Paris Noir

by Jacques Yonnet

  No sign of Zoltan. His landlord had to force the lock. His room was found neat and tidy‚ containing his clothes and work tools.

  Where else would Zoltan be if not in La Mouffe?

  Which is where I came across him several months later. Terribly aged‚ emaciated‚ all he said was‚ ‘It’s worse than if I’d committed a crime. I don’t know whether I can ever redeem myself. But I’m trying to.’

  He wasn’t resurfacing wooden floors any more. For a glass of wine‚ a bite to eat‚ often for nothing at all‚ he was teaching Russian to generous-spirited and ‘committed’ students. Let there be no misunderstanding: he enabled them to make such rapid progress that ‘someone very respectable‚ wearing glasses and with a slight accent’‚ became intrigued by his method of teaching and forcefully insisted on taking him on a journey. No one could tell me where.

  There are in every ghetto in the world street-pedlars selling pumpkin or melon seeds – I’m not quite sure what they are. The Jews chew these the way others chew hazelnuts.

  Over in Belleville‚ round République‚ there are cinemas where they often show pre-war yiddish films: Yidl mitn Fidl‚ Der Yidisher Kenig Lir‚ Der Dibuk …

  At the entrance is a pathetic figure selling seeds‚ or trying to. He’s constantly nibbling at them; he looks increasingly rodent-like.

  He can’t speak. From the sounds that issue from his constricted throat you can just about make out two syllables: I-da … I-da …

  Chapter XIII

  …the question is precisely to know whether the past has ceased to exist‚ or ceased to be useful …

  Bergson

  1947

  I’m trying to take stock of Paris‚ to rethink it. The convulsions that shook the world seem‚ in the eyes of those wilfully short- sighted people who reduce them to human proportions‚ to have subsided for a long period. I don’t believe it. Nowhere in this City of mine‚ so thoroughly explored‚ so probingly questioned‚ so deeply penetrated‚ have I found the torpor‚ the weary calm that are symptoms of a lasting peace. People are tired‚ it’s true. Tired and disillusioned. They’re fed up with everything. But not the City. It’s still edgy. Just as there remain‚ to the great disadvantage of arms manufacturers‚ enormous quantities of ordnance that have not yet been destroyed‚ are indeed being carefully preserved‚ there is pent-up rebellion beneath the paving stones. Anything could happen.

  The events I’ve chosen to record are only the most spectacular manifestations of forces that – out of fear‚ ignorance‚ everyday stupidity – are deemed ‘obscure’. But it’s now an indisputable fact that the most innocent words‚ the most harmless gestures in certain places and at certain times acquire an unwonted importance and weight‚ and have repercussions that far exceed what was intended.

  It’s a joy‚ a pleasure to discover in Paris an oasis of calm – they’re rare – and to visit it sometimes‚ returning from aggressive streets there to immerse yourself as if in a warm and placid lake.

  The Place Dauphine is one such oasis. You feel somewhat captive in this shady‚ semi-provincial triangle‚ where the inhabitants are all known to one another by name and wouldn’t know how to greet one another without a smile.

  I’m particularly fond of Suzanne’s grocery-cum-bar. She and her husband run a shop a few square metres in size that somehow manages to accommodate‚ in an amazingly restricted space‚ dried and cooked vegetables‚ tinned foods‚ litres of vintage wine‚ and the tiny bar counter behind which reigns Monsieur Suzanne‚ in other words Old François. At what is considered the time of day for an aperitif‚ the place is invaded by as mixed a crowd as you could hope to find. It ranges from drab young housemaids‚ who refer to themselves as ‘governesses’ here‚ to certain illustrious members of the bench who are not above standing a drink to persons of a disreputable and scruffy appearance (the jail is near by)‚ or indeed clinking glasses with the gaolers and wardens of the Prison Service.

  It was there‚ on a day ‘unlike any other’‚ that I met one of my old friends. A documentary work I was trying to put together was the reason I’d gone wandering round Rue des Blancs-Manteaux. At the corner of Rue Ste-Croix and Rue Aubriot there’s a shabby little café with a Virgin watching over it‚ forbearing and indulgent‚ just like all the naive devotional images‚ Christs and saints installed by the populace of ‘working men and women’ for their ‘own personal use’. I was proposing to chronicle the events that this congenial watering-hole might have witnessed‚ and depict the characters who’d surely drunk here over the course of bygone ages.

  In the thirteenth century‚ a period when the present Rue Aubriot was known by the name of Rue à Singes [Monkey Street]‚ one of the most interesting and colourful characters in the neighbourhood without a doubt was Sieur Michel de Socques. Before coming into possession of considerable wealth‚ this gentleman must have been some kind of strolling player or exhibitor of animals: for he devoted the rest of his life to assisting the former and offering a home to the latter. Whenever there was fear of certain types of epidemic‚ animals of exotic origin had to be placed in quarantine before their owners were allowed to exhibit them ‘in the thoroughfares of the fair city’. So Sieur Michel would take in the animals whose exhibitors couldn’t afford to keep them in isolation without their help to earn a living. His residence‚ ‘Monkey House’‚ gave its name to the street. A nearby passageway has retained this designation.

  On bears and popinjays (parrots) there was an admittance toll levied‚ which was paid at the Passage du Petit-Châtelet‚ in front of the Petit-Pont. As for monkeys‚ ‘The Rules Governing the Trades of Paris‚ by Etienne Boilève‚ Provost of this City’‚ lays down the following:

  ‘The Merchant who brings a Monkey to sell must pay four deniers: and if the Monkey belongs to someone who has bought it for his own amusement‚ it is exempt‚ and if the Monkey belongs to an exhibitor‚ the exhibitor must give a performance for the toll-collector‚ and in exchange for his performance be exempted on everything he buys for his needs: and minstrels too are exempted in exchange for singing one verse of a song.’

  What this amounts to is that the animal exhibitor‚ instead of paying the four-denier toll the merchant has to pay‚ would pay his due in songs and capers. Hence the expression: payer en monnaie de singe‚ literally‚ to pay with monkey money‚ ie avoid paying a debt‚ with fine words and empty promises.

  The Gypsies of Paris

  So it was that after a pleasant stroll‚ my mind filled with gladdening thoughts‚ I quite naturally returned to the banks of the Seine and crossed the first bridge I came to.

  It was evening. At Suzanne’s‚ the regulars were as usual chatting quietly‚ sipping an inoffensive rosé. The man who came in was tall‚ bony and dark-haired‚ wearing a wide- brimmed hat and long khaki cloak‚ probably of military provenance.

  Even then we were all intrigued by this new arrival: you never see a strange face at Suzanne’s at this time of day.

  The guy went up to the counter and ordered an anisette. To pay and raise the glass to his lips he used only his right hand. Another glass. And another. Now where had I seen that face before? The collar of a large-checked shirt could be glimpsed under his cloak. That‚ the hat and the distant gaze more or less placed my man: he must work in a circus.

  The guy noticed some little bags of macaroons hanging on the wall. He pointed to them‚ and said to Suzanne‚ ‘How much?’

  Still using only his right hand he tore open the packet‚ crushed one of the macaroons on the counter and‚ having tasted it‚ started to slip a tiny mouthful of cake inside his hermetically buttoned-up cloak. A hand emerged‚ a minute woollen-gloved hand‚ which grabbed the morsel. From under the cloak came a crunching sound.

  Next to me at the back of the shop sitting on the only possible chair was Old Angélique‚ a somewhat simple-minded Breton woman. She does cleaning and shopping errands on the island‚ where any spurious ingenuousness is banished.

  Angélique tugged
at my sleeve‚ pointing to the hand that snatched the pieces of macaroon. ‘What’s that?’

  There were a good ten or twelve of us asking ourselves the same unspoken question. The man then undid three buttons and perched on his shoulder a little old man‚ with beard and moustache – of cotton wool – black eyes that darted in every direction‚ a long turned-up nose‚ gloves‚ leather boots‚ black knitted trousers‚ a red jacket with a long hood.

  The perfection of this impersonation amazed us. For the man must have had to tame his monkey with infinite patience to reach the point where the animal was prepared to tolerate this get-up – which didn’t seem to bother it at all – and especially the papier-mâché nose and the mask of make-up.

  The evening hour‚ fading light‚ peacefulness‚ and relaxed atmosphere reigning that day conspired to transport us within a few moments to a world of enchantment.

  Angélique insisted. ‘But what on earth is that‚ sir?’

  ‘This? It’s a dwarf‚ madame. As you can see‚ it’s a dwarf‚ a very old dwarf.’

  ‘A dwarf? But what … what kind of dwarf?’

  ‘One of our forest dwarfs‚’ said the other‚ unruffled. ‘Some still exist in my country.’

  ‘That’s just incredible! He’s not mechanical?’

  ‘Indeed not.’ (He bent down a little.) ‘Give him a piece of cake. You can shake his hand.’

