Paris Noir (8 page)

At the same time as what happened at Rue de Bièvre‚ another house in Paris disappeared. It was in the newspapers. A gentleman from Lille – in the prohibited zone – who owns a building in Paris‚ on Rue Labrouste‚ put his property up for sale. It was an old dilapidated town house‚ long abandoned by its inhabitants.

A vet in the southern zone decided to buy the building‚ with the intention of setting up a dog clinic there once the war was over. A Paris notary conducted the transaction
without stirring from his office. But when some sort of quantity surveyor or valuation expert turned up to visit the premises‚ there was no building.

It was gone. No sign of it. Vanished into thin air. A wasteland where kids come to play ball and piss in the rubble. An action’s been brought for ‘disappearance of building’. And the newspapers have relaxed reporting restrictions in order to publish the story in exhaustive detail‚ along with huge photos with nothing to see in them‚ featuring a house that’s no longer there. Even the cabaret singers have latched on to it and are having a field day. Meanwhile‚ Bizinque is crowing. He now spends his evenings cutting out and filing the articles that relate his exploit.

It’s been common knowledge here for the past four months: Bizinque‚ and he alone‚ is the roof-scalper‚ tap-remover‚ gas- pipe scavenger responsible. He then methodically attacked the woodwork and structural frame of the building. He’s never made any secret of it‚ and he’s treated us to a good few drinks. Architect Vergnolle doesn’t think anyone will get on to him about this. So much the better.

Yesterday Bizinque turned up with a pretty strange fellow I vaguely knew: it was Monsieur Casquette.

Monsieur Casquette is an undertaker’s assistant. Despite his twenty-four years’ good and faithful service‚ he’s not a funeral director. His military medal‚ his liking for ‘a job well done’ might have won him faster promotion. But he is doubly handicapped: in his‚ let us say‚ average intelligence‚ and his physical appearance. Short and stocky‚ Monsieur Casquette has an incredibly big flat head.

In the 1920s he had to get his regulation headgear made to measure. This departure from normal practice entailed countless waivers and signatures at different levels. In the
Municipal Bulletin
the initials of a senior city bureaucrat‚ later minister‚ ratified the administration’s authority‚ delegated by an official
vote‚ to equip our man with a custom-made ‘
casquette
’‚ or peaked cap. The nickname stuck and even he has been known to forget his real name.

Having always remained an ordinary undertaker’s assistant‚ Monsieur Casquette practises his craft in the 5th arrondissement. He carries out the most loathsome tasks with a natural simplicity. Until recently‚ he was in the habit of playing cards in the evening‚ in Rue Monge‚ with some quiet friends.

But Monsieur Casquette is by nature quick to take offence. On one occasion‚ one of his fellow card-players cheated by way of a joke. Monsieur Casquette took it very badly: after a rather lively exchange of words‚ he threw down his hand and walked off‚ cursing. ‘Go on‚ make fun of me while you can. I shall bury all three of you!’

The next day no one gave it another thought. But the undertaker’s three mates‚ all elderly gents‚ passed away in record time‚ and the very distressing task of having to bury them fell to their friend. The regulars at the little café were crass enough to remind him of his words‚ and to suggest perfidiously that he had the ‘evil eye’.

In fact‚ over the course of last winter‚ he laid to rest so many people of his acquaintance‚ those around him are upset. Everyone now avoids any mention in his presence of the sick or the very weak and old. It’s even whispered that Monsieur Casquette‚ who is actually a very decent man‚ is the unwitting and unwilling instrument of fate‚ and that he’s the vehicle of sinister forces. People are cowardly in the face of the unknown. The undertaker’s oldest friends have ended up shunning him: he’s surrounded by such an atmosphere of wariness‚ of fearful silence‚ that he’s becoming neurotic and has started drinking.

The Irish drew up their own map of Old Paris. The one that Dr Garrett showed me. I’d like to do likewise and compile a very specialized map‚ of ‘streets of legend’ – which are not
necessarily the oldest. There are in a few small areas of the city places where a sense of eternity pervades everything that happens. The simple folk that populate them are the last people to realize what kind of timelessness they represent. Some of them constitute what can only be described as a sheer phenomenon of survival.

At Pignol’s‚ for instance‚ there are evenings when we experience what I call the ‘magic’ hour. This word‚ for me‚ is fraught with meaning: I use it rarely. I’m wary of it. But I know why I’ve written it here.

In general it comes the day after a grim day‚ on which one of us has received bad news: the death of a distant loved one‚ or the arrest of a friend. Here‚ we share our sorrows as if by osmosis. We all suffer intensely‚ dutifully‚ as if to relieve the person principally concerned. And we only speak of the unhappy event to try and attenuate‚ assuage‚ avert what might arise from it. Our silences are filled with suppressed anger. But every time‚ something unexpected happens to restore the atmosphere‚ by shifting‚ rearranging our way of thinking. Often the conversation‚ desultory at first‚ revolves round a mythical figure‚ a curious character‚ a semi-phantom everyone claims to have met though I still don’t know whether he exists in the same way as you and I‚ or whether he’s part of the suggestive fantasy that envelops ‘the Village’ and sometimes takes possession of it by unhinging the minds of all its night- birds‚ simultaneously. We’re talking about the Old Man Who Appears After Midnight.

In this most deceptive and secret corner of the capital‚ many are the bars where the night life‚ though far from noisy‚ is in full swing between midnight and five in the morning‚ during the hours of curfew. Apart from the gang of bohemians of whom I am in some sense the key player and prime mover‚ it’s mostly the dustbin-rakers and wholesale rag-and-bone men who keep these unsociable hours‚ all shutters closed‚ all doors bolted‚ whistle wet and ears pricked. Then‚ tradition has it – unfortunately‚ I’ve so far been unable to check the foundations of this tradition – that when an argument which cannot be resolved sets at loggerheads people
of opposing views‚ whether it’s over military operations‚ black market transactions‚ or the buying price of non-ferrous metals‚ the Old Man turns up‚ without anyone having seen him enter. Huddled in a dark corner‚ seated with his tall walking- stick beside him‚ he chips in and with a few words confounds the cocksure or the wrong-headed.

The Old Man doesn’t appear to all and sundry. In any case‚ no one’s ever seen him until after midnight‚ and only in these parts: at Pignol’s‚ Quatre-Fesses‚ Trois-Mailletz‚ Dumont’s. He takes a mischievous pleasure in making his entrance or exit when people’s attention is focused elsewhere. He reveals his presence with a little laugh‚ a kind of chuckle‚ or else he says something – a simple truth – that’s spot on‚ and comes just at the right moment‚ leaving nothing more to be said. Often when there’s a quarrel to settle‚ questions are put to him‚ but he only answers when both parties are present. And his word is regarded as final. ‘God’s Honest Truth‚’ say the old women – Salagnac‚ Georgette‚ Thérèse …

The old fellow’s a good man. It was he who patched things up between Edouard and Bébert‚ the two junk dealers who fell out over some story about fencing stolen goods of which neither one of them was guilty. It was he who reconciled the Graillot couple‚ despite the slanderous lies that had been told about Graillot’s wife. He saw to it that at the critical moment little Bibiche was kept away because of mumps‚ and diagnosed Solange’s daughter Zouzou’s scarlet fever.

I get to hear all this from Pignolette‚ who appears to have a strange reverence for the Old Man. Her voice changes when she talks about him. It seems to quiver slightly. I don’t know what to reply or what to think. I’m living in an unreal world.

Fourteen metres and a hundred and thirty kilos. These are the records held at the Café Guignard‚ on the corner of Rue Dante‚ by the bar counter and the
patron
respectively. This colossus has the huge beaky-nosed head of some strange
creature. It’s impossible not to think of the grotesques on the Pont-Neuf. His bushy brown eyebrows especially lend his face a strength that’s both solid and nervy‚ though somewhat belied by his flabby cheeks.

I’m not particularly fond of squalor‚ and I don’t believe it was the stale smell of sweat‚ warm sour drinks‚ and fetid urine that drew me there that sweltering afternoon. Monsieur Casquette was having a quiet tipple. I offered to buy him a drink. He seemed pleased to see me. Perhaps relieved. Everyone was gathered in one part of the room‚ over on the right. A collective hysteria‚ a vile brutish laughter had taken possession of this human scum‚ their shoulders and behinds all heaving in unison. Emanating from this convulsive coagulation of bodies could be heard in snatches the sound of an argument: two shrill voices trading abuse in the most lurid language that it would be pointless and inappropriate to record here.

I overcame my sickened indifference and went over‚ followed by Monsieur Casquette‚ to view ‘the spectacle’. It was well worth it.

