Castle to Castle (18 page)

Just a minute . . . I'm pretty far gone, I'm not through yet . . . I wish the bed would cave in . . . If I could only open a gash in it . . . a watercourse . . . and me and my bed would sink! I'm sweating . . . dripping . . .

"Do you want something?"

"No, no . . . darling."

I never want anything . . . I refuse everything . . . I don't want a kiss . . . and I don't want a napkin . . . I want to reminisce . . . I want to be left alone . . . that's it . . . my memories . . . all the circumstances . . . that's all I ask . . . I live more on hatred than on noodles . . . but genuine hatred . . . no cheap imitation . . . and gratitude? . . . never mind . . . I'm chock-full of that . . . Nordling° who saved Paris wanted to get me out of the clink . . . History, take note! . . . either you're a memorialist or not . . . Let's see now . . . down there? . . . on the riverfront? . . . Le Vigan? . . . Was he really dressed like a gaucho? . . . down there? Gaucho and fare collector? . . . Was Le Vigan taking the fares? . . . I've got to know . . . got to remember exactly . . . fever or no fever . . . exactitude is what counts! . . . Achille and Gertrut reject my work . . . they say I'm lying. That's right! . . . Let them try to tell me it wasn't like that in Siegmaringen! So what? . . . Short circuit? . . . I didn't see anything at all down on the riverfront . . . no
La Publique
. . . no ghosts! . . . Le Vigan wasn't dressed like a gaucho . . . no sombrero . . . no, he was wearing an enormous turban! hell, that's right, an enormous turban . . . I tore it off him in the fight . . . in the snow . . . but say, what did we fight about? . . . his turban was a bandage . . . he had an earache . . .

Your memory is precise, faithful . . . and then all of a sudden . . . nothing . . . it's gone . . . old age, you say . . . no! . . . I've got to get Le Vigan back! and Siegmaringen! . . . and Pétain with his eighteen food cards! . . . I've got them all . . . and Laval and his Ménétrel . . . I never leave them . . . and the Black Forest and the big eagle! . . . you'll see what I mean! that Hohenzollern Castle! . . . just wait! . . .

I can't make up my mind with this fever . . . Achille? . . . Gertrut? . . . one's as crummy as the other . . . But suppose they both run out on me . . . it's possible . . .

Oh, I'd made up my mind not to write any more . . . the very word "writing' has always struck me as indecent! . . . pretentious, narcissistic, "have-you-read-me?" . . . that was my reason, the only one . . . I'm just no candidate for the Pantheon . . . highest priced worms in the world! . . . Soufflot's° gluttons . . . no! . . . it's not vanity that prods me . . . it's the gas, the carrots, the zwieback . . . But I risked it, I stuck my neck out . . . for the gas and the carrots . . . and for the dogs . . . they've got to eat, too . . . I haven't written much . . . but look at the hatred . . . the fury people were in . . . and still are . . . I was never so well aware of the loathing people had for me as during the months when they put me in Sonbye Hospital in Denmark . . . between two spells of solitary . . . in the cancer ward . . . I'm still trembling, but I know what I'm saying . . . nothing doubtful, nothing imaginary about it . . . in the cancer ward at the Sonbye Hospital in Copenhagen, Denmark . . . and I can tell you there was screaming . . . all advanced cases . . . it was a kind of favor to put me there . . . after all it was better than the Venstre . . . besides, I was supposed to make myself useful . . . listen for the last gasps . . . ring for the nurse . . . help her to pack up the corpse . . . so she only had to roll it to the door . . . and into the corridor . . .

