The day came when Master Thibaudat sensed that his powers were failing. He feared that he no longer had the vital energy he needed to be able to do his job. His only son‚ Honoré‚ was a now grown man: for his eighteenth birthday he’d been given a new bicycle and a pair of long trousers. His third pair.
Under solemn oath to hold his tongue‚ Honoré was initiated into the family secret and in turn became ‘marcou’.
Honoré got more and more above himself. He’d stuck with the same bunch of friends because‚ being better dressed than they were‚ and with plenty of money in his pocket‚ he more easily cut a dash at the country dances‚ especially at a time when the day-labourers‚ not satisfied with the sluts they were fobbed off with in the bordellos – ‘Good enough for peasants! Incapable of screwing without the rest of the gang in tow‚ and drunk as skunks!’ – were happily treating themselves to young housemaids‚ getting them pregnant or giving them a dose of the clap‚ without a by-your-leave or thank-you and no time to call mother.
Honoré at least had some style and manners. And the means to compensate his partners for the loss of half-a-day’s pay. And to find modest sheets to lie between‚ under a feather counterpane that with two kicks and a pelvic thrust was soon sent flying in the direction of the ceramic-edged chamber-pot with the blue enamel lid.
‘Now‚ what was it your father told you‚ Honoré? What do you have to say to draw the heat? Is it a prayer or a spell? Go on‚ tell me‚ Honoré …’
Forgetting his oath‚ Honoré spilled the beans on several occasions. He’d already exercised the power passed on to him‚ on some not very serious injuries. The patients had been cured: less rapidly‚ however‚ than if they’d been treated by the father. But allowances had to be made. Honoré would eventually get the hang of it.
The hat shop in Rambouillet had prospered. In the workshop‚ twenty women in front of twenty sewing machines turned out twenty snoods of woven straw‚ dreadful things for imprisoning chignons. Two girls from the area round E found themselves working side by side. One of them boasted of her experience – and enjoyment – of the seductive charms of the handsome Honoré. Her neighbour‚ stung to jealousy‚ claimed to be equally knowledgeable on this subject. There was no way they could start tearing each other’s hair out. But the girls were obdurate. At a loss for insults‚ vying to have the last word‚ they hurled at each other those phrases that were not to be uttered‚ the phrases unwisely divulged by Honoré. And once let loose‚ those words were soon all over town.
The child that had fallen on to the fire in the hearth was brought before Honoré‚ who with the laying-on of his hands began to murmur. A quarter of an hour later the child was dead.
Then the rumours gained substance. And people grabbed their pitchforks‚ their flails and some their guns. The ‘marcou’ had become ‘malahou’‚ in other words‚ forsworn‚ a traitor to his word‚ a traitor to everyone.
It required the energetic protection of the police to allow Honoré to get on his bike and reach the very distant station of Gazeran‚ where the Paris train stopped.
Old Thibaudat died shortly afterwards – broken-hearted‚ so they say. Banished from that region for ever‚ Honoré got on the wrong side of the law. He spent his military service doing time with one of the Africa Disciplinary Battalions.
The extinguished wick was still smoking‚ through distraction – amazement‚ perhaps.
The dossers began to talk among themselves‚ suspecting one another of being the one that had blown out the candle without anyone noticing. The man in black seemed at once crushed and relieved. I don’t know why I was so cruel.
‘Honoré Thibaudat?’
His lined face became even more gaunt. The same terrified bewilderment‚ the same overwhelming distress I’d witnessed in Cyril. But this lasted much longer. With great difficulty he formed the words‚ ‘What … what do want?’
‘Nothing. Are you the son of the fireman at E? We used to know each other.’
‘So … so what? What do you want of me?’
‘Nothing‚ I tell you‚ nothing at all. Let me buy you a drink.’
‘He only drinks lemonade‚’ said our host.
Honoré seemed unable to breathe. ‘Yes … yes … with lots of ice‚’ he said.
In three large glassfuls‚ three single draughts‚ he’d emptied his bottle of lemonade. He looked at me. This time with the eyes of a beaten dog.
‘So … you know the story?’
We still had twenty minutes before the curfew. Honoré and I walked back up La Mouffe side by side. He pointed to a basement window. ‘I sleep there‚ in the cellar. It’s cooler. Since back then‚ especially since Africa‚ I have this burning sensation. Here.’ He ran a trembling hand over his larynx. ‘Nothing I can do to relieve it. Tried everything‚ including injections. Afterwards‚ it comes back‚ worse than ever. Sometimes I can even extinguish live embers. But that takes it out of me. I’m already an old man.’
It was true. At forty years of age‚ he looked seventy.
He yelled‚ he bellowed‚ ‘What must I do? What must I do?’
And I left him there in the dark‚ sobbing in repentance for the secret he’d betrayed.
December
It’s really very‚ very cold. People are hungry. Rations are inadequate. Nothing to line your stomach. The tramps‚ who for years have been part of the landscape‚ are dying like flies. Only the strongest survive. For those that deign to stir themselves there’s no lack of work – luckily. They have only to be on the street by five in the morning (any earlier is prohibited) and start going through the dustbins. Never has the price of paper‚ fabric and scrap metal been so high. And it’s still soaring. The master rag-pickers – wholesale rag-traders – are beginning to build up real fortunes. The tramps couldn’t care less. They’ll earn just enough to stuff their faces with no matter what‚ no matter how‚ no matter where – and to fill their stomachs with enough plonk to keep them in a drunken stupor till the next time they waken. That’s all they ask.
The Shipwreckage Doll
Yesterday Old Hubert was found dead‚ frozen stiff‚ behind the bar. The rats had started in on the exposed softer parts: the neck‚ the cheeks and the fat of his palms. We’d seen it coming for a long time. No one was surprised. You can still make out on the front of his shop: Coffee – Wines – Liqueurs – Hotel with Every Comfort. Every comfort? What a joke!
Rue de Bièvre‚ number 1A‚ right by the river. Two and a half storeys – in other words‚ you’d have to be a dwarf or amputated at the knees to able to stand upright under the sloping roof. From the outside it looks at least as respectable as the other hovels in the street. But just go up to the first floor‚ and you know the score. The walls are caving in or bulging with damp. The landings are pitted with holes – pot-holes. The resident population is made up of (or breaks down into) five households‚ three unsanctioned by marriage‚ with a total of twenty-one children between the ages of two and ten‚ not to mention the babes-in-arms. All the fathers share a physical resemblance: they’re midgets. Not one of them even as tall as one metre sixty. Nowhere near it. And there’s another defining characteristic they have in common: they’ve done absolutely nothing for many‚ many years. Just a matter of bad luck! All of them skilled workers of one kind or another‚ but so highly skilled‚ and as ill luck would have it so inappropriately skilled‚ that any job that might be available never matches their skill. It’s a near thing every time. Which means unemployment‚ welfare‚ child allowance‚ assistance for this‚ benefits for that‚ social‚ unsocial‚ antisocial …
A man can get by pretty well on this‚ and keep his whistle wet. But paying the rent‚ that’s another story. Wait till the landlord starts moaning before you give him something to keep him off your back. It wasn’t in old Hubert’s nature to give anyone a hard time. He’d already been served notice to carry out urgent health and safety repairs to his building. And with what millions? Forget it! With the Huns here‚ a
nd everyone hard up‚ this was no time to be hoping for so much as a brass farthing. So what? Evict them? Unthinkable! Old Hubert simply decided to ignore the existence of the hotel. He condemned his own bedroom on the first floor as unfit for habitation‚ and started living in the bar.
For the past three months he’d been dossing down behind the counter. During the day he served plonk‚ in the morning ‘coffee’ – a dark foul brew – accompanied with more or less adulterated spirits. This gave him enough to live on‚ until that winter dawn when‚ finding the door closed‚ the tramps discovered Hubert dead‚ in perishing cold weather‚ surrounded by empty wines bottles‚ tins of food and dirty dishes.
Not a pretty sight was the late Hubert‚ scowling and grimacing‚ with his spittle frozen‚ sprawled out on his pile of refuse. Alas‚ I’ve seen all too many corpses and could have spared myself this spectacle.
Théophile Trigou was there too. No more motivated by morbid curiosity than I was. He snatched Tutur’s pipe from his mouth and threw La Voltige’s cap on the ground. And because One-Eyed Ida‚ either drunk already or still drunk‚ was bawling her head off and making a nuisance of herself‚ he literally booted her out.
