The Bark Tree (29 page)

She remembered something else: two days before, she had shuffled up the whole length of the Rue Saint-Honoré, promising herself both this and that, and then again this, for, in her opinion, nothing could exhaust the resources of that immense miser, the Blagny junk dealer. And nothing could exhaust the desires of a midwife past her prime. She would have taken dancing lessons; she’d have had her rump massaged by some guy with a lot of energy. She’d have learned to swim; to drive a ear; to play bridge and bite-me-pussy, which was the latest fashion in games. She would have come into contact with the costly virility of elegant and idle young men. And to come back to the start of the beginning, she’d have stuffed herself to the gills, blowouts would have succeeded banquets, and gorgeographies would have succeeded indigestions.

In the pavement opposite the Gare du Nord, Mme. Cloche remained motionless and solitary, like a rock in the middle of a torrent, contemplating the shards of her ideal, broken by the Others.

A new wave of suburbanites finally uprooted her, and one unit of this wave happened to be Etienne Marcel, on his way to his bank, there to earn his bread by the cramp of his arm. Mme. Cloche didn’t see him. She was carried away by the new wave of suburbanites and disappeared with it, into the innermost recesses of the city.

—oooooo—oooooo—

There are ways of laughing, as there are of crying, murmured the green-eyed Romany. What more do you want to know? Which is the gloomiest history? Mine, or that of my ancestors? In the old days, the stakes went up in flames, and my ancestors with them; or their friends. For we have always had friends. But their number diminishes every day. As we ourselves, too, become obliterated. You can easily guess, everything I’m telling you about my ancestors is just supposition, and I myself am acting a part. My eyes are certainly green, and my beard displays a week’s growth, but I don’t belong to the Romany race; I only look as if I do. I have the Romany Look, and the Romany despair. I am accompanying the outworn races toward their fatal dissolution. The Tasmanians. The Dodos. The
Æ
pyronithidae. The Thises. The Thats. Forgive me if my erudition sometimes fails me. To be frank, it’s a real pleasure to appear to advantage in one’s own eyes. To be a man who strays through space, suppressing stupendous secrets—mysteries. To be a man who sweats blood at the sight of his own shadow growing grey, growing white. Or the people you sometimes meet in provincial hotels. They have no reason to be there. They are not tradesmen, they are not burglars. They haven’t come for a wedding, they haven’t come for a funeral. They have no reason to be there, unless it is that they are heavy with the burden of their unhappiness and boredom. Unhappiness is sometimes immeasurable, and boredom continuous. It’s a question of secrets that affect the life of peoples and nations; of abortive upheavals that constrict the hearts of these outcasts; of failed endeavors; of anguished memories; of recurrent frustrations. I belong to this race, that is what I was insinuating to you just now. I accompany this race, as it makes its way through the Occidental peoples, telling fortunes. I shall not tell yours, for I prefer to remain silent in this respect in your presence. Yes, as I was saying just now, there are ghosts who bear the burden of heavy silences, and silence strangles them; in their pale way, they come and go as if nothing had happened. Those who have no secrets suspect them, however. Naturally, though, I say that to make a good impression, because, as we all know, everyone has his secret. Thus one man hides the birth of a vice, another the anxiety of a parent, a third a horrible practical joke which was played on him, and which torments him. Naturally, they do not each have the secrets they deserve, because there are such things as idiotic ghosts. Loves can be disappointed, loves can be blighted, loves can be hopeless, loves can be desiccated. Ambitions can be disappointed, efforts of will can be hopeless, pride can be blighted, passions can be desiccated. They still look the same, these men, they remain upright, they walk, but they are sick unto death and their secret is eating them away, eating them to death. Spiders’ teeth are not so long as a torment that cannot be avowed. And I too have my secret, my secrets. I have several thousand. One a day. Ever since I was born. I’m exaggerating a little, of course. But still, let’s say since I was two, a secret every other day. You can see how obvious this is, and I’m not talking about the everyday secret, the little secret which, if you really had to, you could talk about. The sort of secret that would do for the confessional, when it still existed. A shabby little secret, in short. I’m only talking about big secrets. Naturally, a single one is enough to run you aground. You see, I am aground. So I have a big secret. Even though I’m trying to tell you something, I see that I have to admit that I find it impossible to be precise about its nature. Totally impossible. But this has a certain something to do with the downfall of races and the decomposition of nations. I once knew an individual who was in possession of a formidable secret; I met him in a hotel in Avignon, in a very specially lugubrious hotel, in a hotel for people of our sort. I saw at once that something was weighing on him and that he couldn’t talk about it. I didn’t want to ask him—it would have been a waste of time. He was a very correct-looking person, of pronounced elegance, with an umbrella and bowler hat, and his every action revealed his great distinction. He read little, and went for long walks through the town, looking through the iron bars of the gates. Well, as I was telling you just now, this individual was in possession of a formidable secret, which I finally discovered. He was dead. You can easily see how it was. And this is really one of the most formidable of secrets. I’m afraid that mine is even more appalling. Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell it to you. I Am Not Going To Tell It To You. I’m not going to tell it to you. You know quite well that I’m neither an ogre nor a Simple Simon nor a boojum. It’s something far simpler. I don’t know whether you’re aware of it, there are some men who suffer appallingly. And that doesn’t stop them getting their toes trodden on in the metro. But you may perhaps not be following the sequence of my sentences very clearly. It doesn’t really matter. You can think about it later on, when I’ve disappeared around the corner with my wives and my sons, my horses and my dogs. The sun is sinking. It’s time for me to go. We shall finish the night’s march. Farewell, then, and keep your secrets as I keep mine. My sons are calling me and my horses are neighing. Farewell.

