Paris Noir (22 page)

And then his brother said‚ ‘That’s fine. That’s enough.’ Monsieur Frédéric picked up his notebook. ‘Your name?’ he said to the patient.

‘Portal. Xavier Portal.’

‘Fine. Not before Tuesday morning …’

‘Tomorrow’s not possible? Really and truly?

‘No. We’ve got Chopitel all day Monday and Thursday …’

‘And how’s he doing?’ asked the
patron
.

‘Better. He’ll get over it. But it’ll take a lot of effort and patience. Whose turn next?’

It was a pregnant woman who complained of pains in her ribs. The Sleeper’s hands were applied over her clothes.

‘Tuesday afternoon‚’ Monsieur Frédéric decided‚ writing in his notebook.

People queued up: cases of rheumatism‚ persistent migraine. An asthmatic. Monsieur Frédéric always asked such pertinent questions that he might have been a doctor. And he covered his notebook with jottings that looked like appointments for the following week. There were still people waiting.

‘With the best will in the world‚’ he said‚ ‘next week’s fully booked.’

A woman groaned.

‘What about my lumbago‚ couldn’t you sleep it for me this session?’

I didn’t understand. This was the first time I’d ever heard the verb ‘sleep’ used transitively like that. I was wondering how to get into conversation with one of the people present‚ and buy them a drink in order to obtain the key to the mystery‚ when I caught sight of Armand Lassenay.

I met him two years ago. He was a sapper involved in mine clearance. At that time he had four limbs and two eyes like everyone else. Now‚ he’s half the man he was. A badly defused shell devastated the right side of his body. It’s a miracle he’s still alive. He’s become a pedlar: he sells corn-cure and lighter flints in the marketplace.

We have a drink together.

‘You’re intrigued by the Sleeper? The fact is‚ you’ve good reason to be. The way he operates is very curious‚ but extremely simple in itself. As you witnessed‚ he applies his hands to the part of the body requiring treatment. Just for a few moments. At that stage he’s not yet trying to cure anything. He calls it “connecting”. He says he feels whatever the patient is suffering‚ the same ailments‚ symptoms‚ pain. But only for as long as the laying on of hands lasts. Then he files away the memory of what he’s experienced‚ as you might place a book on a shelf. And he passes on to the next person. When the time comes to treat this case or that‚ all he has to do is recall it‚ and think about it as he sleeps. Think about it in a certain way‚ of course. After each “operation”‚ his brother reminds him who’s next on the list. He wakes him up and “connects” him to the following case.

‘In the absence of the patient?’

‘Yes. The patient could be five kilometres away‚ it wouldn’t make any difference.’

‘And he cures everything?’

‘No. He can’t mend fractures‚ or arrest the progress of an infectious disease once it’s taken hold. But he’s remarkable effective with rheumatism and anything that relates to the nervous system. And when the patient’s very feeble‚ when a
weak constitution’s not doing very well‚ it gives you a terrific boost to have him sleep for you. I know what I’m talking about: if it weren’t for him‚ I could hardly move the arm and leg I’ve been left with.’

‘And does he charge a lot?’

‘He never asks for anything in return. He accepts little kindnesses people might want to do for him – the odd snack‚ a bit of coal in winter‚ old clothes … Those two brothers are the benefactors of the poor. They could live like kings.’

‘They’ve never been given any trouble?’

‘I’d like to see anyone try. Even the medics get themselves treated by them‚ or call on their services for their own patients.’

Solange is the great love of my life at the moment. I took her for a walk round her neighbourhood‚ behind Les Halles‚ which she doesn’t know very well. I told her all about the Truie Qui File‚ Traverse Philis‚ Cul-de-Sac Corydon. I described the Carrefour de La Coudrette‚ the greasy pole in Rue aux Oües‚ the Panier Fleuri …

She said‚ ‘You know‚ I like you. So much‚ I could never go to bed with you.’

‘What about on a desert island?’

‘Even with all the time in the world‚ I’d never be able to enjoy it. I’d be too busy thinking what a pity it was.’

‘And what about that guy Heiss … I mean‚ Lagarde‚ what do you make of him?’

‘Ah‚ he’s got me under his skin. He comes to see me every evening. I’m not too happy about it myself. I do it to please you.’

‘You think there’s reason to suspect him?’

‘I couldn’t really say. Not yet. He’s a real hard nut to crack. But I’ll get there. He’s already told me that the Germans are going to bring out a secret weapon soon. Something first-rate. He sounds as if he can hardly wait. You must give me an address or a phone number‚ so I can get in contact if there’s anything new.’

