Paris Noir (26 page)

‘I might consider it. Why not?’

I explained the case of Simon Baum.

‘It’s not just because I want to get him off my hands. He needs to be given the illusion of doing something useful.’

‘OK.’

I called Simon. He gazed at me with those big honest eyes of his.

‘This is a friend: he’s from your neighbourhood. You need something to do‚ some exercise. I’m putting you in his charge. I’ll renew your passes every two days. You’ll come here to collect your linen‚ subsistence allowance and tobacco.’

Simon passively consented.

At last I’ve freed myself of the haunting prospect of hearing Simon furtively coming in to see me every hour‚ and asking in that scarcely post-pubertal voice‚ ‘What should I do?’ only to be rebuffed‚ often with an impatience for which I immediately reproach myself. If he were the poor innocent beast he resembles‚ I’d have showered him with kindnesses. But he’s a human being‚ damn it! And as such‚ he exasperates me. He came to pick up his pass‚ allowance‚ and clean shirts. I gave him several K rations‚ and all the tobacco I could lay my hands on. He was fearful and subdued‚ as usual. (He has a marked Jewish accent.)

‘So‚ how’s the Hungarian?’

‘Oh! he’s kind‚ very kind to me. Teaches me lots of things …’

‘Like what?’

‘I collect the wood shavings and put them in a bag.’

‘He’s not encouraging you to drink‚ I hope.’

‘Oh‚ no! Anyway‚ I never feel like drinking.’

I had difficulty reconstructing the scene.

Zoltan was bent over‚ breathing heavily‚ resurfacing the floor of an empty room. His moving torso sweated in the warm sunshine. Nearby‚ also on all fours and naked to the waist‚ was Simon. Zoltan stands up‚ dusts himself down‚ and goes off for a drink. Simon remains squatting: he gathers the wood shavings the way a child sweeps up dry sand to prevent his mud pies from sticking to the ground. In an ill-fated gesture‚ moving his left hand too quickly‚ a long splinter penetrates deeply between his thumb and palm. Intense pain. He faints.

Zoltan realizes something’s amiss and approaches‚ slowly‚
with a waddling gait‚ as is his wont when some unspecified danger lurks. He goes to fetch a chair‚ sits my comatose Simon on it. A panful of cold water and a repeated couple of slaps. Zoltan stares hard at the boy. ‘Are you a man‚ or aren’t you? Are you a man?’ Simon’s eyes open wide. He’s still stupefied. Zoltan grabs the injured hand‚ sees the place where the splinter entered‚ rushes off to the caretaker‚ comes back with a pair of tweezers. Skilfully‚ but not gently‚ he extracts the thin sliver of wood. Now in good humour‚ he places his hands on Simon’s shoulders‚ and gazes at him intently. ‘Now‚ chin up‚ do you hear? Chin up‚ you little weakling!’

His eyelids half-closed. Simon remained silent‚ still‚ and apparently unconscious. Zoltan had hypnotized him without realizing it. At this point‚ the Hungarian committed a serious error. Instead of wakening his ‘subject’ with vertical hand movements‚ up and down – from the stomach to the forehead‚ and then aside‚ past the eyes – and failing that‚ instead of telephoning me‚ he grabbed a towel soaked in cold water and began belting the poor kid‚ who started screaming and struggling‚ stricken with a terrible attack of nerves.

It took him several days to recover‚ installed in the Hungarian’s bed‚ while a mortified Zoltan looked after him like some inept clumsy nanny.

I went to see Simon every evening. It was easy to plunge him into an hypnotic trance‚ from which I immediately released him. But my attempts to waken him fully proved futile. He remained from that day on under the the Hungarian’s influence‚ in complete thrall to him. Zoltan conceived a genuine remorse for this incident‚ and I confess to feeling tormented still by my own share of responsibility in the affair.

Once Simon had recovered‚ in appearance at least‚ he continued to trail after Zoltan‚ but no longer as his helper or assistant. The Hungarian was no longer ‘the boss’ but ‘the master’ of this too faithful‚ too submissive dog always at his heels. His hard day’s work over‚ Zoltan felt the need to get away for a few hours‚ if only to court a certain little lady selling lemons (or aubergines‚ depending on the season). To do so‚ he found himself obliged to confine Simon to his room
and put him to sleep – as simple as that – before he could bolt the door and slip out.

At first Zoltan found it a burden to have someone trotting along beside him all the time‚ reading his thoughts‚ anticipating his every move. And then he got used to it. And between these two individuals‚ so unalike‚ there came to be a flow of affection operating on a level that can only be described as psychic.

