Paris Noir

by Jacques Yonnet

  The ways of the Lord are impenetrable. Was not this vision one of the temptations the Gospels warn us against?

  The priest was in a quandary: wanting to observe the basic tenets of decency‚ and also to beseech God not to let him succumb to temptation and to deliver him from all his impure desires.

  In great agitation he removed his hat‚ which he placed where eternal laws dictated‚ joined his hands above his head and in all humility recited: Pater noster qui es in coelis …

  Then the miracle occurred: O‚ the Lord in His omnipresence is ever mindful of His servant! The hat remained in place.

  Adveniat regnum tuum …

  The marvellous efficacity of the Paternoster recited in such dramatic circumstances confirmed the priest in his edifying beliefs.

  With his own hands‚ he built a chapel on that very island and adorned the front of it with the face of a young woman radiant with divine purity. And the chapel was dedicated to St Patère. No one held against him the addition of this newcomer to the ranks of the blessed.

  Even among the Elected‚ there should be a ‘Company of Irregulars’.

  I’ve come across late 16th-century references to the remains of the St Patère chapel. I have a special fondness for this little saint. I think of her every time I hang up my raincoat.

  I’ve run into the Gypsy‚ of Rue de Bièvre fame‚ on several occasions. He continues to occupy the site of the demolished house. Despite his actually very weak denials I haven’t concealed from him my conviction that the whole series of disasters connected with this place was his doing‚ and due solely to his ill-will. But leaving that aside‚ I don’t presume in any way to pass judgement on him or his behaviour: I confine myself to my very self-centred remarks. Fascinating as they are. He smiles‚ without ever compromising himself.

  However‚ one day‚ he said to me‚ ‘I shan’t be staying in Paris all the time. I’ve two things to ask of you: if you run into me anywhere else but here‚’ (his circular gesture was intended to include La Mouffe‚ La Maube‚ and La Montagne)‚ ‘act as though you’d never seen me before. There’ll be time enough to renew our acquaintance‚ if you so wish.’

  ‘All right. I give you my word. What else?’

  ‘You very likely have contacts … among architects … city officials …’

  ‘Very likely indeed. So what?’

  ‘So‚ do as you will‚ say what you like‚ but make sure that no one decides to build anything you know where‚ for a long time‚ a very long time.’

  ‘Why not? What would happen?’

  ‘Catastrophes … unimaginable … there’s nothing more I can do about it …’

  ‘I’ll see to it‚ I promise. One day I’ll even write about it.’

  ‘That would be better still.’

  Dolly-the-Slow-Burner‚ who’s out looking for me‚ stops me crossing Rue de la Huchette. She’s covered kilometres of paving stones and asphalt before catching up with me. With a firm grip‚ she drags me off to St Séverin. Into the church. There at least no one bothers you.

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Yes … No. Yes and no.’

  ‘Keep-on-Dancin’?’

  ‘Lying low. There’s trouble brewing. He’s got to go into hiding.’

  ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘The Corsican …’

  A discreet but nervous gesture‚ indicating that I’m not going to be given any details.

  ‘And what can I do?’

  She comes right up close. A whisper: ‘There’s no one but you that’s to be trusted any more. We’ve got to get something to him …’

  She draws out of her bag a brown paper parcel tied with string.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Two million.’

  ‘Right. Where?’

  An address‚ or some crazy joke? Rue des Terres-au-Curé. There’s actually a street in Paris called that? The Street of the Priest’s Estate?

  Yes. At Porte d’Ivry. On the outskirts. Low-built houses. Very few Germans. No cops. Keep-on-Dancin’ greets me in this simple little restaurant with the kind of deference and courtesy I’m not really used to.

  Stuffing the parcel into his pocket‚ he asks: ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘Not right now‚’ I said.

  ‘So much the better. We’ll talk later. But don’t ask any questions.’

  We went for a walk. In that quiet neighbourhood too‚ a lot of people make their living dealing in second-hand goods. We went into a shop with an earthen floor‚ a kind of storeroom‚ an Ali-Baba’s cave filled with the most disparate and apparently most useless objects. The owner is a Polish Jew‚ a jolly little chap whose French vocabulary comprises not more than fifty words. He’s contrived to instal a bar in a corner of this retreat. He pours us some excellent plum brandy.

