Paris Noir (23 page)

It’s the act in itself that’s vile. I should have left to others the task of carrying it out. What’s excusable for anyone else‚ I myself can never be forgiven for.

The next evening I went over to see Solange. The tiredness‚ delayed shock‚ disgust had caught up with me.

I threw myself on her bed fully dressed. She sat beside me on a low chair and took my hand.

‘You see‚ he spent his last night here‚ lying where you’re lying now. He hardly slept. He was dreaming out loud‚ making plans. He said he’d soon have lots of money‚ that afterwards he’d go to South America‚ he’d take me if I wanted to go with him. And then all this (gesturing with both hands‚ she indicated the walls and the ceiling) must have got to him. In the morning he talked‚ he got it all off his chest. Then he fell asleep for an hour. When he left‚ he was worried‚ he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said to me. I told him‚ “When you started snoring‚ we were in Brazil together.” That reassured him. You shouldn’t let it prey on your mind so much. I know it was no joke having to bump him off‚ but that’s Paris taking its revenge. Think of Keep-on-Dancin’.’

July

I was now in increasingly acute pain all of the time. In desperation‚ I turned to the Sleeper‚ having got myself an introduction from Lassenay the sapper. The brother examined my torso with probing fingers‚ asked me some questions so pertinent that I suspect he’s pursued some extremely serious medical studies.

Then he said to me‚ touching his forehead‚ ‘Things don’t seem to be quite right in there. You must be very stressed.’

If he only knew.

He placed the Sleeper’s hands on my painful side and on my head. I’m down for the third session on Sunday. I’m amazed to feel the real benefits of this mysterious therapy. It was high time I returned to form: we’re overwhelmed with work.

September

Phew! The Germans have left. Without too much devastation‚ which is a miracle. I’m working as both journalist and
officer – in uniform‚ at last – redeployed to military security. I’m on celebratory duty at the paper every evening. More specifically‚ I’ve been given the task of retelling in instalments the epic story of the liberation of Paris.

If I wrote down what I really think‚ I’d be hacked to pieces. I saw a body gathered up at Les Halles – a kid in short trousers‚ fifteen years old at most. He’d attacked a Jerry truck that was flying a white flag. The kid was armed with 5.5 pistol with a mother-of-pearl grip: a 1924 lady’s handbag accessory. The real criminals weren’t in the truck.

My old neighbourhood’s been invaded by blacks from the plantations. They’re nice guys when they’re sober‚ terrible when they’re drunk.

Léopoldie and her girlfriend‚ Alice‚ are making up for lost time. They’re having a ball. Every night‚ at one of the gates of Paris‚ they smuggle themselves into the precincts of a car park‚ and make love with the blacks under their trucks. They’re doing so much ‘work’‚ they’re getting blisters on their buttocks and their shoulderblades. They’re buying everyone drinks. Pépé the Pansy regrets the departure of our former occupiers: the Yanks don’t appreciate his charms. One of them told him he smelt too bad. He’s been dousing himself with violet perfume ever since‚ which is the reason the Pignols decided to throw him out. He was making the place stink.

At Place Maubert‚ the worst scum have taken advantage of some quieter moments to get themselves photographed on the barricades‚ dressed up like buccaneers‚ striking the most heroic poses.

I cut a sorry figure in my uniform: I display my usual rank of lieutenant. Here everyone is at least a major. Only the under-twenties are mere captains.

The cops – whom we now have to glorify – have even arrested two six-pip ‘colonels-in-chief’‚ on Rue Monge. One of them was Armenian.

I’ve noticed that the flash-points in the old part of Paris have been the same since the Middle Ages. The first barricades that sprang up corresponded to only very vague strategic objectives: Rue de l’Arbre-Sec‚ for instance. But‚ it was there‚
it was on Rue Pernelle‚ Rue du Fouarre‚ Rue de la Huchette‚ Le Petit-Pont‚ true to its age-old traditions‚ that trouble broke out in the City.

My bohemian friends more wisely kept out of harm’s way on the first floor at the Quatre-Fesses‚ where Elisabeth prepared meals for them. No change has entered their lives‚ except for Théophile‚ who has returned to the priesthood. He wants to go to Black Africa as a missionary.

December

Marius Labadou‚ known as the Commander‚ was a comic character in his fifties‚ a house painter by profession‚ fond of fruity-flavoured beaujolais.