  ‘Oh! goodness me! It’s for real!’ Angélique was ecstatic. ‘Let me tell you‚ sir‚ in my country too‚ in Brittany‚ we have forests like yours. And I was told that dwarves lived there‚ farfardets we call them. As well as goblins riding white mares‚ and then women who are taller‚ but mean no harm‚ the milloraines. Well‚ I believed in all that‚ as if it were the Gospel‚ until the age of fourteen. Yes‚ sir‚ fourteen. And then I went to work in Rennes‚ and they told me it was all humbug. Then‚ since I’d never seen any‚ in the forests or on the heath‚ I didn’t believe in those dwarves of yours any more. But here I am at the end of my life – you see‚ I’m getting on for sixty-eight and not in very good health‚ monsieur – and I can believe in them again‚ really and truly‚ for good and all? Ah‚ monsieur! If you only knew how happy you’ve made me!’

  Everyone was choked. No one dreamed of making fun of the good-hearted woman. The man with the monkey was having a private conversation with Suzanne.

  Angélique rummaged in her skirts‚ drew out a large battered-looking purse. In it were a few small notes‚ carefully folded. ‘Monsieur‚ this is worth celebrating. François‚ give everyone here a drink. It’s not that I’m very rich‚ but that’s done me good‚ ah la la‚ that’s made me happy.’

  ‘That’s all right‚ dear‚ you keep your money‚ we wouldn’t dream of taking it‚’ said François‚ filling the glasses.

  The man put his monkey away‚ buttoned up his cloak‚ and said goodbye with a smile addressed to all. He cast a glance in my direction. A knowing glance. Now fancy that. He was at the door when Angélique called out to him‚ ‘Hey‚ monsieur! Where was it that you found your dwarf?’

  With a very broad sweep of his hat‚ ‘In a legend‚ madame.’

  The man with the monkey had on the quiet given Suzanne a thousand francs‚ to pay for Angélique’s bag to be filled with provisions after he left.

  Now I’ve placed him. It was the Gypsy from Rue de Bièvre‚ Gabriel‚ who was my godson for seven years. He’s simply shaved his beard off. He must have been living abroad for quite a while: you can tell from his accent.

  When I leapt out of bed on Sunday I didn’t need to waste much time wondering how to spend the morning. Even if I’d decided otherwise‚ my shoes would have walked me to the St Médard market. I had fun poking about among those humble old bits and pieces‚ shook hands with the Captain‚ ran into La Puce‚ La Lune‚ Trouillebave. But that wasn’t the only reason for coming. The Gypsy had agreed to meet me. By himself this time: he only takes his monkey out for two hours in the evening.

  His name’s not Gabriel any more‚ but Mikhail. His new ‘godfather’‚ my successor‚ is Rumanian. We shall soon make each other’s acquaintaince: Mikhail – since that’s what we must call him – has invited both of us to a feast that his clan is hosting to celebrate his forthcoming marriage. There‚ eating straight out of the family cooking-pot‚ we shall savour together the niglo (hedgehog) of true friendship. Mikhail is for the time being manager of the travelling circus-cum-theatre that his future in-laws own. He let me see a photograph showing the eyes of his betrothed. Only her eyes. The rest of her face was concealed by a piece of white masking paper folded over‚ stuck down on the back. Apparently‚ ‘among their own’ – I don’t know whether this term includes the entire race or only one clan – this is the custom for a very specific period during the betrothal.

  We went to Olivier’s‚ where naturally I spoke to him about Keep-on-Dancin’‚ goatee-bearded Klager and the ‘ill- intentioned prayers’ that people offer up in front of the sign of the Quatre-Sergents.

  ‘And you thought you were an expert on Paris‚ that you knew it all. I could teach you a lot more things I’m sure you don’t know‚’ he said to me.

  ‘Gladly. You’re making my mouth water. But how long are you going to keep me dangling?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  Olivier called me over into a quiet corner.

  ‘Have you heard the rumours going round?’

  Apparently‚ they want to abolish the market‚ ‘our’ market.

  ‘Who’s “they”?’

  ‘The police authorities‚ of course.’

  ‘But that would be heinous‚ and idiotic. Why? For what reason? And under what powers?’

  ‘The normal powers of the local administration. They’re perfectly entitled to revoke a concession that may have existed for centuries but isn’t registered in any written text. It would help us out if you could write a few articles on the subject.’

  ‘That’s certainly within the realms of possibility.’

  ‘And if you could try and trace the origins of that concession in the City archives. Apparently it goes back a very long way.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll get on to it right away.’

  ‘Let me know what you find out‚’ said the Gypsy. ‘If your research confirms what they say in my family‚ you’re in for a few surprises.’

  ‘How on earth … in what way can a Gypsy community’s folklore have anything to do with the St Médard market? In fact‚ do you mean the market‚ or the church?’

  ‘Both. The church is a place of pilgrimage assigned to us‚ some of us at least‚ from way back: every seventh generation. No more questions for now. You’ve work to do.’

