Paris Noir

by Jacques Yonnet

  ‘Madame Rita‚ you wouldn’t have a street guide?’

  ‘But of course‚ Monsieur Edouard.’

  ‘I’m pinching it from you. Here‚ buy yourself another one in the morning.’

  He handed her a bundle of small bank notes.

  He tore out the folded pages – one for each arrondissement – and began to lay them out on two adjoining tables.

  He marked with his pen reference points corresponding to central squares‚ crossroads. And rapidly‚ confidently‚ he drew two‚ more or less straight‚ parallel lines: one on either side of the Seine. And two lines running across them. Finally‚ an irregular curve that clearly traced the route of the old city wall‚ dating from the thirteenth century. ‘That’s the circuit. Within that circuit‚ everything’s deadly serious‚’ he said.

  This was getting fascinating.

  I said‚ ‘Go on.’

  He took his time.

  ‘You know the Vieux-Chéne‚ of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And how much do you know about it?’

  ‘A fair amount. The old washhouse … Casque d’Or‚ Leca and Manda‚ the brawls …’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Periodically‚ it’s as if fire starts to run in people’s veins: knifings over the merest trifle‚ even murders …’

  He chose his words for effect.

  ‘Listen. Every seven years: a pitched battle or bloodletting‚ and not just some pin prick‚ it’s got to be serious‚ the blood has to flow. And every eleven years – it’s a fact‚ there’s evidence to prove it – murder‚ with loss of life. There has to be at least one death. It’s the street‚ the place that dictates it. You know the Port-Salut?’

  ‘With the railing‚ Rue des Fossés-St-Jacques? Sure.’

  ‘What happened there during the Revolution?’

  ‘Save your breath. It’s been a breeding ground for conspiracies since the year dot.’

  ‘And is it any different now?’

  ‘I don’t want to know.’ (Honest to goodness!)

  ‘Fine. What about this place?’

  He shows me on the map. It’s near the Seine. I laughed.

  ‘Oh‚ my! It’s an old bistrot that functions as a bit of a brothel on the side‚ just for the odd customer‚ so word doesn’t get round too much.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Are you kidding? Since the days of St Louis‚ at least.

  ‘Dames au corps gent‚ folles de leur corps

  Vont au Val d’Amour pour chercher fortune.’

  [Fair wanton ladies go to Val d’Amour

  In search of fortune’s favour.]

  ‘That figures. So listen to this. Do know what La Mouffetard was before?’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Before all of this. Before there were any houses.’

  ‘The Via Mons Cetardus‚ a graveyard where the Romans who occupied the City allowed Christians to be buried. In fact‚ even today‚ from time to time a sarcophagus turns up. It was the Aliscans of Paris.’

  ‘Right. The Christians at that time … they were sort of outcasts?’

  ‘Well‚ they were regarded by others with some suspicion …’

  ‘Did you know that since forever the Mouffe’s been a place for saying phoney prayers?’

  ‘Phoney prayers? What do you mean?’

  ‘Prayers that are different from everyone else’s. Not the common currency. Ma’me Rita‚ you wouldn’t have the last few days’ newspapers?’

  ‘Indeed‚ Monsieur Edouard.’

  And Keep-on-Dancin’ starts going through a dozen or so papers. His attention is completely devoted to this. He produces a flick knife with a blade as sharp as a razor. Every now and again he cuts out a very short paragraph‚ without any headline; and he puts the cutting in his pocket.

  In its pure form‚ suppressed anger‚ that builds up because it can’t find any conductor through which to discharge itself‚ has a potentially huge destructive power. From Keep-on-Dancin’‚ silent‚ preoccupied‚ his teeth clenched‚ there emanated a raging storm of terrible humours. Anger‚ anger alone consumed him‚ permeated him‚ had become his entire being’s sole reason for existence. Though he strove to contain himself‚ nonetheless I dreaded an imminent eruption. Unseen by him‚ I picked up one of the articles he’d cut out. It gave notice‚ without any comment‚ that one Armand B‚ condemned to death by the Criminal Court of the Loire‚ for a double murder‚ had ‘paid his debt’ to ‘society’.

  ‘It won’t be long before the inevitable happens‚’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get to Olivier’s by first light.’

  I said‚ ‘It’s a beautiful night. There’s something of Villon in the air.’

  Keep-on-Dancin’ gave a start. ‘Villon! Did you say Villon? François Villon?’

  ‘Well‚ of course.’

