Paris Noir (25 page)

On the morning of December 24‚ 1649‚ a swarthy man stopped for a long time in front of the platform where Brioché was working his puppets. He patiently waited till the end of the performance. Then he approached Brioché‚ complimented him on his skill‚ and offered to make‚ exclusively for him‚ some much more beautiful marionettes‚ figuring the heroes of Italian farce: Pulchinello‚ Pantalon‚ Harlequin … as well as characters of religious inspiration that would allow him to stage the ‘mysteries’.

Brioché followed the man to his workshop in Clos- Bruneau. The fellow showed him samples of his work. Brioché was charmed by them‚ and placed an order for a whole set of characters. A price was agreed‚ to be paid later‚ as the puppets were delivered. A final settlement date was decided on: a year to the day from when the deal was concluded.

It was stipulated that in the event the marionettes had not been paid for by that time‚ they would revert to being the
property of their creator. Brioché paid a deposit‚ and the deal was done!

The puppets were duly delivered. The dolls were so beautiful‚ and so easy to work that Brioché‚ abandoning his instruments and chair of torture‚ became his own manager‚ trained some assistants and devoted himself exclusively to putting on marionette shows. He did well by it: within a very short time he’d made his fortune.

The swarthy man came to see him and demanded some of the money owing to him.

With bad grace the miserly Brioché paid him the stipulated first instalment of the total price.

The craftsman indicated that he was making his own puppets responsible for ensuring that Brioché met his commitments. Brioché shrugged his shoulders.

He went travelling round the country‚ where his takings exceeded his hopes.

There were reports of him all over Burgundy‚ then in Savoy. He forgot about his creditor.

The very day that had been fixed for making the last payment – Christmas Day 1650 – Brioché and his company crossed the border into Switzerland.

At Solothurn‚ he put on a show for a large invited audience. The Swiss were unfamiliar with marionettes: they marvelled at the complicated leaps and bounds performed by the characters in the first ballet. Three violinists played behind the scenes‚ while puppet musicians sawed away on stage on pretend instruments. But this was only a prelude of things to come.

The curtain rose amid general enthusiasm on the previously announced play:
The Damnation of Pulchinello
(which sounds like a curious transposition of Marlowe’s
Faust
).

Then the most amazing thing happened: the puppets suddenly ignored their master! They knotted‚ tangled‚ broke the strings that were supposed to control their every movement: released‚ unfettered‚ they began to whirl‚ leap‚ quarrel‚ fight‚ and there was nothing anyone could do to arrest them.

The spectators declared that ‘no one in living memory had
ever heard of such dainty and agile creatures‚ such chatterboxes as these’. The audience was alarmed: there were fears of witchcraft. The dolls were said to be nothing other than a gaggle of goblins at the command of a devil.

The Swiss police tied up Brioché and escorted by a vociferous populace dragged him off before the judge. The judge wanted to see the evidence: the theatre was brought to him‚ with the wooden mischief-makers ‘that he could not touch without shuddering’‚ and Brioché was condemned to be burnt alive along with all his paraphernalia.

This sentence was about to be carried out when a certain Dumont‚ a captain of the Swiss Guards in the service of the King of France‚ happened to turn up. Curious to see the French magician‚ he recognized the wretched Brioché who had made him laugh so much in Paris. He hurried to the judge’s house: having obtained a stay of execution for one day‚ he clarified the situation‚ explained how the puppets worked‚ and got the judge to order the release of Brioché.

This was no easy matter: for those witnesses at the trial who had been in the audience remained adamant and continued yelling accusations of witchcraft. The population of Solothurn were long divided on this issue.

Brioché returned with all possible speed to Paris. Nor did he rest until he had rushed over to Clos-Bruneau and settled his debt with the magician – I meant to write‚ with the craftsman – cash on the nail.

Thereafter‚ his fame only increased. He often performed before the Court.

Thus are legends born. I don’t know what element of fiction there is in this story about Brioché: the fact is‚ there are contemporary documents preserved in Switzerland that record the circumstances of the trial‚ and everything reported above.

I’d very much like to meet again that Gypsy who told me: ‘A polychrome carving’s not meant to move. The reactions of contained energy are unpredictable.’

I found out that at the end of the last century Gabriele
D’Annunzio acquired some of Brioché’s puppets. The most beautiful. They now belong to the poet and dramatist Guillot de Saix‚ the ‘White-Bearded Child’.

Gérard is making progress. Séverin too. They’ve had a very good influence on Paquito‚ who’s developing most satisfactorily. The three of them have organized an exhibition of their works in Rue de Seine. My fellow journalists have given them flattering reviews. Since then‚ their canvases have been selling as well as can be expected. Our ‘general trading’ friends‚ Géga first and foremost‚ are giving them a real helping hand. The group’s relatively well off at the moment. But there’s a shadow hanging over all this. And the name of that shadow is Elisabeth‚ whose eighteenth birthday we’ve just celebrated.

They’re all more or less in love with her. My own feelings are more paternal. But I’m just as jealous of her as the others.

One fine evening last October a legionnaire out on the town fetched up at the Quatre-Fesses. I was there. I was in civvies. The soldier was absolutely determined to fraternize with everybody. He’d already come by during the day and buttonholed Olga. Not bad-looking in a rugged sort of way. A smooth talker – oh‚ yes indeed! – he’d made a good impression on her. In the evening he behaved in a likeable manner‚ and bought two drawings from Paquito. With no cause for mistrust‚ it seemed natural to invite him to join us at our table. He chose to sit in the corner‚ so he couldn’t be seen from outside: friends of his might pass by and spot him and he wasn’t interested in meeting up with them.

With a distant look in his eyes‚ he talked about Africa‚ Saigon‚ Shanghai‚ and Tonkin‚ where he’d fought.

He only gave the kid a polite distracted glance as he said goodbye. She didn’t seem to care about him one way or the other. But she was petulant when Clément offered to walk her home‚ as usual. And we sensed that Clément was very unhappy.

The soldier came back every evening after that: and every time he brought a knuckle of ham ‘to share among friends’‚ he said. He spent a lot. ‘Money! For all the use it is to me …’ In a steady penetrating voice he recounted his adventures in Algeria‚ Tunisia‚ and Indochina where he’d been caught up in the Japanese invasion. But he’d ‘taken to the
maquis
’‚ he said – just like some ordinary guy in the Cevennes.

He described the endless voyages travelling in steerage. The torpor. The boredom. His mates‚ their lives‚ their stories. And then‚ at eleven thirty:

‘Time to go. I’ve only got leave of absence till midnight.’

‘Where are you going back to?’

‘Vincennes. So long.’

And he would hurry off towards the metro. On one occasion‚ one of the regulars‚ Dédé‚ who owns a car‚ offered him a lift. He accepted. Twenty minutes later Dédé was back.

‘So soon? All the way from the Fort de Vincennes?’

‘You must be joking. I dropped him off at a hotel‚ in Rue de la Convention.’

Edmond was there. He muttered‚ ‘I don’t know what you lot think of him‚ but I don’t much like the look of him.’

The next day the soldier said he could stay later. An itinerant accordeon-player kept the place crowded for part of the evening. It wasn’t till about midnight that we were really on our own. Edmond‚ who spends more and more time with us‚ was sitting next to Elisabeth. He was awkwardly‚ touchingly attentive towards her.

The soldier had launched himself into a complicated account of an expedition in Tonkin‚ complete with parachute jumps‚ ambushes‚ belly-crawling through paddy fields. He was asked details about how he’d managed to get himself repatriated. At that point he hummed and hawed a bit‚ then recovered and began to impale and strangle the Japanese‚ or cut their throats. He was on to his twelfth when a chortle was heard‚ and that familiar little voice‚ ‘Ha! Ha! Not true!’

The Old Man‚ tucked in his corner of the banquette‚ laughed‚ sarcastically this time‚ confidently‚ with the obvious
intent of challenging the imposter. The latter rose to feet‚ white-faced. He was furious.

‘What! How dare anyone …?’

‘Well‚ yes‚ someone dares! Yes‚ I dare!’ shouted the Old Man. ‘Lying comes as naturally to you as breathing. You’ve never set foot in Indochina. Or Africa. You’ve just come out of prison! Clear out. Go on.’

It looked as though the legionnaire‚ beside himself with rage‚ was going to hurl himself at the Old Man. But then Edmond was on his feet.

‘Now listen‚ pal. These other guys may have a subtle way with words‚ not me. We don’t like your spiel. Now get out of here. Maybe you’d like a lift back. To the Fort de Vincennes?’

The fellow took himself off without another word. Elisabeth looked thunderstruck. Clément was jubilant.

