Rigadoon (4 page)

"Splendid. Dismissed, Doctor!"

I didn't go back to that fetid Adrian camp . . . good-bye, Saint-Jean d'Angély . . . I never found out whether they ended under the tanks . . . or buried in shit . . .

I never saw Vaudremer again . . . but this was him all right, sitting there, not saying a word . . . and fluorescent! . . . I command him to talk! . . . no! . . . I can't . . . something I forgot . . . I told you I'd have been glad to get on that boat to London . . . you say he's telling us that because it sounds better, makes him look like a résister . . . no! not at all! I have my reasons, and they don't date from yesterday, for being an Anglophile . . . a lot more than the people who went! I think about that general and his proposition . . . this fluorescent ghost Vaudremer, sitting there . . . anyway, some kind of ghost . . . I know I'm delirious . . . but not completely! . . . just then Vaudremer fades . . . he fades because the dogs are barking . . .
bow! wow!
. . . really the dogs . . . I'm not dreaming! . . . I'm dripping sweat, I'm shivering even harder, but it's passing . . . for thirty years I've been having these attacks . . . I know how they end . . . and what brings them on . . . this time it's the damn priest that kept me at the gate . . . I shouldn't have listened to him . . .
bow!
 . . .
wow!
. . . who is it now? . . . Lili and the dogs . . . she puts on the light . . . all the lamps . . . she's not afraid . . .

"Have you been talking to somebody?"

"It was Vaudremer . . ."

She lets it go at that . . . she thinks I'm still raving . . .

"Been out at the gate?" I ask her . . .

"Yes, there's someone to see you . . . a colonel . . ."

"Colonel who?"

"Cambremousse . . ."

"What does he want?"

"Maybe you could see him?"

"I'm awfully tired . . . Let him come! but quick! and beat it quick! I'm still trembling . . ."

He comes in . . . it's him all right, Cambremousse, no ectoplasm this time . . . flushed, plethoric, I know his blood pressure . . . he doesn't give a damn! . . . he cares too much about good food and national renewal to waste his time on trifles like diets and medicine droppers . . . his passions are fine cooking and France, the jewel of the world, the marvel among nations, defiance, rage . . .

While waiting to be let in, Cambremousse heard everything I said . . . fine! . . . that'll speed things up!

"Céline, we're starting a neo-movement of national resurrection! we're counting on you!"

"Don't! . . . I don't want to revive anything at all! . . . Europe died at Stalingrad . . . the Devil has its soul! he can keep it! . . . the stinking whore!"

"Céline, you're a defeatist! haven't changed! . . . but you can help us!"

"Buggering angels, no! the Chinese in Brest as soon as possible! . . . my most fervent wish! The yellow army's hq. at the Maritime Prefecture! solve all our problems . . . two seconds flat! all those people who've never eaten will fill up on crêpes! . . . you're not needed, Cambremousse!"

"How amusing you are, Céline! . . . in spite of yourself!"

I give an order . . .

"Toto, whistle! for the Colonel! he can learn! . . ."

Toto, that's my parrot, whistles . . . obedient, conscientious, he has only one tune! . . .
On the steppes of Central Asia
by Borodin . . .

"Colonel, there's the whole future . . . listen to Toto and learn! . . . Lili, take them next door, in the other room, I mean, I've got to think about my 'Chronicle' . . . I've got serious work to do! . . . before the Chinese get here! say five six months . . . a year . . . let 'em practice their
Central Asia!
. . . both of them! Cambremousse and Toto . . . I don't want to hear them . . ."

"But look here! our program! . . . two words! . . ."

Him again . . . insisting!

"No, Colonel! no! it's all settled . . . hearses and coffins! the great undertaker is everywhere! he sees all, hears all! Listen to Toto! don't open your mouth . . . learn!"

I get back to my work . . .

He bellows his answer:

"Absolutely, Maître! none greater!"

Maybe I haven't made myself clear . . .

"Except for me there's nothing! all charlatans and bunglers . . . grotesque cacographers, putrid cockroaches!"

"Oh, how right you are, Maître! burn them at the stake! . . . their ashes to the winds!"

Excellent! . . . but who can this tactful gentleman be? . . . I tell him to come in . . .

"Oh no! No, Maître! your work! . . . you have so little time left!"

Mighty well informed! . . . I'd better not see him . . .

"You'll come back another time! in two months! . . . a week!"

"Certainly . . . certainly! . . ."

"We're too old! . . . our stuff doesn't mean anything any more!"

"Oh, but it does! . . . it does, Marcel! . . . some people still take an interest!"

"Who?"

"Hm, maybe the folklorists!"

"Think so?"

"Ten letters a day!"

"You read them?"

"No! . . . but the phone calls!"

"How many?"

"Two a week . . . you understand, Marcel . . . though you don't understand very much, especially since your sickness . . . it's all a question of floods! . . . follow me! . . . try! I won't repeat . . . when I was a kid, we often went to Ablon, summer and winter . . . believe me, I learned a lot, all the little secrets of the river, the banks, the gravel pits . . . I learned all the fine points of sculling, nobody could beat me . . . I could come up against that terrible current and slip into port, to the eighth of an inch! with one hand! take it from me, I was an artist! a hair's breadth too short, the current would sweep you away! one scream! good-bye! . . . high water was my meat! with a flick of the wrist I'd twine my way between convoys, the bow waves of the barges, vicious rudders, long before I knew how to multiply or even add . . . and now, Marcel, listen carefully . . . marvel at the phenomenon . . . upstream . . . I don't get around much any more, no desire to and I haven't the strength, but when I was a kid I was the upstream champ! . . . all this bores you, it's insipid! . . . the big flood can't mean anything to you, you weren't born yet . . . everything was submerged, the Seine gone mad, dams and banks swept away, lime trees and towpaths under water, the whole plain, villas and furniture . . . national disaster! . . . so bad that years later everything was mud, even the Cour de Rome° . . . You can't have any idea, Marcel . . ."

"Never mind . . . if you say so . . ."

"I say so and I'll prove it! doubting Thomas! but nowadays, same as with everything else, we only get phony floods! . . . since 1910, I mean . . . the elements act up as if something big were going to happen . . . and then practically nothing . . ."

"What are you driving at, Ferdinand? cut it short! I've got to get home for lunch, it's twelve o'clock and I've got people coming . . ."

"All right, you oaf! . . . get this through your head . . . the torrents that smash everything, that stop navigation, that twist bridges, crush cities, make hash out of tugboats and barges, spare the narrow strip of water along the banks! . . . the same with the fury of public opinion! if you're caught in midstream, you're pulverized . . ."

He doesn't let me finish . . .

"You've said all that! it's five after twelve, I've got people coming!"

"I'm not done yet! . . . ignoramus . . . you've got to learn! that little strip at the edge, that's where your expert boatman holds his skiff! it takes all his skill! hard work, believe me, you shaggy hog! you hors d'oeuvres hound!"

"I see . . . got to be going now!"

"One second! you subhuman! the Black Sea Scrolls . . . ever heard of them?"

"Make it quick! . . . what's that?"

"A whole humanity . . . perished!"

"So what?"

"This one will perish too!"

"What you don't know!"

"It cost me plenty! now I take my precautions! I made my prediction for next year . . . never again . . . now I only predict for the year 3000!"

"No kidding?"

"Everything that'll happen! I can't foresee the school programs but I know the history and geography they'll be teaching in the year 3000!"

"You mean you
prognosticate?"

"Nostradamus! . . . exactly! but he was sibylline, foggy, allegorical. My prediction is clear, straightforward, no charades . . ."

"Okay, make it quick!"

He looks at his watch . . . Christ, can he be annoying!

"Afraid of missing the radishes? . . . the anchovies? the foie gras? admit it, you monster!"

"No, but you're holding me up for nothing . . ."

"For nothing, you say! . . . I'm doing you a favor and you insult me!"

"Fire away!"

"'The white men invented the atom bomb; shortly afterward, they perished.' You want me to tell you how?"

He shrugs his shoulders . . . He closes, half closes his eyes, like a crocodile . . .

"Is it long?"

"No! you can see for yourself, barely two pages! . . . you can damn well listen, you pale incompetent! . . . several hypotheses: they perished in wars, from alcoholism, motorcars, overeating . . . other authors tend to believe that they succumbed to religions and substitute fanaticisms, politics, family, sports, social climbing . . . all their religions, Catholic, Hebraic, Protestant, Freemason . . . first and most of all, Rome or rue Cadet!° same creed: mongrelize! their absolute article of faith! do you understand, you ignoramus?"