  ‘Hang on. I’ve got something to show you.’

  In his gun pocket‚ he had a luxury leather-bound edition of Villon’s Testaments and Ballads. But with him‚ nothing could surprise me any more.

  ‘He’s my man‚ my hero‚ if I’d known him‚ we’d have made a curious pair. I should have had a brother like him.’

  He wanted to trace the poet’s footsteps. ‘So how far up the Rue St-Jacques did his uncle Guillaume live? And where exactly was the Pomme-de-Pin located?’

  I answered his questions as best I could. We recited to each other under our breath ‘The Ballad of the Gallows-Birds’.

  ‘No‚ your pronunciation’s wrong. It’s much simpler than that.’

  He meekly corrected himself. After which he heartily slapped me on the back. ‘You’re a great pal‚ and no mistake.’

  I’d forgotten that since midnight‚ it was Sunday. On the stroke of five‚ we went out for a breath of air. At the very same moment‚ two hundred gnomes‚ goblins‚ elves or witches‚ clothed in rags‚ carrying enormous bundles‚ harnessed to trolleys or hauling improvised carts‚ emerged from the shadows like maggots out of a cheese‚ and coughing‚ belching‚ yawning‚ jostling‚ arguing‚ hurried in the direction of St Médard. These were the ‘owners’ of the first stalls of the famous Mouffetard Flea Market‚ on their way to fight over the best places on the pavements of Rue St-Médard and Rue Gracieuse. A very ancient concession permits the rag-pickers and anyone else who wants to come here‚ every Sunday morning‚ to trade their goods on the pavement‚ without having to hold a licence‚ or pay any fee.

  At Olivier’s‚ the small smoky room ‘decorated’ with old colour covers of the Petit Journal Illustré was already filled with a chilled‚ damp‚ acridly steaming rabble.

  The shop sign‚ of imposing size‚ brightly coloured and freshly revarnished‚ is affixed to the wall‚ to the left of the entrance.

  The bas-relief figures of our four conspirators‚ each with a glass in hand and fired with enthusiasm‚ stand out against a seascape background overcast with pitch-darkened clouds. The naive skill of the craftsman who made this piece‚ a real jewel of popular art‚ betrays the exact date of its conception and completion: some time during the course of the year 1822‚ this jobbing-sculptor was in the grip of emotion‚ the generous indignation of a population incensed by the absurd beheading on Place de Grève‚ of four very young prankish insurrectionists. I ask you‚ what NCO in his cups has never made up his mind to save France – or some other country?

  Keep-on-Dancin’ nudged me with his elbow. A man stood motionless in front of the sign‚ which he seemed to be examining with close attention. He was not in the least affected by the increasing rowdiness. It was dawn. Revealed against the light was a sharp profile set off by a narrow fringe of greying beard. I got as close as I could to this man. I’m sure I’m not mistaken: he was praying with unusual fervour‚ I could feel it. This went on for some minutes‚ very long minutes. Almost imperceptibly‚ the man bowed his head three times. And then he turned and approached the counter. Keep-on-Dancin’ went up to him and with easy familiarity placed his arm under his
elbow. I thought they knew each other. But not at all. Keep-on-Dancin’ signalled to Olivier‚ with his thumb‚ to serve the fellow a drink‚ whatever he wanted. And then my newfound friend drew from his wallet a large sum of money: several thousand francs. Discreetly‚ he offered them to the guy. ‘For the family‚’ he said‚ in an undertone. The man thanked him with a knowing smile and a handshake that spoke volumes. He went off without having uttered a single word. Keep-on-Dancin’ produced one of those cuttings he’d taken from the day before yesterday’s newspapers.

  I said‚ ‘Thanks. I’m beginning to understand.’

  ‘Maybe‚ but you don’t know the whole story yet‚’ he said.

  And he whisked me off once again. He pointed to the Vieux-Chêne. Between the two first-floor windows were displayed the old oak’s twisted branches and sturdy roots.

  ‘Could you say how old that tavern sign was?’

  ‘No. All I know is that it was already there by about the middle of the seventeenth century.’

  ‘What’s it made of?’

  ‘Wood‚ with several layers of plaster mixed with alum‚ to protect it.’

  ‘What kind of wood?’

  ‘How do you expect me to know that?’

  ‘I’m going to tell you: ship wreckage. The wreckage of a vessel that sank in the Seine estuary in 1592. I repeat: fifteen ninety-two.’

  ‘Where did you learn that?’

