Authors: Albert Cohen
A bistro. At the next table, a couple of workmen. 'Nah, the pictures ain't my line at all, what I go for is anythin' that's ejucational, the sights, museums, Napoleon's tomb and that. I go to see Napoleon's tomb at least once a year, on me tod, jes' to remind meself what it's all abaht, sometimes I go more often, to show a pal around and explain it to 'im. Yus, mate, these two 'ands you see 'ere 'ave 'eld the Emprer's 'at and I tell you it gives you a shivery feelin'. I touched 'is weskit an' all, the bloke on the door said I could on account of us 'aving 'ad a bit of a chin-wag, but the Emprer's sword I din't touch, couldn't bring meself to, out of regard. Been round the Pantheon too, very interestin', all them great men they buried there in the nation's 'onner. But gettin' back to Napoleon, 'e said I wants to be laid to rest on the banks of the Seine, near to the people of France wot I always loved. Now that, mate, brings a lump to your froat. A real man, 'e was. When I was a kid I took a proper shine to 'im, you'd never believe. And 'is son, L'Aiglon, likewise. Now, no officers ever got anywhere near that one, otherwise 'e'd 'ave been put on the throne, but 'e'd never 'ave been 'alf the man 'is father was, oh no, they broke the mould when 'e died, 'eroes like the father is one-offs! To start with, 'e was king of Rome but 'is grandfather saw to it 'e was booted out on account of the way 'e 'ated 'is father, an' after that 'e was jes'
Duke of Raikstag.' 'I bet Napoleon 'ad the pick of all the girls 'e fancied?' asked the other man. 'Too right 'e did. If 'e 'ad an eye to one, 'e jes' gave the order and it was leg-over time at midnight.' 'Strikes me Napoleon was a sort of 'Itler in a way.' 'Don't be darft! Napoleon was Master of the World! No two ways abaht it! Nowadays, your modern generals 'ave 'ad all the trainin' an' that, of course, but what I say is that with your modern weapons they got it a lot easier, while Napoleon done it all with cold steel!' 'Napoleon was famous in 'is day, I ain't sayin' 'e wasn't, but 'e 'ad a lot on 'is conscience, such as three million pushin' up the daisies,' the other man said. 'Napoleon's Napoleon,. say what you like! Listen, mate, if 'e 'adn't run up agin' that Wellington! An' stabbed in the back by that Grouchy an' all! What you gotter remember is that 'e was a soddin' genius! And don't you go forgettin' that Napoleon alius put 'is country first, all 'e done 'e done it for France, so other nations would look up to us, take all them battles 'e won! Besides which 'e done a lot of good, it's a fact. If 'e'd done bad things, 'e wouldn't 'ave been loved. All 'is grenadiers blubbed like kids when 'e told 'em goodbye at Fontainebleau and kissed the flag of France and 'eld it fast against 'is 'eart. 'E was speshul, take it from me!' 'I'm not sayin' any different, but you gotter remember that in them days France 'ad more people than anybody else!' 'Don't be darft! Napoleon will alius be Napoleon!' 'Very true, but all the same 'e done for a good few!' 'Listen, mate, that don't count compared with your 'Itler, now there's one who'll do for quite a few more before 'e's finished, see if 'e don't, because you can take it from me that we're 'eaded for war on account of the Jews! They're the ones who want it! Not 'im!' 'Now that's a fact, but it's us who'll be done in and all on account of them buggers!' 'Bloody Yids, we oughter kick 'em all out, that's what,' calls the lady at the till. He obeys, pays, and leaves.
'Death to the Jews,' clamour the walls. 'Life to Christians,' he replies. Oh yes, he wants nothing better than to love them. But couldn't they make a start, to give him some encouragement? From time to time he glances up uncertainly at the walls, and when he spots the slogan he stares at the ground. 'Death to the Jews.' The same words everywhere, in all countries. Is he really that repulsive? Maybe he is, for they're always saying so. 'If that's what you think, come on, do it, finish me off,' he murmurs. A handbill stuck on a down-pipe. Better not read it. To avoid the temptation, he crosses the street to the other side. But in a while he crosses again, to check. Yes, there it is again, though this time it's just 'Down with the Jews', which is better. It's progress.