There was plenty of work. Zoltan was in demand for various reasons. Many families who’d gone into exile finally returned to Paris and wanted to refurbish their homes. They recommended him to each other. Zoltan’s savings grew: he thought of setting himself up as a master craftsman. ‘I’d certainly consider getting married‚’ he said to me one day‚ ‘if it weren’t for the kid.’ The kid being Simon.

Just as many bilingual people are more likely to speak English to their animals‚ horses or dogs‚ Zoltan when he was busy spoke to Simon in Russian. Moreover‚ when the job to be done proved long and hard‚ that’s to say a match for his abundance of physical energy‚ he would
think
in Russian. Recalling the tough years he’d spent in Odessa.

‘There at least I had a good time‚’ he liked to say‚ flexing his biceps.

Simon had never learned a single word of Russian. Apart from his rudimentary French‚ he very vaguely knew just a few Yiddish phrases he’d heard his parents use in the past.

At first‚ as a joke‚ he taught himself to say to his master – badly pronounced – ‘
Zdravstute‚ gospodine
!’ (Good morning‚ sir!) or ‘
Spasibo
!’ (Thank you). That was all.

Last month‚ feeling drowsy on a stifling hot afternoon‚ Simon went to sleep on a sofa in a room adjoining the one where Zoltan was working. Zoltan suddenly pricked up his ears. Someone nearby was talking Russian. The person was saying‚ ‘
Ya umirayu ot zhazhde. Segodnja tak zharko. Davajte pit
!’ (I’m dying of thirst. It’s so hot. Let’s have a drink.)

Utterly amazed‚ Zoltan got up and peered into the hall and the adjoining room. No doubt about it‚ he was alone‚ with
Simon asleep. Without waking him‚ he said‚ ‘
Ty govorish po- ruski
?’ (You speak Russian?)

And in a more confident voice than when he was awake‚ without stammering in the least‚ Simon replied‚ ‘
Vot vopros! Nyuzheli vy nu znete? Ya vsegda govoril po-rousski
.’ (What a question! Didn’t you know? I’ve always spoken Russian!)

I was soon told of the phenomenon‚ which I’ve since verified several times. I questioned Zoltan. He confessed that he enjoyed putting Simon to sleep whenever he wanted a few moments alone. Then he would communicate his thoughts in Russian‚ he said‚ because he was more at ease in that language and he had the impression of being able to project his will more strongly.

He got hooked on it‚ and within a few weeks poor Simon‚ the idiot‚ the moron‚ began speaking Russian fluently‚ with no grammar‚ no textbook of any kind‚ no notebook.

That’s the situation at the moment.

October

This morning Gérard came and woke me in a great panic. He was brandishing a newspaper.

‘Elisabeth mustn’t see this! Go and find her‚ keep her busy all day‚ whatever it takes.’

Filling two columns on the front page‚ with a sensational headline‚ was a report of the legionnaire’s arrest. There was a photo of him‚ smiling and handcuffed‚ looking cocky. Thief‚ murderer‚ swindler and pimp. Everything you could wish for.

I rushed over to where the dear girl lived. I found her in the caretaker’s lodge. She was reading a letter. As pale as could be. She was trembling. All she said was‚ ‘You already know?’

‘Yes‚ I know.’

It was a bundle of despair‚ a vulnerable and buffeted little bird that I dragged round the exhibits at the Salon d’Automne.

The girl eventually shared her secret with Séverin and me. Not knowing where else to turn‚ she asked us point blank to
find her an angel-maker to perform an abortion. Round Place Maubert‚ they call this ‘plunging the dipstick’ in memory of an old woman who‚ in the ‘conveniences’ at Guignard’s‚ would use a long needle to carry out this operation. We couldn’t make Elisabeth listen to reason. We suggested taking a trip‚ going into hiding‚ staying in the country with one of our relatives until her confinement. Her aunt and Clément would know nothing about it. It was a waste of breath. She was obdurate. She gave us an ultimatum: it was either that or suicide. You can imagine our quandary.

It was very late. No one was talking. Elisabeth had in despondency hidden her face in her hands. Clément thought she was ill and didn’t know what to do. Olga wanted us to eat. We weren’t hungry.

In comes Marina‚ a little squiffy‚ accompanied by Batifol’s wife‚ she too sozzled. They were bickering. They wanted cognacs.

‘I’ll tell you whether you’re being cheated on‚ I’ll tell you right now.’

They sat down. The Spanish woman took out her cards. She laid them out in a triangle‚ covered them‚ turned over spades‚ hearts and jacks. She gave a derisive laugh.

