Rigadoon (19 page)

"My name is Felipe . . ."

Felipe's stopped talking . . . he's looking for a piece of wood . . . he finds one . . . on the platform right behind us . . . he takes out his knife, I can see he's a real worker, no goof-off, it takes him two seconds, a little pile of shavings . . . looked like long matches . . . Felipe really knows his stuff . . . now what? Lili has an idea: tea! . . . she's got some little bags of tea in her musette bag . . . but what about water? Felipe knows where . . . the end of our platform . . . we've got canvas buckets . . . and three tin cups . . . we've got everything! full camping equipment . . . actually we'd been at it since Baden-Baden, treks, shocks, countershocks, breathers! . . . and more to come! . . . promising outlook! . . . right now we're going to have tea . . . the water's coming to a boil . . . we can't invite anybody, we've barely enough for the three of us! . . . but those cross-eyed looks! they think we're pretty damned selfish . . . hell, I'm sure they don't like tea! . . . Felipe doesn't like tea either, he's only joining us for the company . . . and besides, it's hot! . . . he tells us what he likes . . . a leetla sunnashine . . . a leetla chiz . . . and a beeg chunka bread . . . white or black . . . either one . . . he has simple tastes . . . like us . . . but with him it's coffee . . . not tea . . . I understand, I'd be glad to oblige . . . we'd had our last coffee in Rostock! not a drop since! . . . ah, our English friends are here again . . . the women and the cripple, they've done all the platforms trying to find some more Britishers . . . no! . . . they're the only ones . . . they ask me what I think . . . their worry . . . the women . . . is how are they going to get through the whole of Hanover with their paralytic! . . . they can't carry him, they need something to roll him on, and even then! . . . same problem as von Leiden Junior up there in Zornhof, the basket case . . . they'd chucked him in the manure . . . here they had the flames, the whole street, both sides as far as Hanover-North . . . we could see that station . . . these three devoted women, they'd have every opportunity and who'd have said a word? right here in Paris I've seen smellier things happen, me here in my own house, you think I'd say something? . . . there's a time for everything! . . . when the "anything goes" hour strikes, you will keep your trap carefully shut . . . you're being murdered? amen! the world has forgotten you? . . . you're in luck! down on your knees, you pervert! . . . kick in patiently, abjectly! and give thanks! . . .

Suppose they'd chucked their paralytic in the fire . . . he wouldn't have been the only liquidée! . . . there must have been dozens tossed out of every house, bothersome grandmothers, noisy brats . . . family roasts, so to speak . . .

"Have you seen any stationmen?"

I ask . . . yes! . . . they're on the third platform . . . I'm thinking about us, our junk . . . quite a pile we've been lugging around, we want for nothing, complete equipment, dishes, cups, knives, rice, flour . . . but that whole street as far as the station? . . . I'm thinking about a luggage truck . . . I see some that aren't being used . . . with a lot of people piled on them asleep, maybe stationmen . . . third platform? . . . I go to the biggest tallest raspberry cap . . . I know their hierarchy . . . I've got my little idea, always the same: a hundred marks! . . . before opening my mouth . . . it's not a station-mistress like in Ulm, this one has a pepper-and-salt beard, I dive in, big handshake, my hundred marks, my explanation . . . I tell him what I want, I don't waste any time, I ask him to give us a hand truck, lend it to us to take our stuff to the other station, Hanover-North . . . we're all in . . . we're sick, my wife and me and our Italian friend . . . and we have to take the train to Hamburg . . . he's willing . . . only one objection: who's going to bring it back? . . . I'd foreseen that . . . I had another hundred marks already folded the same way! . . . that does it . . . he whispers in my ear: "I'll go get it"! I don't believe him . . . I don't think he gives a shit about his truck or anything else . . . with his whole station gone . . . blasted away! . . . nothing left but the four platforms . . . I look around . . . and all this sleeping, snoring flesh . . . families, even on the tracks . . . ah, no, mistake, they're moving! . . . they're waking up! . . . it must be seeing the two of us talking to the Stationmaster . . . they'd been so pooped they weren't even hungry . . . but now they're sitting up! they want to know what's going on! you never saw such curiosity! . . . and the Englishman and his three women . . . they had a few ideas too! . . . they motioned to me: us! us! usl . . . anyway, the Stationmaster was willing, we could take a truck, he'd lend it to us . . . oh, no need to go get it, they must have heard us, there was a whole army of them, at least fifty, around one of the trucks, they'd already loaded their stuff, sacks, musette bags, bottles, alcohol lamps, and way up top, enthroned so to speak, strapped and corded, the English cripple . . . looked like Mardi Gras . . . 'sbodkins . . . they'd sure been quick! the three of us had only to stow our stuff somewhere . . . anywhere . . . in with their magma, and let's go! . . .as long as they don't lose us! . . . they were in a hurry now! . . . Le Vig could have helped us . . . no! Lili and I were tougher than he was, we could take more . . . tired or not, we popped Bébert into his bag . . . they didn't lose us . . . they certainly meant to . . . even sprawled all over the platforms . . . that was their only thought! . . . maybe it sounds cockeyed, but to this day, from Moscow to Buenos Aires, from rue Brottin° to Broadway, they wake up in a sweat at the thought that we're still alive . . .

