Paris Noir (11 page)

For four days Mina was inconsolable. And then …

And then there was a new development. Just like every other evening‚ Mina was spending a few minutes at the bar in Dumont’s on her way home to rejoin her menagerie. A cement-worker came in.

A cement-worker: at least‚ that’s what he said. He was looking for somewhere to stay in the neighbourhood. He had ginger hair and only one eye.

Ginger and one-eyed.

His name was Goupil.

Goupil – the old word for a fox. Just as ‘Bièvre’ is the old word for a beaver.

It would take pages of digression to try and pin down‚ to define the nature of the immediate rapport that was established between Mina and the ginger-haired man.

Anyhow‚ that same evening‚ among the cats and bundles Goupil shared Mina’s supper and her wretched pallet. It was simply inconceivable to us that a person like Mina‚ so different from any normal human being that we regarded her almost as an asexual creature‚ might be capable of any romantic attachment‚ even a platonic one.

But there was the evidence‚ clear and indisputable‚ and the astonishment it generated in us diverted our curiosity and partly destroyed the interest we took in world events.

From the very earliest days of their relationship Goupil proved violent and hard to please. He seemed to regard Mina much more as his prey than his slave. He worked irregularly‚ as an unskilled labourer: he said he didn’t really care whether he was employed by a company that might have been requisitioned by the occupying forces. As for Mina‚ she footed most of the expenses of this unlikely household. Nearly every day‚ laden as usual with more or less voluminous packages‚ she would head for the banks of the Seine‚ and indefatigably make her way to where the line of booksellers’ stalls ended. Often she would haggle with these people‚ most of whom were some sort of second-hand dealers. We quickly learned what she was up to: she was ‘bargain-hunting’. That’s to say‚ she would seek out certain objects‚ to buy and then of course sell. All of which had something in common: they were representations solely of cats. In the shape of little figurines‚ pots‚ knife handles‚ unidentifiable tools. There were cats in bronze‚ porcelain‚ alabaster‚ wood‚ everything you could wish for. We
found out a little later that she in turn would pass on these finds‚ of some curiosity or else of little value‚ to a wealthy collector. This was a person who‚ before the war‚ used to attend the theosophists’ meetings at the Salle Adyar. The art dealers on Rue de Jacob know him well. They call him ‘the Cat Man’. But the guy doesn’t like people talking about him.

This small trade seemed to bear fruit: Mina lived more comfortably‚ no longer begged‚ was no longer short of money. She could afford to feed her animals – who’d colonized the roof‚ now cleared of pigeons – and above all‚ look after ‘her man’. This went on for the few weeks that Goupil had a bit of pocket money‚ gleaned here and there by grudgingly working for it. But as soon as he ran out of funds Goupil had no qualms about snaffling Mina’s savings. He went and squandered these paltry assets in the local bistrots‚ having made his woman sell every last object she possessed.

Mina could only counter his appalling behaviour with dispiriting resignation. In vain we tried to persuade her to part company with this dreadful fellow. She would shake her head sadly‚ gaze at us in a peculiar way and say in a dull voice‚ ‘So‚ you still don’t get it?’ These words pained us.

Then we couldn’t help remembering the cat that had disappeared‚ the one-eyed ginger‚ like Goupil. The disquieting mystery surrounding this affair and governing this coincidence inhibited our desire to discuss it with each other. Trigou avoided Goupil like the plague: he wouldn’t pass in front of his house‚ or follow in his wake. He couldn’t bear hearing about him. Any evidence of the man’s existence inspired him with a morbid horror.

Séverin watched Goupil from afar‚ made inquiries about what he was up to‚ solely in the interests of finding out to what extent Mina was going to be persecuted or not.

As for myself‚ I made a determined effort to overcome my aversion and approach him‚ sound him out‚ gain his confidence. I’d already rubbed shoulders with so many monsters. Waste of effort. Waste of time. Waste of money‚ because in the world of La Maube where everything turns to liquid‚ the only possible approach consisted of buying him endless
drinks. He would down them without demur‚ other than to make some offensive remark about me once my back was turned. My folly and persistence were beyond his comprehension. Nothing was to be got out of him. The weather? He didn’t care. The war‚ the Germans? ‘They’re not going to get me for compulsory labour.’ That’s all he was worried about. To other questions‚ he would reply with grunts‚ grimaces‚ sometimes an evil smile.

Round about Christmas‚ we had a bad spell. For various reasons‚ Séverin and Théophile were on the wrong side of the law.

I didn’t yet have a steady job‚ and instead of the payment I was expecting in the form of bank notes‚ the London end of my network had sent me a cheque negotiable in Algiers!

So far‚ we’d helped Mina as much as was humanly possible: and yet we knew that Goupil was the first to benefit from what we so willingly denied ourselves.

The latest from London was the extraordinarily rapid delivery of one thousand (yes‚ one thousand) blank ration cards‚ admirably copied from the sample I’d sent. But whereas the paper used here is rubbish‚ the documents they parachuted in are printed on wonderful glossy Bristol board. No comment.

Unable to drink his fill any more‚ idle and brazen-faced‚ Goupil turned violent. He would beat up Mina whenever she came home with no money‚ or very little. And to our distress‚ there was nothing we could do about it. The period of physical abuse – which Mina endured without protest – was followed by one of calculated cruelty. One evening‚ not only deprived of his fill of sour red wine‚ Goupil felt ravenously hungry. Dumont had read him the riot act and threatened to throw him out if he continued to give Mina a hard time. Goupil kept his mouth shut. Without a word‚ he went upstairs‚ grabbed one of the cats – the sweetest‚ most trusting – put it an old bag that he weighted with a heavy stone. And then went and threw it in the Seine.

On learning this dreadful news‚ Mina displayed such distress‚ such despairing anger that Goupil flew into a terrible fit
of insane fury. Mina had to be dragged out of the brute’s clutches and sent into hiding‚ over in the Glacière district‚ with a rascally but charitable scrap merchant.

Goupil then began to terrorize everybody. No one dreamt of calling the police. We just put up with the maniac‚ everyone hoping the inescapable end of the tragedy would come swiftly.

This went on for two weeks. Goupil would return at dusk‚ fed up with looking for Mina‚ and drown a cat‚ sometimes two. He ate the last of them and sold their pelts.

One lunchtime‚ when Mina unwisely visited Les Halles and was searching through the heaps of rubbish‚ Goupil ran into her. He beat her up and dragged her back home half unconscious. He locked her in with the aid of a padlock and went prowling up and down the street for hours‚ without ever letting the entrance to the building out of his sight.

He returned home very late.

A little after the curfew started‚ the noise of a terrible argument woke the neighbourhood. A ruthless battle had begun between Goupil and Mina. Fearfully‚ people gazed up at the roof from their windows.

The disturbance ended with a long drawn-out howl.

Old Tacoine‚ who lives opposite‚ said he caught sight of a yellow creature – he couldn’t swear to its being a big cat – escaping through the skylights.

In the morning‚ Dumont‚ accompanied by Séverin and myself‚ broke open the door. Amid the incredible clutter of smashed boxes‚ tattered rags‚ rubbish of every kind‚ we found neither Goupil nor Mina.

Just a stiff grey she-cat that had been hanged from the window frame.

In its contracted claws‚ there were tufts of red hair.

I carefully gathered up these hairs. I handed some of them over to my childhood friend B‚ a local furrier. On first inspection‚ he told me‚ ‘It’s fox hair.’

I met him the day before yesterday. ‘By the way‚ that tuft of hair – it was pulled out of an untanned skin. In my opinion‚ it came from a living creature.’

I’ve tried several times to relate this story. Some sort of reluctance‚ some unconscious but irresistible rule of silence made me transpose it and recast it as a story of the Middle Ages. Nor can I say what prompts me to write it down now‚ without rereading it. That would be too painful.

I nearly forgot: I told all this to Doctor N‚ the black vet who knows about such things‚ the one who said of the vicious tom‚ ‘There’s more to that cat than meets the eye.’

The kindness of that man‚ especially towards animals‚ is legendary. He fixed his eyes on me with an expression at once wary and regretful. Thowing his door wide open‚ he said‚ ‘Just mind your own business.’

I’m very pleased to say that‚ since my enrolment in the fighting forces‚ extraordinary good luck has protected my companions and me. We’re not any of us ‘spies’ exactly. We’re all quite incapable of that. I run a mapping and transmission centre. The others are radio operators‚ liaison agents‚ coders – all technicians. Not double-dealers. With our makeshift means‚ we daily defy detection by German direction finders. Danger lurks all around. I can always smell it. I am then extremely self-possessed: all senses keyed‚ capable of any miracle‚ ‘supercharged’.

I’ve learned that‚ just as a war between men is not a human- scale phenomenon‚ danger that assumes a human form and a human quality is much more related to time and place than to its extremely unwitting vehicles.

Yesterday‚ at Quarteron’s‚ in Rue de la Montagne‚ I made a complete fool of myself and aroused suspicion. I must learn to curb my friendly impulses when they are rather too spontaneous.

I was taking round this young Pole‚ who arrived from London the day before yesterday‚ and has been entrusted to my care. He has a radio transmitter. On Tuesday‚ two Wellingtons piloted by compatriots of his will come and photograph the Brétigny airbase‚ which I ‘monitor’. He will guide the mission by radio telephone from the ground at Marolles-en-Hurepoix. He speaks very little French‚ very good German‚ not bad English. I’ve provided him with an air- raid warden’s identity card – this has become child’s play for me: his name is now Watsek‚ he’s an engineer working for the
Jerries on the Belgian border. We’re all set. But between now and then he has to make contact with the ‘wireless group’ of my network‚ and take part in a broadcast from Paris. The risks are enormous‚ and I think it’s stupid to put this boy in danger almost needlessly. But those are our orders.

I can’t help being extremely worried about him. So I wanted to take him on what I call the ‘salutary tour’ whose twists and turns are familiar to me. A stop here‚ another there‚ and elsewhere if necessary: he will‚ without knowing it‚ be infused with hopefully protective energies that will also rid him of all kinds of burdensome‚ paralysing and‚ if one’s not careful‚ possibly fatal handicaps. It’s his pointless death I’m afraid of. I daren’t say‚ I have this feeling about it. It’s high time to take the matter in hand.

Gérard‚ the bearded painter‚ was with us. These days he looks devilishly unkempt.

Evidently on edge‚ old Quarteron was rummaging through a pile of bills. He kept glancing apprehensively at a stout fellow sitting at a table‚ doing some calculations‚ with a bottle of bubbly to hand and three empty glasses. Two officious- looking individuals‚ their hands in their pockets‚ raincoats flipped behind‚ hats tipped back‚ were nervously pacing up and down. Quarteron seemed pleased to see us. However‚ he said‚ ‘Sidonie came by this morning. She says hello.’ Which clearly meant‚ ‘Watch out. I don’t know these geezers‚ or not very well. Better be careful.’

I gave him a reassuring wink. Of the three blokes‚ I knew two of them: Joseph Brizou and Tricksy-Pierrot. Gangsters‚ the worst kind of ruffians‚ but no squealers‚ not at any price.

The stout fellow looked up‚ saw Gérard’s beard‚ and said‚ ‘They’ve got class‚ these guys!’ I was offended. I take the most infinite pains so that my dress and appearance attract no attention‚ wherever I might be. My Pole‚ in his narrow-shouldered coat‚ has the harmless appearance of a fast-growing schoolboy. But I didn’t say a word.

‘Not so bad‚’ said Brizou.

‘How are you doing?’ I replied in time-honoured fashion: it’s our little joke.

Brizou set up three more glasses and filled them up with what was left of the bubbly in the gold-topped bottle. Tricksy-Pierrot relaxed‚ came over and shook hands. But he had other things on his mind. Abruptly he turned to the big fellow.

‘Have you worked this one out? You know what the risks are? You know what the score is?’

Unfazed‚ the other guy says‚ ‘You just keep on dancin’. I’m an old hand at this game.’

This tickled me. I burst out laughing and the tension eased. Quarteron took me aside for a moment to tell me that Keep-on-Dancin’ was a very dangerous crook (why should I care?)‚ that every police organization was after him‚ and it was all very well this whole gang being good clients‚ but as long as they were here‚ he‚ Quarteron felt nervous‚ and he didn’t mind admitting it.

When I rejoined the others‚ Keep-on-Dancin’ gave me a sidelong glance. ‘Now you’ve been briefed. You know what the score is‚ right?’ Quarteron looked uncomfortable and bent down to pick something up off the floor. I burst out laughing again and ordered a bottle.

Keep-on-Dancin’ gave me a slap on the left shoulder that made me stagger. And we exchanged one of those bone- crunching handshakes that take their toll on your finger joints.

Well‚ he sure made me sit up and listen‚ that guy! The others couldn’t keep up with us. They went to bed. I gave my key to Watsek. He slept in my bed‚ tanked up with schnapps. At six o’clock in the morning‚ Keep-on-Dancin’ and I end up at the bottom end of La Mouffe‚ near Les Gobelins‚ sitting in front of two bottles of nicely chilled white and a steaming lobster‚ just out of the pot‚ that was still alive half-an-hour ago. These days‚ it’s almost a crime. It’s offensive to the other fellows in the bar. Who aren’t complaining. Keep-on-Dancin’ told the bartender‚ everyone that comes in gets a drink on him.