Between the wars‚ Marius Labadou belonged to that glorious band of reenlisted NCOs who carried to deprived populations in different latitudes the message of Sweet France‚ and asserted with hobnailed-booted conviction the universal brilliance of our culture.

Marius Labadou returned home with the rank of sergeant- major.

Marius Labadou‚ whom the military authorities‚ doubtless under pressure of other concerns‚ had neglected to consult before negotiating the armistice of June 1940‚ was foaming with rage at the sight of the Teutonic hordes who came streaming inside our walls. And Marius Labadou was one of the first to found a resistance organization within occupied Paris. He set about it in a prudent manner: he gathered together a group of five or six Hitler-phobic wine-lovers‚ people who could be trusted. And for four years the private back rooms of Rue de la Huchette became familiar with the regular presence of some eminently patriotic figures: Doudou the Gentle Verger‚ Lucien Domaom and his pal Collard‚ known as Teddy Bear‚ a few others‚ and Fralicot‚ nicknamed Les Eparges because of his truly epic 1914–18 war experiences. Under the enthusiastic but circumspect authority of Marius Labadou‚ these honest folk held a daily reunion‚ during which they would bring each other up to date with the latest rumours to have reached their ears that day. A discussion
would follow. Bottles of increasing rarity were cheerfully drained – yet another one the Germans wouldn’t get hold of!

Domaom‚ who set great store by reaching firm conclusions‚ would grab each of his mates‚ one after the other‚ by the lapels. ‘So‚ tell me‚
d’homme à homme
‚ man to man [hence his nickname]‚ that you haven’t lost hope?’ It’s partly thanks to the Labadou group that the most heartening tall stories came into being‚ circulated round Paris and reached the provinces with blitzkrieg speed.

This was the group’s main activity. I recall the day when news reached France of the outcome‚ for a long time uncertain‚ and as it turned out disastrous for the Germans‚ of a tremendous battle between armoured units somewhere on the Russian front. The
Propaganda Staffel
had instructed the press to emphasize the scale of military resources brought to the engagement by both sides. The newspaper
Aujourd’hui
appeared with this banner headline across six columns:

LA BATAILLE FUT GIGANTESQUE
.

[THE BATTLE WAS GIGANTIC.]

Which set everyone on the left bank humming the rest of that classic De Profundis:

Tous les morpions moururent presque

A l’exception des plus trapus

Qui s’accrochèrent aux poils du cul.

[The crab lice nearly all died

The hardiest few alone pulled through –

It was the pubic hairs that saved them.]

(Desnos was involved in the page layout.) Oh‚ Labadou’s lot certainly had a good laugh that time. In short‚ while this team’s activity was almost nil and never caused the least harm to Axis forces‚ at least our brave tipplers had excellent intentions. I’d never concealed from Labadou the possibilities available to me of communicating with London. He asked me to pass on the news of the existence of his group‚ ‘
Le Chat Qui
Pêche
’. Why not? I made a report to BCRA and the war went on.

During the street battles Labadou and his team were careful not to venture outside for any other reason but to stock up‚ on wine especially. ‘We have other things to do‚’ they would say archly. Discipline being the chief force of the worst shambles‚ everyone regarded this as normal. So as soon as everything had more or less calmed down‚ and a few poor wretches had been bumped off for reasons that had nothing to do with national interests‚ and the splendid falangist police so hated only the day before had been feted‚ and the whores and the blacks from the Mid-West had through a process of mutual compromise invented their own curious Anglo-Saxon dialect‚ Franco-Allied pen-pushers took over from Wehrmacht- Gestapo pen-pushers.

Marius Labadou got himself and his group ‘recognized’. A colonel who’d waged war from the safe distance of London offices‚ and a reenlisted NCO who selflessly kept up morale in the bars on Rue de la Huchette were destined to see eye to eye.

Marius Labadou was promoted to major without further ado‚ Fralicot and Domaom to captains‚ the rest to two-pip lieutenants. Who knows where they found the extremely smart‚ non-regulation uniforms with which they immediately rigged themselves out. Goering would have paled at the sight of what they displayed on their chests.

They didn’t sober up for a whole week. Marius Labadou cut a fine figure in his uniform. And that’s what brought about his downfall.

He was a widower. For some years he’d been living with a middle-aged woman‚ as husband and wife. She‚ Madame Félicienne‚ had a rather arrogant manner and was extremely houseproud. Her two-roomed apartment was crammed with knick-knacks‚ picked up here and there on Sunday strolls along the riverbanks or at fun fairs. And the china swans‚ Japanese tea cups‚ finicky brass ornaments‚ polished and buffed and
patinated‚ gleamed with a heartwarming lustre. But Madame Félicienne seemed to reserve for these trinkets‚ embroidered tasselled cushions‚ and flower vases‚ an affection she withheld from human beings. With great thrift and capability she managed the household budget and took a dim view of ‘her man’ spending all his time in the company of his friends. For her‚ the Liberation should have marked the end of a dissipated existence she abhored. Whereas Labadou‚ elated by his unexpected acclaim‚ saw things differently: in no hurry to take up his paintbrushes again‚ he preferred to saunter about in uniform‚ with one or two of his cronies at his side‚ and to keep the whole neighbourhood agog with his account of feats of arms no less astounding than imaginary.

So it was that he won the heart of Louisette‚ a former model turned barmaid. Quite pretty‚ though looking prematurely the worse for wear‚ Louisette managed to transform Marius’s guardian angel into the demon of middle-aged lust.

The Major neglected his professional duties. Fed up with listening to Madame Félicienne’s recriminations every day‚ he took advantage of a row between them to pack his lightweight suitcase and clean shirts at once and move in with the infinitely younger and more desirable Louisette. The newly-formed couple were now living together within a few hundred metres of the home he had forsaken. But such were the manners and morals of the neighbourhood‚ no one took any exception to this. Life resumed its humdrum routine. Madame Félicienne bided her time. She pretended to be on good terms with her rival‚ but those who knew her warned against putting too much trust in this. Especially as Marius was now getting a pension which meant that‚ come what may‚ there was always that little extra.

Meanwhile‚ Marius Labadou lost a bit of his swagger. He caught a chill that he didn’t nurse properly. He was always doubled-up‚ coughing. His new mistress looked after him as best she could‚ but he drank far too much.

Until one dreadful morning during a spell of terribly cold weather that seemed to go on and on‚ when Marius‚ running
a very high fever‚ had to be admitted to the Hôtel-Dieu where he was diagnosed with double broncho-pneumonia.

That same evening the sick man’s friends met up at Le Chat Qui Pêche. They had fallen into two camps: the supporters of Madame Félicienne‚ with a respect for time- honoured conventions‚ in other words ‘decent behaviour’; and those who saw in Louisette another chance for Marius to be young again.

Madame Félicienne and Louisette arrived separately. Louisette seemed terribly upset. Her rival by contrast looked calm and resolute. The situation was discussed.

Domaom suggested‚ ‘Since there’s nothing more we can do for Marius in terms of his medical treatment‚ the only chance we have of speeding his recovery is to go to see the Lancelin brothers and have him slept.’

Madame Félicienne expressed reservations. But she was easily persuaded there could be no serious objection to the Sleeper’s letting his thoughts dwell for two hours a day on the man whose life they wanted to save.

‘It’s like praying for the dead‚’ said Fralicot. ‘It may not do any good‚ but it certainly doesn’t do any harm.’

This argument clinched it.

The evening wore on. Everyone related stories‚ embellished to the best of the narrator’s ability‚ of miraculous cures brought about by the Sleeper and his brother. They all but resuscitated the dead. Madame Félicienne‚ however‚ had her own idea.

‘And afterwards‚ when he comes out‚ he won’t be fully recovered. What will he do‚ and whose place‚ eh‚ whose place‚ will he go back to?’

Louisette remained silent. Embarrassed‚ the others shook their heads. ‘That’s up to him‚’ said Old Collard. ‘We’re his friends‚ and we’re friends of both of you. It’s none of our business. You sort it out between yourselves.’

Domaom intervened.

‘You both want to see him come out of there‚ don’t you? Well‚ better do the same as in wartime: make an alliance to
achieve your objective. For the time being‚ you should be working together. Come on now‚ Fralicot‚ as man to man …’

‘You’re something of an authority on the subject‚’ agreed Fralicot.

With their moist-eyed comrades looking on‚ the two men hugged each other.

‘I’d love to know what dirty trick she’s plotting‚’ said a voice.

Madame Félicienne’s devotion exceeded all expectation. She’d rushed over to the Lancelin brothers’ neighbourhood at the crack of dawn‚ and found out where they lived. She had to beg them: and so successful was she that when the wards opened to visitors the Lancelins were at Marius’s bedside. He seemed very low. The Sleeper laid his hands on his torso for a long time‚ so long the patient complained‚ ‘No more‚ it’s tiring.’