  ‘You see‚ Papa Popovitch is one of the best‚’ declares Keep- on-Dancin’. ‘Seeing it was me that introduced you‚ you can ask him for anything. Even dangerous things‚ which is something good to know.’

  The guy has his own way of concurring: with a burst of laughter. I’m amazed this old fellow doesn’t seem to be affected by the raids and all the kinds of persecutions with which his community is oppressed.

  ‘He’s registered at Gentilly‚’ explains Keep-on-Dancin’‚ ‘but he lives round here. Nothing to fear. You see‚ this area lies outside the zone I marked out for you one day. But you’ll be able to complete the map‚ draw a line from Place d’Italie. Because Paris is expanding‚ little by little. It takes a lot of time and patience before it embraces a new village.’

  Keep-on-Dancin’ made it clear he didn’t want to share any more of his problems with me than he had already.

  ‘My affairs are my own look-out‚ it wouldn’t serve any purpose to get you involved. I’ve got to get away from the City. It’s getting too hot to stay here.’

  I said‚ ‘What about your Corsican? Have you seen him again?’

  The look in his eye said it all as he calmly replied‚ ‘If by chance you meet him in the street and you don’t like ghosts‚ cross the road.’

  Keep-on-Dancin’ put into an envelope two pages of notepaper covered with his neat upright handwriting. These are addresses‚ practically all of them of drinking establishments‚ telephone numbers‚ names like Swindle-the-Hat at Les Tonneaux between eight and midnight; Redhead-Dora‚ Passage Ramey at five o’clock‚ etc. All these people‚ on the sole recommendation of my friend‚ are to provide me in case of need with unhesitating and unqualified assistance. This is extremely valuable. But that’s not all. Keep-on- Dancin’ mounts his hobby-horse and is determined to pass on to me his final tips‚ for we’ll probably never see each other again. He tells me‚ this time in extraordinarily abundant detail‚ where best to go in Paris to instigate‚ discuss‚ conclude an affair of this or that nature. And above all‚ the places to avoid. It’s a kind of initiation into the mysterious fluxes that pulse in the darkest secrecy of the City’s veins. Keep-on-Dancin’ also told me a number of astounding things I’m forbidden to divulge. Especially his last remark‚ a matter of eight words. And suddenly he leaves me there‚ shakes my hand and is off‚ into the boulevard outside without a backward glance.

  The ‘Bohemians’ and Paris

  I had for some time felt I was being followed‚ tailed to be more exact. No matter how much I resorted to the ploys used in such circumstances – abruptly turning round‚ stopping in front of shop windows that reflected the traffic in the street – I saw no one. Yet I cannot be mistaken. Finally my mind was put at rest: it was the Gypsy‚ who came up to me with a smile on his lips after Keep-on-Dancin’ had left.

  ‘I wouldn’t have spoken to you. Remember what you made me promise …’

  ‘Oh! I remember. And that’s valid from this evening. But before that I wanted to see you one last time.’

  ‘How did you know I was in this area?’

  ‘When I want to find someone‚ I know how to go about it.’

  �
��What’s up?’

  ‘Well‚ I’m leaving Paris for a while. I have to change my name.’

  ‘Because of the police?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s a family matter. I may tell you about it one day.’

  ‘So you want some false documents?’

  ‘No need. We have our own ways and means.’

  ‘Money?’

  His smile broadened.

  ‘No‚ no. I’ve chosen you as my godfather: you’re going to tell me what my first name’s going to be for the next seven years.’

  What he told me‚ I shall be able to reveal later.

  Yesterday‚ between eleven and midnight‚ at a time- honoured location in Rue St-Medard‚ as instructed by the Gypsy‚ I played my part in performing the rites of his tribe. We had a glass filled with wine. With the aid of a razor‚ we each made a small incision in our left wrist. A few drops of blood fell into the wine‚ which we drank in four mouthfuls – two each. The Gypsy will henceforth be named Gabriel.

