Paris Noir (20 page)

He’s given it the commercial artist’s treatment‚ the colours too bold with that I.G. Farben look. He must be Bavarian. This romantic with his long slender hands‚ insensitive to the slate-grey shimmerings on the water this side of the island‚ will never be able to appreciate the subdued subtlety of the flickering light on this branch of the Seine.

Inside my pocket I roll into a ball a very unwisely preserved London bus ticket. I flick it into the water with an inner guffaw.

To the regular stroller along the embankment‚ the booksellers have grown so familiar‚ by their silhouettes‚ their voices‚ their little ways – their choice of merchandise and how they display it on their stalls – that they awaken obscure needs‚ no less strong than unacknowledged.

If one of them moves‚ shifts his boxes‚ his stall a hundred metres‚ a whole slowly-established equilibrium is disturbed. The entire riverbank has to be ‘rethought’. All the more so‚
if he crosses the bridges‚ migrates to the other side of the river: the disruption is comparable to that which would be caused by the relocation overnight of the Sainte-Chapelle to Montmartre.

I have a lot of bookseller friends. In particular‚ on the right bank‚ Fallet‚ father and son‚ and Borel-Rosny‚ a novelist when the fancy takes him. But on the left bank – the Favoured One – we might as well say all of them.

Pierre-Luc Lheureux sells books to make a living‚ but he’s a poet‚ and far from being the only one in that situation. He holds court‚ from a bench facing his boxes‚ at the corner of Pont de l’Archevêché. With jet-black hair and a fastidious concern for a certain sartorial elegance‚ he’s apt to make declarations of faith that reflect the most uncompromising pacificism. From whatever distance he catches sight of me‚ he treats me to a broad smile: and it’s not because you’re easily pleased that this is something you appreciate.

‘A sophisticated tippler disdainful of swill’‚ Pierre-Luc shares my own liking – which‚ it will have been noticed‚ and this I readily concede‚ is considerable – for Cabernet served at the right temperature‚ in other words‚ ice cold. So when a new delivery is advertised in one of the local watering-holes‚ we usually go along together to sample the quality of the nectar. Sometimes we find ourselves heading for the Ile St-Louis‚ but more often than not we walk past Notre-Dame and make for Desmolières‚ on Rue des Ursins. To get there‚ you have to cross the Pont-au-Double.

And it’s a sight worth seeing. A little bit of sunshine is all it takes.

The tramps‚ begging‚ sitting‚ standing‚ lying down‚ or collapsed in a heap‚ are legion‚ despite having the police on to them‚ anxious to keep the city looking like a village fair
à la
Breughel. Hunchbacked‚ one-armed‚ one-eyed or legless‚ whatever: but freshly shaven‚ well-turned-out‚ and certainly not drunk. Your destitution mustn’t be taken any more seriously than the painted and bewigged destitution of the characters in a Boris Godunov production at the Opéra. To tell the truth‚ for anyone well acquainted with these guys – they
are none the less worthy of interest – the local cops‚ often good-natured‚ do have some justification in this instance. At least in being a little chary of credulity.

For if the days are past when charlatan beggar bands‚ the so- called ‘
Rifodés
’ and ‘
Malingreux
’‚ substituted for their sound limbs the horribly distorted or disjointed ones taken from hanged men‚ the tradition still persists of offering the much despised passer-by such a sorry spectacle that giving money is an instinctive reflex.

There are to my knowledge two schools of thought at which novice beggars – duly authorized to operate on a specific site to which they’ve acquired‚ often very dearly‚ usufructary rights – take lessons from their elders‚ the latter being remarkable practitioners who demonstrate extraordinary psychological insight. I suspect those masters I’ve had the privilege of observing at work of being former actors steeped in the art of mime.

They’re the experts. They demand of their pupil that he be sober; that he pay close attention to the advice and comments meted out to him; that he display total obedience towards his master. Otherwise‚ the two ‘schools’ call for different techniques; it’s easy to distinguish the adherents of one or the other.

All the same‚ the bosses are very good friends; they’re not rivals.

‘The Guv’nor’‚ d’Aubervilliers‚ is tall with a bushy beard. Under his cape‚ which he knows how to drape artfully‚ he carries a guitar slung over his shoulder on which no one’s ever heard him play. He doesn’t deny rumours that he was once either a very great violinist‚ deprived of the use of his left hand in an accident‚ or a celebrated tenor whose voice was ruined in a shipwreck or carrying out some other act of heroism: it all depends on the imagination of the person talking‚ who’s never the man himself. He never answers questions. When photographed‚ he behaves like a coy maiden caught in flagrante‚ and pockets the tip with lordly disdain. The punter addresses him as sir and feels the need to apologize. He told me one day that he’d based his character on that of Vitalis‚ one
of the heroes of Hector Malot’s
Sans Famille
. ‘The truth is‚’ he said‚ beating his thighs‚ ‘I’ve never been able to sing‚ I don’t know a single note of music … I’ve been a conman all my goddamned life!’

(This too was a lie‚ I know. But he was being dishonest with himself this time.)

The Guv’nor studies his new disciple closely. He works out‚ from the thinness or imperfections of the face‚ the infirmities‚ mutilations‚ wounds or malformations of the raw recruit’s body‚ the best use to be made of them. And he assigns two‚ at most three‚ poses: one‚ propped up – against a pillar‚ a wall‚ a garden-square railing – the other‚ sitting on the ground. His pupil’s then on the rack. The Guv’nor circles round‚ checking details that all have their own importance.

He’s well acquainted with Callot’s paintings‚ but seeing what he manages to get out of his protégés‚ I’m compelled by the pathos of their attitudes to cite the early masters. I think of Mantegna’s stark‚ spare‚ heart-rending depictions of silent suffering. Once the pose has been conceived‚ determined‚ vetted in the smallest particular‚ the pupil has to return several days in succession‚ take up his position and under the master’s watchful eye remain absolutely motionless‚ until he’s capable of turning himself to stone. Only at that point does he ‘qualify’ as fit to take over a spot that provides a guaranteed income and not to let it depreciate in value.

‘The few centimes from the regular patron who passes by every day at the same time from one year’s end to the next are worth a great deal more than the ever possible hundred francs from some future passer-by‚’ the Guv’nor maintains. ‘I demand of my guys that they hold their poses like statues. The patron who has once given to them must never more be able to act otherwise.’

The Guv’nor is against the flaunting of stumps or skeletal limbs. ‘There’s no need‚’ he says‚ ‘to overdo it.’ In this‚ he is at odds with his crony All-by-Myself‚ who runs a school at Nanterre. He trains a lot of women‚ whereas the Guv’nor won’t have anything to do with them. Those that All-by- Myself takes in hand‚ he instructs to adopt an exaggeratedly
moronic look: staring eyes‚ half-open mouth. All-by-Myself’s people are mobile and active‚ unlike the Guv’nor’s. Nearly all of them have to feign some nervous complaint‚ unless they actually suffer from one: the constant trembling of a limb‚ the face‚ even the whole body‚ spasmodic convulsions‚ but it’s the eyes that really count. The beggar accosts the client in motion‚ head-on. She stops dead in front of him. She stares at him with frantic insistence‚ holding out a trembling hand. The victim‚ seeing his way barred‚ has no alternative but to delve into his pockets. Woe betide him if he should try without discourtesy gently to move aside the importunate nuisance. The latter takes a tumble – she knows how to fall – and mobilizes the local begging fraternity who are duty-bound and only too pleased to raise an outcry. This is how good old traditions survive. The Middle Ages had the ‘
sabouleux
’‚ harmless acrobats who chewed saponary‚ better known as soapwort. The froth they produced looked like the foaming at the mouth of falling sickness. These fake epileptics would throw themselves into contorsions that upset no one. People paid out depending on how spectacular the performance was.

So‚ that glorious Sunday when the uncertainty of the morrow seemed to cast scarcely a shadow over anyone’s face‚ Pierre- Luc and I crossed the Pont-au-Double‚ having observed the row of tramps slumped on the ground‚ stupefied with red wine.

At the corner of the bridge‚ on his folding chair‚ with his walking stick between his legs‚ was the Sleeper. For years I’d noticed this motionless creature‚ but vaguely at first‚ without paying closer attention. He doesn’t beg‚ strikes no pose: he sleeps‚ that’s all.

The raincoat he wears in all weathers is threadbare‚ but scrupulously brushed. He has a beret on his head. The uppers and soles of his shoes – the soles being of decent thickness – still hold together. He sleeps.

He’s not bad-looking‚ his face bears no indelible marks of vice or illness: he sleeps peacefully‚ calmly‚ from morning till evening – if it doesn’t rain. I’ve never been there to see him arrive or leave: I know nothing of the sound of his voice‚ the way he moves‚ the colour of his eyes: all I know is‚ he sleeps.