On he goes, dipping into his bag of peanuts — peanuts are friends with Jews - and suddenly pulls up short. Another 'Death to the Jews', another swastika. He is afraid of the vicious words and the vicious symbol and yet he goes seeking them out, tracking them down, waiting for them to appear, he is the slogan-hunter and he wallows in the idea, but his eyes hurt. What do the people who scrawl these words have for hearts? Do they not have mothers? Have they never known kindness? Are they unaware that when Jews read the words they look at the ground or, if they are with a friend who is a Christian or a wife who is a Christian, simply pretend they haven't noticed them? Are they unaware of how much pain they cause, of how cruel they are? No, they are not aware of any such thing. Little boys who pull the wings off flies are not aware of it either. He stares at the four words, goes up close, and rubs out one letter with his finger. It's better in the singular. 'Death to the Jew' it reads now. The nose on that banker in
L'Antijuif.
He touches his own nose. If every day was carnival time he could hide it. Easy.
Standing motionless with his back to the wall, he moves his lips. 'Christians, I thirst for your love. Christians, let me love you. Christians, fellow creatures doomed to die, companions on this earth, children of Christ whose blood I share, let us love one another,' he murmurs, and he stares at those who pass by and love him not, and furtively he holds out a begging hand, and knows that he is acting foolishly, that nothing will do any good. He begins walking once more, buys a newspaper to read, to read so as not to think. Head down, he reads, cannons into other people, and nearly gets himself run over. Rue Caumartin. The walls which are his enemies shout out at him, follow him wherever he goes. Boulevard de la Madeleine. Should he duck down into the Metro and hide? Stand against a wall in the passages of the Metro, empty his mind under the ground, declare that he is flotsam, a man without responsibility, a man without hope. No, the Metro is worse. Louder than the walls above the ground, the walls of the Metro call for blood. His blood.
The Place de la Madeleine. A cakeshop. He goes in, buys six chocolate truffles, leaves, continues on his way, swinging the box containing the truffles while his shoes glide majestically over the paving-stones. Six truffles, gentlemen, there'll be a crowd. Six friendly little Christians in the ghetto, in a sense they're already there waiting for him. That's it, go back to the hotel, get into bed, get into bed with himself, with his good friend Solal, and while away the time reading anti-Semitic obscenities and scoffing truffles. Oh yes, back in the ghetto is a whole suitcaseful of anti-Semitic obscenities, and suddenly in the night he gets out of bed, feverishly opens the case, and begins reading their obscenities standing up, avidly, continues through the night, goes on reading their obscenities, each one read with interest, a dead man's interest. No, men are not kind. But soon, in his room, such a lovely room to be in when the door is locked behind him, he won't read their obscenities, he'll read a detective novel instead. A detective novel is an agreeable thing: it gives an entirely false picture of life which isn't a reminder of the world outside, and besides some people are unhappy ^ in detective novels, which is a comfort, it means you don't feel so alone. Hello, he doesn't seem to have that book by the old Englishwoman. Must have left it somewhere.
The Case of the Painted Parrot.
Stupid old hag.
On the Quai Malaquais. The quayside booksellers. That's it, that's the solution! Shut himself up in a hotel room and read novels, only go out to buy more, dabble in the stock market now and then, and read, spend his whole life reading and waiting for death. Yes, but what about her, all alone at Agay? Must make up mind tonight, without fail. Meanwhile, buy this volume of Saint-Simon's
Memoirs.
No, since alone in a world swarming with enemies, steal it. There's no reason why he should obey the laws of a world which wants him dead. Death to the Jews? Fine. In that case he'll steal. There are no rules in war. He picks up the book, peruses it idly, calmly puts it under his arm, and then walks off, sleek of foot, swinging his box of chocolate truffles.
In the Place Saint-Germain-des-Pres. By the church steps, the paperboy is selling his papers. 'Read all abaht it! Get your
Antijuif
'ere! Latest edition!' Ah, another issue. No, don't buy it. Putting his handkerchief over his nose, he goes up to the paper-boy, asks for
L
f
Antijuif,
and pays. The paper-boy smiles. Should he remove his handkerchief, talk to him, make him see? Brother, don't you understand you put me on the rack? You are intelligent, you have a nice face, why can't we love one another. 'Read all abaht it! Get your
Antijuif
'ere!' He flees, crosses the road, turns into a side-street and waves the hate-sheet. 'Read all abaht it! Get your
Antijuif
'ere!' he shouts to the empty street. 'Death to the Jews!' he screams wildly. 'Death to me!' he shouts, his face bright with tears.