I’d vowed to keep an eye on the Old Man when the party broke up. Why did Edmond have to take me aside at that very moment in order to tell me – I don’t even remember what it was any more? Everyone was attending to something else: the minute our backs were turned‚ the Old Man was gone.

For a while Elisabeth received letters that her aunt’s caretaker delivered to her ‘personally’. She was completely changed‚ remote‚ distant‚ secretive‚ and often after modelling disappeared for several hours. Somebody told us that some guy met her at the Jussieu metro station. We checked it out: it was the legionnaire‚ but now in civvies. So as not to cause Clément unnecessary heartache‚ we agreed to keep him in the dark about these assignations. Once‚ Elisabeth didn’t go home to sleep. Frantic‚ her aunt woke us at dawn: we swore that she’d been with us all night‚ at an artists’ party that had carried on into the early hours.

A mouth‚ a face can lie. But not Elisabeth’s body. That day‚ as soon as she appeared nude‚ we could tell that Elisabeth had lost her virginity.

A scarcely perceptible sagging of the breasts – her upper cleavage was gone; areas of her stomach that caught the light instead of dispersing it; heavier rings round her eyes; less looseness of the hips‚ which a kind of – yes‚ that’s what it
was – a kind of shame had infiltrated‚ infused‚ contaminated: none of this could escape us. We felt a stab of very bitter resentment. Our eyes must have been filled with reproach or pity: the poor girl couldn’t withstand our gaze for more than five minutes. She suddenly covered herself with a curtain and started sobbing. We didn’t press her.

Time passes. I’ve kept some sketches from ‘before’. To tell the truth‚ since that day we take less pleasure in the work.

Elisabeth continues to meet ‘her man’. We never mention him to her. And Clément‚ who’s waiting his chance‚ continues to play the lovesick suitor.

At Military Intelligence HQ‚ my basic mission is to track down those comrades of ours who were arrested here and deported to the East.

I’ve been assigned an orderly. A young soldier with non- combatant status‚ who was determined to join Leclerc’s army. Poor boy! It must have been out of pity that they drafted this wretched‚ woe-begone‚ bewildered creature‚ who‚ by some inexplicable miracle‚ escaped being rounded up by the Germans when they purged his street.

Father‚ mother‚ elder brother – Polish Jews – deported and exterminated‚ we now know. This feeble-minded boy – a bout of meningitis has left its mark – is afflicted with a curvature of the spine that precludes any physical effort. His face with very receding chin and bulging eyes is reminiscent of a bird at first‚ then a fish‚ and finally a rabbit. To cap it all‚ even his personal details are a joke. He has exactly the same name as what is generally referred to as ‘a high-ranking political personality’. To avoid causing any offence‚ I shall call him Simon Baum.

The sole concern of the military authorities who drafted Baum was to ensure that he was materially reasonably well provided for during his few months’ service. And maybe to save him from fits of depression that might prove fatal. I’m
known to be susceptible to certain feelings of absurd pity. And I’ve been landed with this runt.

He drives me crazy. I’ve told him in the strongest terms that he’s not to concern himself with my shoes or my clothes‚ or to go rummaging among my personal belongings. A secretary files my papers with which he has no reason to meddle. His uselessness oppresses him. As a soldier‚ he would like to have fought and conquered Alsace the way the kids of Montmartre fight over their potholes. I send him on impossible errands or give him magazines that he quietly pours over‚ huddled on a bench at the end of a corridor. I shall soon be more or less rid of him‚ at last.

Zoltan Hazaï has tracked me down again. He came into my office‚ with a suspicious policeman on his heels. I was pleased to see him.

‘What’s new?’

‘No problems any more. I work for myself: resurfacing parquet flooring. At last I can work as hard as I like. I tell you‚ I really put my back into it.’

‘And apart from that?’

‘I’d like to get French citizenship as soon possible. I need a reference.’

‘No problem.’

My Hungarian now speaks a heavily accented but very correct French. He tells me that he’s living over in the Faubourg St-Antoine area‚ Simon Baum’s home ground. This has suddenly flashed into my mind‚ and gives me an idea.

I hand Zoltan a document declaring that to my knowledge he hasn’t commited any murder‚ sunk any allied submarine‚ handed over to the Gestapo any parachutist. And then: ‘Tell me. You wouldn’t be in need of some help? A young man who could carry your tools‚ run errands‚ a poor harmless lad …’