  The St-Médard Concessions

  What a City of marvels! I turned myself into a detective‚ and followed the trail through indecipherable manuscripts and old books. It was in the City that the story began. Here it is.

  The present Rue Chanoinesse‚ which winds its way in the shadow of Notre-Dame‚ was not in the Middle Ages disturbed by the noisy presence of our motorcyclist guardians of the peace. It was called Rue des Marmousets: on the site of the motorcycle garage was the corner of Rue des Deux-Ermites. And there‚ until 1884‚ it was possible to gaze on the remains of a generally neglected monument‚ so-called Dagobert’s Tower‚ which included a ninth-century staircase set into the masonry‚ of which the thirty-foot handrail was fashioned out of the trunk of a gigantic oak tree. Here‚ according to tradition‚ lived a barber and a pastry-cook‚ who in the year 1335 plied their trade next door to each other. The reputation of the pastry-cook‚ whose products were among the most delicious that could be found‚ grew day by day. Members of the high-ranking clergy in particular were very fond of the extraordinary meat pies that‚ on the grounds of keeping to himself the secret of how the meats were seasoned‚ our man made all on his own‚ with the sole assistance of an apprentice who was responsible for the pastry.

  His neighbour the barber had won favour with the public throug
h his honesty‚ his skilled hairdressing and shaving‚ and the steam baths he offered. Now‚ thanks to a dog that insistently scratched at the ground in a certain place‚ the ghastly origins of the meat used by the pastry-cook became known‚ for the animal unearthed some human bones! It was established that every Saturday before shutting up shop the barber would offer to shave a foreign student for free. He would put the unsuspecting young man in a tip-back seat and then cut his throat. The victim was immediately rushed down to the cellar‚ where the pastry-cook took delivery of him‚ cut him up‚ and added the requisite seasoning. For which the pies were famed‚ ‘especially as human flesh is more delicate because of the diet‚’ old Dubreuil comments facetiously.

  The two wretched fellows were burned with their pies‚ the house was ordered to be demolished‚ and in its place was built a kind of expiatory pyramid‚ with the figure of the dog on one of its faces. The pyramid was there until 1861.

  But this is where the story takes another turn and joins the very best of black comedy. For the considerable number of ecclesiastics who had unwittingly consumed human flesh were not only guilty before God of the very venial sin of greed; they were automatically excommunicated! A grand council was held under the aegis of several bishops and it was decided to send to Avignon‚ where Pope Clement VI resided‚ a delegation of prelates with a view to securing the rescindment if not of the Christian interdiction against cannibalism then at least of the torments of hell that faced the inadvertent cannibals. The delegation set off‚ with a tidy sum of money‚ bare-footed‚ bearing candles and singing psalms. But the roads of that time were not very safe and doubtless strewn with temptation. Anyway‚ the fact is that Clement VI never saw any sign of the penitents‚ and with good reason.

  Notre-Dame had not yet disappeared from the bright horizon when these prelates of ours‚ their feet already sore‚ anticipating the hardships of their journey decided to stop in some suitable place and discuss what decisions should be taken. They circled round Paris‚ skirted the estates of the Comte de Boulogne bordering the Bièvre‚ and found at a place called Pont aux Tripes (Tripe Bridge) – more or less the site of the Gobelins intersection – a welcoming inn where the owner didn’t mind being overrun by the Grand Provost’s footsoldiers. Having eaten their fill‚ and appreciative of the generous fare provided by their host‚ our clerics postponed their journey till a later date and settled round the small market town of St-Médard. They very soon found themselves in need of replenishing their funds. They turned themselves into mendicant friars‚ some calling themselves Hubains‚ that’s to say‚ ‘those cured of rabies by St Hubert’; the rest‚ Coquillards‚ who’d made the pilgrimage‚ so they claimed‚ to Santiago di Compostella or Mont-St-Michel. Thus divided into two allied bands‚ our ‘penitents’‚ who were somewhat forceful in getting the tardy traveller to donate alms‚ were not however looked on with a favourable eye by their rivals: the Rifodés‚ Malingreux‚ Francs-Mitous and Piètres – highway robbers all of them – were only too anxious for a chance to pit themselves against these intruders. It duly arose. One autumn night in 1352 Monsignor Jean de Meulan‚ formerly Bishop of Noyon and recently appointed Bishop of Paris‚ was returning to his estate that lay just beyond the church of St Médard‚ along the Rue de ‘Mont-Fêtard’. Armed horsemen were escorting his carriage. But his guard would have had to yield to the attack launched by a gang of brigands determined to rob the bishop and his entourage if the former ‘Penitents’‚ alerted to what was happening‚ had not come running and fought a pitched battle. Jean de Meulan was able to regain his property‚ safe and sound.