As coincidences go‚ this is some coincidence. Gathered round the stove at the Vieux-Chêne‚ having a chinwag‚ are all of La Mouffe’s very finest. There’s La Puce. Just out of jail. He’d nicked the priest’s ceremonial vestments from the sacristy of St Médard. Retired officer Cyclops‚ one-eyed as his name suggests‚ listens to a wizened skeleton‚ a real swank‚ snuggly wrapped in a long cloak‚ holding forth. Next to the skeleton is seated a very old man with a goatee beard and glasses.
‘Right back there is where the rostrum was‚’ explains the skeleton‚ rolling his rs. ‘When I sang‚ I used to wear a scarf or a cap; sometimes a bat’ d’Af’ képi. It was Georges Darien‚ the guy that wrote Contre Biribi‚ who first brought him here. He used to turn up with guys I didn’t know‚ sometimes with floozies. Just before the war‚ he treated me to dinner in Montparnasse. There were some incredible characters. And filthy dirty. It was a long time afterwards that someone showed me his memoirs. He wrote that he admired me‚ that I had a gift as a real “singer of the people”. Well‚ after all‚ knowing what he came to be‚ that actually counts for something‚ especially now.’
The skeleton in question is called Montehus. He’s talking about a fellow named Vladimir Illitch Lenin‚ who‚ in his day‚ also enjoyed some renown.
I got up to shake hands with the bearded Gypsy who was sitting in a corner‚ having a bite to eat in silence. Got to keep up your contacts.
This man intrigues me. He’s tall‚ not old‚ shows no signs of being a wino‚ with distinguished angular features that confer a certain nobility on his dark face framed with a thick black shiny beard. His sunken eyes are very far-searching. A clear gaze. His long thin hands have preserved an astonishing delicacy for one of his profession – rag-picker‚ like the others. One detail: in his pierced left ear is a tiny gold ring. I saw one like it attached to the ear lobe of a Russian singer‚ a former Cossak.
I always have on me something to draw with. After offering him a drink‚ I wanted to knock off a quick portrait of the Gypsy in red chalk. Five minutes is a long time. He posed patiently.
As I was about to leave with the rest of the gang‚ the Gypsy comes up to me‚ almost formally – and gives me permission to keep for myself his likeness.
I made this tactless reply: ‘But I’m not asking for any favours‚ I’d happily pay you for posing for me‚ or do you another portrait‚ if it were of any use to you.’
He insisted‚ almost angrily‚ ‘I only get paid for the work I do. Here I drink. And I’m telling you‚ it’s just as well for you that you have my permission.’
I had no alternative but to order another two glasses. La Lune was slumped on the table‚ snoring. The sound of the Gypsy’s voice‚ his barely detectible accent‚ the metallic precision of his words are engraved on my memory.
I know that the Germans have begun to round up the Romanies‚ even those that are settled. I vowed that‚ if I came across the fellow again‚ I’d warn him of the danger – give him advice or help‚ if wanted. Today we ran into each other in the market on Rue des Carmes. I led Blackbeard off to Rue de Bièvre. On the way I told him about my fears for his safety. He stopped dead and looked me in the eye. ‘Gypsy? Why that rather anything else? I didn’t select the words used round here. As for the Germans‚ if you knew how much grief I gave them‚ the cops and all the others.’
‘You’re no grass‚ though?’
At that‚ he laughed heartily and patted me on the shoulder.
‘Anyway‚ the fact you wanted to help me out makes me happy‚’ he said.
At Paulette’s‚ he called her ‘Madame’ and not ‘la patronne’‚ and ordered tea. No one had ever seen the like of it. He insisted on paying his round. Phenomenal. I don’t know what prompted me to mention my trip to Prague. Not only did he know Prague‚ but also Hungary‚ Romania‚ Galati and the mouths of the Danube. With a real gift for words‚ he was able to describe the people to be found there‚ their customs‚ occupations‚ the colour of their clothes‚ the shape of their houses.
Contrary to her usual practice‚ Paulette didn’t retreat behind her counter. She sat with us‚ put the shawl she was knitting down on the table and listened with pleasure to what Blackbeard was saying. Why did she have to go and tell her story of the Gypsy woman‚ the ‘long journey’‚ and the few coins?
The Gypsy gave that characteristic smile of his. It was as if this was just what he’d been waiting for.
