Paris Noir (13 page)

‘How do you expect me to know that?’

‘I’m going to tell you: ship wreckage. The wreckage of a vessel that sank in the Seine estuary in 1592. I repeat: fifteen ninety-two.’

‘Where did you learn that?’

‘Here and there‚ but mostly at Melun where I was doing time.’

They sure as hell know a thing or two‚ the guys that graduate from Melun!

Keep-on-Dancin’ went on‚ ‘And do you know where its sister sign is?’

‘Yes‚ on Rue Tiquetonne‚ there’s one that resembles it: the Arbre-à-Liège. Old La Frite’s place.’

‘Right. To begin with‚ you’ll realize they’re both cut from the same wood. But apart from that‚ you don’t notice anything?’

‘Straight off‚ no.’

‘I’ll fill you in. First‚ we’re going to have a bite to eat.’

And that’s how we came to buy the lobster.

Keep-on-Dancin’ lifted a corner of the veil for me. In simple words‚ commonplace expressions indicative of the fundamental honesty and profound goodness that inform this veteran villain‚ he led me to discover my City from a wonderful perspective. I would never have dared to imagine everything he told me.

‘Yes‚ my friend‚ ship wreckage was once the wood of a tree‚ nothing special about it – just like any other kind of wood. Men cut down the tree. They sawed and worked and planed and shaped and polished and caulked and tarred it. They made
a ship out it‚ and they celebrated the birth of that ship‚ they christened it like a child. And they entrusted themselves to it. But the men were no longer very much in charge. The ship too had its say. A ship’s a being in its own right‚ like a person‚ so to speak‚ that thinks‚ and breathes‚ and reacts. A ship has its own mission to accomplish. It has its own destiny. So it sinks‚ this vessel‚ it founders because it was meant to founder‚ on such a day at such a time‚ on account of this or that‚ and in such a place. Maybe it was already written in the stars. And then long afterwards‚ other men discover the wreck‚ they refloat it‚ they bring to the surface the bits of wood – and you should see with what respect they do this. And you think a piece of wreckage like that doesn’t know anything‚ doesn’t remember anything‚ isn’t capable of anything‚ that it’s as senseless as it is hard‚ that it’s … as thick as a plank? I’ll tell you something worth remembering‚ that sailors well know: wood from a shipwreck is “back-flash” wood. Whatever takes place under the auspices and under the sign of even the smallest fragment of a shipwreck cuts more than just one way. One swinish deed is multiplied a thousandfold; one flower’‚ (he meant‚ a kindness)‚ ‘will bring you a field full of flowers‚ an entire province‚ tulips‚ cyclamens‚ take your pick. For instance: there’s shipwreck wood in the base frame of the sign of the four sergeants. That’s something “the likes of us” know. Well‚ once that guy was through‚’ (he meant‚ the man who’d been praying)‚ ‘I guarantee‚ the judge‚ every member of the jury‚ the prosecutor‚ the warders‚ the hangman‚ his assistants‚ the whole damn lot of them are going to get their comeuppance‚ and how! From now on they’re jinxed. Seriously jinxed. And for a long time to come.’

‘In other words‚ it wasn’t‚ as in the usual way of things‚ for the repose of the soul of the departed that guy was praying?’

‘No. It was not a well-intentioned prayer. And believe me: to take that risk‚ the guy must have had some courage. Luckily people like him exist. Otherwise how could the rest of us defend ourselves?’

‘You say‚ “the rest of us”. There may be charges against you‚ but you haven’t actually been sentenced to death‚ have you?’

He shrugged dismissively.

‘Uh! Not quite. But as I was saying‚ the Vieux-Chêne is the only place in this part of town to have “declared itself”. Whatever you do‚ or say‚ or even think here is deadly serious‚ and fraught with repercussions. It’s the start of the circuit that has no place for bullshitters. Now‚ wait‚ I’m going to show you something else.’

He insisted on clearing the table‚ and again devoted himself to his game of patience: piecing together the map of Paris‚ the bits of which he’d stuffed into the pocket of his raincoat‚ folded up any old how.

I helped him.

Then he asked me‚ straight out‚ ‘What would you say was the true centre of Paris?’

I was taken aback‚ wrong-footed. I thought this knowledge was part of a whole body of very rarefied and secret lore. Playing for time‚ I said‚ ‘The starting point of France’s roads … the brass plate on the parvis of Notre-Dame.’

He gave me a withering look.

‘Do you take for me a sap?’

The centre of Paris‚ a spiral with four centres‚ each completely self-contained‚ independent of the other three. But you don’t reveal this to just anybody. I suppose – I hope – it was in complete good faith that Alexandre Arnoux mentioned the lamp behind the apse of St-Germain-l’Auxerrois. I wouldn’t have created that precedent. My turn now to let the children play with the lock.