  I already knew quite a lot: I’ve often had the pleasure‚ when a rare document has come into my hands‚ when my eyes have fallen on the forgotten pages of a three-hundred-year-old book‚ of realizing that what I’d just read confirmed intuitions that didn’t even need any external proof to become certainties. But Keep-on-Dancin’ and the Gypsy‚ the latter especially‚ opened up new horizons to me‚ when I was far from suspecting they were so vast. I couldn’t help going and prowling round Rue de Bièvre once more‚ by myself. Having paid my respects to the wretched place‚ I found myself walking past the railings of the archbishop’s palace‚ and my footsteps led me to the Ile St-Louis‚ ‘isle of my misty delight …’‚ that enclave of trusting peace‚ that vessel of dreaming stones with which‚ at certain times‚ on certain nights‚ I feel I’m communing. As I crossed the bridge it occurred to me that the Gypsy was not the only one of his race to have cast an evil spell on a site of Parisian wrong-doing.

  A chronicle of 1427‚ in the middle of the Hundred Years’ War‚ tells us that on 17 April of that year‚ twelve ‘Penitents’ arrived in the City: that’s to say‚ ‘a Duke‚ a Count‚ and ten men on horseback that describe themselves as Christians of Lower Egypt driven out by the Saracens who having come to the Pope to confess their sins were told as a penance to travel the world for seven years without lying in a bed. Their retinue was of some 120 persons‚ as many men as women and children remaining of the 1200 they had been at their departure. They were lodged at the village of La Chapelle where crowds flocked to see them. They had pierced ears from which hung a silver earring. Their hair was black and curly‚ their women very ugly and witches‚ thieves‚ and fortune-tellers …’

  These ‘Bohemians’ were summarily banned from the City‚ where they intended to commit themselves to ‘spectacular devotions’. Faced with the intransigence of the mounted police‚ they tried to stir up the ever-generous crowd of onlookers. They were rounded up and forced on to the ferry‚ then landed in batches on the shores of the Ile Notre-Dame‚ which now forms the prow of the Ile St-Louis‚ until they could be repelled further. This swift banishment was not to their liking. At which point the penitents revealed their true selves and put a curse on the branch of the Seine they’d been forced to cross.

  Since when‚ at that very place‚ things have happened.

  In 1634 the Wooden Bridge‚ built by Marie de’ Medici‚ was no more than ‘an eight-yard span‚ with railings on either side’. It was inaugurated with a jubilee procession. When three parishes rushed onto the bridge at the same time‚ it collapsed. Twenty drowned‚ forty injured. In 1709 what remained of the bridge‚ badly damaged by ice-drifts in the Seine‚ had to be demolished. It was rebuilt in 1717‚ and painted red; hence the name ‘Red Bridge’‚ perpetuated by the tavern that stands at the corner on the embankment. This structure soon began to display signs of inexplicable weakness. It was closed to carriages. In 1819 the arches had to be rebuilt. By 1842 the accursed bridge was again in danger of collapse. A provisional metal bridge was erected‚ then the stone-built Pont-St-Louis … which completely collapsed in December 1939.

  Since then‚ we have this dreadful makeshift structure of wooden planks and iron crossbars linking the two islands.

  ‘Where my horse passes …’ as Attila was wont to say.

  For all that‚ I don’t think Gypsies ought to be likened to birds of ill-omen. They return evil for evil‚ and good for good. One hundredfold. Their powers seem to exceed them. I knew some in Spain who could read the stars; in Germany‚ who could heal burns; in the Camargue‚ who tended horses and could lessen the birthing pains of both women and beasts.

  There are some human beings who are not bound by human laws. The sad thing is perhaps they’re not all aware of it.

  Meanwhile‚ here’s an idea I volunteer: the day when the borders of Europe and elsewhere become‚ as they once were‚ open to the movement of nomadic tribes that some regard as ‘worrisome’‚ it would be interesting if researchers qualified in astronomy (yes‚ indeed)‚ with calenders and terrestrial and celestial maps to hand‚ were to examine the routes travelled by wandering Gypsies.

  Maybe they’ll discover that these slow and apparently aimless journeys are related to cosmic forces. Like wars. And migrations.