  ‘Here and there‚ but mostly at Melun where I was doing time.’

  They sure as hell know a thing or two‚ the guys that graduate from Melun!

  Keep-on-Dancin’ went on‚ ‘And do you know where its sister sign is?’

  ‘Yes‚ on Rue Tiquetonne‚ there’s one that resembles it: the Arbre-à-Liège. Old La Frite’s place.’

  ‘Right. To begin with‚ you’ll realize they’re both cut from the same wood. But apart from that‚ you don’t notice anything?’

  ‘Straight off‚ no.’

  ‘I’ll fill you in. First‚ we’re going to have a bite to eat.’

  And that’s how we came to buy the lobster.

  Keep-on-Dancin’ lifted a corner of the veil for me. In simple words‚ commonplace expressions indicative of the fundamental honesty and profound goodness that inform this veteran villain‚ he led me to discover my City from a wonderful perspective. I would never have dared to imagine everything he told me.

  ‘Yes‚ my friend‚ ship wreckage was once the wood of a tree‚ nothing special about it – just like any other kind of wood. Men cut down the tree. They sawed and worked and planed and shaped and polished and caulked and tarred it. They made a ship out it‚ and they celebrated the birth of that ship‚ they christened it like a child. And they entrusted themselves to it. But the men were no longer very much in charge. The ship too had its say. A ship’s a being in its own right‚ like a person‚ so to speak‚ that thinks‚ and breathes‚ and reacts. A ship has its own mission to accomplish. It has its own destiny. So it sinks‚ this vessel‚ it founders because it was meant to founder‚ on such a day at such a time‚ on account of this or that‚ and in such a place. Maybe it was already written in the stars. And then long afterwards‚ other men discover the wreck‚ they refloat it‚ they bring to the surface the bits of wood – and you should see with what respect they do this. And you think a piece of wreckage like that doesn’t know anything‚ doesn’t remember anything‚ isn’t capable of anything‚ that it’s as senseless as it is hard‚ that it’s … as thick as a plank? I’ll tell you something worth remembering‚ that sailors well know: wood from a shipwreck is “back-flash” wood. Whatever takes place under the auspices and under the sign of even the smallest fragment of a shipwreck cuts more than just one way. One swinish deed is multiplied a thousandfold; one flower’‚ (he meant‚ a kindness)‚ ‘will bring you a field full of flowers‚ an entire province‚ tulips‚ cyclamens‚ take your pick. For instance: there’s shipwreck wood in the base frame of the sign of the four sergeants. That’s something “the likes of us” know. Well‚ once that guy was through‚’ (he meant‚ the man who’d been praying)‚ ‘I guarantee‚ the judge‚ every member of the jury‚ the prosecutor‚ the warders‚ the hangman‚ his assistants‚ the whole damn lot of them are going to get their comeuppance‚ and how! From now on they’re jinxed. Seriously jinxed. And for a long time to come.’

  ‘In other words‚ it wasn’t‚ as in the usual way of things‚ for the repose of the soul of the departed that guy was praying?’

  ‘No. It was not a well-intentioned prayer. And believe me: to take that risk‚ the guy must have had some courage. Luckily people like him exist. Otherwise how could the rest of us defend ourselves?’

  ‘You say‚ “the rest of us”. There may be charges against you‚ but you haven’t actually been sentenced to death‚ have you?’

  He shrugged dismissively.

  ‘Uh! Not quite. But as I was saying‚ the Vieux-Chêne is the only place in this part of town to have “declared itself”. Whatever you do‚ or say‚ or even think here is deadly serious‚ and fraught with repercussions. It’s the start of the circuit that has no place for bullshitters. Now‚ wait‚ I’m going to show you something else.’

  He insisted on clearing the table‚ and again devoted himself to his game of patience: piecing together the map of Paris‚ the bits of which he’d stuffed into the pocket of his raincoat‚ folded up any old how.

  I helped him.

  Then he asked me‚ straight out‚ ‘What would you say was the true centre of Paris?’

  I was taken aback‚ wrong-footed. I thought this knowledge was part of a whole body of very rarefied and secret lore. Playing for time‚ I said‚ ‘The starting point of France’s roads … the brass plate on the parvis of Notre-Dame.’

  He gave me a withering look.

  ‘Do you take for me a sap?’

  The centre of Paris‚ a spiral with four centres‚ each completely self-contained‚ independent of the other three. But you don’t reveal this to just anybody. I suppose – I hope – it was in complete good faith that Alexandre Arnoux mentioned the lamp behind the apse of St-Germain-l’Auxerrois. I wouldn’t have created that precedent. My turn now to let the children play with the lock.

  ‘The centre‚ as you must be thinking of it‚ is the well of St-Julien-le-Pauvre. The “Well of Truth” as it’s been known since the eleventh century.’

  He was delighted. I’d delivered. He said‚ ‘You know‚ you and I could do great things together. It’s a pity I’m already “beyond redemption”‚ even at this very moment.’

  His unhibited display of brotherly affection was of child- like spontaneity. But he was still pursuing his line of thought: he dashed out to the nearby stationery shop and came back with a little basic pair of compasses made of tin.

  ‘Look. The Vieux-Chêne‚ the Well. The Well‚ the Arbre-à- Liège …’

  On either side of the Seine‚ adhering closely to the line he’d drawn‚ the age-old tavern signs were at pretty much the same distance from the magic well.

  ‘Well‚ now‚ you see‚ it’s always been the case that whenever something bad happens at the Vieux-Chêne‚ a month later – a lunar month‚ that is‚ just twenty-eight days – the same thing happens at old La Frite’s place‚ but less serious. A kind of repeat performance. An echo …’

  Then he listed‚ and pointed out on the map‚ the most notable of those key sites whose power he or his friends had experienced.

  In conclusion he said‚ ‘I’m the biggest swindler there is‚ I’m prepared to be swindled myself‚ that’s fair enough. But not just anywhere. There are places where‚ if you lie‚ or think ill‚ it’s Paris you disrespect. And that upsets me. That’s when I lose my cool: I hit back. It’s as if that’s what I was there for.’

  God knows what maelstrom I’ve got caught up in on account of Keep-on-Dancin’. I certainly didn’t need this‚ but I won’t do anything to impede the unfolding of all that’s to follow.

  Yesterday‚ apart
from Brizou and Tricksy-Pierrot‚ his side- kicks‚ and bodyguards when necessary‚ Keep-on-Dancin’ was accompanied by a badly-dyed blonde. Not a young woman. Dumpy and loud-mouthed. He introduced us: Dolly-the-Slow-Burner. She was‚ he said‚ his ‘orderly-in- chief’. She receives his mail and when the gang wants to spend the night locally she takes care of finding them some discreet hangout.

  They were all in a pretty foul mood‚ angry with some Corsican who’d crooked them in a rather complicated- sounding deal involving tungsten steel drills. Having been summoned‚ the Corsican had failed to appear. Keep-on- Dancin’ was seething.

  ‘This is the last time that bastard puts one over on me. When I next see him‚ even if he shows up now‚ I’m going to twist his ears.’

  I knew these were not just empty words. I wished for an easing-up of tension quite impossible to achieve. Fortunately Alexandre arrived.

  A rag-picker. A little too fond of the bottle. Harmless- looking sort of guy. Known round here as a bit of loony. No one pays much attention. Everyone has their little foibles.

  ‘Ah‚ police officer‚’ said Keep-on-Dancin’‚ suddenly relaxed‚ good-natured. ‘Have a drink‚ that’s an order.’

  ‘Thanks‚ boss‚ to your good health‚ boss‚ ladies and gentlemen‚ one and all‚’ the fellow belched‚ downing two large glasses of rough red‚ one after the other.

  Brizou laughed outright‚ but Tricksy-Pierrot and Dolly- the-Slow-Burner‚ she especially‚ eyed him with distaste.

  A great many things have been said about Alexandre Villemain. Complicated‚ disturbing‚ not very nice things. The truth is more straightforward. I heard it from Quinton‚ his main ‘buyer’. Here it is:

  At forty-five years of age Villemain was called up and drafted into the territorial army to take part in the very confused phoney war of 1939–40. Impossible to get this dosser to do anything. Incapable of marching in step‚ but canny as hell‚ and a source of amusement to everyone. One day it became apparent he couldn’t read. He was redeployed to a different company – without being entered on the roll of his new unit – given a fake commission covered with bogus stamps‚ a Gras gun‚ some Lebel cartridges‚ provisions for three days‚ a bucket of red wine‚ a litre of brandy‚ and installed in a roadman’s hut by the side of a road just above Senlis. An NCO tells him‚ ‘You police the road. You stop every vehicle‚ military or civilian‚ check their papers‚ and only let them through if they’re in order. Otherwise‚ you call the gendarmes. Understand? Dismissed!’