by Jean Echenoz
I walked to the town of Le Blanc-Mesnil, far enough to glimpse in the distance the two launch rockets Ariane 1 and Ariane 5, spires marking the site of the Musée de l’Air et de l’Espace. As I was crossing the overpass spanning the Autoroute du Nord, bristling with anti-noise barriers, Avenue de la Division-Leclerc turned into Avenue du 8 Mai 1945* before recovering its old name of Route de Flandre a little farther, toward the northeast. I tried to get as close as I could to those rockets, which strangely became harder and harder to see the nearer I got, but I put off my visit to the museum for another day. I was in no rush. Besides I was now seriously hungry.
Betraying L’Aviatic, I spotted an establishment of the truck stop kind called Au Bon Accueil. I went in this “Welcome Inn” and was in fact not too badly received; I sat at the bar, the hostess was a pleasant blonde and rather pretty, which cheered me up. When I asked without much hope if there might, by any chance, be a possibility of having a salami sandwich—I was still following, obviously, a certain train of thought—I was quite startled to hear the prompt riposte: plain or garlic? Disconcerted by such variety, in my flusterment I forgot to consider the possibility of a cornichon option, but now that I think back on it, I feel sure that would have worked. So I simply replied plain. With a glass of red. (This glass had become a deliberate imperative, even a compulsion that I will not have the cheek to qualify as a matter of style.) While awaiting my order, I discreetly observed my neighbors at the bar: two men drinking beer were followed by two men drinking kirs. Hardly any truck drivers remained, I felt, among the clientele, who seemed more like employees of the nearby airport or of security or property-caretaking companies—at least that’s what I thought I could deduce from reading the writing on the backs of their jackets. I ate my sandwich while glancing through my newspaper.
I then decided to stroll back to the station without any rush, tracing the same route, taking care only to avoid using the same sidewalks, for a fresh point of view, which allowed me to take a closer look at the police station building than I’d gotten the other day: this time three windows (out of ten) were open. Definite progress.
To take the edge off my betrayal, I dropped by L’Aviatic after all for coffee. Next door was the Cinéma Aviatic, a defunct movie theater, worse than defunct, like a carcass left to rot without burial. On the blind wall of its façade, traces yet remained of poster frames, remnants of words; the doors had been walled up and over them hung torn posters advertising musical and sportive entertainments. High on this rectangular surface, the only opening—at one time the projectionist’s window for fresh air, perhaps—was plugged with a colorful but moldy old blanket. This wall was clearly no longer a good place to lean while waiting for the 152 bus.
And yet, everything had gone well for this movie theater at first. Named for its proximity to the airport, L’Aviatic had opened between two wars: behind a splendid façade decorated in bas-relief, huge crowds packed an immense theater seating twelve hundred and which, thirty years later, was renovated for the projection of 70-millimeter films and which, ten years later, had been demolished to make way for a three-theater complex and which, twenty years later, had shut its doors forever and which, today, bought up by the adjacent brasserie of the same name, was now in a state of such abandonment that one felt like crying: histoire du cinéma.
Meanwhile, along the same sidewalk as the police station, I had also passed the church. It seemed to me quite difficult to talk about Le Bourget’s church, consecrated to Saint Nicholas; difficult, because one wouldn’t want at all to seem unkind. But it had to be said that it was a crummy church, really crummy, so crummy that it became touching. Very discreet and almost unassuming, it even seemed so conscious of its ugliness that one could feel nothing but affection for it.
When I drew nearer, to my extreme surprise I saw affixed to the left of the church entrance an official sign proclaiming it a historic monument. At first I wondered through what string pulling, influence peddling, and dark machinations such a homely building had managed to be thus classified, obtaining that prestigious designation—until I learned that it had seen quite an eyeful, this church. Like the Cinéma Aviatic, it had had its adventures: built in the fifteenth century, dedicated to Saint Nicholas in the sixteenth, fallen into ruin and demolished two hundred years later, rebuilt then remade into a Temple of Reason under the Revolution, dedicated to the Supreme Being by the Convention,5 pillaged in 1815,6 bombarded during the War of 18707 (during which it served as a fallback position for French and Prussian soldiers in alternation—witness the bullet damage to the tympanum over the church door), reconstructed two years before the one of ’14, the church had well deserved a bit of a breather and, quiet at last, to achieve the title of monument. But it was closed. One couldn’t go inside. Its fate moved me. I phoned the curé.
That is how on the following Sunday—the fifth Sunday in liturgical Ordinary Time—I went to Mass at Saint-Nicolas du Bourget, along with my ballpoint pen and Colombian notebook. It was extremely cold and, out the train window, what did I now see that I hadn’t seen before? A mushroom-shaped water tower, a bulk paper recycling plant (where, I happened to reflect with some melancholy, this notebook might end up): not much, actually. But above all I was able to verify that what I had taken for a slum was one, in fact, right by the headquarters of Paprec, a leader in the collection, recycling, and valorization of waste—and of that proximity, make what you will.
So having arrived at Le Bourget, I went directly to the church and along the way I spotted a stela that had until then escaped my notice, standing in front of the community center. It was a stone parallelepiped, carved with palms and a broken sword, with this inscription at its base (capital letters and Roman numerals):
Bourget October 30 December 31 1870
They died to defend the fatherland
The sword of France broken in their valiant hands
Will be forged anew by their descendants
I went on my way.
The church was almost full, a good half of those present being African or West Indian, or Guyanese, perhaps. The five paintings decorating the side walls presented grim episodes of the Franco-Prussian War, one of which was set inside the church itself, with a toppled confession booth in the background. In bellicose echo, the altar decorated with what must be described as incrustations bore only two inscriptions, the dates 1914 and 1918—because there is more to life than 1870. Three figures stood there, as they often do: Joseph, John the Baptist, and Mary. She, in bas-relief, appeared here as Our Lady of the Wings, protectress of aviators, in homage to the town’s aeronautical past. She had wings like an angel and—doubtless to fly even faster—was framed as if in parentheses by two big plane propeller blades, one of them rather primitive (frankly, rather board-like), and the other more classically shapely. As for the rest, the stained-glass windows weren’t terrible, being vaguely coloristic abstractions of the kind popular in the mid-nineteenth century, while near the ceiling five (out of ten) heaters barely of more recent vintage seemed to be in working order. They labored somewhat in vain, actually, functioning so little that I couldn’t stay there more than forty-five minutes, I was so cold, but still I did wait until the end of the homily. It was well done, the homily, typical but well done.
Leaving the church, I was almost as hungry as I was cold, but, no sandwich on the horizon. A winter Sunday, late morning, northeastern suburb: empty streets, few passersby, even establishments still ordinarily open were closed. Giving up on my sandwich, I turned right, heading back toward the station and walked to the cemetery at a brisk pace in an attempt to get warm. The cemetery was farther away than I’d have thought and I even almost lost heart but I persevered. I found it, I went in and I was all alone there when, after a few moments, no: I saw a lady appear in the distance with a watering can. Like the church and the entire town, the cemetery bore definite signs of having been affected by both war and aviation, sometimes in combination: the graves of soldiers and pilots, funeral plaques showing images of
medals, busts topped with helmets or kepis.
The place wasn’t too bad, but soon a few broken and gaping tombs—I’d never seen such a thing—began to make me feel uncomfortable. I didn’t venture to peer inside their dilapidation, I walked away. Then I noticed a full-size statue of a soldier in the war of 1870. Its face half corroded by erosion, it had unwillingly become a frightening effigy of the gueules cassées8 of the following war, men with monstrously disfigured faces, and there, beneath that icy sky, something like a sickening feeling came over me: I left without looking back. I went toward the station and tried to think about what I was going to have to eat. On the way to the train I saw hardly anyone. The church, by that time, must have been empty. L’Aviatic was deserted. Police headquarters was all shut up. And this cemetery, in the end, was of hardly any interest save that—not so slight—of being ingeniously located on an extension of Rue de l’Égalité, where equality is extended to everyone.
CREDITS
These stories, now slightly modified, were published in the following works or periodicals.
Marie-Paule Baussan provided the idea behind “Nelson”: Le Garage, no. 1, 2010.
“The Queen’s Caprice” (“Caprice de la reine”) was written for Jean-Christophe Bailly: Les Cahiers de l’École de Blois, no. 4, January 2006.
“In Babylon” was commissioned by William Christie and Les Arts Florissants to mark their recording of Handel’s oratorio Belshazzar in October 2013.
“Twenty Women in the Jardin du Luxembourg, Clockwise” is included in Sophie Ristelhueber’s Le Luxembourg, Paris-Musées, 2002.
An extract from “Civil Engineering” was sent to Patrick Deville, literary director of the Maison des Écrivains Étrangers et des Traducteurs de Saint-Nazaire, and appeared in a bulletin of that organization’s international writers’ symposia: meeting, no. 4, 2006.
“Nitrox” was published in Tango, no. 1, May 2010.
“Three Sandwiches at Le Bourget” took shape in the context of a theatrical project in 2014, stemming from a suggestion by Gilberte Tsaï.
NOTES
Nelson
1. The War of the Second Coalition (1799–1802) was waged by the conservative European monarchies (led by Britain, Austria, and Russia) against revolutionary France, where Napoléon had taken charge as first consul late in 1799. When Russia pulled out to form the League of Armed Neutrality with Denmark-Norway, Sweden, and Prussia, the British saw this as a threat to their naval supremacy and vital trade advantages. On April 2, 1801, Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson led the main attack in the first Battle of Copenhagen against a Danish-Norwegian line anchored just off the city, and after an extremely hard-fought engagement, he carried the day. Command of the British fleet was transferred to Lord Nelson, who became Viscount Nelson of the Nile. In March 1802, Britain and France signed the Treaty of Amiens, temporarily ending hostilities between them and bringing peace to Europe for fourteen months.
2. The origin of the phrase to turn a blind eye is often said to arise from an incident during the first Battle of Copenhagen, when the commander of the British fleet there signaled Nelson to withdraw if he felt it advisable. Lifting his glass to his blind eye, Nelson turned toward the signal flags, announced “I really do not see the signal,” and fought on to victory.
3. After Trafalgar, the British Admiralty honored John Pollard, a midshipman on the HMS Victory, for avenging Lord Nelson’s death. In The Life of Nelson, Robert Southey relates that Pollard and another midshipman, Francis Edward Collingwood, had returned fire at the French ship Redoutable. When only two snipers remained alive in her mizzen-top, Pollard shot one, then both Pollard and Collingwood shot the other after an old quartermaster, who’d recognized the Frenchman’s distinctive hat and garb, identified him as the man who’d shot Nelson.
Southey mentions Guillemard in a footnote, for the matter of Nelson’s death took a startling turn with the publication in Paris, in 1826, of the Mémoires de Robert Guillemard, sergent en retraite, suivis de documens historiques, la plupart inédits, de 1805 à 1823, a supposed autobiography of the French sniper who shot Nelson. The narrator recounted a life of such astonishing incident that the book aroused interest not only in France but in England and Germany as well, but it also met with skepticism because of many errors and grandiose, Zelig-like assertions. The author claimed, in particular, to have witnessed the assassination of Vice Admiral Pierre-Charles-Jean-Baptiste-Silvestre de Villeneuve, supposedly at the orders of Napoléon, in retaliation for his dismal performance in command of the French fleet at Trafalgar. Four years later, one J.A. Lardier confessed that he was the real author of the book and had invented Guillemard: “Lettre de l’auteur des Mémoires du sergent Robert Guillemard, publiés en 1826 et 1827, qui déclare que tout ce qu’il a raconté sur la mort du vice-amiral Villeneuve est une fiction, et que Guillemard est un personnage imaginaire,” Annales maritimes et coloniales, 1830, 2ème partie, tome 2, pp. 185–87.
The Queen’s Caprice
1. A little place called Le Pirli, village of Argentré, Laval district. (Author’s note.)
2. Septentrion is an obsolete term meaning the “northern regions” or, simply, the “north.”
Twenty Women in the Jardin du Luxembourg, Clockwise
1. For pictures of each statue and a brisk review of the lives of these remarkable women—and they are, all of them, even the mythical ones, remarkable women—consult the Internet to visit the site “ladies-of-luxembourg-garden.xhtml.” The statues are elegant and peaceful; the life stories behind many of them beggar description.
Civil Engineering
1. The brotherhood of the Fratres Pontifices was supposedly founded in the late twelfth century by Saint Bénézet, who, inspired by a vision, built the famous bridge over the Rhône at Avignon between 1177 and 1185. Saint Bénézet was a historical personage, but medieval scholars have essentially discounted as a romantic fiction the idea of a monastic order devoted to the pious work of helping pilgrims by building bridges, hospices, and ferry landings. Such work was almost always performed by lay organizations of masons and stonecutters hired on an ad hoc basis, but hagiographic works about Saint Bénézet popularized his legend and inspired early authors to elaborate upon these “brotherhoods,” until historians of the late eighteenth century began correcting the record.
2. A voussoir is a wedge-shaped unit in an arch or vault. All such units are voussoirs, but the center piece at the apex or crown of the arch is the keystone. At the base of each side, or haunch, of the arch sits the lowest wedge-shaped unit, the springer. This piece “springs” up to begin the curve of the arch and itself rests on the impost, the top unit of the abutment supporting the haunch.
3. “Hej, Sloveni,” naturally enough, means “Hey, Slavs!” and is an anthem dedicated to all Slavic peoples.
4. Nattier blue, a “moderate azure,” is named after Jean-Marc Nattier, who became popular as a portrait painter at the court of Louis XV, specializing in allegorical—and flattering—depictions of ladies in classical mythological attire.
Nitrox
1. Chimaeras, like sharks, are cartilaginous fish, but they branched off from those relatives about 400 million years ago, during which time they morphed into some very bizarre-looking creatures indeed. The “real” Chimera, after which they are named, was a fire-breathing monster composed of a lion, a goat, and a snake that was eventually killed by Bellerophon and the winged horse Pegasus. That immortal horse was sired by Poseidon out of the gorgon Medusa, from which comes the French word for jellyfish, méduse, so when Echenoz evokes méduses, chimères, daphnies, and so on, he is delicately skimming the abundance of mythological referents swimming around in the ocean.
Three Sandwiches at Le Bourget
1. This last story, a deceptively low-key affair, is full of dutifully noted street names mapping the narrator’s peregrinations. France has been around for a long time and tends to avoid “Elm Street,” etc., in favor of more robustly evocative names that often mean nothing to foreigners but offe
r instant backstory to the French. Such stories provide a valuable dimension to this text, so here is a bit of background for some of the more important street references, marked in the text by asterisks.
MAUBEUGE: Inhabited since about 256 A.D., this place has had a tumultuous history, passing in and out of various hands until landing in French ones for good in 1678. Maubeuge was besieged and taken by the Germans in 1914, who returned in 1940 to firebomb more than 90 percent of it—including the historic city center—into ashes.
DUNKIRK: Originally a fishing village on what is now the English Channel, Dunkirk was for centuries the plaything of Vikings, counts, kings, popes, dukes, archdukes, pirates, and various European nations. In May–June 1940 it was the scene of the Miracle of Dunkirk, in which more than 900 vessels evacuated some 340,000 Allied forces threatened by a German advance. During the German occupation, Allied bombers destroyed most of the town.
LA COURNEUVE: This small medieval village close to Paris eventually became a fashionable country retreat for the gentry, with two notable châteaus. In the 1960s, with immigration from former French colonies pressuring the expanding population of Paris, the construction of public and low-cost housing boomed in many suburbs of the capital, and the population of La Courneuve essentially doubled. Emblematic of La Courneuve’s proud industrial past and turbulent history of working-class struggles, the Mécano factory, opened in 1914 and specializing in precision tool manufacturing, was finally forced to close in 1978 but will reopen as a multimedia and administrative center.
