The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin (2 page)

No answer. Fingers drumming on the
marble tabletop.

Leaning on the stranger's
shoulder, Adèle winked from time to time at her two young friends, while maintaining
the flirtatious, smiling look she had adopted.

‘Victor!'

‘Going already? You've got a
date?'

In the same way that Adèle was putting
on a come-hither expression, he was pretending to look knowing and interested.

‘We'll settle up tomorrow,
Victor. Got no change tonight.'

‘Of course, gentlemen. Goodnight!
You're going out that way?'

The two young men were not drunk. But
they made their way out as if in a nightmare, without seeing anything.

The Gai-Moulin has
two doors. The main entrance is on the street, Rue du Pot-d'Or. That is the
way customers normally arrive and leave. But after two a.m., when according to
police regulations the club should be closed, a small service entrance leads to an
ill-lit and deserted alleyway.

Chabot and Delfosse crossed the
dance-floor, passed in front of the stranger's table, replied to the
owner's goodnight, and pushed open the door of the washroom. They stopped
there a few seconds, without looking at each other.

‘I'm scared,' Chabot
stammered.

He could see his reflection in the oval
mirror. The muffled sounds of the jazz music had followed them in.

‘Quick!' said Delfosse,
opening another door on to a dark staircase, where the air was damp and cold.

It led to the cellar. The steps were
made of brick. From below arose a sickening smell of beer and wine.

‘What if someone comes!'

Chabot almost stumbled, as the door
swung to behind them, cutting out all the light. His hands moved along the walls
covered with saltpetre crystals. He felt someone touch him and gave a start, but it
was only his friend.

‘Don't move!' the
other said.

They could not exactly hear the music.
They could guess at it. What could be sensed above all was the beat from the
drummer. A rhythm throbbing through the air and bringing back the image of the
club's interior with its red velvet seats, the tinkle of glasses and the woman
in pink dancing with a man in a tuxedo.

It was cold. Chabot felt the damp
penetrating him, and had to make an effort not to sneeze. He put his hand to
the nape of his neck, which was freezing.
He could hear Delfosse's breathing. Each breath smelled of tobacco.

Someone came into the washroom. The taps
ran. A coin clinked into a saucer.

Then just the ticking of
Delfosse's pocket watch.

‘Do you think it's safe to
open the door?'

The other youth pinched his arm to make
him be quiet. His fingers were cold.

Upstairs, the owner of the club would be
starting to look impatiently at the clock. When there were plenty of customers and a
lively atmosphere, he did not greatly object to staying open past closing time and
risking the attentions of the police. But when the club was almost empty, he
suddenly became mindful of the regulations.

‘Gentlemen, we are about to close!
It's two o'clock.'

The young men on the staircase could not
hear this. But they could guess what was happening, minute by minute. Victor would
be cashing up, then coming over to the bar to check the takings with the boss, while
the musicians put away their instruments in their cases and covered the big drum
with a green baize cloth.

The other waiter, Joseph, would be
piling the chairs on the tables and picking up the ashtrays.

‘Come along please, gentlemen,
we're closing. Adèle, get a move on, hurry up.'

The boss was a thickset Italian, who had
been a hotel barman in Cannes, Nice, Biarritz and Paris.

Footsteps in the washroom. Now,
he's coming to bolt the back door leading out to the alleyway. And he turns
the key but leaves it in the lock. Won't he automatically
come to close the cellar too, or at least glance inside?
He stops for a moment. He must be checking his parting in the mirror. He coughs. The
washroom door creaks.

Another five minutes and it will all be
done. The Italian, who is always the last to leave, will have pulled down the
shutters on the street front, and he'll be locking up the last door from
outside.

And he never pockets all the day's
takings. He just puts the thousand-franc notes in his wallet. The rest stays in the
drawer behind the bar, a drawer with such a flimsy lock that a stout penknife can
force it.

All the lights are out.

‘Come on!' whispers
Delfosse.

‘Not yet, wait a bit.'