The clock struck 11 on the mantelpiece, 11 o’clock—all right to go to sleep now. He took off his green-eyed Romany mask and obliterated it between his hands, like a magician making a handkerchief disappear. Then he picked up a face, stuck it over his own, and started speaking. I am the dead man. You see how distinguished I look. I’m just as the Romany described me, aren’t I? Umbrella and bowler hat, distinguished gestures. I’m exactly like the portrait he painted of me for you. I read little, and I go for long walks through the town. And I look through the iron bars of gates. That’s the truth. I admit I am curious; not a very serious failing, eh? Only, the thing is, I have a formidable secret. If you hadn’t been told about it, I wouldn’t have been able to confess it. I am dead. More precisely: I am a dead man. But naturally, no one suspects it; if they did, innkeepers would refuse to let me a room, and people in the street would say: That fellow stinks, he has a stale, musty smell. Comments, you will agree, which it is very unpleasant to hear. I can’t bear people making remarks about me behind my back. It irritates me. And even though I am dead, I am still very sensitive.

He snatched off this new mask in disgust, crumpled it up and threw it down the toilet. What an overripe corpse that was! And not a bit interesting. It ought to be planted in the ground and well watered; it might perhaps give birth to a beautiful willow tree or a tomato plant. If not the agreeable, at least the useful. Let’s forget about it. Then he yawned, thought for a moment about the appearance of a professor of white magic, and then chose his usual appearance. Pierre yawned again, wound up his watch, blew his nose with circumspection, stretched out between two cloths, and quickly fell asleep.

His hands in his pockets, Narcense was going home.

“Ah, you’re back then!” said Saturnin.

“You see, I’ve had a vacation.”

“I’m glad to see you again, Meussieu Narcense,” said Saturnin.

“Any letters?”

“Not a thing,” said Saturnin.

“I thought so.”

“If you’ve got time to listen to me,” said Saturnin, “I could tell you some most peculiar things.”

“Apropos of what?”

“Apropos of my sister,” said Saturnin, “and Etienne Marcel and Pierre Le Grand.”

“Well, well! I’m all ears.”

“Um. Here’s the whole story. But let’s go in: I don’t want this to go any further.”

They sat down in the darkness of the lodge.

Then Saturnin described the marriage and death of Ernestine, and her last words: “Just when she was going to get rich.”

“So now, Meussieu Narcense,” said Saturnin, “you can see that I see it all. My sister Sidonie has discovered, I don’t know how, that old Taupe was a rich miser and she made Ernestine marry him so as to get her hands on his fortune. As for M. Marcel and M. Le Grand, she suspects them of trying to swindle him, in one way or another. How did she find all this out? Don’t I just wonder! But the facts are there, eh? An zanother thing that’s pretty suspicious: that’s Ernestine’s death. What do you think?—don’t you think it’s extraordinary? In any case, one thing is true: that’s that Taupe’s hiding his cash, and another’s just as certain, and that is that Sidonie wants to pinch it. As for Marcel and Le Grand, well, don’t you think they want to get their hands on it, too? If not, how do you explain their trips to Blagny? Don’t have anything to do at Blagny, do they? Well then?”

As Narcense didn’t answer, Saturnin went on:

“Do you think Meussieu Marcel is capable of committing a crime?”

Narcense smiled:

“That would amaze me.”

Saturnin scratched his hair.

“Well. What do you think about it?”

“Hm. Not a great deal. By the way, do you know where I’ve been?”

“In X
...
?” said Saturnin.

“Oh no. I’ve just spent three weeks with Le Grand’s brother, in Z
...
.”

“Ah,” said Saturnin.

“I saw Le Grand several times. He’s a charming young man, and he’s trying to help me. But only when it amuses him.”

“Ah,” said Saturnin.

“What would you do if you got rich?”

“Oh, oh,” said Saturnin, “that needs some thought.”

“You must have
some
idea on the subject.”

“Of course,” said Saturnin, “I think I’d do a bit of traveling.”

“Good.”

“And after that,” said Saturnin, “I’d publish my complete works.”

“Good.”

“And I’d buy myself a meerscham pipe,” said Saturnin.

“Good.”

“That’s all for the moment,” said Saturnin.

“Do you think all that’s worth a little trouble?”

“How d’you mean?” said Saturnin.

“Well, are you really itching for them, your mere sham pipe and your trip around the world and your complete works?”

“They do make me feel a little itchy,” said Saturnin.

“Would you be prepared to go to a little trouble?”

“Oh oh,” said Saturnin. “I see what you’re getting at.”

“I’m fed up with dying of hunger.”

Narcense burst out laughing.

“It’d be more amusing than being a concierge or a saxophonist.”

“And I could pay you back the money I owe you.”

They both became lost in thought of a singular nature. One would be swindling his sister, and the other a so-called friend.

“Really, it’s only a question of a simple theft,” said Saturnin.

“We could even go as far as euthanasia.”

“What?” said Saturnin.

“I say we could even go as far as murder. Old men’s blood, it doesn’t stain much.”

“Yerss,” said Saturnin.

And they both set off once again for that new domain of cogitation as profound as it was joyous, that unexpected, that vast domain, that veritable virgin soil upon which all the suns of hope were shining and tintinnabulating. (Phew.)

“There’s Sidonie. There’s Marcel and Le Grand. And there’s us. Right?” said Saturnin. “Right.”

“Objective: Taupe’s treasure. Methods: all.”

“That’s it, precisely.”

“But we don’t know which end to start,” said Saturnin.

“No, we don’t know.”

“We don’t even know where the treasure is,” said Saturnin.

“No, we don’t know.”

“We don’t know anything at all, eh,” said Saturnin.

“No, we don’t know anything.”

“And consequently, we can’t do anything,” said Saturnin.

“Too true.”

Narcense got up.

“Goodnight then, Saturnin.”

“Goodnight, Meussieu Narcense,” said Saturnin. “Have you thought about what I was telling you the other day?”

“Yes. Well, I am still attached to plurality, though at the same time I suffer from the becoming.”

“Appalling contradiction,” murmured the concierge.

“Good night.”

And Narcense went up in the elevator, wondering what the future held in store, and then realized, not without some qualms, that he had forgotten to tell Saturnin that the Others had been informed—by himself—of the suspicions Mme. Cloche had conceived about them. But it really wasn’t of the slightest importance.

—oooooo—oooooo—

Etienne was congratulating himself on the enormous progress he had made in manipulating concepts. Squashed up in his corner seat in the compartment by a fat man suffering from an advanced state of halitosis, he plunged into a series of considerations relative to the necessity of preliminary doubt in all philosophical inquiry.

Everything you come across is disguised. As, for instance, the right shoe of the man in front of me. Naturally, it appears to be covering his foot; it
appears
to be. But it could have some other meaning. In an elementary fashion, it could be a box; there’s some cocaine hidden in the heel. Or it could be a musical instrument, it could do a music hall act; or then again it could be edible, he could be a prudent Meussieu who’s afraid of running out of money, in which case he’ll eat his clodhoppers. And plenty of other things, too, and men, they are even worse than things; and the world, and everything that happens. You think it’s this that’s happening, and it’s that. You think you’re doing this, and you’re doing that. Every action is deception, every thought implies error. Precisely out of naïveté: we assume that all appearances are genuine, whereas, on the contrary, we ought to doubt them.