‘The centre‚ as you must be thinking of it‚ is the well of St-Julien-le-Pauvre. The “Well of Truth” as it’s been known since the eleventh century.’

He was delighted. I’d delivered. He said‚ ‘You know‚ you and I could do great things together. It’s a pity I’m already “beyond redemption”‚ even at this very moment.’

His unhibited display of brotherly affection was of child- like spontaneity. But he was still pursuing his line of thought: he dashed out to the nearby stationery shop and came back with a little basic pair of compasses made of tin.

‘Look. The Vieux-Chêne‚ the Well. The Well‚ the Arbre-à- Liège …’

On either side of the Seine‚ adhering closely to the line he’d drawn‚ the age-old tavern signs were at pretty much the same distance from the magic well.

‘Well‚ now‚ you see‚ it’s always been the case that whenever something bad happens at the Vieux-Chêne‚ a month later – a lunar month‚ that is‚ just twenty-eight days – the same thing happens at old La Frite’s place‚ but less serious. A kind of repeat performance. An echo …’

Then he listed‚ and pointed out on the map‚ the most notable of those key sites whose power he or his friends had experienced.

In conclusion he said‚ ‘I’m the biggest swindler there is‚ I’m prepared to be swindled myself‚ that’s fair enough. But not just anywhere. There are places where‚ if you lie‚ or think ill‚ it’s Paris you disrespect. And that upsets me. That’s when I lose my cool: I hit back. It’s as if that’s what I was there for.’

God knows what maelstrom I’ve got caught up in on account of Keep-on-Dancin’. I certainly didn’t need this‚ but I won’t do anything to impede the unfolding of all that’s to follow.

Yesterday‚ apart from Brizou and Tricksy-Pierrot‚ his side- kicks‚ and bodyguards when necessary‚ Keep-on-Dancin’ was accompanied by a badly-dyed blonde. Not a young woman. Dumpy and loud-mouthed. He introduced us: Dolly-the-Slow-Burner. She was‚ he said‚ his ‘orderly-in- chief’. She receives his mail and when the gang wants to spend the night locally she takes care of finding them some discreet hangout.

They were all in a pretty foul mood‚ angry with some Corsican who’d crooked them in a rather complicated- sounding deal involving tungsten steel drills. Having been summoned‚ the Corsican had failed to appear. Keep-on- Dancin’ was seething.

‘This is the last time that bastard puts one over on me. When I next see him‚ even if he shows up now‚ I’m going to twist his ears.’

I knew these were not just empty words. I wished for an
easing-up of tension quite impossible to achieve. Fortunately Alexandre arrived.

A rag-picker. A little too fond of the bottle. Harmless- looking sort of guy. Known round here as a bit of loony. No one pays much attention. Everyone has their little foibles.

‘Ah‚ police officer‚’ said Keep-on-Dancin’‚ suddenly relaxed‚ good-natured. ‘Have a drink‚ that’s an order.’

‘Thanks‚ boss‚ to your good health‚ boss‚ ladies and gentlemen‚ one and all‚’ the fellow belched‚ downing two large glasses of rough red‚ one after the other.

Brizou laughed outright‚ but Tricksy-Pierrot and Dolly- the-Slow-Burner‚ she especially‚ eyed him with distaste.

A great many things have been said about Alexandre Villemain. Complicated‚ disturbing‚ not very nice things. The truth is more straightforward. I heard it from Quinton‚ his main ‘buyer’. Here it is:

At forty-five years of age Villemain was called up and drafted into the territorial army to take part in the very confused phoney war of 1939–40. Impossible to get this dosser to do anything. Incapable of marching in step‚ but canny as hell‚ and a source of amusement to everyone. One day it became apparent he couldn’t read. He was redeployed to a different company – without being entered on the roll of his new unit – given a fake commission covered with bogus stamps‚ a Gras gun‚ some Lebel cartridges‚ provisions for three days‚ a bucket of red wine‚ a litre of brandy‚ and installed in a roadman’s hut by the side of a road just above Senlis. An NCO tells him‚ ‘You police the road. You stop every vehicle‚ military or civilian‚ check their papers‚ and only let them through if they’re in order. Otherwise‚ you call the gendarmes. Understand? Dismissed!’

And the regiment went off‚ leaving Villemain behind. An obliging soul by nature‚ he lent a hand here and there to the farmers‚ repaired bicycles‚ and set about scrounging from wherever he could food‚ wine‚ tobacco and‚ when reduced to rags‚ even clothes.