‘Let’s see if she was telling the truth.’ And at the same time he placed in front of the young woman a strange deck of cards‚ decorated with images unknown in these parts. ‘Cut.’
Under Blackbeard’s guidance Paulette had to lay the cards out in a circle‚ cover them‚ turn them over‚ repeat the process‚ build up little piles.
‘That’s it.’
The Gypsy seemed to be concentrating‚ and deliberately disposed not to speak frivolously – when Valentin came bursting in. The cards were still lying on the oilcloth-covered table.
In her sudden exasperation Paulette’s face expressed disappointment‚ weariness and resentment of an unforgiving kind.
Valentin instantly realized what was going on. He turned pale. I’d never seen him like that before.
‘Go on! Get out of here!’
The sturdy Gypsy gathered up his cards and without haste very calmly got to his feet.
‘Excuse me! I know how to behave‚ and I’m not doing any harm!’
Valentin was foaming.
‘Beat it! Scram!’
‘All right‚ if that’s the way you want it‚’ said the Gypsy sullenly.
Outside on the pavement he turned and gave his new enemy a smile that was just as strange but different. I tried to get Valentin to listen to reason.
‘Look‚ about that guy‚ I’m the one that …’
‘Fine‚ fine‚ let’s change the subject.’
His hands‚ his neck‚ his jaws were trembling.
The Gypsy came by Pignol’s very late. He was in no mood for talking. We could only extract these disturbing words from him:
‘That friend of yours‚ he should never have done that. Never. If he only knew.’
Obviously Valentin’s behaviour still rankles. It’s really got to him.
Sévérin and I left‚ feeling preoccupied‚ rather worried.
Well! He’s got some nerve‚ that Gypsy. He showed up at Rue de Bièvre at dawn. He asked for a black coffee. Valentin threw him out straight away. The rag-pickers there at the time‚ who scarcely knew who Blackbeard was – the people of La Maube and La Mouffe are fraternal enemies – made it clear that one of these days there could be trouble. Valentin cut short his constitutional‚ on the Pont de la Tournelle. A few days ago he picked up a starving dog. A beauceron. Today the animal was tied up behind the counter‚ with a generous helping of mash. Paulette sewed in silence‚ sulking. She’s plotting God knows what revenge. It’s blatantly obviously. I daredn’t say anything to her but the tritest things. Valentin‚ who wanted to ease the tension‚ shared some weak joke with me. He gave a forced laugh. His red wine’s turning sour.
Little by little‚ the Gypsy has changed his stamping ground. He’s drawn closer to the embankment. According to his ‘colleagues’‚ he works immensely hard and ‘salvages’ an astonishing quantity of old papers‚ rags and metal. He drinks less than the others. No one knows where he dosses. Not far away‚ that’s for sure; because every morning he comes up Rue de Bièvre‚ and to Valentin’s exasperation stops in front of his window and stares at him with that famous smile at the corners of his mouth‚ ever more full of teasing menace.
This morning Blackbeard couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He made so bold as to try and enter the café. Valentin‚ who’d just been waiting for an excuse‚ set his dog on him. With one bound‚ the beauceron – it’s a ferocious beast – leapt over the counter. With its fangs bared‚ it looked as if it was going to attack Blackbeard. But it stopped dead. The smiling Gypsy held it in check. T
wo fingers of his right hand parted in a V and pointed at the hound halted it in its tracks. Then the Gypsy made some gravelly utterances. And the dog began to tremble. It backed off‚ showing its teeth‚ and once it thought it was beyond reach of some unspecified danger‚ known only to itself‚ it fled and ran to cower against its master’s legs. The Gypsy didn’t push things any further. He ambled off.
Now the dog trembles incessantly. It won’t eat anything. It has to be dragged out. It keeps escaping and comes straight back. Its fur’s falling out in handfuls. Valentin decided to wrap it up in a blanket and carry the whining creature in his arms to the vet near by. This specialist‚ Doctor N‚ a black man‚ is well known for his intuitive expertise‚ which never fails. He nodded at Valentin’s story. He spoke of ‘sorcery’ with the air of a man who knows what he’s talking about.
He gives the bald skeletal creature two injections a day. Without holding out much hope for it. He wants this to be known.
It’s all over. The dog has been put down.
Throughout the dog’s ‘treatment’‚ the Gypsy didn’t reappear in Rue de Bièvre. The nights finally grew shorter‚ the weather milder‚ and Valentin more and more gloomy. He nursed a brooding anger. We were all dreading the day when …
And then it happened.