Now I could get a good look at this Englishman, they'd hoisted him way up top, the captain on the bridge . . . I hadn't really looked at him . . . believe me, I'm not making it up . . . a face all in profile, a Polichinelle . . . a
Punch
, they'd have said in their country . . . not a friendly face, vicious in fact, but amusing . . . and our Felipe? . . . he was there, he wasn't saying anything . . . he'd had his piece of cheese . . . I tell him . . .

"Felipe! . . . Hamburg! . . . Brandenburg!"

"Certo!"

All he cared about, I knew, was getting back, that he was late! . . . okay! . . . we were ready to go . . . I let the others tighten the ropes, consolidate the edifice . . . I've told you, there were at least thirty of them . . . maybe fifty . . . they were going to push . . . at least three miles, I think, through Hanover . . . the ones that were staying . . . the platforms were all full of them . . . didn't seem happy about it . . . far from it! . . . they were even insulting us . . . they'd gotten up, they were running . . . looking for more trucks like us, to get through Hanover with . . . sure if we didn't shake a leg, if we let them catch us . . . they'd grab us and finish us off! . . . they were madder than hornets . . . to see us leaving ahead of them . . . why hadn't we waited for them? . . . the Englishman, Mr. Punch, didn't say a word . . . he didn't look very happy up there on his throne of knapsacks and semi-mattresses and crockery . . . he rolls, he pitches, he catches himself, by the skin of his teeth . . . this street isn't carriageable any more . . . too many shell holes . . . and further on big mounds of rubble . . . this city is smashed up worse than Berlin . . . our truck's getting ahead even so . . . they're all pushing, but by fits and starts . . . depending on the shell holes . . . I egg them on! . . . can't they see that mob? . . . the mob is making time! . . . they've found all the trucks they needed! . . . four . . . five . . . six! . . . I've got a sense of danger! . . . I yell at them in German . . . I show them what's coming after us . . .

"Schnell! . . . schnell! . . . mörderer!"

And then in French:

"Murderers! murderers! quick!"

In other words an alert . . . they're not chasing us to give us the time of day! . . . five . . . six carts . . . I'm not dreaming! . . . they should look! . . .

"Push! . . . push! . . . suffering catfish, push!"

I don't know if they understand me . . . if they're French . . . or Latvians . . . or Moldavians . . . I've given up trying to find out . . . anyway, up bump and down shell hole and through rubble heaps I think we're almost gaining on the posse. . .

From this moment on, I warn you, my chronicle is a little jerky, I myself, who lived through what I'm telling you, have trouble getting it straight . . . I was talking about "comics" . . . even in the comics you'd have a hard time finding a sudden break like that in the continuity, balloons, and characters . . . a double-barreled shambles . . . take my word for it! . . . so brutal that all of a sudden nothing was there . . . and I myself . . . telling you about it twenty-five years later . . . I hem and haw, I'm all balled up . . . too many bits and pieces! . . . you'll have to forgive me . . .

"Stop spluttering! . . . just tell us what happened!"

Right you are! well, at that exact moment they caught up with us! . . . our pursuers . . . raving mad . . . and their four five jam-packed hand trucks! . . . a balcony had fallen plunk in the middle of the street . . . and blocked us . . . off a house that was still standing . . . not all of it, only the front! but what a balcony! forged iron! . . . I hadn't seen this house from a distance . . . house is too much said! just the front and the walls on one court . . . I remember saying: "this is it, we're fucked! . . . they'll tear us to pieces!" at that exact moment
wham!
a bomb! . . . not a little one, a big splasher . . .
thump!
and another one, nearer . . . I guess we all panicked . . . we fugitives and our pursuers . . . Ill say it again: I guess . . . I don't know, I can only imagine . . . I'm not sure, I'm not the fainting kind, but there I was kind of stunned . . . pain, but not bad, and blood . . . on my neck . . . I'm bleeding, yes, blood from my cerebrum . . . no! my medulla . . . I think . . . anyway, that area . . . I know I tried to stay lucid . . . I thought about Lili . . . and Bébert . . . but as if they'd gone away somewhere . . . far away . . . and me too, still further . . . in a different direction! that's all I can honestly remember . . . that bomb . . . where'd it come from? . . . and the blocked street . . . and the shell holes . . . and all the junk and rubble . . . pretty near twenty-seven years ago . . .

"You stopped a brick!"

He tells me . . . I don't know, but it hurts bad . . . same place, between my head and my neck . . . Felipe's mistaken, the brick stopped me, hit me between my head and my neck . . . I can get up, I think, that's the main thing . . . we certainly ought to be getting on . . .
wheee!
ah, they're still at it! mostly in the south . . . and flames, sparks, far away on the horizon . . . swirling flames, I've told you . . . flames coming down from every ruin . . . leaping into the air . . . and back down again! . . . like an egg on a jet of water . . . except here it was green . . . and red . . . but what can be burning? . . . roasted leftovers? . . . and what was the sense in coming back, the "fortresses" I mean, to stir up dead fires? . . . and drop God knows how many bombs . . . thousands! . . . I don't get it . . . those people must have money to burn . . . so rich they don't know what to do . . . wheee! . . . just for the hell of it, I guess . . . and what illumination! . . . that moon! straight out of the opera! . . . plus the searchlights of the "passive defense" . . . sweeping the clouds . . . an enchantment! . . . a spectacle not to be missed . . . I saw the bombing of the Renault factory in Issy in 1943 . . . I've seen tropical tornadoes, Cameroons 1918, all the huts flying away, and not little ones, as big as my house, in the lightning . . . and crammed full of merchandise . . . but next to this return of the "fortresses" in force and these avalanches of bombs, it was nothing . . . in another vein I've seen something memorable that will never be seen again: the big cavalry maneuvers at Camp Cercottes in 1913, deployment in extended order, wheeling movements . . . seven divisions! . . . with trumpets! . . . the hero of the future will be tied to a pole, immobilized, gagged, and shot out into the stratosphere . . . once around the globe, barely time to take a leak! and whoops! home again! . . . the more times around, the more of a hero he'll be!

But now back to business . . . on this road where we are you can see as clear as day . . . really bright moonlight . . . like a mild late-autumn sun . . .
wheee!
say, that's quite a show they're putting on! . . . there! . . . there! . . . shrapnel! . . . in the clouds! and in between . . . bursting shells . . . really a grandiose panorama . . . in my opinion! . . . and all this to music! . . . I was looking for a tune . . . an accompaniment . . . I ask Lili . . . "don't you hear something?" . . . sure! . . . she hears the sirens . . . that's all! . . . but this music . . . nobody else? . . . Felipe? . . . he listens . . . he doesn't hear any music either, only a lot of bombs and sirens . . .
wheee!
how come? . . . I'm no musician . . . far from it . . . I'm getting melodies . . . I'd go so far as to say magnificent melodies . . .

But a musician is something else . . . if I was a musician, I'd know . . . in all these years naturally I'd heard a lot of concerts . . . big ones and little ones . . . if I was the society type I'd be an authority . . . I'd give world-shaking opinions . . . stockbrokers would invite me to dinner . . . there of course I knew what was what . . . echoes . . . of faint strains . . . were coming to me . . . from this side and that side! . . . memories sprouting! piles of them! same as an old toad covers himself with pimples if you barely touch him . . . right here now I'm in shock, stunned! . . . I'm not saying a word, but my mouth is full of blood . . . it must be all over my shirt and pants too . . . Felipe says it was a brick . . . all right, call it a brick! . . . in the confusion when our pursuers . . . and their six hand trucks . . . caught up with us, hell bent on making us pay for our head start . . . the explosion had broken it up . . . buried all those lunatics under five and a half stories of bricks . . . so why wouldn't there be one for me? Felipe'd seen it . . . we were all together . . . a wonder the others hadn't been hit! . . . I've got to admit I wasn't feeling right . . . not just the brick, not just that clout between my head and neck . . . also further up by the left ear . . . not imaginary, medically certified, two three opinions and counter-opinions . . . first in 1916 and then later at the Ryshospital in Copenhagen . . . skull and otic cone in bad shape . . . God knows I'm used to it! . . . whistles . . . drums . . . jets of steam . . . okay! . . . but a melody! a melody! . . . and as I've said, magnificent! as magnificent as the panorama . . . a symphonic melody, so to speak, just right for this ocean of ruins . . . wild ruins . . . this "fiery surf" . . . pink . . . green . . . and little crackling clusters . . . the souls of the houses . . . far . . . far away . . . dancing . . . I tell Lili: