Paris Noir (5 page)

Someone here is smoking hashish.

The
patron
looks like a higher form of rodent. Almost fit for society. Around him stews sozzled flesh. Sozzled not only with adulterated wine. But hunger‚ tiredness. And boredom. Out of a dark corner‚ three pairs of brown eyes look daggers at us. There are some wide-awake people over there. The smell of hashish comes from that direction.

The rodent stares at Théophile and me. Fanfan delivers some spiel. As the patter goes on‚ the overfed rat-face grows wary. He signals to the pair of peepers furthest away: a tall guy comes over. A Frenchman‚ very dark‚ very bitter. Neither old nor bowed. But for ever down on his luck. You can tell straight away. Introductions: Edgar Jullien. Journalist and explorer. Théophile and I give our names. Or someone else’s. You can never be too careful. A beardless and smaller-sized rat-face – a twelve-year-old version – passes for the only son of the rat-face behind the counter. ‘Go and fetch Dimitri‚’ says the pater.

The kid opens the door‚ heads off to some other factory of despair.

It would take too long to tell the whole story.

Besides‚ I’ve no right to.

Only a few years ago Edgar Jullien – let’s say that’s his name – was a very well-known journalist. A specialist on Islamic issues. A member of the Society of French Explorers. He knows North Africa well‚ but more importantly has travelled all over the Near East where he managed to pass as a Muslim for months on end. It’s easy to imagine him turbanned‚ shod in Turkish slippers‚ with a djellaba draped casually over his shoulders. He carried out some very dangerous assignments in
his day. But he made the mistake of indulging from one day to the next in the most foolish‚ pointless and disarming of idle ‘precautions’. It was in Syria that the dreaded fit of aberration overcame him. He made the acquaintance of some exiled Greek monks‚ who had converted to a satanic sect and wanted to initiate him in their rites. So far‚ the whole thing sounds like some ludicrous burlesque of neurotic mystics. But‚ prompted by inertia and perhaps some other concerns that he doesn’t disclose‚ Edgar Jullien allowed his chest to be tattooed with the sect’s tutelary emblem: a bat.

Ever since then his life has been an incredible series of terrible disasters.

Dimitri B was a great pianist‚ listened to with knuckles pressed to brow in all the concert halls of Europe. Son of a White Russian‚ he applied for French citizenship‚ and in order to obtain it had to do eighteen months’ military service in the French army much later than the normal age. He chose Tunisia. He was already a heavy drinker. The rotgut‚ the raki‚ the malaria – his brain couldn’t take it. Brought up by a fanatically orthodox family in the constant and strictest observance of his liturgical ‘duties’‚ he wouldn’t rest until a huge intricate crucifix‚ like an icon‚ was tattooed on his pectorals. In contrast with the appallingly lucid Edgar Jullien‚ Dimitri now gives the impression of being a hopeless moron.

Dimitri prepares himself for what is about to happen with a litre of red. Edgar Jullien‚ with what I don’t know. Or dare not contemplate.

In the middle of the back room‚ now emptied of its dozy occupants‚ a table has been cleared. On it has been placed a glass filled with water‚ on the surface of which rat-face junior has set to float a previously greased and magnetized sewing needle.

Naked to the waist‚ with their backs to opposite walls of the room‚ the two tattooed men confront each other – they don’t so much abhor as ignore each other. They advance slowly towards the table that separates them. The improvised compass is thrown into confusion – it wavers‚ spins round‚ and the needle sinks. They did this four times.

‘Apparently on some stormy evenings‚’ says the
patron
‚ ‘the water’s even bubbled a bit.’

I’d very much like to ‘conclude’ something from this experiment. Or that it should raise a question in my mind‚ and a commitment to get to the bottom of the matter‚ to investigate‚ to come up with an outline of the beginning of an answer‚ however ill-defined or trite it might be … But no. I’m here to see‚ hear‚ observe – to experience. Let others explain.

It’s splendid how much at home we feel at Pignol’s. A tacit complicity at every moment prevails among the regulars here. A process of self-selection operates: starving crooks‚ thirsty whores‚ witless grasses working for low-grade cops‚ middle- class types a bit too willing to conform (leaving aside the pound of blackmarket meat and the camembert without ration tickets) – all feel too ill at ease here. They’ve only got to stay away. Along with anyone else who doesn’t meet the requirements of this establishment: first and foremost‚ to keep your trap shut. The war? Past history. The Krauts? Don’t know any. Russia? Change at Réaumur. The police? There was a time when they were needed for directing the traffic. At Pignol’s‚ silence constitutes the most important‚ most difficult and lengthiest induction ordeal.

After that‚ it’s a matter of imponderables. It works according to the rule of three: the people who don’t get along with the people that I get along with are people I can’t get along with. Syllogisms‚ of course. Now clear out!

Oh‚ goodness gracious! Don’t be shocked by my vocabulary. It’s not an affectation. To use any other words would be to play false with these people for whom I’ve too great a regard. And to play false with you too‚ in so far as you’ll assume I have ‘all the time in the world’‚ or else conclude the opposite. Understand?

So the most unlikely solidarity has grown up between characters who normally would heartily despise each other. My‚ what a crowd!

There’s Pepe the Pansy. Beyond belief. A poof like you wouldn’t have thought possible. He has the audacity to solicit
at the entrance to the hotel opposite. On crutches‚ toothless‚ outrageously made up‚ he sometimes wears a filthy wig and a skirt‚ with his single trouser leg and his wooden leg with the naked end of his stump showing‚ extending below it. This human detritus claims to be an hermaphrodite. Before‚ he lived in a brothel in Le Havre‚ where he was called Miss Mexico. Now he fleeces the Jerries‚ especially the young SS who turn up one by one‚ not very proud of themselves – the street is out of bounds to them. He’d be thrown out anywhere else. Here he’s tolerated. Why‚ I’ll be wondering for the rest of my life. And to my own surprise that I don’t instinctively recoil in disgust at his presence somewhat appals me.

There’s Léopoldie the West Indian. A tart‚ a fine girl who’s stopped turning tricks for the duration of the war. The green of the German uniform‚ she says‚ doesn’t suit her complexion. So she sells flowers‚ mostly to us‚ whenever possible.

There’s Bizinque. With a face that’s all cheekbone. A conk like a carbuncle. For a mouth‚ an orifice like a hen’s arsehole (an ostrich hen). And big‚ red-rimmed‚ flat eyes‚ reminiscent of a bream. He’s a junk dealer‚ but makes real finds – he’d find you a gramophone in the desert. There’s also Riton the Pimp‚ who’s latched on to Catherine because of her small annuity. One day‚ when he was drunk and couldn’t buy any more booze because he was skint‚ Riton gave Catherine’s kids a terrible thrashing. And while the kids were bawling their heads off‚ the neighbours didn’t hear Riton removing the door that opened on to the landing. He chopped it up as firewood and sold it straight away to Constant‚ the charcoal seller on Rue de Seine.

The rest of the gang aren’t worth mentioning. But every one of them’s got a story.

I catch myself writing ‘not worth mentioning’. According to what criteria? No reason whatever to feel superior.

No‚ I know what it is. I’m nice to them‚ I seem harmless‚ and I’ve no desire to lecture them the way Théophile does. So they all want to tell me their story. They crave acceptance‚ an excuse for their often abominable behaviour‚ a hint of commiseration. Théophile listens to them. He’s something of a
saint. But I don’t always have the patience. But here come the guys from the place opposite that my down-and-outs rub shoulders with. Géga‚ purveyor of all things. A wholesale ragman these days. A crooked smile‚ brimmed hat‚ pipe and patter. Sheer Balzac. Heart of gold. But he ought to shut up. There’s Monsieur Moniaud‚ presently history teacher in a private school‚ ousted from the senior position he held in the Aliens Bureau at the Tour Pointue on account of his insufficiently pro-Nazi sentiments. There’s Papa Bonnechose‚ qualified barrister and drunkard‚ dyspeptic and stunted‚ accompanied by two or three old wags and many a time by Henri Vergnolle‚ a tall guy with big fat lips‚ architect and socialist but out of the game for the time being‚ for the sole reason there’s only one game in town‚ that of the Wehrheim.

Here‚ in a few words‚ you’ve said all you need to say. People stand by each other‚ but they don’t talk. It’s remarkable. I’ve investigated the extraordinary history of these walls. I think I’m the only person who knows that it’s the stones‚ the stones alone that set the tone here.

There’s news regarding Rue de Bièvre. Henri Vergnolle has kept in touch with his old cronies. It was he who told us.

In Lugny (Saône-et-Loire)‚ a twenty-seven-year-old vine- grower has just been told by lawyers that he’s the sole heir of his uncle – Old Hubert – who basically left him a ‘hotel located in Paris‚ close to the Boulevard St-Michel’. To take possession of it‚ some fairly considerable debts would have to be discharged. But according to the letter‚ of which I have a copy before my eyes‚ ‘something could be worked out’.

There’s open speculation (purely conjectural) on how things will develop. We’re wondering whether the young man will try to sell his ‘property’ (!) or decide to apply from the Unoccupied Zone for authorization to come and run the place ‘in person’.

Everyone’s chortling in anticipation of the look on his face. I’m not at all happy about it. Vergnolle too is laughing derisively. I’ve taken a liking to him since this evening.

What’s going on? Théophile Trigou has long puzzled and exasperated me. He earns his living‚ and not badly at that‚ offering his services as a Latinist‚ at La Source and D’Harcourt‚ to wealthy numbskulls studying for a degree‚ struggling with their textual analyses of Cicero‚ or with a tough translation. In response to a tactless question he once said to me‚ ‘What do you expect? This lousy neighbourhood gave me the come- on. I couldn’t resist.’ So what? Me too. I’m now so jealous of ‘my’ buildings that‚ filled with a sort of elemental anxiety‚ I go off on my own and examine them one by one to try and determine which will be the first to dash my hopes. It’s mostly Rue de Bièvre that I haunt‚ after midnight‚ between patrols‚ and I’ve got my eye in particular on Old Hubert’s house‚ now completely taken over by tramps. I can’t bear the idea that some outsider‚ some stranger‚ from far away‚ should have more rights to this crumbling edifice than I do. If that someone shows up‚ I want to be the first to meet him‚ fully prepared. Depending on what he looks like‚ it’ll be up to me whether he’s forever blacklisted‚ or immediately becomes one of the lads. Accepted straight off‚ if I so decide.

A little twinge woke me. I’d been forewarned: the intruder was due to arrive in these parts at about seven thirty. He would come over the Seine‚ cross ‘my’ frontier. I hastily dressed and raced over to Rue de Bièvre. I spotted him from a distance‚ pretending to be taking a casual stroll in the acid morning light. All those well-laid plans are scuppered: there are two of them‚ he and his wife. I wasn’t expecting that.

They were each carrying a small suitcase: they must have walked from the station‚ and put their trunks in left luggage. Tramps laden with their bags emerged like moles out of dark warrens. The dancing light played over their etched faces‚ transformed the bearded men into prophets. Children began squealing. Vexed eiderdowns unwillingly put out to air at open windows wept feathers. The man‚ with a sheet of paper in his hand‚ located number 1A. He gave a start. His
wife was surveying the embankment‚ the rooftops‚ looking down her nose at the tramps who passed close by‚ already reeling drunkenly. The couple walked up the street to Place Maubert‚ then retraced their steps. The man consulted Madame Cooked-Vegetables-to-Take-Away‚ who was sweeping sawdust out of her shop into the gutter. There was no denying the fact: this was the place. The man’s distress‚ the woman’s indifference – none of this could escape my attention. We agreed‚ Séverin and Théophile and I‚ to keep a close eye on developments‚ and apply ourselves to finding out‚ very soon‚ what measure of satisfaction or concern these two newcomers to our domain would bring us.

I happen to have gazed at length on two surrealist paintings: one depicts a sewing machine standing on a work table; the other‚ a bull charging into a grand piano.

Wrested from their familiar world‚ the Valentin couple suggested to me the same sense of dramatic absurdity.

Valentin isn’t cut out for this sort of thing. He serves this unkempt‚ scruffy crowd with such bad grace that the tramps have soon written him off as ‘a fat-head’. The clientele will probably desert him‚ go and tipple elsewhere? Not a bit of it. These people are like bedbugs: when they’ve made up their minds to infest a place‚ there and nowhere else‚ the owner of the premises has to capitulate willy-nilly and let them take over. This is what happens to Valentin. He eventually resigns himself to getting down here by four thirty to prepare the dreadful dishwater he serves.

Sullen-faced‚ he scarcely responds to his customers who‚ completely plastered from as early as eight to ten in the morning‚ tell him their tales of woe.

All the same‚ he had to behave more sociably when it became necessary to establish categories: those that work – the rag-pickers – to whom some credit could be allowed‚ or even a little money loaned‚ without too much risk; and those that not only don’t do a stroke‚ but make it a point of honour.

Paulette dolls herself up in her room‚ comes down late and goes off to do her shopping after a vague good morning addressed to anyone in the room. A reproachful silence‚ a kind
of irritated disapproval greets her every time: no one’s entitled at a time like this‚ least of all round La Maubert‚ to go flaunting such casual displays of attractiveness and even elegance. Because she sure knows how to dress‚ that woman‚ she’s bursting with youthful vitality‚ and when she walks up the street‚ without putting on any of that hip-swinging typical of tarts‚ eyes follow her‚ sidelong glances full of desire‚ jealousy and regret.