Rigadoon (31 page)

I'm cutting loose again, I'm going to lose you, but I've got a feeling that maybe I'll never finish this book, it's all very well writing a chronicle of exploits that were important twenty . . . thirty years ago . . . but what about the things of today? . . . everybody in my age group is gone except for a few relics who've lost track, who quibble scribble and shoot the shit from one driveling rag to the next, about the Cognac Prize° in Garganne,° about Renegade-Eichmann in Sekout-the-Ridiculous, a man has only one life, that's not much, especially when I feel the Fates scratching at my thread, kind of toying with it . . . that's right! which doesn't alter the fact that you're waiting for me and that instead of chronicling in good order I've forgotten where I'm at . . . no! . . . we're having our coffee . . . and I'm about to risk it, to get up and take a look at the country . . . I've done it! just a glance . . . same plain . . . a few plowed fields . . . no fires . . . no ruins . . . naturally it can still happen, but they haven't suffered yet . . . neither has the roadbed or the tracks . . . our train is running like a charm . . . at this rate we'll make Copenhagen in about an hour . . . the Red Cross officer won't be back to see us . . . I've got a hunch . . . his kindness to us can cost him plenty, taking us on, us and our kids! he'll have to explain, some bastards they must be, his superiors up there in Sweden . . . "neutral" . . . enough said! . . . anyway, we've had a good break . . . our Red Cross man was okay . . . there's always a slight chance, very slight, in the midst of the worst calamities . . . in Ablon, when I was a kid, during the floods, you know, in 1910, you only had to hug the shore with your boat and you could make it upstream safe and sound . . . half an inch off course and . . . bingo! . . . you'd find yourself in Choisy, caught like a top in the whirlpools . . . with your keel in the air! . . . good-bye! hey, that'll do! . . . that'll do! . . . I look some more . . . still the plain . . . maybe we'll stop . . . that'll be Roskild . . . their Chambord . . . a Chambord all in brick! . . . they're short on stone in this country . . . and on everything else! . . . but these eternal rascals! they make the best of it, they call their mackerel sardines and their turnips artichoke hearts! . . . don't let me lose you en route, our kids are settled, but what about you? what'll you do if I lose you up here? . . . don't worry, I won't! . . . half an hour from Roskild to Copenhagen at this rate . . . our train runs through Roskild without whistling . . . it'll be dark when we get there . . . fine! darkness is just right when you're done up like us . . . let's face it, in tarps and strings . . . we've got our capes, they save us . . . but in the light they'd be bound to notice . . . hey! . . . we're slowing down . . . half a second . . . we've stopped! just time to say good-bye to our angelic cook and bingo! . . . my two canes and out we go! . . . the whole station, I see, is like in France, on "passive defense" . . . blue lights . . . maybe they've been bombed . . . or only a precaution? . . . say, they don't let the grass grow, here's somebody now . . . they've spotted me . . . another Red Cross officer . . . he comes straight up to us . . . "Bonjour, Docteur! . . . pleasant trip? . . . and to you, Madame, my respects!" . . . a Dane, to judge by his accent . . . and his get-up . . . weird uniform! . . . folding brandenburgs with the ends hanging down . . . cute, straight out of an operetta . . . not exactly the time or place . . . he must be here for some reason . . . the right man at the right time, I guess he's thinking . . . I won't contradict him . . . I see that nobody's getting out . . . is this stop just for us? . . . the train's going on to the port, the Malmö ferry . . . I know the place . . . anyway, they've only stopped for the three of us, Lili, me, and Bébert . . . our little cretins are all set, no need to worry about us any more, now that they're Swedes, slobbering, deaf and dumb, but Swedes . . . here thirty years later I'm thinking about them, wondering if they're still alive, hell, they're grown up now . . . maybe they've stopped slobbering, maybe their hearing's fine, perfectly reeducated . . . no hope for the old folks . . . but kids, anything can happen . . . when I think of all the children we've left . . . one place or another . . . especially since Sartrouville . . . talking about Sartrouville, I wonder what became of little Stéfani! nothing wrong with her, strong as an ox, she was exactly a week old when I took her to Issoudun in the ambulance, just in time for the disaster she never knew about, the whole neighborhood crushed and crumbled, all around her, waves of bombers, the house in flames, she in her cradle, not a scratch! we went to get her and take her back to Sartrouville, they had her in the Town Hall, absolutely unharmed . . . I wonder what's become of her . . . naturally we never had any news of our seventeen slobbering infantile wrecks . . . maybe they're Olympic ski champions now . . . or boxers . . . no call to laugh . . . with kids anything is possible, old fogies nothing . . . anyway we're here on the platform with our new Red Cross man . . . kind of surprising, I must say . . . in the first place how did he know we were coming? who notified him? . . . the same monkey-shines as in Germany, where we could never be anywhere, even perfectly camouflaged, in tunnels clogged with soot or under cataracts of bombs . . . without some Ostrogoth coming around and striking up a conversation . . . here I'd hardly set foot on the platform when this character shows . . . can he be of assistance? . . . all he wants . . . in the first place where were we going? . . . my turn to be curious! . . . "are you on alert like this every night? . . ." no, he says! pissed-off! he's lying . . . two tracks further on, in the blue light, I see two three teams of workmen . . . digging and ramming . . . it was just like that in Ulm . . . and in Rostock . . . I'm curious, I want to see what they're doing! . . . they're working by acetylene lights . . . I see they're very thin and they all look terrible,
all
of them, they're not young and they're pale and cadaverous . . . the Germans strip them bare . . . I'm thinking . . . like in Paris . . . yes, of course, but later when the Krauts were gone they still looked the same way, pale as ghosts in sub-zero weather . . . and with hardly any clothes, practically naked . . . having themselves a health cure in stir . . . I'm not making it up . . . enough of my reflections! . . . here we are on the platform . . . Lili, me, and Bébert . . . and this peculiar Red Cross man . . . Danish he is, he's told us so, he speaks French and English, he asks me where I'm going in Copenhagen . . . he says he can put us up, plenty of room, a whole floor . . . oh no! not so fast! much obliged! . . . straight from the shoulder: "Hôtel d'Angleterre!" there and no place else! if he'd care to drive us . . . he's got his car . . . splendid! two minutes . . .
Vesterbrogade!
. . . here we are! . . . the main business street, makes you think of rue Sainte-Catherine in Bordeaux . . . at this end the Main Square . . .
Konges Ny Tow
. . . Bordeaux again . . . provincial, an overgrown small town . . . takes a bit of adjusting, it's a life we'd forgotten not so much because it's provincial as because the streets are the same as before, with sidewalks, normal shop windows, no ruins, the kind of thing I thought we'd never see again . . . we're strangers in this world . . . no business here any more . . . it's dangerous to be in the streets like this . . . for us . . . real streets like before, with sidewalks and shop windows . . . it'll be worse when there are people around and it's light . . . at this end the Main Square . . .
Konges Ny Tow
, with the statue of the king in the middle, on horseback, Christian, I think, the Fourth . . . at the other end the theater . . . just like Bordeaux, same style, but not so successful . . . better than the Châtelet, though! . . . the canal across the way . . . man, is that picturesque! . . . looks like a small port, plenty of color, on one side the dives with the big numbers, reminds you of rue Bouterie in the old days, same pimps and whores and fags . . . further on the docks, the ocean liners . . . all that practically at the door of the hotel, a marvel for tourists . . . a hundred times better, if you ask me, than rue de Lappe or Harlem-by-night . . . I know what I'm saying, I got to know that town well, the bright and the seamy, every daybreak for two years I heard them unloading the haul from the raids under the big vaults of
Vesterfangsel
prison, every night, two three paddywagons full of pimps and streetwalkers, squares and their wives, dykes . . . all in a heap! . . . and did they get a shellacking! man! massaged to a pulp! the whole vault vibrated with their howling, and that building wasn't made of paper, and the windows, a wonder the panes didn't fall apart . . . so bad that even the prisoners in shackles like me, condemned to death, waited for them, knew exactly when to expect them, their only entertainment, the massage when the raids were brought in, the howling . . . always about three o'clock . . .
Kloken tre!
Ny Ham
. . . this little port, haven of every vice, right in front of the Hôtel d'Angleterre . . . you'll tell me I've lost the thread! . . . not at all! . . . I know exactly where we were . . . at the station . . . on the platform, with this baroque Red Cross man . . . time to watch my step . . .