After that‚ he gave the three or four guys there a job to do – he knows how to take charge. They hadn’t worked so hard for a long time. Bottles in one corner‚ rags in another. Rubbish‚ out into the gutter‚ then down the drain. A quick sweep‚ and a going over with the floor cloth as well.
He got the body laid out on a not too wobbly table covered with brand new pieces of sacking.
The end result was an almost shocking semblance of decency.
Théophile stood there motionless beside the dead man. I realized he was praying. La Voltige‚ the spurious tough guy‚ took a while to twig. He sniggered. Someone said‚ ‘Don’t be stupid!’ He wiped the grin off his face and adopted a serious expression.
Everyone scarpered when the cops arrived.
Old Hubert must have had a premonition of his squalid demise. In October he said to me‚ ‘Forty-two years I’ve had this place. I’d really like to go back home‚ but I ain’t got the energy since my old girl died. And I can’t sell it the way it is now. But anyway before I hang my hat up I’d be curious to know what’s in that third cellar of mine.’
The third cellar has been walled up by order of the civil defence authorities after the floods of 1910. A double barrier of cemented bricks prevents the rising waters from invading the upper floors when flooding occurs. In the event of storms or blocked drains‚ the cellar acts as a regulatory overflow.
The weather was fine: no risk of drowning or any sudden emergency. There were five of us: Hubert‚ Gérard the painter‚ two regulars and myself. Old Marteau‚ the local builder‚ was upstairs with his gear‚ ready to repair the damage. We made a hole.
Our exploration took us sixty metres down a laboriously- faced vaulted corridor (it must have been an old thoroughfare). We were wading through a disgusting sludge. At the far end‚ an impassable barrier of iron bars. The corridor continued beyond it‚ plunging downwards. In short‚ it was a kind of drain-trap.
That’s all. Nothing else. Disappointed‚ we retraced our steps. Old Hubert scanned the walls with his electric torch. Look! An opening. No‚ an alcove‚ with some wooden object that looks like a black statuette. I pick the thing up: it’s easily removable. I stick it under my arm. I told Hubert‚ ‘It’s of no interest …’ and kept this treasure for myself.
I gazed at it for hours on end‚ in private. So my deductions‚ my hunches were not mistaken: the Bièvre-Seine confluence was once the site where sorcerers and satanists must surely have gathered. And this kind of primitive magic‚ which the blacks of Central Africa practise today‚ was known here several centuries ago. The statuette had miraculously survived the onslaught of time: the well-known virtues of the waters of the Bièvre‚ so rich in tannin‚ had protected the wood from rotting‚ actually hardened‚ almost fossilized it. The object answered a purpose that was anything but aesthetic. Crudely carved‚ probably from heart of oak. The legs were slightly set apart‚ the arms detached from the body. No indication of gender. Four nails set in a triangle were planted in its chest. Two of them‚ corroded with rust‚ broke off at the wood’s surface all on their own. There was a spike sunk in each eye. The skull‚ like a salt cellar‚ had twenty-four holes in which little tufts of brown hair had been planted‚ fixed in place with wax‚ of which there were still some vestiges. I’ve kept quiet about my find. I’m biding my time.
Chapter III
‘Your Body’s Tattooed’
The other day some of La Mouffe’s most egregious specimens of humanity went over to La Maube and fetched up at Pignol’s. They were carrying baskets. I think they sold Pignolette‚ on the semi-black market‚ the rabbits we’ve been eating since. There was Fanfan-No-Kidding‚ Smoke-Sucker and Butterfly. Butterfly is so called because the stem of his nose runs into the abdomen of a blue bombyx that spreads its delicately veined wings across his forehead.
During a period of his life when he wasn’t making much use of his‚ what Rabelais referred to as‚ ‘quickening peg’‚ Smoke-Sucker thought it a good idea to have it decorated with delicate spiral motifs. Something of a Don Juan by nature‚ he said it was his practice to invite his partners to use this instrument in a subtle manner reminiscent of Baudelairean chibouk-smokers. Hence the nickname.
Fanfan-No-Kidding gets his moniker from the unruffled nerve with which he describes Guyana‚ the penal colony he ‘very nearly’ went to. Condemned to five years’ hard labour‚ he had his sentence commuted to detention‚ which he served on French soil. He retains a deep grudge against his overzealous defence lawyers. Fanfan is tattooed all over his lower body. From his navel to his toes‚ from his coccyx to the soles of his feet‚ is all flowers‚ weird plants‚ fantastic animals romping among playing cards‚ dice boxes‚ cryptic devices.
We bolted the door to admire at closer quarters the hidden splendours of our mates‚ who willingly displayed them.
Then‚ taking our cue from Théophile‚ ever ready to discuss problems of ‘the marginalized’‚ we conferred. Interminably.
Fanfan told us of the grinding boredom in top-security prisons‚ the stupefying effect of freezing-cold or stifling-hot cells‚ the friendships forged amid disgusting overcrowding. And the pleasure derived from outwitting ‘the screws’‚ getting hold of ink and needles by the most incredible means. And the horrible relief‚ for someone who knows he’s branded‚ of branding himself in a visible and indelible way to make him part of that vast and uncouth brotherhood of eternal reprobates.
Théophile seemed obsessed with the subject. He recalled the various images‚ figures and mottoes he had observed on the epidermis of his contemporaries. There was no stopping him as he launched into a very interesting and knowledgeable disquisition on the ‘symbolism of tattoos’.
I caught myself declaring‚ with an authoritativeness that was totally unjustified‚ how dangerous it was for any man to subject his body to such an intervention. I think I even said: ‘to such an experience’. I learned from my own lips that tattoos were not only‚ in my opinion‚ a mark of identification‚ more often than not lewd‚ but the sign of a kind of acceptance of defeat. Abandonment of the struggle against an unrelentingly hostile fate.
Fanfan agreed with me. He said‚ ‘That’s for sure. With your tattooed man‚ there’s powers at work. Just look at what goes on at the Salève.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Oh! It’s not that easy to explain. Better go and see for yourself.’
‘Where?’
‘Rue Zacharie‚ St-Séverin.’
‘Come and show me.’
I was excited. The others objected. Not now. It was nice and comfortable here. Let’s have another round. Why move to another bar?
No‚ no‚ right now. Théophile eyed me with anxiety. He gave the nod. We set off‚ Fanfan leading the way.
Rue Zacharie: they’ve renamed it
after the cabaret singer Xavier Privas‚ but it’s the old name that sticks in the mind. Nothing to do with the prophet. In the seventeenth century it was Rue Sac-à-Lie. While waiting for the quality of their merchandise to be certified at the Petit-Châtelet‚ the vinegar sellers kept stored in bonded warehouses the leather bottles containing the lees – the so-called mother of vinegar. For a while‚ under St Louis‚ it was called Rue des Trois-Chandeliers. And for just a few years‚ Rue de l’Homme-Qui-Chante. But I know an Englishman‚ Dr Garret‚ who possesses an extraordinary document: he showed it to me in Sydenham‚ in 1935. It’s a map of the Sorbonne district‚ drawn up by the scholars resident at the Irish College. Rue Zacharie‚ between St Séverin and La Huchette – on the map‚ there’s no question about it – appears under the name of Witchcraft Street.
‘Rue des Maléfices. Why?’
This intrigues me‚ especially as I’ve never been able‚ since long before the war‚ to walk down that dark and narrow street on my own without a sense of painful disquiet. That feeling you get in the presence of a dear friend under the constraint of an unaccountable reserve.
I would compel this gloomy secretive street to lift a corner of its veil. I was already savouring my revenge.
Enemy Tattoos
An indentation on either side of Rue Zacharie creates a little square where trolleys loaded with all kinds of things stand idling. Outside the charcoal store‚ the dismantled hand-cart‚ collapsed wheel to wheel‚ handshafts together‚ cart-prop dangling‚ looks like the skeleton of some Apocalyptic wader bird mounted on an axle. From all round exudes the sound of droning voices‚ Arab‚ African‚ Greek or Armenian. This wooden balcony was once painted white. There’s washing drying on it that will be stuck like eye patches over the sightless windows. A bunch of North Africans has clocked us. They want to know what these new faces are doing here. One of them steps towards us‚ a young guy. At the bidding of the Elders‚ he asks us what time it is. We shrug our shoulders without replying. As if it could be any ordinary time in such a street as this.
Paris Noir Page 3