Everything is supposed to be so perfected, so amazingly hallucino-sanitary in Copenhagen, Denmark, enough to hit your head against the wall . . . don't believe a word of it! . . . it's just like any place else . . . I mean, it's the cleaning women who do everything and run everything . . . in the ministries, the restaurants, the political parties, the hospitals! it's the cleaning women who have the say . . . they're the ones who sweep away records, laws, state secrets, and the dying . . . the world sleeps . . . not the cleaning woman . . . termites! . . . termites! in the morning you don't find a thing . . . your moribund friend is packed away . . . Yorick, and no alas! . . . let them scream! let them wait! . . . morphine . . . injections . . . to hell with that! . . . I was the "watcher" on duty . . . the Samaritan with the bell . . . The last sigh? tinkle! tinkle! Ship him out! one the less! . . . Ema . . . Ingrid . . . came in yawning . . . rolled the guy out . . . I know what I'm saying, I'm not making it up . . . Sonbye Hospital; department head, Professor Gram . . . excellent clinician . . . subtle, sensitive . . . oh, he never said a word to me . . . you don't talk to the prisoners . . . I was undergoing treatment, too . . . I was falling apart . . . not from cancer, not yet . . . only from the effects of the hole, the cage, Vesterfangsel . . . I'm not making up the hole either . . . it was really a hole, extra-damp, pitch dark, only a little slit near the ceiling . . . get them to show you Pavilion K in the Vesterfangsel, Copenhagen . . . travel is educational . . . Nyehavn, Tivoli, the Hotel d'Angleterre aren't the whole story . . . you won't be risking anything as a tourist . . . The advantage of the cancer ward over the prison was that there were no bars or ventilation slits . . . The windows were high and wide and looked out on a sort of meadow . . . the meadows in the north are pale . . . pale as their sky and their Baltic . . . men, clouds, sea, meadows . . . all one . . . treacherous in a way . . . easy to see sprites . . . No sprites in the cancer ward . . . I wasn't there to dream . . . but to listen for death rattles . . . to wake up Ema . . . or Ingrid . . . too soon . . . too late . . . There was one good thing about Gram, he trusted me not to take advantage of being there without handcuffs . . . all those long nights . . . to make a getaway . . . it might have been easy enough . . . but . . . Lili would have been left alone . . . and Bébert . . . and where would I have gone? . . . the police had my description everywhere . . . they'd have picked me up . . . there's fuzz all over . . . every country in the world . . . fuzz . . . men are sex-fiends, thieves, murderers, but most of all they're fuzz . . . Sweden? . . . Malmö? . . . don't make me laugh . . . I wouldn't go a hundred yards . . . I'd be chained up worse than ever . . . tossed in the hold . . . and off to the F.F.I. . . . Delivery . . . that's the Swedish speciality! You don't believe me? . . . I'll give you the names of people who committed suicide . . . right in the ambulance . . . there . . . before my eyes . . . under the lantern . . . ah, the "right of asylum!" . . . I'd have liked to see Montherlant, or Morand, or Carbuccia try it . . . and see if they'd still be sipping cocktails with the best . . . if they'd still have their fancy apartments . . .

One advantage of this bell-ringing routine was that I had plenty of time to think . . . dying people in general are pretty noisy . . . and especially in my ward the people with cancer of the throat . . . but when you're condemned to death yourself . . . practically nothing fazes you . . . There's nothing like it . . . I didn't bat an eyelash, I just thought, I thought very clearly . . . not in a fever like now . . . pellagra interferes with your vision, you see a blur, but your head stays clear . . . you keep cool . . . all these dying people around me, two whole wards . . . it was simple to figure what would happen to me if I went back to Montmartre . . . they'd put me between two planks and saw me in half . . . caught red-handed? . . . no nonsense . . . the saw! . . . I'd heard they were taking everything! my apartment! selling everything at auction . . . and at the Flea Market . . . having a hell of a good time . . . burning the beds for firewood . . . so where could I go? the great slaking of vengeance! . . . Oh, those rabid assassins aren't as crazy as people think . . . They're sly . . . farsighted . . . even at the height of their delirium they hitch their wagon to a bank account . . . Laetitia! . . . the motto of the most frantic lighters of wrongs, torture-masters, eye-putter-outers, and ball-cutters is: "
Pourvou qué ça douré!
"

I wasn't going to leave the Sonbye as long as they were willing to keep me for treatment . . . vitamins . . . porridge . . . "If only ittalasta!" That was my motto, too. I'd lost all my teeth . . . and about a hundred pounds . . . I've been kind of thin ever since . . . solitary doesn't do a man any good . . . We can't take it . . . I wouldn't want you to think I'm soft . . . that I need people to talk to . . . no, not at all! Silence is fine with me . . . but those Danish coolers are really rough . . . even the toughest experts—Norwegians, Finns, Swedes —agree that they're just too horrible . . . I'd like to see Mauriac, Morand, Aragon, Vaillant, and
tutti
, them and their pipes of Pan . . . after six months in one of them! ah, Nobel and Goncourt prizewinners! and
frutti!
What a revelation! . . . the heavenly shits! Their crumminess coming out underneath! As for myself, I'm proud to say, my morale never cracked! my body gave way, I admit . . . piece by piece . . . red ribbons . . . gnawed away . . . the effect of the darkness and confinement . . . my being in the cancer ward didn't surprise anybody . . . pellagra? . . . cancer? . . . the nurses didn't care . . . they expected to roll me out in the corridor one fine day . . . meanwhile, I could make myself useful . . . listen carefully for that last gasp . . . ring neither too soon . . . nor too late . . . load the corpse on the truck . . . after washing it . . . and, most important, silently . . . never a word! either to the nurse when I woke her up, or to my colleagues next day . . . all in all, my presence there was very fragile . . . barely tolerated . . . useful, but no tenure . . . a trifle . . . a word . . . and out I'd go . . .