A fair-haired man stood slightly bent forwards with his hands resting on the backs of two chairs. His trousers were rolled up above his knees. The said knees were tattooed. Two faces‚ two caricatures deliberately made to look alike. On the right‚ a grim-featured moustached man with dark eyebrows. On the left‚ a rosy-cheeked woman‚ with very long eyelashes‚ heavily made-up eyes‚ and full lips. The man clenched his muscles‚ played his tendons; his knee-caps danced‚ and all his contractions imparted strange life to the two warring faces. For the knees spoke to each other in tortured French‚ interpersed with Mediterrean pidgin and unidentifiable words‚ vile expressions: the man adopted different voices‚ and the scene was of such black comedy that it made me feel a kind of anguish. Monsieur Casquette watched without turning a hair. Admittedly‚ he’s seen a lot worse.

Tiring‚ the man stopped for a breather‚ while the baying crowd took the opportunity to relax for a moment. The man downed in quick succession four glasses of alcohol‚ to which he was generously treated by his audience. He was getting
ready to resume his performance; but then the couple came in. About fifty years old‚ penurious‚ weary and scruffy. Yet not actually tramps. He was laden with a bundle‚ one of those rolled-up pieces of black cloth of the kind that painters or some day-labourers carry. The woman was dragging a suitcase. Their features were marked with dejection‚ as well as immense lassitude.

Meeting the gaze of the man with the knees‚ they froze. Petrified. For a second‚ there was total silence. The most befuddled‚ the most obtuse of the tramps present must have felt a shock. The laughter of the half-drunken women changed in tone and colour. No one dared breathe. Three pairs of eyes confronted each other. They came from another universe‚ where hatred‚ hatred alone‚ serves as the source of energy.

It was the man with the knees who made the first move: he readjusted his clothing‚ headed for the door‚ and was caught in sunshine. The couple‚ very slowly‚ went up to the counter. They ordered rum and exchanged a few fleeting words in a language I didn’t understand.

‘Let’s go‚’ said Monsieur Casquette‚ ‘there’s a sense of doom here.’

That evening we were at the Quatre-Fesses. A joint so called [Quatre-Fesses meaning Four-Buttocks] because run by two women past their prime‚ who‚ disappointed at having found only incomplete satisfaction with their very many male partners‚ now have ‘an arrangement’ between themselves. To which we have no objection of course.

I’d brought along Monsieur Casquette‚ to take his mind off things‚ and asked Cyril to join us. I just couldn’t get over that scene with the man and the tattooed knees‚ and above all the couple that came in. It was really bothering me. I wanted some explanation. I told Cyril the whole story. He showed little surprise. After I described what I’d recently witnessed‚ Cyril nodded his head and murmured‚ ‘Poor wretch. I think it would have been better if you’d been somewhere else‚ Monsieur Casquette.’

The undertaker’s assistant bristled. ‘But what happened’s
got nothing to do with me. Besides‚ there was no harm done.’

Cyril pondered‚ and weighing his words said‚ ‘Nothing to do with you. Of course‚ you’re utterly convinced it has nothing to do with you. And as for what will happen next‚ obviously you know nothing about it‚ it’s a complete mystery to you‚ and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it‚ is that not so‚ Monsieur Casquette?’

The undertaker’s eyes widened‚ as if he’d been addressed in Hebrew.

Quietly I asked Cyril‚ ‘Who’s the poor wretch you were feeling sorry for just now?’

‘Why‚ Vladimir‚ of course. You know‚ the …’ He pointed to his knees.

‘You know him?’

‘I’ll say! Only too well!’

In 1919‚ the young Ukrainian lieutenant Vladimir Illine‚ who had fought in the Balkans alongside the Allied troops‚ found himself in Marseilles penniless and unemployed. He had gone AWOL from his unit‚ which was stationed in Corfu and about to be repatriated. Vladimir’s legal position was as delicate as that of his finances. On the other hand‚ the prospect of returning to a country too flat and too monotonous for his liking – solely topographically speaking – was of limited appeal to a spirit hungry for adventure‚ not averse to a touch of the exotic‚ and decidedly attached to the people of Western Europe. Trying to make his way to Paris on an empty stomach and‚ in order to avoid being expelled across some as yet ill-defined border‚ ending up with the job of digging out bodies from the Argonne trenches or working as slave labour in the war-devastated regions was of not much greater appeal. He had no choice. So it was that he went to the Fort St-Jean and soon found himself under the protection of the red-and-green flag of the 2nd Battalion of the Nth Infantry Regiment of the Foreign Legion‚ where Cyril‚ who then went by the name of Petrovich‚ was quartermaster sergeant.