This fellow Heisserer bothers me. I was really too rash‚ too trusting‚ for once. I can’t get rid of him now. Besides‚ it seems
he’s very good at the job. Intelligent. And doesn’t lose his nerve. At the Gare de l’Est he got through a police checkpoint by showing them a fake Civil Defence card.

All the same‚ I’m going tell the others they must keep their eyes open.

16 June 1944

I’m in a bad way. Fragments of the German grenade that knocked me out for the count‚ in June 1940‚ have reawakened. They roam about‚ in my side‚ my hip‚ my neck. They tickle‚ prick‚ scratch‚ throb‚ and sometimes leave me prostrate with attacks of absolutely unbearable convulsive pain. The only remedy against this is morphine injections‚ which I want to avoid at all costs.

For the past nine days – since the great drama – I haven’t taken anything solid. I’m living on my nerves. I stink of bleach‚ creosol‚ formalin‚ any disinfectant I can lay my hands on. Despite the fact I spend all my time rubbing it into my body‚ I’m haunted by that smell of fresh cadaver‚ warm blood‚ steaming entrails. It’s horrible. It’s fortunate my life is not my own any more. I’d have committed suicide. I say‚ ‘it’s fortunate’‚ but who knows?

At nine o’clock one morning Solange had come rushing over to my place in a panic. I’d already left. My old mate Bourgoin was there‚ coding messages for that evening.

‘You’ve got to get in touch with him right away‚ at once: you’ve got to warn everybody. That Alsatian guy of yours‚ he’s a Kraut‚ with the Gestapo‚ a traitor. Now he’s got the address of this place‚ of your operations centre and your letter drops‚ he wants to round up the entire network in one go‚ and take charge of the raid himself in order to get the reward. He’s a real bastard!’

While they were searching for me in all the places that I might be‚ I was watching the unloading of phosphorus bombs and their transfer from the railway station to ‘my’ camp. Bourgoin carried off everything that needed to be moved somewhere safe: maps‚ documents and codes. The
codes especially. But he left behind the revolver hidden in a guitar that had no back to it‚ hanging on the wall.

I arrived at the Gare D’Austerlitz at about four o’clock. Bourgoin was waiting for me there: Solange was posted at the station on Place St-Michel.

It had been a relatively easy job to clear out the operations centre. They sent a kid up to the floor above‚ to ring a doorbell and then go away‚ apologizing for having made a mistake. The kid spotted some guy studiously polishing the parquet on the landing right outside the door of our office. In the caretaker’s lodge‚ a fat guy smoking cigars was sitting by the door and had the caretaker trapped.

Our guys‚ having worked out in detail what they were going to do‚ went into the next-door building‚ terrorized a bewildered pianist who’d been taking a nap and couldn’t understand what they were doing using regulation Civil Defence pickaxes to break through the wall of his bedroom. They were able without difficulty to rescue the mailbag‚ documents‚ money and even the two typewriters.

But as far as I was concerned‚ it wasn’t such a picnic. I had fifty minutes to tip off the radio operators who were due to arrive just before five. Bourgoin positioned himself downstairs on the café terrace. I went up at four thirty. Debrive was already out on the roof‚ setting up the aerial. I signalled to him to get down between two chimney pots and wait to see what happened.

Just in case‚ I handed him one of my two bakelite grenades that look like sticks of shaving soap.

The only clothing I kept on were a pair of underpants and a dressing gown. I set up my amateur painter’s easel‚ and scattered about my tubes of paint. With some fresh stuff smeared on my palette‚ I started having another go at some wretched still-life I’ll never finish. Too bad for posterity.

Ten to five. A knock at the door: it was Heisserer.

He seemed cheerful‚ all spruced up. He’d brought along a half-bottle of brandy.

I said‚ ‘Pity there’s no ice here.’ I went to fetch some glasses and a carafe‚ and ran some water from the tap.

Heisserer boasted of his prowess.

‘Three times now I’ve been stopped in the street‚ and once in the metro‚ and each time I’ve avoided being searched. I think I’ve proved myself. But in case I get caught‚ I’d really like to be taken on officially. It could be useful. Later on.’

I say‚ ‘Absolutely. Do you have a pen?’ And I hand him a form to fill out his personal details. ‘You’ll be RJ1682.’ (That’s my own code name.)

He sat by the window‚ placidly writing.

There was a string hanging down from the roof which I was supposed to pull in case of emergency. Debrive‚ sitting above my head‚ was holding the other end of it.

I walked over to the far side of the room and took down the guitar. Without raising his eyes‚ Heisserer lit a cigarette.

‘Heisserer.’

He leapt up‚ caught off guard. His eyes dilated in the most amazing way. My 92 cylinder‚ held close against my hip‚ said it all. Nevertheless I spoke.

‘You’ve got fifteen seconds. If you behave. Look at Notre-Dame.’

He knew there was nothing he could do. The smallest movement and he’d have lost this respite.

Notre-Dame is in the background: nearby is the tower of St Jacques. You can see the top of a horse-chestnut tree between two gables.

I aimed at his lower back.

It wasn’t me‚ it was a machine‚ an automaton‚ a remote- controlled robot that walked over to that repository of sapped life‚ painfully collapsed on the badly polished wooden floor thirsty for his blood‚ and finished him off with a bullet in his ear.

The two Jerries that paid me a visit a quarter of an hour later didn’t really know what they’d come for. Their mates were searching the building‚ they were doing the same. They’d divided the task between them‚ floor by floor. I delayed them for a while. When they came in‚ they stepped over a rolled-up linoleum lying in front of the doorway into the main room.
Inside it was Heisserer. As I had paint on my fingers I asked them to help themselves to my papers from the inside pocket of my jacket. I opened the brandy and offered them a drink.

One of them went over to the window and said‚ ‘You didn’t hear two shots fired?’

‘Sure I did. It came from the stairwell. I don’t know how your submachine-guns are designed but I think you need to be careful the way you handle them. What’s going on round here anyway?’

They made an evasive gesture‚ the Lance Corporal asked me how many neighbours I had on the same floor – I’ve still no idea – and wanted me to go with them and act as their interpreter. I said I didn’t really want to do that‚ I wasn’t a policeman and I didn’t really want to make myself unpopular in this building where I was a new tenant. They agreed I had a point.

They didn’t check the roof.

I was told they conferred at length on the ground floor with their commanding officer: they couldn’t work out how their informer had disappeared.

Once they’d left‚ Debrive was able to climb down from the zinc roof guttering where he’d been perched. We searched the body. The bastard wasn’t even a member of the SD‚ merely accredited at Avenue Foch: all he had was a
Dienstausweis
[service pass]. He wasn’t armed. Even the Germans didn’t trust him. He had only six hundred francs on him. In the end we spent five on a wicker basket and a poor quality cardboad suitcase. I sent Debrive home. Although he’d knocked back what was left of the brandy‚ he was spewing his guts out. He took away the dead man’s clothes and shoes‚ with instructions to destroy them.

I’d actually once taken courses in anatomy‚ dissection even – and my mind was extremely clear. But I acted like a totally inept child. Instead of disjointing my stiff neatly‚ at the hip and shoulders‚ I set about cutting him into pieces the way you’d saw up a treetrunk. I thought it would be quite simple. The butchering‚ packaging and cleaning took all night. Pensive‚ with one eye half shut‚ the severed head watched me take care
of the rest. I’d placed it on a brass platter that I bought at Bicêtre.

The upper part of the body‚ that made the suitcase bulge slightly‚ has been deposited at the left luggage at Gare Montparnasse. The lower part at Austerlitz. We’ll see what happens.

Better beware of the newly dead

Of the white-handed ghost

And the brightness of these lamps …

wrote Luc Berimont in 1940‚ in
Reign of Darkness
.

I’ve always felt the greatest reluctance to go anywhere near‚ to touch‚ a fresh corpse. For me‚ it’s an unseemly thing. Useless. Hostile. Cunning. Dangerous. The ‘presence’ is much stronger‚ more perceptible one hour after death than one hour before. By my observation‚ this was not the case with Heisserer.

He was entirely absent from his head‚ his hands‚ his quivering body. He was gone instantly‚ unburdened of his absurd life‚ released.

It’s no good my friends telling me the execution of Heisserer was a remarkable feat‚ trying to persuade me it averted a whole chain of disasters; this mental obsession‚ my shame and distress are beyond‚ beneath‚ the judgement of men. I don’t need to reflect‚ calculate‚ weigh up my rights and obligations‚ to find myself guilty of an offence against human nature itself. I shouldn’t have taken part in this battle‚ got bogged down in this mire. I’m stricken with remorse of a melodramatic kind: I think of his aged parents waiting for their weekly letter. Of course‚ it’s ridiculous. But no argument‚ no logic will pacify me.