Locally he was known as ‘the freak’. But during his regular working hours – from six thirty am to five in the evening –
he carried out his duties conscientiously‚ frowned over the documents of motor vehicles‚ allowing them to pass with a big wave and a patronizing smile. On the stroke of five from the nearest church bell‚ he would lay down his gun‚ close up his hut‚ and go foraging. His policing of the road made hundreds of people‚ including several generals‚ weep with laughter. And this went on until the exodus. Then there were just too many people: Villemain granted himself leave‚ and took a rest. Two days‚ two nights of silence‚ no other sound but that of aeroplanes in the distance‚ and above his head the crows …

And then a Panzer division turned up‚ in the most orderly fashion. It’s quite true that Villemain stopped the motorcycles riding ahead. Amazed by this apparition‚ they disarmed him‚ put him in a sidecar and took him with them ‘to show them the way’.

Arriving ahead of schedule‚ the division camped out to the north of Paris for two days. Alexandre was kitted with Kraut fatigues‚ rewarded with a pair of boots‚ and made officially responsible‚ at a
Kantonsstandort Kommandantur
‚ for the distribution of petrol to fugitive Belgians returning to their country.

This extraordinary adventure addled his already feeble wits‚ and ever since then poor harmless Alexandre has a way of buttonholing people. A gabardine in his eyes is a kind of uniform. Every time he sees someone wearing a raincoat‚ he sidles up to them‚ nudges them gently and says‚ very mysteriously‚ ‘I’m like you … I’m with the police …’

After Alexandre left‚ tight as a tick‚ the better off for a hearty snack‚ with a little money in his pocket‚ Keep-on-Dancin’ and Brizou joked light-heartedly. ‘Ah! isn’t he a laugh? If only all cops were like him!’ This clearly didn’t go down well with Tricksy-Pierrot‚ and Dolly had her say: ‘I don’t find him funny‚ that tramp of yours‚ no way. So what if he’s bonkers? Even if he’s got nothing to do with the fuzz‚ like this jerk who can’t even write his own name‚ any guy that imagines he’s a cop isn’t to be trusted. On principle. It’s in his blood. No need
even to bribe him to grass. And‚ shall I tell you something‚ I wouldn’t be so sure this fellow wasn’t a bit of squealer.’

And Tricksy-Pierrot chimed in. ‘The poor sod must be deranged. Otherwise‚ being a local lad‚ he’d know that‚ here‚ there’s a price to be paid for everything‚ especially anything you say out of line. But it’s not me that’s got any reason to be scared of him‚ I’m lucky‚ he’s a problem for the big guys. Besides‚ you’ve got to have some fun from time to time. “You just keep on dancin’‚ I know what I’m doing …”’

Keep-on-Dancin’ wanted to take everyone to eat at some place run by a Chinaman he knew‚ when the Corsican turned up. It would have been better if we’d left five minutes earlier.

What a ugly mug! I’ve come across him two or three times before. He’s revolting. He calls himself Sacchi or Saqui or Saki. He says he’s from Calvi‚ but I’d swear he belonged to that rabble of the voluntarily stateless‚ reprobates from all over‚ those oily‚ greasy‚ creepy-crawly‚ stinking human cockroaches that infest some Mediterranean shores. They’re not features on his stupid face‚ but rather disfigurements. Along with loose bags under his eyes and great flapping lugholes. Sick-making.

They immediately got down to business. I vaguely understood that the deal involved selling off to some German purchasing agency a consignment of drills made of metal that was hard to come by‚ all of which had been rejected as faulty. They were to be sold at full price‚ and Sacchi was willing to take care of that. But in order to keep most of the profits for himself‚ he was claiming the unverifiable existence of countless middlemen who naturally had to be bribed. The guy’s deviousness was patently obvious. Keep-on-Dancin’ held himself in check. Finally‚ with deceptive calm‚ he went up to the cringing Sacchi and said‚ right in his face‚ ‘You frigging Corsican. I gave you a chance. You can forget the drills‚ I’ll flog them myself. But you screwed me over that deal with the vices‚ and the one with the copper wire. You’re going to bugger off and stay away from this neighbourhood‚ right now. But before you go‚ I’ve got something to settle. Not with you‚ with my patch. This here is my patch. I swore I’d twist your ears. I can’t go back on my word here.’

And my giant friend grabs the other by his lugholes and sends him flying through the air over a rattan chair. It was a terrific stunt! The Corsican flailed about‚ whimpering cravenly. Quarteron did well to intervene. Sacchi was bleeding‚ both ears practically torn off.

He made a dash for the door‚ and pointing an angry finger at his torturer said‚ ‘This time I’m levelling with you: my ears will bring you bad luck. Do you hear? Bad luck they’ll bring you!’

Keep-on-Dancin’ spat in his direction. ‘Come here and say that‚ I’ll cut them right off‚’ he said‚ drawing his knife.