The Gypsy came in quietly while Valentin had his back turned‚ as he was arranging his bottles. I was in the back of the room‚ at the end of the counter.
Valentin fell into a frightful fit of fury. He shouted insults left hanging in the air. ‘Son of a … Sodding …’ He ended up brandishing a heavy stick.
Blackbeard – still with that exasperating smile – levelled both hands this time‚ his fingers set in two horizontal Vs. And again he spoke.
Yes‚ it was a force‚ a real force that emanated in successive waves from the hands of this demonic man and immobilized Valentin‚ now suddenly as limp as a rag.
Blackbeard put one hand behind him‚ opened the door and backed out‚ taking his time. His nasty smile deepened.
Overwhelmed with unconquerable lethargy‚ Valentin had to retire to bed. He wasn’t seen again for several days. Blackbeard took advantage of his absence to come by in the afternoons and lay out his deck of cards in front of Paulette. We never found out whatever it was he told her – she wouldn’t let anyone come near. ‘It’s my own business‚’ she said.
Valentin has returned to his counter. He’s unrecognizable. Emaciated‚ pasty-faced‚ he stares dull-eyed at his clients. You often have to repeat your order. He’s acquired nervous ticks. He scratches between his fingers. Paulette watches this without seeming to be very much affected by it.
Valentin is turning into a monkey. He starts scratching at his armpits‚ then his groin‚ then all over. This disgusts the clients‚ though they’re far from fastidious and accustomed to some pretty insalubrious behaviour. It’s only curiosity that brings people to see him. At the same time his mind wanders. He’s incapable of finishing a sentence. Usually a man of so few words‚ he launches into bombastic speeches and after a few words‚ dries up.
His hands and his neck are nothing but open wounds‚ with suppurating scabs here and there. We made him go to Hôtel- Dieu. He was sent straight off to St-Louis. No one’s able to give a definite diagnosis of the type of leprosy that’s eating away at his skin. The agony – it’s like being flayed alive – is driving him berserk.
Paulette wasn’t opening the bar now until the afternoon‚ and refused to serve clients she didn’t like. Meanwhile‚ a ceiling in the hotel partly collapsed‚ and the fire brigade had to prop it up.
We only saw the Dutchman twice. He was solidly built‚ and looked young despite his grey hair. Pullover‚ loose garments of dark blue heavy woollen cloth. Sailor’s cap. He claimed to be the owner of a barge moored not far from here‚ and we wondered how‚ with most of the canals blocked‚ he’d managed to get inside the city walls.
Whenever he was around‚ Paulette had eyes only for him. Apparently one day he invited her to visit his barge. Paulette turfed out the few regulars in the bar at the time‚ locked up and posted the key through the letterbox. They headed off together in the direction of the Seine. None of us has ever set eyes on them again.
So the hotel was left to itself‚ Paulette’s room pillaged‚ the bar ransacked. At night the tramps‚ who’d forced their way in through the back door‚ would come down the corridor and invade the bar‚ where they slept all piled on top of each other.
There was another‚ much more serious cave-in. The city authorities got involved: immediate evacuation of the building was ordered. The police had to be called in to evict a whole gaggle of tramps‚ moaning and shouting‚ dragging their brats and bundles away with them. The doors and windows were bricked up.
Meanwhile‚ an architect came‚ assessed the damage and took samples of the building material. We hear that the walls of the house are infected with a real disease: a kind of ‘mushroom’ gets inside them‚ and eats away at them‚ right to heart. The stones crumble like blown plaster. And what’s more‚ the ‘disease’ is apparently contagious‚ and a threat to other buildings.
The whole lot has to be demolished‚ and very soon.
Every morning the Gypsy passes by‚ and stops in front of the house‚ just for a little while.
It was a team of French workers that started the job. From the upper storey they set up a kind of shoot made of planks‚ and shored up the front walls. They began taking down the roof‚ or what was left of it. But all this is thirsty work‚ and every quarter of an hour these lads would go off for a drink‚ at this bar or that: the Vieux-Palais‚ Chez Dumont‚ Chez Bébert. The owners of these different establishments‚ the regulars too‚ didn’t fail to tell the whole story of the Gypsy‚ the sick hairless dog‚ the now leprous and crazed Valentin‚ Paulette’s elopement. A professional demolition worker doesn’t much like stories that prey on his mind.