Now they are alone in the building, but
they continue to speak in low voices. They cannot see one another. Each of them
feels his face go pale, his skin tighten and his lips turn dry.

‘What if someone's stayed
behind?'

‘Was I scared when we did my
father's safe?'

Delfosse is truculent, almost
threatening.

‘Perhaps there won't be
anything in the drawer.'

It's a kind of vertigo. Chabot
feels more nauseated than when he has drunk too much. Now that he has ventured into
the dark space above the cellar, he hasn't the courage to come out. He's
on the verge of collapsing in tears on the steps.

‘Let's go!'

‘No, wait, he might come
back.'

Five minutes pass. Then another five,
because Chabot
wants at all costs to gain
some time. His shoelace is undone. He ties it up in the dark, blindly, because
he's afraid of tripping over and making a noise.

‘I didn't think you were
such a coward. Come on, in you go.'

Because Delfosse doesn't want to
go first. He pushes his companion in front of him with trembling hands. The door
from the cellar steps opens. A tap is dripping into a basin. There is a smell of
soap and disinfectant.

Chabot knows that the second door, the
one leading inside the club, will squeak. He's expecting the sound. But still
it makes a cold shiver run down his spine.

In the darkness, the club seems vast,
like a cathedral: a great empty space. There is still a little warmth seeping from
the radiators.

‘Let's have some
light,' Chabot whispers.

Delfosse strikes a match. They stop a
moment to catch their breath, and work out how far they still have to go. And
suddenly the match falls to the ground, as Delfosse gives a sharp cry and rushes
back towards the washroom door. In the dark, he loses his way, returns and bumps
into Chabot.

‘Quick, let's get
out!'

His words sound hoarse,
inarticulate.

Chabot too has seen something. But it
was hard to make it out. A body lying on the floor by the bar? Jet-black hair.

They don't dare move. The matchbox
is on the floor, but they can't see it.

‘Your matches!'

‘I've lost them.'

One of them stumbles into a chair. The
other asks:

‘Is that
you?'

‘This way! I'm holding the
door.'

The tap is still dripping. That helps
calm them down, a first step towards escape.

‘Shall we switch on the
light?'

‘Are you crazy?'

Their hands search for the bolt on the
back door.

‘It's hard to
shift.'

Footsteps outside in the street. They
freeze. And wait. They catch a few words:

‘… well,
I
think if
England hadn't …'

The voices move away. Perhaps the
police, talking about politics.

‘Can you open it?'

But Delfosse is incapable of moving. He
leans up against the door and puts his hands to his heaving chest.

‘His mouth was open,' he
stammers.

The key finally turns. Fresh air. Light
from the street lamp glistens on the cobbles in the alleyway. They both want to run.
They don't even think of closing the door behind them. But down there at the
corner is the main street, Rue du Pont-d'Avroy, where there are people. They
don't look at each other. It seems to Chabot that his body is hollow, that
he's making vague movements in a world made of cottonwool. Even the sounds
seem to come from a long way off.

‘Do you think he's dead? Was
it the Turk?'

‘It
was
him. I recognized
him. His mouth was open … And one eye.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘One eye was open and the other
closed.'

Then angrily:

‘I'm thirsty!'

Now they're on Rue du
Pont-d'Avroy. All the cafés are shut. The only place open is a frying shop
selling beer, mussels, pickled herring and chips.

‘Shall we go there?'

The cook, in white overalls, is seeing
to his burners. A woman eating in the corner gives the two friends an alluring
smile.

‘Two beers! And some chips! And
some mussels!'

And after their first helping, they
order some more. They're hungry. Terribly hungry. And they're already on
their fourth beer!

They still can't look one another
in the eye. They eat voraciously. Outside it's dark, and the few passers-by
are walking quickly.

‘How much?'

Fresh panic. Will they even have enough
between them to pay for their supper? Seven plus two fifty, and three and sixty
cents and … Eighteen francs seventy-five.

Just one franc left for a tip!