Nor had I ever spoken to anyone about him. Today‚ however‚ I said to Pierre-Luc‚ ‘How strange. Whenever you go anywhere near all these dozy wretches‚ you sense their presence‚ you know there’s a stubborn life lurking within those slumped bodies. I get a completely different sensation from this sleeping man: it’s as if he‚ or some part of him‚ were very far away. As if he were hollow‚ empty‚ and this emptiness – how can I put it? – sucks in whatever goes on outside. I’d find it very difficult to stop here for any length of time. I feel as if I’m relinquishing a little of my own substance.’

Pierre-Luc gave me a peculiar look.

‘There’s something in that‚’ he said‚ ‘there’s something in that.’

‘But who is this man?’

‘I thought you knew him. It’s Lancelin. So‚ are we still on for Desmolières?’

I noted with surprise that Pierre-Luc‚ who usually had quite a lot to say for himself‚ wasn’t at all happy to talk about the Sleeper‚ quite the opposite. This only intrigued me all the more. I pressed him.

‘He lived for some years in Africa‚ then South America. Some people say he’s a chemist‚ others a former missionary. I don’t rightly know. He contracted a terrible disease in some insalubrious country‚ which has left him half paralysed. His movements are very slow. He sleeps all the time. But his brain’s unaffected. Fortunately‚ there’s his brother.’

‘Ah! He has a brother?’

‘A twin brother who looks after him‚ feeds him‚ puts him to bed‚ as a nurse takes care of a patient. It’s the brother that brings him here around mid-morning‚ and comes to fetch him at nightfall.’

‘I’m glad to hear it … But what does the brother do?’

‘They “work” together …’

‘Why the sarcasm?’

‘I’m not being in the least sarcastic. But I’d prefer to explain some other time. I don’t know why‚ I can’t face telling you about the poor wretch today.’

Once we’d spoken of him‚ circumstances conspired to bring us back to the subject. Yesterday‚ Pierre-Luc and I were taking the same stroll. As if he hadn’t stirred since the day before‚ the Sleeper was at his post. But this time he was the butt of laughter from passers-by. Three pranksters – probably students – had placed a placard at his feet reading DEAF-MUTE FROM BIRTH‚ along with an ancient phonograph they’d set up to grind out that well-known old song:

‘
C’est la femme aux bijoux

Celle qui rend fou

C’est une enjoleu-se …
’

[It’s the bejewelled woman

Who can drive a man insane

With her seductive wiles …]

Admittedly‚ the effect was comic. Our three lads were having a good laugh – with not the least malicious intent. But Pierre-Luc took great exception to this. He flew into a rage of which I’d never have thought him capable‚ tossed both phonograph and placard into the Seine‚ and harangued the trio‚ who cleared off‚ vexed and a bit shame-faced.

‘You still don’t want to tell me what it is that he does with his brother?’

‘Go and take a walk round the flea market at Bicêtre one Sunday. Now‚ can we talk about something else?’

That’s all I could get out of him.

Bad news. Two of our agents‚ who were cycling to the Swiss border with documents of considerable importance‚ have been stopped on the road between Dijon and Lyon. No other information has reached us but this undoubted fact: they are now in the hands of the Germans. It’s absolutely imperative
this mission is repeated and‚ no matter what‚ that someone else is sent. Aside from that‚ we’ve had no news from our auxiliary network in Bordeaux. The Gestapo is wreaking havoc. And we’ve never had so many‚ or more urgent‚ messages to transmit. It will be like this to the end‚ which the more gung-ho among us hope will come soon. Peace or an all-out battle. But no more of this life of dissimulation that we’re not cut out for.

I’ve rented an apartment near Châtelet‚ right in the heart of Paris‚ on the sixth floor under the roof. A roof I can get out onto without leaving my own home‚ and put up an antenna‚ ten metres high or more if necessary‚ without any problem.

From here‚ every evening at five o’clock‚ the radio operators make contact with London and transmit for ten minutes. As well as the refrigerators at Les Halles‚ there are in this district so many goods lifts‚ machinery and electrical equipment that the continuous interference makes the detection of radio signals extremely difficult for the direction finders. But I’m wary of every possible setback‚ and the moment has come to go and check out the contacts Keep-on-Dancin’ gave me.

I started with the place closest to my new home: the Gobelet d’Argent‚ in Rue du Cyne‚ on the corner of Rue Pierre-Lescot.

A curious-looking little bistrot‚ a triangular-shaped recess whose frontage‚ aiming for a neo-Gothic style‚ is decorated with a variety of ornate mouldings. There are whores at the counter. And two somewhat unprepossessing fellows playing dice.