Work had scarcely begun on the second storey when these six fellows – including the foreman – also began to feel peculiar pricklings in their hands‚ armpits‚ groins.
They all‚ simultaneously‚ found actionable grounds for breaking the contract they had with the public works’ contractor. And the site remained abandoned: no one wanted to take a pickaxe to those jinxed walls.
The spring rains turned the staircases into cascades‚ the ceilings into waterfalls. The house was in danger of collapsing into the street at any moment.
I don’t know how the Germans got to hear about it‚ but it was a team of Poles‚ conscripted from the mines in the North‚ and brought on site by truck‚ with a couple of armed German soldiers on guard‚ who razed it to ground in two days.
The rubble was removed as it came down.
Today it’s all tidied up‚ the ground properly levelled. The Gypsy comes by every morning at about eleven o’clock‚ loaded with bags. Deliberately‚ he settles himself on a crate in the middle of the plot‚ and sorts out the ‘goods’ he’s collected‚ to be passed on to the master ragmen: scraps of wool‚ rags of other textiles‚ paper‚ metal‚ old bones‚ refuse of all sorts.
At last the smile that Blackbeard has is the one for happy days. He’s on conquered soil.
Chapter IV
The Ancients understood the omnipotence of the underside of things.
Pasteur
Followed step by step‚ relived hour by hour‚ the story of the house that no longer exists would not by itself give a total picture of that period. Since my escape I’d been unable to shake off an immense fatigue that from time to time suddenly and at totally unexpected interludes completely knackered me‚ so overwhelmed me I was afraid of collapsing on the spot.
I consulted Cyril.
‘Sleep‚’ he prescribed. ‘No other solution. Whenever you feel the urge‚ go and lie down‚ somewhere nice and warm‚ and take a nap. But mind you don’t just fall asleep anywhere when you’re in a weak state. If you’ve found a good spot where you feel relaxed‚ it’s because you’
re protected there. Try and stick to it. That’s very important.’
He’s right. At his suggestion‚ I moved the position and orientation of the bed in my room five or six times. Now that it’s at an angle by the window‚ I feel comfortable in it‚ quite safe. What Cyril said holds true to within a metre.
Cyril’s not the only one who has contributed to completing my education. Several people have taught me that there exists‚ in the underlying order of things‚ a potential for humour that corresponds to paradoxical requirements. Laughter is proper to the man? Perhaps. But the incident that provokes us to laughter‚ the comical incident‚ belongs to all creation‚ from the amoeba to the crystal. In short‚ nothing should be taken too seriously.
Alfophonse’s Moniker
On receiving his call-up papers for military service‚ a fellow by the name of Borjois noticed that his first name was Alfophonse. You read that correctly: efohpeeaitchohen. He started laughing‚ and showed it to his mates‚ who cracked up‚ as well they might‚ and Alfophonse thereupon embarked on a discreet but necessary investigation. He likes to report his findings in the argot he speaks better than anyone else. For Alfophonse is a purist: he’s from Glacière‚ where traditions are not about to die out.
‘You see‚ when my old lady pupped me‚ I had three older sisters. “A boy‚ at last!” says the old man.’ (At this point‚ I’ll pass over the physiological details that would lack colourfulness in correct French.) ‘Now my uncle‚ my old lady’s bro‚ I have to tell you‚ is a pen-pusher in the local council administration. And it’s His Nibs that does the entries for the Directory‚ as you might say. So his brother-in-law goes to see him: “Hey! Gus‚” he says‚ “got some news for you! Your sis has pupped a boy! The real thing‚ complete with nuts and a joystick.” “Listen‚ Albert‚” says uncle‚ “when the same thing happens up the Prince of Wales’s neck of the woods‚ the king of England has twenty-one shots fired from a single cannon. Well‚ you and me are going to put away twenty-one shots. Down the hatch! Without a moment’s delay!” And off go the two brothers-in-law to knock back twenty-one glasses of red. No messing about! Going back to the office‚ they’re a bit unsteady on their pegs. Then uncle picks up his pen to enter me into the local Directory. “We’re not done yet‚” he says‚ “we need a name for the little blighter.” The old man racks his brains. Draws a blank. Then he says‚ “Remember granddad‚ Gus? D’you remember? Alphonse‚ he was called. D’you remember? Well‚ Alphonse is what we’ll call our lad. Like granddad!”
Paris Noir Page 5