‘What did I tell you? Cheated on‚ you are‚ right up to the hilt! He’s only giving you as good as he got. Does he know? That Jeannot’s not his. Eh?’ (Jeannot is the Batifols’ kid‚ just turned ten.)

In a fury Batifol’s wife tried to slap the witch in the face. Olga intervened and separated them with a firm hand.

Then from his usual corner came the voice of the Old Man. ‘Marina‚ go away! You’re drunk.’

‘Why should I go anywhere? I’ll stay if I want to.’

‘Marina‚ go away! You bring bad luck on children.’

‘No children here.’

Then with his long index finger pointed at Elisabeth‚ who was sunk in despair‚ the Old Man said‚ ‘Yes‚ there is‚ there’s the child she’s carrying.’

Elisabeth sat up‚ distraught‚ her fists to her temples. It was
the cry of a she-wolf that she uttered. She made for the door and ran out into the night.

We would never have thought the Old Man capable of leaping up the way he did‚ on those short bandy legs of his. He threw aside his stick and went rushing after the girl: this time we saw him leave.

A blind dash through the clammy streets down to the Seine.

From the bottom of Rue du Petit-Pont‚ we heard two splashes in close succession. Clément had the presence of mind to bang on Felix’s door to wake him up and telephone the fire brigade‚ and the police immediately afterwards. Ah! It didn’t take long. In three minutes the River Police boat was there. Some big strapping lads‚ trained and ready for anything‚ fished out Elisabeth‚ who was floundering underwater. Meanwhile the fire brigade and the land-based police turned up. It was quite a party. A searchlight was turned on‚ but the Old Man couldn’t be found.

About five o’clock we returned to the Quatre-Fesses to tell Olga what had happened and reassure her about the fate of the girl. Olga was fussing over her friend‚ who looked quite out of sorts and shot a terrified look at us (yes‚ us!).

‘What’s wrong? She’s that upset by all this?’

‘It’s not so much the girl‚ it’s the stick.’

The Old Man’s stick had bounced on the tiles with a dull thud as he threw it aside to go running after Elisabeth. When she picked it up‚ Suzy remarked to herself how heavy it was. She laid it on the bench. Then‚ when the two women began to clear up‚ Suzy once again picked up the long stick‚ intending to carry it to the back of the room. As she was walking‚ she felt the object grow very‚ very light‚ so much so she turned round to share her surprise with Olga. At that moment the stick literally dissolved in her hands.

That was several days ago now. Suzy still hasn’t recovered. You can’t mention it in front of her: it makes her blanch and tremble like a leaf.

The day after her escape from drowning‚ we went to visit Elisabeth. She asked for news of the Old Man.

‘He must have sunk like a stone.’

‘I’m not really surprised‚’ she said.

She remained silent for a moment. And then she put her hands on her belly and decided to keep the child.

I said to Boucher‚ the inspector at the police station in Rue Dante‚ ‘What about the Old Man? Any news?’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘We’ve enough work as it is‚ in your neighbourhood full of crazies. If we had to go looking for ghosts as well …’

The child will be named Patrice if it’s a boy‚ otherwise Ghislaine. Clément’s just waiting for it to be born so he can claim paternity and marry the baby’s mother.

1946

There’s someone for whom those drowned in the Seine represent a real patrimony. This character is Poloche the shrimp-fisher.

Very small‚ his hands reaching almost down to his knees‚ like some chinless chimpanzee‚ Poloche lives on Quai de la Tournelle in a tiny room crammed with bizarre objects that derive exclusively from dredging and cleaning operations carried out on the riverbed. One day recently he caught sight of me on the embankment and accosted me with all the signs of violent indignation.

‘You’re someone that knows the big shots at Police Headquarters. You have to help me. I need you to do me a favour!’

‘Sure. Although my influence isn’t very great. What’s the problem?’

‘It’s always the little guys that suffer in this bloody country. You want to know something? They’re destroying us small traders‚ they want to kill us off. There’ll only be room left for the big guys!’

‘Quite so. But what do you want me to do about it?’

‘Come with me.’

Poloche took me along the riverbank‚ having ‘forced’ me (a euphemistic term) to knock back a muscadet at the Bouteille d’Or. With a trembling finger‚ he pointed to the water‚ silt-laden at this point.

‘Look!’

‘Well? It’s just water …’

‘That’s what you may think! It’s a whirlpool‚ my whirlpool‚ where I’ve been laying my nets since before the last war. No one ever gave me a hard time about them till now. And every
season‚ the shrimps I collect I sell to the Bouteille‚ the Tour d’Argent. I’ve even sold some at the Eiffel Tower. And at the Vel’ d’Hiv’‚ every year during the cycling championships. After all‚ I wasn’t doing anyone any harm.’