One morning I don't see a soul . . . no more nurse . . . the doctors . . . ordinarily so regular . . . haven't come through . . . In two seconds flat I say to myself: this is it! . . . under certain conditions you get a total sensation of your life . . . not some other time, but right now . . . you've got a direct intuition, you know, before anything happens, that it's for you and not somebody else . . . you've got an animal certainty . . . it's human goofiness that dialectifies everything, muddles everything up . . .

Another night and day pass . . . nobody says a word to me . . . not a nurse in the ward . . . somebody dies . . . and there he stays on his side, all yellow, with his mouth wide open . . . not an intern in sight . . . nobody but me and the croakers . . . I keep ringing my bell, but nothing happens . . .

Ah, someone's there! . . . not a nurse . . . a driver . . . in the big double door . . . wide open . . . I know that man . . . the same driver that brought me . . . no, not a brute . . . strong but quiet . . . not a prison guard . . . he's in civilian clothes, a gabardine jacket . . . same material as my Poincaré suit . . . a slight detail, irrelevant you may think . . . No, don't say that . . . the circumstances . . . both of us on our good behavior! nobody in the two wards but him and me and the croakers . . . not a nurse, not an assistant, not an interne . . . "
Komm!
" he says to me . . . he could have saved his breath . . . I knew . . . He was taking me back to the hole . . .

I can say that I've lots of memories in my crummy life . . . not the picturesque kind that don't cost anything . . . but paid for! . . . and at a very steep price . . . well, here between you and me, these circumstances mean a lot to me . . . this driver saying "
Komm
" in the doorway . . . not brutal or anything . . . standing there motionless . . . ready to take me back to the hole . . . on the other side of town . . . without an escort . . . without handcuffs . . . all perfectly trusting . . . in a limousine . . . and I'd be stuck there for months . . . that impression stays with me . . .

A few months in the hole means nothing to you . . . why would it . . .

It turned out to be quite a few months . . . while they were deciding whether to hand me over . . . or to keep me . . . with Article 75 on my ass . . . and every newspaper in Copenhagen dead sure that I'd sold, they didn't know exactly what, but at least the defenses of the Alps . . . Article 75 was an article of faith . . . their top-level reflections went on for years . . . should they hand me over? . . . should they let me die in prison? . . . at the hospital? . . . or someplace else?

As long as you haven't seen a civilian prison driver in the doorway, you haven't seen a thing . . .

Oh, it's no better now . . . not much better . . . to hell with the two of them! the ten! . . . the twenty! . . . the lousy skinflints! . . . Anyone who wants to work for people like that . . . can split a gut!

I talk to Norbert Loukoum about the hole . . . I do it on purpose, it gets him down . . . he's never been in . . . hell, no! . . . neither he . . . nor Achille! . . . nor Malraux! . . . nor Mauriac! . . . nor the foetus Tartre . . . nor Larengon . . . nor Triolette of the toyolette . . . the whole oily clique . . . the turncoat élite . . . who never get sick of playing the dangerous revolutionary . . . the iron men of the Iron Curtain . . . the superbazookas . . . the East-West bombshells . . . thunder on the left . . . and they're all mollycoddles . . . pensioned at birth . . . weaned from the bottle, slightly languid nurse, the dear old
lycée
, the little boy-friend, a cushy job . . . nothing to it! . . . ten, twelve changes of skin and sweaters, and it's in the bag: that big fat chameleon pension . . . and the Promenade des Anglais! . . . a little fun in the urinals . . . distinction . . . the Academy! . . . Richelieu! . . . the old bastards! . . . never paying! . . . always paid! Terminus at the "Quai of the Slippery Eels!" . . . Under the dome of the rectums and prostates . . . "Oh, so you're one too, my dear sir . . . gender, more sensitive, a deeper licker! . . . Apotheon! . . ." 

Richelieu foresaw it all! . . . Mauriac, Bourget, and Aspirine . . . At a certain stage of decadence the worst drones get to be the biggest kings! . . . Louis XIV couldn't have held a candle to Juanovici . . .