Into the streets. Iron shutters drawn
down on the shopfronts. Gas lamps, and in the distance the footsteps of policemen on
the beat. The two young men cross over the Meuse. Delfosse doesn't open his
mouth, looks straight ahead of him, his mind so far removed from present reality
that he doesn't notice when his friend speaks to him.

And Chabot, to avoid being left alone,
to prolong their reassuring companionship, stops as they reach the door of a
prosperous-looking house, in the best street of the district.

‘Come back a
little way with me,' he implores.

‘No. I'm feeling
ill.'

That's true. They both feel
unwell. Chabot has only glimpsed the corpse for an instant, but his imagination has
done the rest.

‘Do you think it really was the
Turk?'

They are calling him ‘the
Turk' for want of any other name. Delfosse does not reply. He has quietly put
his key into the lock. Through the gloom they can see a wide corridor and a brass
umbrella stand.

‘See you tomorrow,
then?'

‘The Pélican?'

But the door is already closing.
Suddenly a wave of giddiness. Oh, to be back home, and in bed! Then this will all be
over, surely?

And now Chabot is alone in the deserted
streets, walking quickly, breaking into a run, hesitating at street corners, then
dashing off like a madman. In the main square, Place du Congrès, he keeps away from
the trees. He slows down when he glimpses a passer-by in the distance. But the
unknown figure turns off in another direction.

Rue de la Loi. Two-storey houses. A
doorway.

Jean Chabot feels for his keys, puts one
in the lock, switches on the light and goes towards the kitchen with its
glass-panelled door, where there are still some embers glowing in the range.

He has to turn back, because he forgot
to shut the front door. It's warm inside. There's a piece of paper on
the white oilcloth covering the kitchen table, with a few words scribbled in
pencil:

You'll
find a mutton chop in the sideboard and a slice of tart in the larder.
Goodnight. Father.

Jean stares at it dazedly, opens the
sideboard, sees the chop, and the sight of it makes him feel sick. On top of the
sideboard is a pot holding a plant with blue flowers, forget-me-nots perhaps.

That must mean Aunt Maria called round.
She always brings some kind of house plant. Her home on Quai Saint-Léonard is full
of them. And she always gives you detailed instructions about how to care for
them.

Jean switches off the light, and tiptoes
upstairs in his stockinged feet. He goes past the lodgers' bedrooms on the
first floor landing.

Another flight up, and he's at
attic level. Cool air comes in from the roof. As he reaches the landing, a mattress
creaks. Someone is awake, his father or his mother. He opens his bedroom door.

A muffled voice:

‘Is that you, Jean?'

Right, he'd better go and say
goodnight to his parents. He goes into their room. The air is warm and stuffy. They
must have been in bed for hours.

‘Late, isn't it?'

‘Oh not very …'

‘You really
ought …'

But no, his father doesn't have
the courage to scold him. Or guesses that it would be no use.

‘Goodnight, son.'

Jean bends down and kisses a damp
forehead.

‘You're freezing cold. You—'

‘Yes, it's cold
outside.'

‘Did you find the chop? Your Aunt
Maria brought the tart.'

‘I'd already eaten with my
friends.'

His mother turns over in her sleep and
her chignon uncoils on to the pillow.

‘Goodnight.'

He can't stand any more of this.
In his own room, he doesn't even put the light on. He throws down his jacket
and lies on the bed, pressing his face into the pillow. He isn't crying. He
can't. But he tries to catch his breath. His limbs are trembling, his whole
body is shivering in spasms, as if he were seriously ill.

He just doesn't want to make the
bedsprings creak. He wants to stifle the sob he can feel in his throat, because he
guesses that his father, who hardly ever sleeps, will be lying awake next door,
listening.

An image grows inside his head, a word
echoes, swells, becomes monstrously loud as if it is about to destroy everything:
the Turk!

And he is tormented, oppressed, stifled,
as if in the grasp of something terrible – until suddenly the sun is streaming
through the skylight, and his father is standing at the foot of the bed, muttering
weakly, as if afraid of being too stern: