The Bark Tree (10 page)

“Shurrup!” says the boss. “Well, beardie, watcha want?”

“A rum please, boss,” says Saturnin.

“M’names Yves le Toltec,” shouts the sailor.

“Tsmore than mine is,” replies Saturnin politely.

“Ha, ha! that’s a good one!” chortles the boss, “I shall copy it.”

“Hey, that’s some beard you’ve got,” retorts the sailor, who has no idea how lucid he is.

Saturnin is embarrassed, and swigs down his rum.

“Another one,” he orders, “and the round’s on me.”

“Oak, eh!” replies the boss (He learned this expression from the sailor.)

Yves le Toltec is drinking hard liquor; he tosses off his glass with decision, wipes his mouf, and starts holding forf:

“Four times I’ve been shipwrecked, yes M’sieu, four times. Best of the lot was the
Clytemnestra
one, off Singapore. It was bedlam! All the passengers mowing all the others down, trying to get into the boats. The captain, he had his revolver in his hand, and bang! he picked off the men trying to get into the lifeboats before the women. Yes, M’sieu, he shot them, bang!”

Saturnin listens. The boss yawns.

“Here, I’m closing. It’s 20 to 12, and I close at a quarter to.”

“Twenty to! Oh! shit!” says Saturnin; he leaves a five franc note on the counter and hurries off as fast as his legs will carry him.

“Hm, that’s odd, too,” says the sailor.

“Yes, there’s some odd customers hanging around these parts at the moment. Looks fishy to me. Tslike the guy came here a month ago. Summing’s going on.”

The sailor hiccupped his agreement.

“Tslike the kid from the ruined house: that’s twice I’ve seen him sneaking into old Pigeonnier’s place.”

“What a shame! Debauching a brat that was still in short trousers last year! Someone oughter tell his parents.”

“Pyah! His father’s too much of a dope. Nanyway, snone of my business. Come on, Yves, move it. I’m going to bed.”

The sailor stands up rather waveringly, hangs about at the door for a moment or so, and then dissolves into the night.

—oooooo—oooooo—

Théo swears he won’t try and go to Les Mygales, kisses his mother and goes to bed. Etienne takes his hat: 11:30.

“I’ll just get there on time.”

Alberte wipes her eyes; she’s been crying all evening. Seeing Etienne about to leave, she’s frightened.

“You can’t come with me, though. Listen you’ve got nothing to be afraid of here. And I won’t be in any danger. No, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

Alberte sighs.

“I’ll be late,” he says.

“Go on then,” she says.

He locks all the doors, even the garden gate, although he knows perfectly well that anyone can easily climb over it. He’s going to be late. He starts walking more quickly. He takes the short cut, a little path covered with refuse. He walks over broken bits of plates, and stumbles over empty cans, which go rolling off with a clank.

The moon passionlessly illuminates a landscape of henhouses and leeks. Finally, Etienne comes to the edge of the forest.

The village church struck 12.

For Les Mygales, it’s the path on the left. I’m going to be ten minutes late.” Luckily, the path is quite easy to follow. A variety of insects accompanies the halo of his flashlight. More precisely, some mosquitoes are singing in Etienne’s ears. He arrives at the intersection with the path to Pourvy. A little farther on, the place they call Les Mygales; there’s a big oak in the middle, with a circular bench. From the end of the path, Etienne can see the thick, short grass of the clearing, lit by the moon. When he gets there, he looks for Narcense. He goes up to the bench—no one; walks around it—no one. Then, raising his head, he sees a man showing him the soles of his shoes; Etienne, horrified, is rooted to the spot. The man is still swinging.

At this moment, someone comes galloping up; a strange individual appears, a hefty, bearded man, but his beard seems to grow in a most peculiar fashion—exclusively on his left cheek, and perpendicular to the same.

He gets to the ancient oak and stops, braking on one foot. He pants. He sizes Etienne up:

“Narcense?”

Etienne raises his chin.

“Oh, oh,” says the peculiar person with the horizontal beard.

Etienne is amazed at the strange way in which the hairs of this beard are implanted.

“Give me a boost.”

Etienne perches on the bench, the bearded man climbs into his hand; he manages to reach the lowest branch of the oak tree; he hauls himself up onto it; he crawls along it; he reaches the rope, he brings out a knife, his grandfather’s hunting knife; he cuts the rope, and Narcense falls to the ground in a most undignified way; if he’s still alive, he must have hurt himself badly. Etienne, who has now got his wits about him again, rushes over and undoes the slipknot; the bearded man, who has rapidly gotten down again, grabs hold of Narcense, massages his larynx and moves his arms rhythmically up and down. Etienne follows all this with interest. The scar hypnotizes him; this man is indeed the one Pierre had pointed out to him in the restaurant. Narcense breathes; he’s going to be all right.

“He’s going to be all right,” says the bearded man. Narcense opens his eyes.

“Where am I?” he says, trying to start the conversation along well-known lines; suddenly changing his mind, though, he faints.

“What are we going to do with him?” says the bearded man.

Then Etienne says:

“We’ll take him to my house.”

“Are you the one that’s called Etienne Marcel?”

“That’s right. How do you know?”

“My name’s Saturnin Belhôtel.”

“Aha!” says Etienne. “Pleased to meet you. Your sister has told me about you, and
...
”

“My sister is a sour-faced bitch,” interrupts Saturnin. “Well, are we going to move him?”

“Yes, yes,” says Etienne. “That’s what we’ll do, we’ll take him to my house.”

One takes his head, the other takes his feet. “I’ll go first,” says Etienne. “I know the way.” After a few moments:

“Tell me, do you read your tenants’ letters?”

“Oh, I’ve only got one; otherwise it’d take too long.”

They rest for a moment; Narcense is sleeping peacefully.

“Who is this person?” Etienne asks.

“Narcense, my tenant.”

“His age?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Profession?”

“Musician.”

“Nationality?”

“French.”

“Father?”

“Dead.”

“Mother?”

“Deceased.”

“Education?”

“B.A.”

“Height?”

“Five foot six.”

“Weight?”

“One-sixty-five.”

“Chest measurement?”

“34¼.”

“
Ha ha,” says Etienne. “Address?”

“8 Boulevard of the Unknown Officer.”

“Earns his living
...
”

“Playing the saxophone in night clubs; at the moment unemployed.”

“Important events in his life?”

“Childhood: mumps, measles, scarlatina. First communion. Typhoid fever.”

“Adolescence?”

“Adolescence: appendicitis, eczema, boils. First part of the baccalaureate. Journey to Marchville, to his grandmother’s. Whitlow. Second part of the baccalaureate. Conservatory. Fall on head. Scar.”

“And then?”

“Then: military service; musician in the 167th Infantry Regiment. Gonorrhea. Gonorrhea again. Adultery (wife of the drum major). Released from military service. Writes music. Doesn’t eat. Hunger, famine, starvation. Plays the saxophone in night clubs. Honeymoons, females, skirts. Depression; unemployment. No more saxophone.”

“Shall we take him to my place?”

The two men start off again. Frequent pauses, because Etienne is not very strong and soon gets tired. Narcense sleeps.

After two long hours of walking, they arrive at the little gate. The moon, going down, illuminates the silhouette of the unfinished house. While Etienne is making the gate squeak, Saturnin holds Narcense up against the wall.

“You know what, it’s true, what you say about people that’ve been hanged.”

“What’s that?”

“
In re
virility.”

“Well, that’s odd,” says Etienne.

Now the front door to be opened.

Alberte rushes up. She’s been crying the whole time. She now looks at Narcense with some interest.

“Where are we going to put him?”

In Théo’s bed: the only solution. Théo can sleep in the dining room. What about Saturnin? Saturnin too.

“Ah. I was forgetting to introduce Meussieu Saturnin Belhôtel.”

“Meussieu—thank you,” said Alberte.

“Not at all, not at all.”

Narcense, who has been put in an armchair, goes on sleeping doggedly. Well, that’s what they’ll do, they’ll put him in Théo’s bed. Etienne opens the door of Théo’s bedroom. He calls gently: “Théo”; no one answers; through the darkness, he sees that the bed is empty. Then, that the window is open.

“We’ll still put him to bed here,” says Etienne.

—oooooo—oooooo—

After a fruitless week of standing guard opposite the Gare du Nord, the widow Cloche (Mme. Sidonie, née Belhôtel) renounced her vision of further accidents. But she immediately sank into an incoercible and crushing state of ennui, from which even chartreuse and the hazards of her profession couldn’t manage to extract her.

She didn’t, in any case, want to miss the great tragic scene which was going to take place at Les Mygales. It had certainly occurred to her that if she hadn’t warned Meussieu Marcel, she could have been present at a hanging, a real one (she didn’t doubt the reality of Narcense’s threat for a moment); but she’d promised Saturnin she’d tell Meussieu Marcel everything, and in any case, Saturnin would probably be there. Saturnin’s presence she found rather a nuisance. So she took it into her head to get out at Blangy instead of Obonne. She knew the district, because on two separate occasions she had had as a patient someone who lived in Obonne, Mme. Pigeonnier, and she had many times gone there for picnics with her late husband and her brother. Coming back to Saturnin, she told herself that she didn’t give a damn; and as for the promise she’d made to Etienne, she’d already forgotten it.

At Blangy she got her bearings surely and swiftly; she must take the road that went past the town hall; then she’d come to a crossroad; there, she remembered very well, was a signpost that showed the way to Les Mygales.

All went well until she got to the edge of the forest, but when she saw its black mass rising up in front of her, she suddenly felt afraid. She hadn’t thought that once she was in the wood it would be
dark;
the road suddenly turned into a sort of underground passage which was completely obscure.

So Mme. Cloche sat down on a bank, quite determined to turn back. But the path behind her wound its way through the fields so ruthlessly, so drearily, that it terrified her. She imagined what might happen to her: a tramp might rape her, a highwayman might kill her, a dog might bite her, a bull might charge her; two tramps might rape her, three highwaymen might kill her, four dogs might bite her, five bulls might charge her; seven tramps might bite her, eight highwaymen might charge her, nine dogs might kill her, ten bulls might rape her. A great big caterpillar might fall down her neck; a bat might go ooh! ooh! in her ear; a night bird might pierce her eyes and dig them out of their sockets. A corpse in the middle of the path; a ghost taking her by the hand; a skeleton eating a piece of bread.

This last idea made her shudder a little, but its absurdity reassured her. “It’s all amphigories and dillydallying,” she told herself, “rigmarole and bibble-babble, balderdash and buffoonery, piffle and fiddle-faddle, gibberish and galimatias.”

The village clock struck midnight. When she’d counted the twelve strokes, the widow Cloche suddenly became furious with herself; fool that she was, she’d missed it all. What a boob she’d turned out to be. Her considerations had brought her to this point when a human silhouette was outlined on the path; someone was coming. She got to her feet, with all the agility of which she was capable, and plunged into the forest.

There, it was almost total darkness. It was not long before Mme. Cloche was stumbling over roots, colliding with trees and getting scratched by brambles. Her hat got caught in a branch, and she couldn’t find it again. She tottered on and on, scratching her hands, bumping her forehead, getting her hair torn out. It seemed to her that this went on for a very long time. Finally, she perceived a patch of light. She straightened herself up; the path was vaguely illuminated. She was coming to the place where the paths crossed.

Luckily for her, the signpost pointing the way to Les Mygales was lit by a moonbeam; she congratulated herself, and once again disappeared down an obscure path, and once again tottered on, colliding with trees, getting scratched by brambles and cut by branches. And once again, it was a very long time, it seemed to her, that this went on. And once again, she perceived a patch of light.

Her hair tousled, her hands bleeding, her clothes torn, her forehead bruised, one eye red, her cheek scratched, having lost her hat and her umbrella, but still firmly clasping her carpetbag, Sidonie emerged from the path and stopped in the middle of the clearing.

Nothing was happening. No one was there. The silence was absolute. She walked around the oak, looking up into the air; no one hanging there, any more than in the hollow of her hand. She sat down on the circular bench, completely exhausted, and was just going off to sleep when she noticed, there, in front of her, on the grass, a rope, a slipknot. She threw herself onto it, and fell on her knees. She grabbed the rope. Yes, a rope to hang someone with. But who had been hung? On her knees, on the grass, she held the noose in both hands, and looked at it, and trembled, quite upset.

For a long time, she looked at that rope. The moon disappeared behind the trees. The darkness became total. Mme. Cloche, exhausted, lay down and went to sleep, her head on her carpetbag. The night was soft and clear, and multifarious constellations feebly illuminated the clearing.

—oooooo—oooooo—

“And if you go home to your parents, what’ll you say to them?”