continent: dreamy Europe, res
olute America, voluptuous Asia, submissive and fearful Africa and savage Australia. Leaning on America’s thigh, an old man dressed in an African tunic watched the people go by.
‘Good evening, Monsieur photographer, do you remember me?’
‘Yes … yes … Lamba …’
‘Samba Lambé Thiam. Have you my portraits?’
‘They’re at home; I’ll give them to you. May I introduce Monsieur Danilo …’
‘Ducovitch, lyric artist,’ finished the Serb as he crushed Samba’s hand in his own. ‘Which country are you from?’
‘From Senegal. I live in St-Louis.’
‘Is there an opera house in St-Louis?’
‘We have the governor’s mansion, barracks, a hospital, a church and more than five hundred shops. Two schools, a — Oh, it looks like it’s on fire!’
Immense fireworks were erupting from the Eiffel Tower. There were cheers and applause.
‘Have you been up there?’ asked Samba. ‘I haven’t dared.’
‘Several times. I’ve had free tickets. I’ve even signed the Golden Book, though going up the star attraction to enjoy the view is hardly something to boast about! I find there’s rather too much emphasis on consum —’
Victor had pricked up his ears. The whole world seemed to have signed the damned book! He put his hands in the fountain, and the coolness of the water went through his whole body. He was in the wrong mood to spend time in the company of the two men, but he remained there, thinking about Tasha, recalling her attitude, working out the meaning behind her replies and every flutter of her eyelashes. She’ll have to leave in the end. She’ll pass close by here and I’ll go up to her and … If only this idiot would stop spouting nonsense! ‘ … and there are medals on sale for those who want to impress people,’ Danilo went on. ‘Bronze for visitors to the first-floor platform, silver for those on the second, gold for those on the third, except that they are meaningless. You can buy them for half the price on the Boulevards!’
‘So it’s the same as the Legion d’Honneur,’ Samba countered. ‘Apparently one can also buy those. I’ve heard that the former President of the Republic’s son-in-law had been dealing —’
‘Shhh. No need to shout it from the rooftops. Walls have ears,’ Danilo whispered. ‘The Expo is stuffed with informers and policemen, and in the evening there are reinforcements.’
‘Wise precaution,’ Samba approved. ‘Where there’s money you’ll find thieves like flies around a honeypot. Flies are a big problem in my country.’
‘Imagine if a madman took the life of the Prince of Wales or the Shah of Persia, the police could easily blame it on foreigners, and, you know, I want to make a career for myself here in France. Who knows, maybe it’s the nihilists or anarchists who’ve trained killer bees to do away with people.’
Victor could feel himself becoming tense. This fool was really getting on his nerves. To think that Tasha showed him kindness!
‘You have an overactive imagination and a very strange way of reasoning, Monsieur Ducovitch,’ he ventured, slapping the water with the flat of his hand.
‘Oh, I know what I’m saying, and I say what I know. I’ve already been taken for a maniac by a woman. Me, a man who has nothing but respect for the weaker sex!’
‘The weaker sex? What’s that?’ Samba asked.
‘Women,’ grumbled Victor.
‘Women — weak? Maybe in your country, but in mine, in Senegal, they lift loads that not even a mule would carry!’
‘Gentlemen, I bid you good evening,’ said Victor. Having begun to walk away, he changed his mind and turned back. ‘Monsieur Ducovitch, how long have you known Mademoiselle Kherson?’
‘Since I’ve been lodging at the German woman’s place. Let’s see … nine months and five days. Ah, Mademoiselle Tasha … that adorable nymph, my guardian angel! She washes my shirts, she feeds me, she appreciates my singing exercises, I think she’s in love with me! In fact, have I told you that, thanks to her, I’m to be taken on at the Op —’
But Victor had gone.
‘The Op? What’s the Op?’
Danilo turned to Samba. ‘The Opera House. So, you say that St-Louis has no lyric temple? Something ought to be done about that.’
The cannon fire from the Tower at eleven o‘clock took Victor by surprise on the Quai d’Orsay. The Expo was about to close. He walked on, arms swinging, remembering Danilo’s words in time to his steps: they trained killer bees to do away with people. Killer bees. Patinot, Cavendish, both stung by bees? Antonin Clusel was right, you don’t die from a bee-sting. Other than that wretched Golden Book, what might link a penniless widow, an American globetrotter, a Japanese bookseller, a Russian collector … and Tasha? Thinking of her in her little grey dress made him feel as sad as when he had seen her go into Ostrovski’s house.
He arrived at the Pont d’Iéna. At that very same moment the Decauville train whistled past. A plume of smoke stretched up to the tricolour beam projected from the Tower’s beacon. Victor froze. A train, a station, of course … He remembered the article Joseph had shown him in his precious black notebook. Batignolles station. An article from L’Éclair, 13 May ‘89, ‘Killer Bee in Paris’. The dead man had a name like something sweet: Macaroon? Calisson? Marzipan? Meringue … Méring, that was it, Jean Méring.
CHAPTER NINE
Morning, Wednesday 29 June
VICTOR woke with a start. As soon as he opened his eyes, the dream receded, leaving only a bitter aftertaste. He got up and drew back the curtains. Day was dawning and it was already very hot. After washing quickly, he put on a clean shirt and trousers and chose a comfortable pair of shoes. His frock coat was much too heavy for the season. He rummaged in the pockets, throwing his notebooks, wallet and change on the bed, and struggled to pull out the picture wrapped in newspaper. He put on a summer coat and leafed through the notebooks, keeping the one belonging to Joseph. Then he pocketed the various items strewn on the bed and went into his study, where he put his own notebook, along with the picture, at the bottom of one of the drawers of the roll-top desk. He heard Kenji at his ablutions on the other side of the partition and slipped out quietly.
The river had a greenish hue, which was darker under the bridges. Victor paused a moment, long enough to see a barge glide by, a dog running to and fro on its deck.
The booksellers and vendors of sheet music had not yet set up, but all along the riverbank, the carpet cleaners were getting to work, armed with their beaters. Victor crossed Carrefour Saint-Michel, which was crammed with handcarts, trolleys and omnibuses. Not knowing the area well, he decided to branch off towards La Maube.
Below Quai Montebello was the domain of the stevedores. They negotiated like tight-rope walkers the gangways linking the boats to the quay. With bent backs, they carried wicker baskets full of coal or cement on their leather, caped caps. Black dust floated in the air. Victor rubbed his eyelids, swollen from lack of sleep. At Rue de la Bûcherie, with its run-down houses, he passed a succession of shady hotels and cheap eating places offering rotting meat for four sous, and turned right towards Place Maubert. A roadsweeper was gathering up cigar butts from the gutter.
‘Excuse me, where is Rue de la Parcheminerie?’
‘You have to go back the way you came and get back onto Rue Saint-Séverin. You wouldn’t happen to have a couple of coins on you? I’ve got a terrible thirst. Thank you kindly, guvnor!’ cried the man, pocketing the money. ‘I’ll drink your health at Old Lunette’s!’
Victor strode up Rue Lagrange, only recently built through the middle of the slums. As he entered the network of alleys behind the church of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, he reflected that in large cities there were invisible boundaries around affluent neighbourhoods through which one passed suddenly into areas of degradation and misery. Rue Galande looked very much as it would have done in the Middle Ages. Fried-fish vendors and left-over food sellers were setting up their stalls in the wind. Dishes of beetroot sat alongside rounds of cold black pudding. Victor felt as if
he were back in Whitechapel. The drinking dens, the low doorways in decrepit façades, the stands selling second-hand clothes and scrap iron, all set the scene perfectly for a Parisian Jack the Ripper. In the evening the pavements must have been crawling with whores and other shady characters. But at that hour of the morning, only a few tramps the worse for wear after a hard night’s drinking were on the damp pavements.
The contrasting light promised to create some interesting effects, and Victor resolved to return with his Acme.
Like the neighbouring streets, Rue de la Parcheminerie was doomed to poverty and filth. A rat disappeared into a crevice. At the back of a courtyard, a bareheaded woman was washing laundry in a tub, ignoring the cries of a new-born baby. Victor asked her if she knew Jean Méring. She indicated the tall silhouette of a leprous building a little further down. He returned to the street, stepping over a pile of rubbish and passing a wretched-looking carpenter’s workshop, before going down into a passage leading to a second courtyard.
‘Where are you going?’ demanded a rasping voice.
The concierge was eyeing him from the doorway of her lodge. Her long apron covered her from the chest down like a sort of armour. The get-up was completed by a broom, intended to chase away intruders as well as stray sheep.
‘I’m going to visit Jean Méring.’
‘In that case you’ll be needing to go to the cemetery.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘And buried. What did you want with him?’
‘I’m a journalist. I had some questions to ask him.’
‘It’s a bit too late for that. But you could ask old Capus. They were sharing lodgings. When Méring died, Capus stayed, just my luck. Shame it wasn’t the other way round.’
