Castle to Castle (32 page)

If the Swiss won? . . . heads or tails! . . . then the guy was shipped to Basel . . . by slow freight . . . And after that, God knows where! . . . mostly handed over to the Fifis! La-Chaux-de-Fond-Fresnes! don't believe what the papers say about total wars! . . . no such thing! . . . atomic or not! . . . no war can beat the police . . . they never go so deep! the police need those no-man's lands . . . the threads between cops and cops, always good neighbors, friendly and professional . . . in the worst fanatical cyclones . . . "Please, please! Do take this little rabbit!" The cops have their own kind of order . . . they maintain it . . . no use going on about peace . . . there's always a certain kind of peace! . . . even "total" wars are mere incidents! Commissioner Papillon? . . . a pushover! . . . stopped! wrapped! and back where he came from! . . . they could just as well have stuffed him! walking in his sleep! not a peep out of him! . . . strolling along in complete innocence . . . he should have taken a look at his "runner" . . . any runner in fact, the faces on them! one squint at their features, you're murdered in advance! . . . the look in their eyes, those slanting profiles . . . I've seen whole prisons full of degenerates, "congenital convicts," "Lombroso types," real museum pieces! but the characters in that Bocho-Helvetian no-man's-land . . . backwoods types, Cro-Magnon men, real laboratory studies, highly instructive in a sense . . . "quaternarians" . . . you wouldn't have been surprised to catch them eating people . . . and naturally hand-in-glove with the police! all police! . . . contraband, sure . . . anything you needed! . . . all these degenerate, "recessive" types are stoolies and runners . . . in Cameroon the Pygmies between Paouins and Mabillas . . . or on the Boulevard Barbes the little men that run minors and snow, the "Vice Squads" . . . or in Bloomsbury, London, opium and abortions, Whitehall 1212 . . .

Anyway, as I was telling you, the way they'd taken him for the count and hog-tied him . . . he was very quiet in his chains! You'll tell me that a Commissioner . . . a "special" Commissioner at that . . . isn't exactly a choir boy . . . falling into a trap like that! even a very ingenious trap! oh, oh, he must know a thing or two about those things! it's his job! he had only to take a look at the mugs on those "border runners"! Those faces! . . . the treachery, the villainy, the degeneracy, the stigmata! . . . regular carnival masks! . . . nature goes to the trouble of putting masks like that on people! and it doesn't wise you up . . . that's your hard luck! . . . provocateurs! . . . talking big, bragging, and then all of a sudden humble, crawling . . . chameleons, snakes, vipers . . . that's what they were! . . . they molted before your eyes . . . Oh, of course, you find the same type in the jails . . . or police lineups, or pretty near . . . all those Bocho-Helvetian runners must have been on furlough from some place . . . the prisons of the frontier zone . . . Swiss . . . Savoyard . . . Bavarian . . . or deserters . . . in Siegmaringen we had ten, twelve regular runners . . . they disappeared . . . they turned up again . . . on furlough . . . that was the story . . . furlough was Constance, a week in Constance! . . . the only quiet city in all Germany, the only city that was never bombed, that was always lighted like in peacetime, the stores all open and the restaurants . . . Stock Exchange going strong, all foreign currencies and stocks! . . . Switzerland, France, Lausanne, and the undergrounds . . . not to mention the food supply! all you wanted from East and West! jam, chocolate, canned goods, caviar! . . . genuine caviar from Rostov! . . . I'm not making it up! . . . parachuted, believe it or not, by an R.A.F. squadron along with the Reuters dispatches, the news of the week . . . New York, Moscow, London . . . and the Café de la Paix with its very sumptuous terrace on the lake front . . . to give you an idea that it was worth the trip, an enchanted city, very tempting . . . Commissioner Papillon knew . . . that's where he went . . . and not alone! . . . not alone! with the touching Clotilde! . . . the ill-fated Clotilde! . . . a very very sweet, gentle child . . . child? . . . well, a young lady . . . she'd been an announcer for Radio-Paris! the "Rose des Vents" program . . . the crimes on her record! the monstrosities she'd read! the horrors she'd sung into that mike! . . . one in particular! the payoff! . . . "De Gaulle king of traitors!
poom! poom! poom!
" it's easy to see why she cleared out! besides, she was in love! yes, she too! . . . she'd plighted her troth to the Great Destroyer of Carthage!° . . . searched for him through a thousand perils and found him! All the way from the Porte Maillot to Constance, looking for her Great Destroyer! a miracle of love! But she hadn't picked the right time to drop in on Herold . . . not at all . . . Hérold Carthage wanted only one thing . . . to be alone, all alone! here she'd gone through partisans, Fifis, the Senegalese army, and Strasbourg! the whole works! and all he wanted was to be alone! all alone! didn't want anything else! fed up! his Clotilde could go fly a kite! . . . desolate Clotilde! . . . and plunked her back in the train! . . . he'd join her again some day! . . . some day! . . . and he ships her off! he ships her to us . . . just a note to Sabiani . . . Sabiani's joint was the most heartrending in the whole town, P.P.F. headquarters . . . the biggest accumulation of crow bait . . . the big office, the back office and the two show cases! there are witnesses, they'll tell you . . . worse than the
Fidelis!
in both showcases, the sick and dying of all ages, babies, grandmothers . . . and over them those solemn signs . . . not the least bit encouraging . . . the only political messages I've ever seen that really said what they meant . . . such as well probably never see again! not even in the Chinese prison camps! "Never forget, always bear in mind, that the Party owes you nothing, that you owe the Party everything!" That's what the moribund worshipers of Doriot were expected to realize! no mince-mince! old Roman! no election flimflam! . . . it's a very exceptional moment when political parties put their cards on the table, say what they mean and stop gilding the pill to tickle the mob! the sick and dying at P.P.F. headquarters, coughing up their guts and lungs, were a permanent deterrent! . . . no more recruiting! everything in its time and place! . . . the idea was to scare people away . . . They'd thrown Clotilde out . . . wouldn't even let her die in the showcase! . . . "get back to the station, you no-good whore! stinking bitch! the crust! . . ." asking for her Hérold! . . . he'd said he'd be there . . . he'd promised! the station? the station? she'd just come from there! After they'd thrown her out of the "croakarium," she'd gone back down the Avenue . . . I've shown you . . . where the riot was . . . back to the station platform . . . sitting on a bench, poor cunning little thing, all alone, high and dry . . . and hundreds like her . . . forlorn, on every bench . . . fired from factories . . . grandmothers . . . I've told you about the grandmothers, they were mostly interested in raising hell, charging the locomotives, lying down on the tracks . . . no shame! The young ones were more refined . . . Clotilde wept copiously but softly, very pathetic . . . Commissioner Papillon just happened to pass by, "station duty" . . . one look at Clotilde, immediate sympathy . . . Plenty of other young women in as much distress as Clotilde, on every bench . . . but Clotilde . . . one two three! no eyes for anybody but Clotilde . . . his heart:
boom boom!
protest or not, she had to eat out of his mess kit . . . before they'd exchanged three words . . . four words . . . he'd sworn everlasting love! . . . he'd lay down his life! . . . and Papillon was no little fly-by-night, no soft-soap artist, oh no! . . . four words and they'd already sworn never, ne-ver to believe in anything but the power of their love, their tenderness and the sublimity of their souls! . . . which shows you . . . I'm giving it to you straight . . . that foul embraces, wallowing bodies, impure amalgams weren't the whole story on those platforms and under those tunnels . . . Papillon and Clotilde . . . the living proof . . . sentiments that Héloise, Laura, or Beatrice would have been very proud of . . . and in those nightmarish conditions! . . . bombs hanging in mid-air! . . . sirens, whistles that walked off with your ears! . . . the bumping and thumping of twenty-five troop trains! . . . the howling from the kitchens . . . soldiers, grandmothers, working girls all over the place . . . and naturally
Lili Marleen
and the forte piano in the waiting room . . . Papillon's job was to make the grandmothers let the trains pull out . . . to keep the S.A. from stepping in . . . to make them get up off the tracks! . . . Papillon was no slouch! it was thanks to him that the trains always left . . . mostly always . . . in spite of the bigger and bigger crowd of grandmothers . . . right under the locomotives! . . . well, the second he saw Clotilde, no eyes . . . no thought for anything else . . . to bring her happiness and right away! . . . not in twenty years! . . . console her for all her sorrows . . . give her a new life! . . . not in twenty years! . . . this minute! . . . Switzerland, a real life! Constance! . . . life, fairyland! Siegmaringen was death! Constance! Life! . . . Basel . . . Berne! . . . and they'd made up their minds! The first runner that came their way! right this minute, let's go! . . . and what a reception! . . . expected! . . . sleepwalkers of love . . . reception committee! . . . deep in their happiness! . . . going ahead without looking! . . . in a dream! . . . heading for a big poplar! . . . the seventh poplar: Switzerland! . . . but the sixth poplar . . . oh oh, twenty Boche bulls! with dogs and chains! . . . five seconds flat! . . . nabbed, tied, loaded, and shipped back . . . I saw him lying there on his side . . . a chained sausage . . . chained from his neck to his heels . . . he writhed and convulsed a little . . . not much . . . the floor was dry . . . the sewer had been cleaned up . . . they'd put him there right outside the crapper so everybody could take a good look and get the idea . . . Reminded me of Houdini . . . Houdini at the Olympia . . . I always get these childhood memories . . . the way he burst his chains . . . and much fancier chains, padlocks, and links! and much more complicated! . . . Papillon lying there . . . his convulsions were much too feeble to burst anything . . . definitely! oh exhibition . . . lying there full length outside the crapper . . . the people climbed the stairs, they came in from the street . . . nobody spoke to him . . . they whispered to each other, they whispered some more . . . always the same thing: "Look what they've done to him!" black and blue and green and red! . . . I don't have to tell you that everybody knew Commissioner Papillon! They'd known him since Vichy! . . . Pétain's Special Commissioner! . . . Clotilde was known, too . . . from Radio-Paris and the railroad station . . . "Where did it happen?" She kept repeating between sobs, "Poplars, poplars!" He lying there trussed and tied, his, nose bleeding on the linoleum . . . he was sleeping . . . yes, sleeping! . . . the chains on his hands should have been loosened . . . his wrists were pinned behind his back . . . with chains and a padlock . . . I know, it's been done to me! . . . later on they chained my wrists behind my back the same way . . . I was even taken on a tour that way in a caged bus . . . across the whole of Copenhagen from the Venstre to the Politiigaard to ask me if it was true that I'd committed this crime . . . or that crime? . . . But then, looking at Papillon outside the toilet, I didn't know . . . I can see Achille, Maurice, Loukoum, Montherlant, Aragon, Madeleine, Duhamel and other political hotheads . . . they don't know either! it would do them a hell of a lot of good! . . . they wouldn't be giving any more cocktail parties! . . . they'd just lie there quiet in the shit . . . and behave themselves I and get down to brass tacks! . . . the meaning of words and things! oh, it was bound to happen to me too! . . . you know what's going to happen if you only keep your eyes halfway open . . . there on the landing with his nose on the linoleum, there was only one thing to do . . . study the lesson! padlock? . . . sure there was a padlock! . . . but you needed the key! . . . nobody had the key! . . . Discussions were going on, but in an undertone . . . what we should do, or shouldn't . . . no violent arguments like at the station! . . . more like church . . . mostly there was sympathy for Clotilde . . . "the poor little thing! . . . the poor little thing! . . ." him not so much! . . . he'd got her into it! . . . all his fault! . . . thoughtless! . . . impulsive! . . . that's how the ladies felt! . . . she was deserving of sympathy, him not so much! . . . if it hadn't been for him, she wouldn't have gone! . . . the damn fool! . . . that dangerous sausage! . . . in the first place a cop! . . . monkey around the Swiss border? . . . Good God! . . . he must have known . . . after all . . . wouldn't you think so? . . . that hornets' nest! . . . only a dumb cop! . . . you only have to look at him! . . . The reckless blundering blockhead! . . . naturally he got caught! . . . the blockhead! . . . "the poor dear thing!" she was the poor thing! They were only sorry for her! the poor dear thing kept moaning "by the poplars! . . . by the poplars!" . . . the frail and tender victim! . . . the rubdown by the poplars was no surprise to me . . . or to Marion either! . . . he'd been there himself, at the exact same spot . . . reconnoitering the poplars and the brook that marked the border was a very risky business . . . he'd done it one Sunday . . . on Sunday the police, the S.A., Swiss and underground, eat and drink enormously and sleep . . . you've got a chance of passing unnoticed . . . although? . . . although? . . . the dogs? he'd gone . . . with the map . . . a pencil sketch . . . showing exactly where the famous border brook flowed . . . between the sixth and seventh tree . . . he hadn't met a soul! . . . real luck! . . . "I could have crossed if I'd wanted to!" . . . it wouldn't have done him any good, he was too well known in Switzerland . . . but he'd seen the spot . . . the exact same spot where the runner had led Papillon and Clotilde! . . . but with them it was different, a setup! . . . reception committee between the sixth and seventh trees! . . .

I don't have to tell you we had maps of that Baden-Swiss border . . . there were whole trunkful in the Castle library! heaps! mountains of albums . . . you could spend whole weeks following some little brook from century to century . . . new twists and turns . . . dams, litigation, disputes . . . disputes that were still going on! . . . inheritances that were never settled! . . . what had become of this little furrow? . . . was it the border? or wasn't it? . . . between the fifth and sixth tree? . . . ever since the first monastery . . . from the very first Hohenzollern and Co. rackets . . . down to the very last war . . . whole bundles of sketches of hamlets, borderlines, and swamps! . . . Württemberg, Baden, Switzerland! . . . and encroachments and landgrabbing and torts . . . a farm, a patch of ground, a stable, a ford . . . taking into account the hundred thousand cases of abduction and rape, the murders, divorces, Diets and Councils . . . centuries and centuries of "Princes' pleasure," marriages of reason, migrations of peoples and kingdoms, crusades, more rape! and more torts! . . . stuff like at my place on the rue Girardon . . . millions and millions of times worse! just to give you an idea that with all the documents, maps, tracings in that library you couldn't tell what was which! . . . compass in hand, you'd go wrong! . .". you had to be a frontier cop to know where that damned brook really went! and where you were! the way they'd twisted and changed it . . . widened it here . . . narrowed it there . . . it was unrecognizable! like Papillon's face! from one border post to the next you'd be lost! . . . and besides, I forgot to tell you, six centuries of religious gangsterism! . . . monastery against monastery! Catholic to Luther and back again! "I'll drain your little millstream! . . . I'll cut down your poplar! Tree of Satan!" . . . the result was a total puzzle, brook, loops, detours, you couldn't find a damn thing! a setup for the police . . . on this side . . . on that side . . . thirteen centuries of phony thickets, phony hedges, phony scarecrows! . . . on Sunday, as I've said, you had a slight chance of not being seen . . . of getting through and taking a look . . . but on weekdays you were cooked! no two ways! even before the second plane tree! . . . trussed! . . . and cured! . . . by the Krauts, the Swiss or the partisans! . . . You didn't worry your head about the brook! you were a sleepwalker, that's all! . . . a sleepwalker in fairyland! . . . lovely, lovely! . . . picking bunches of azaleas, blueberries, Saint-John's-wort, fairy flowers! . . . and cyclamen! . . . Marion had gone picking . . . and reconnoitering . . . and he'd come back! . . . wonder of wonders! . . . it was a Sunday . . . safe and sound! anyway I've always had the idea that he'd been seen and photographed! even if it was Sunday and the cops and customs guards at dinner . . . even so! . . . even so! . . . even on Sunday there are lookouts . . . you never know where . . . on top of a plane tree? . . . in the middle of a haystack? . . . a photoelectric cell . . . every clod of ground was full of little gadgets, mines and contacts! no doubt about it! . . .
tick! vrrr!
. . . all the approaches to Wichflingen . . . the lake . . . I couldn't really imagine that Marion hadn't been seen regardless . . . not the least bit sure! . . . I made it, he said to me. Okay, but I'll never go back! . . . every day we had propositions to run us across to Switzerland . . . and cheap . . . two thousand marks! . . . enticing! . . . in addition they'd promise and swear that the Fifis would be waiting to kill us with kindness! . . . a spread! and a "Certificate of the Resistance" . . . and maps! and everything! . . . that Switzerland was more "Red Cross" than ever! the Gestapo understanding, perfectly willing! . . . at Schaffhausen, Payot and Gentizon would bring Petitpierre° to meet us and Swiss passports for everybody . . . valid and in order! all we had to do was follow the guide! report at the border! nothing to worry about! splendid offers! Papillon there, out flat on the linoleum, I could see what they'd done for him! . . . Lili and Clotilde sponged him off, bandaged his head, gave him water . . . he was thirsty, asking to drink . . . that was a good sign . . . but the people around him were afraid to come too close . . . they'd come up to see him from the restaurant, from the street . . . they went back down again . . .