  The Gypsies were persecuted‚ in France and elsewhere‚ with cyclical regularity in a vicious‚ inept and stupid manner. Almost as much as the Jews. In Paris for century after century they were corralled outside the successive boundaries of the City. In 1560 they were banished by the Estates of Orleans‚ on pain of being sent to the gallows or the galleys if they dared to show themselves again. Tolerated in a few regions riven by heresy‚ driven from other places as the descendants of Ham‚ the inventor of sorcery‚ nowhere were they regarded as anything but a menace.

  Only people with a yearning for the supernatural dared to reach out to them‚ beyond walls and barriers. Nowadays‚ there are some who have become ‘respectable’‚ ‘assimilated’ – a dreadful word! – who take pains to conceal their origins‚ except from those whom they know – or sense – to have an intuitive sympathy towards them.

  I can’t resist the pleasure of relating at this point a fifteenth- century legend. It relates to the effigy of a virgin that once adorned the choir of the chapel of St Aignan‚ the remains of which are still to be found in the City‚ on Rue des Ursins‚ very close to Notre-Dame.

  At the window of a low-built house‚ a young girl sewed and mended her family’s clothes. Outside‚ children played beneath her gaze: her own younger brothers‚ and the neighbours’ sons. One hot afternoon a Gypsy minstrel was making his way to the parvis of St-Julien-le-Pauvre where‚ as was the custom‚ singers‚ musicians‚ storytellers‚ animal exhibitors‚ and contorsionists came to give an open-air demonstration of their talents and to hire out their services to the stewards of castles near and far.

  The Gypsy stopped in the middle of a little square lined with squat houses. Attached to one of these houses was a well-head.

  Women stood chatting round it. The Gypsy drew a viola from his green canvas bag. He patiently tuned it.

  Attracted by the appearance of the bronze-skinned young man‚ by the bright colours of his unusual style of dress‚ by the strange shape of his instrument‚ the children came running.

  The Gypsy took up a position near the young girl and observed her at length.

  The maiden’s hair was braided and pinned up beside her cheeks in the fashion of the times. A white veil framed her face of such perfect beauty that its sweetness‚ refinement‚ oval purity were already legendary: had not a monk drawn inspiration from it to paint the virgin above the choir in the St Aignan chapel?

  The Gypsy began to play. And the melody that filled the air was so captivating‚ so appealing‚ the sound of his instrument so ravishing that‚ stilled and reduced to silence‚ everyone there was caught in its spell: for spell there was. But it was not intended to affect the children or the women rendered speechless with wonder
and admiration. The young girl realized the Gypsy was playing for her‚ and for her alone. The departure of the musician‚ who against all expectation solicited no payment for his playing‚ left her overcome with blissful languour. In her innocent mind unfamiliar dreams began to flourish.

  On the following days‚ the Gypsy returned at the same time to play in the same place. His gaze grew bold enough to meet that of the young girl. He must have beheld there so much admiration‚ gratitude and amazement mingled with a desire at once fierce and ill-defined that the magic stratagem he was pursuing seemed to be favouring him. When he was sure of having won the fair child’s heart – to what demonic end? – he began to play a bizarre tune‚ at first heart-rending‚ disquieting‚ and then obsessive; ever faster but always dwelling on the same motif‚ one that seemed to want to sweep up in a frantic saraband houses‚ stones‚ sun and people.

  He concluded abruptly‚ on a shrill note. Then off he went‚ very quickly‚ without looking back‚ and disappeared into the narrow streets that led towards the cathedral.

  It was impossible for the young girl to conceal from her family how deep – and strange – an impression the Gypsy had made on her heart and her feelings. And her father had taken exception to the street musician’s insistance on playing his bewitching tunes outside her window. He was about to chase him away when the Gypsy left the square.

  That very evening the young girl‚ succumbing to a sudden fever‚ began to shiver and grow delirious. Her mother sat at her bedside.

  ‘Mother‚ the Gypsy’s calling me. He draws me to him with his violin. He plays as he walks and people come running‚ people of many colours …’

  ‘Those are the colours of the lingering clouds. It will be dark soon. Go to sleep.’

  ‘The Gypsy‚ the Gypsy‚ he’s calling me! Everyone’s dancing round him. There are so many people! I can’t see their faces. I’m going‚ I want to join him! I’m leaving. He’s calling me‚ he’s calling me!’