Paris Noir (9 page)

Vladimir signed up for five years. He adapted without too
much difficulty to the extremely strict discipline of his new unit. And when the regiment sailed for Africa‚ Vladimir had forged some firm friendships. Moreover‚ being highly thought of by his direct superiors brought many benefits‚ in particular greater freedom in his comings and goings‚ the truth being that the judiciously conceded right to roam some three hundred metres is often a good deal more precious than the right to go round the world with a leash round your neck.

At Sidi-bel-Abbès‚ Vladimir sealed a pact of ‘blood brotherhood’ with one of his companions. A very young Bulgarian he’d already singled out in Marseilles and whom he particularly liked‚ not because of his ‘derring-do’ but because he was a guy you could count on‚ his word and all. Actually ‘the Bul’ had quite a funny story. As an irregular fighting with the Serbian komitajis‚ he fell into the hands of the 175th French Infantry (at this point in Cyril’s story‚ my ears prick up)‚ at Monastir‚ that’s right‚ Monastir. And had it not been for the fact he was little more than a child …

At this point I burst in. ‘They’d have killed him‚ for sure. But listen‚ Cyril‚ I’m going to tell you what happened next. The 175th adopted him. They treated him like a mascot. The kid became a batman for a while.’

‘Yeah‚’ says Cyril‚ a little subdued‚ looking far more dismayed than amazed.

‘Well‚ that officer he was batman to was my uncle! And the guy you’re talking about ended the war as a cook’s assistant.’

‘Yes‚ yes‚ that’s right.’

‘Now‚ listen to this‚ that cook was my father. I’ve been hearing this story‚ at home‚ since 1920 or ’21. Your Bulgarian returned to France with the Dardanelles expeditionary batallion. In Marseilles he joined up. His name’s come back to me now. Boris … Boris Kazalik.’

‘Absolutely right‚ of course‚’ said Cyril‚ almost at a loss for words. ‘But how come you’re so well informed?’

‘It’s no big deal. My father and my uncle were together out East. It’s only natural I should know the story. I think it’s quite amusing. No cause for concern.’

‘Ah‚ but there is cause for concern‚’ said someone.

And that made everyone jump. It was the Old Man.

It was just gone midnight. Olga‚ the effective boss‚ had locked the shutters from the outside. Now she was pulling down blinds to seal the windows from the inside. She to whom buttocks three and four belonged was at the till‚ checking the day’s takings.

The Old Man. We hadn’t noticed or sensed his presence. He was stroking his beard in his shadowy corner‚ pleased with the bit of a stir he’d caused. What struck me most was that once the first moment’s excitement had passed‚ no one seemed particularly surprised.

Many times had I been given a description of his appearance: very small‚ heavily bearded‚ long-haired‚ with a brown hooded cloak and long stick‚ very beautiful large hands‚ short misshapen legs trussed up in laces from his ankles to his knees‚ a quavering voice and a demeanour at once kindly and roguish. To tell the truth‚ I didn’t believe in his existence. I don’t know whether‚ right then‚ I was disappointed or delighted. Perhaps both. Perhaps it would have suited me better to concede that a well-established‚ widely-accepted – and admittedly quaint – legend had gained substance in people’s minds. And to identify a key symptom in these people: that of the
non-acquired
memory of an occurrence that may or may not belong to the realms of fantasy – there’s no way of knowing. For the very first time I had the privilege of experiencing an extraordinary event that was extraneous to me‚ and the much awaited‚ much desired thrill‚ shock‚ awe didn’t ensue. My independent organs‚ those whose reflexes I couldn’t control‚ that ruled me‚ that masterminded my sheer terror under dive-bombing Stukas‚ just accepted it. The old Eyes‚ Ears‚ Nerves‚ Balls were as laid-back and unfazed as any of my mates who were also present: Edouard‚ Bucaille‚ old Monsieur Casquette‚ and even Cyril. Everyone regarded it as completely normal. The Old Man Who Appears After Midnight‚ and everything uncanny he represents‚ is just not hooey. Let’s face it. And yet … There was no way he could have come in: either through the door from the corridor‚ or the cellar door‚ because they were right under our eyes more or less the
whole time. Or from the street‚ as Olga had locked up at eleven o’clock. There’s no basement window. Could he have been hiding in a corner before we arrived? What an absurd idea! Totally daft. Anyway‚ that’s the score.

The Old Man didn’t speak straight away. He quietly let Cyril finish telling the story of the knees.

At Bel-Abbès and elsewhere‚ legionnaires Boris and Vladimir offered their comrades the most heartening example of pure‚ practical and devoted friendship. One of them had only to reveal a desire for something and it became the other’s immediate and imperative duty to obtain it. The hard school of life in the desert: road-building in the burning heat beneath the frenzied lash of sands whipped up by an apocalyptic wind‚ an ordeal from which the body only recovers in order to overcome the freezing-cold nights; the manifold elements they’d chosen to brave‚ with no illusions as to their treacherous hostility‚ fully aware of what they were letting themselves in for – our two lads successfully surmounted all this‚ month by month growing stronger‚ winning ever greater victory over themselves. And becoming ever more close. The exceptionally strong friendship between them being of the kind ‘granted’ rather than sought.

Cyril knew everything. He was the only possible confidant for the two blood brothers‚ because he wasn’t jealous and was incapable of harbouring any suspicions of so-called ‘irregularities’‚ for the sole reason that nothing irregular was going on other than what has just been related.

The batallion was redeployed. It’s a dreadful assertion to make that once the war is over‚ the lesson learned‚ the conclusion drawn lies anywhere but in the verdict ‘slaughter’. The dead are very quickly forgotten. But it’s extraordinary – and a good thing too – how we’re bested by them in this respect.

What counts‚ are migrations. The batallion was redeployed. The words ‘thousands’ or ‘millions’ of dead‚ and the word ‘defeat’ and the word ‘victory’ have long since become meaningless‚ and count for nothing one way or another. The batallion was redeployed. War is an unbelievable upheaval‚ a monster far beyond the grotesque or the contrary‚ much
more coherent‚ aesthetic‚ logical‚ necessary than some of the appendages stuck on our fountains‚ a monster that swallows its own slaver‚ throwing up scum cast far and wide. It was with the scum that the batallion was to get embroiled.

From south of Oran to south of Algiers‚ the Ksour mountains‚ Djebel Amour and the Ouled Nail mountains were at that time being explored by motley crews that pompously called themselves ‘expeditions’‚ even ‘scientific missions’.

Acting on behalf of certain captains of industry dismayed by the general armistice in Europe‚ which had come too swiftly for their liking‚ groups of so-called technicians‚ in reality pure adventurers‚ scoured what they believed to be still virgin territory‚ in search of some trace of mineral deposits (coal‚ metal or whatever)‚ or any kind of commercial opportunity suitable for profitably investing – and above all concealing – immense capital assets now lying idle and very soon to be frozen before their eventual seizure.

This duly occurred‚ to the advantage of other captains of industry … (which takes us back to beginning of the preceding paragraph).

The leading lights of African‚ European and Levantine speculation drove round in motor cars‚ developing plans as grandiose as they were vague‚ and trying to live the high life wherever possible. Hundreds of small nomadic businesses‚ an entire corporation‚ mushroomed around these conquistadores of sand and road metal. Not the least significant of all these modest but lucrative activities was the sale of cold drinks of a more or less alcoholic nature‚ tobacco‚ and hashish‚ not to mention particular favours granted to the most generous of these gentlemen. This is what Consuelo Quaglia realized.

Born at the turn of the century in Navarre‚ she came across the border at Hendaye in 1917 and so eloquent were her youthful charms that she continued her advance unchecked until she won her first brilliant and decisive campaign at Bordeaux‚ within the purlieus of Place Mériadeck. A few run- ins with the vice squad‚ her unshakeable determination to decline the ‘services’ of her successive ‘protectors’‚ or would- be candidates for that role‚ forced her to discover another
vocation‚ that of inveterate traveller. Her beauty‚ extreme avarice‚ total scorn for everything but her own musky brown- skinned self worked wonders. She’d only just come of age when she fetched up at Aïn-Sefra‚ alone‚ with the intention of settling there‚ equipped with a residence permit‚ trading licence‚ liquor licence and a considerable sum of pesetas‚ francs and dollars in her pocket. When the batallion was billeted close to the town‚ Consuelo’s bar had already become the favourite rendezvous for the entire European population of any means.

Meanwhile‚ Vladimir and Boris had won their NCO stripes. Cyril had become a sergeant-major. One night all three of them ended up at Consuelo’s. There was some brawl – Cyril can’t remember why‚ if indeed he ever knew – between civilians and soldiers; then after the civilians had been evicted‚ between Algerian soldiers and the legionnaires. The latter carried the day‚ and Consuelo noticed Cyril’s face‚ Vladimir’s shoulders and the elegance of the young Bulgarian. Cyril tells me what happened:

‘That bitch. I was the first of the three of us to screw her. I’d have been better off if she’d kept me begging for it. Fabulous body though. But it was as if her head was separated from her crotch by miles‚ or centuries‚ or miles of centuries. When you’d spilled your seed‚ she had a way of pushing you back by the shoulders and looking at you‚ so blankly and contemptuously at the same time‚ that all you could do was to pack up your tackle and go and get yourself completely plastered‚ to provide some acceptable reason for your self-disgust. That was the end of it for me. But Vladimir got hooked. Where I saw the deepest‚ most utter and foul cynicism‚ he discerned decency‚ so he said. I was from Kiev‚ and he from Kharkov‚ but he was the more Russian by far! Befuddled‚ beguiled‚ bewitched! That made the girl happy. Maybe not so much that he screwed her: or perhaps she held it against him that he made her body react in ways she’d decided not to allow herself any more. It meant she wasn’t in control. It was out of revenge that she enslaved him‚ to the point where she’d only have to lift her little finger and he’d do the most bloody stupid
things. Inviting his own death or damnation. Occasionally she’d sleep with young Boris‚ but less seriously‚ just to upset the other one. It left Vladimir tormented‚ devoured with jealousy.

‘So one day‚ mortified with shame‚ he made up his mind to speak to his mate. He unburdened himself. His Bulgarian pal was flabbergasted. A guy like Vladimir‚ so crazy for such a whore! But he did what was asked of him: he swore he’d leave her alone. For all he cared …

‘But then Vladimir started making plans. Civvie Street beckoned: only thirteen months to go. And at the end of it‚ a French identity card‚ and his final pay-off‚ a small fortune. By lucky coincidence‚ Consuelo was fed up with Africa. She’d wait for him. They’d head off together‚ each with their own nest-egg‚ to the South of France‚ or the Balearic Islands. There they’d build themselves a house with a little hotel. And they’d take life easy. OK‚ she said. He could already visualize it: and one night he didn’t show up for retreat‚ carried on dozing in his girl’s arms.

‘That night they woke us at five o’clock‚ and in no time at all we were on the road‚ force marching to El Goléa. Vladimir didn’t catch up with us until a week later. War-time rules still applied. At least for us. There was no such thing as absence without leave‚ only desertion. Vladimir was reduced to the ranks. He was court-martialled in Bel-Abbès: six months’ jail‚ six months’ extra service. And the long-awaited day of general discharge‚ he couldn’t even shake hands with his ‘blood brother’‚ Boris‚ who was on his way to Oran. But evidently the other guy was hooked. He arranges to extend his stay in Africa. He makes a trip to Aïn-Sefra where the girl’s quietly languishing‚ he gets her to sell up and the two of them sail to Marseilles. They had the nerve to send a postcard to Vladimir‚ to wish him luck. They shouldn’t have done that. Vladimir went ballistic. Even more because of his friend’s betrayal than for having lost the girl.

‘Now there was no stopping him: bad behaviour‚ unauthorized absences‚ brawls at every opportunity. He copped a couple more months in jail‚ which he served in Algiers.
While he was inside‚ he had his knees tattooed with portraits of Boris and the girl‚ by a guy who had known them. He said‚ “As long as my knees are together‚ the two of them won’t part. But as long as my knees keep giving each other hell‚ I don’t see their life being a happy one.” Ever since then he’s been entertaining friends with his little party trick. He’s become more normal: he even tried to re-enlist‚ but given his bad record and his health – apparently he contracted TB – he was rejected. I’m the one that helped him out when he first showed up here. He works as a packer for one of the junk dealers.’

Monsieur Casquette had been listening to all this‚ and now he seemed to understand. He turned to the Old Man‚ who was gazing at him with all his roguishness.

‘Knowing you‚ you’ll be burying at least one or two of the three‚’ he said out of the corner of his mouth.

This didn’t please Monsieur Casquette. ‘Now‚ don’t say things like that.’

I took a shot in the dark.

‘Of the three? You mean that couple – they were the other two?’

The Old Man shrugged his shoulders.

‘What do you think? Of course they were! All we can do now is to wait and see. You can congratulate yourself on having done a good job there. Still‚ it’s not your fault.’

Edouard and Bucaille are the best of friends‚ but you wouldn’t know it‚ because they spend the whole time bickering. They’re both wholesale rag dealers‚ and they’re perpetually at loggerheads over the price of the merchandise. Seeing the Old Man was there‚ and rightly or wrongly he has the reputation of knowing everything‚ they tried to enlist him to settle the dispute between them. The Old Man was dismissive.