A taxi. He hails it and jumps in. 'The George V,' he says. Pretend to be mad so they'll shut him away in an asylum? That way he could go on living, without belonging and without suffering because he did not belong. When the taxi stops outside the hotel, don't go straight in, hang about on the other side of the street and wait. When the time's right, go through the revolving doors and make a beeline across the lobby, pretending to be blowing your nose. In the lift, appear calm and read the menu. The menu is always displayed in the lift.
Hat pulled down, handkerchief covering his nose, he bursts in, pushes the door shut, drops the book, and flops on to the bed. In his prone position, he whistles Schumann's
Reverie
ofF-key while with his finger he writes 'Death to the Jews' in the air, then he presses the same finger between one eyeball and its socket so that he sees double. It passes the time. But that's enough. He stands, looks around him, smiles to see his room looking so immaculate, with no slogans at all chalked anywhere on the walls. Suddenly elated, he crosses to the door in a series of absurd little standing jumps and double-locks it. Alone at last, really alone! He feels sorry for the poor old bookseller with the long beard that fluttered in the wind. Tomorrow he'll give him back his Saint-Simon, he'll give him dollars so that he doesn't have to work any more in the open air, in the cold. A thousand-dollar note. Several, if he doesn't look too amazed. Oh yes, speculator emeritus, adept at using his brains, buying when the market's down and selling when it's on the up. With the profits he's made over the last few months, he has over a hundred thousand dollars on him, a buckler athwart his chest, and so easy to carry should he ever be deported.
He tries the lighter he's just bought. The little devil is in good shape, gives a very fine flame. Now for the little skier. He puts him on the pillow, which is perfect as a snowy slope, makes him perform slaloms and christianias, decides he's a sweetie, picks him up and gives him a kiss. 'We two get on just fine together,' he says. And now the suitcase. From the luggage cupboard he fetches the handsome case he'd bought the other day and inhales the luxurious smell of leather. Tomorrow, get some special cream to keep it supple. He frowns, for he has just noticed a stain on the carpet. He wets a face-towel, gets down on hands and knees, and rubs. Excellent. Stain gone. Oh yes, must look after your little ghetto. You can't live if you don't love. No, don't open the packet. 'Everything will turn out fine, you'D see,' he says, and he gives a wry smile, for such is the motto of the desperate. What next? Jerusalem? Or the cellar of the Silbersteins and Rachel? Yes, but how can he leave her alone? He stares at himself in the shaving-mirror. An hairy man. Tonight, make a will in her favour. Yes, burn some of it, that'll teach them. From the inside pocket of his jacket he produces a thousand-dollar note, strikes a match, burns the note, then another, and another. It's no fun.
Come on, break out the false nose! He takes it out of the bag, raises it to his lips and stands in front of the mirror to put it on, arranges the elastic and looks at himself admiringly. There! He is now complete and unabridged, for he is endowed with the majestic appendage signifying the will to survive, which grew to its present size because it was always used to sniff out enemies and detect traps. Carrying the suitcase, sign and symbol of the ancient wanderer, ennobled by the cardboard nose of royal authority which smells of glue and a cellar -
O Silbersteins! O Rachel! - he shuffles, shoulders bent, God's crook-back, eyes watchful, feet dragging and case swinging, shuffles through the centuries and many lands, arguing immoderately, his hands waving and protean, his lips spreading in resigned, torpidly knowing smiles, on and on he goes, suddenly falling silent but thoughtful-eyed, suddenly the holiness of the Almighty proclaiming, suddenly his head and shoulders rocking, suddenly a keen glance sideways casting, frightened, frightening in his beauty, the chosen one. Yes! Standing there in his mirror is Israel entire.
Naked now and smooth-cheeked, he opens the old case and from it takes the shawl of the synagogue. He kisses its fringes, drapes his nakedness with it, and says the blessing. He winds the phylacteries around his arm and says the blessing. Then from the case he takes the crown of the Feast of Lots, Rachel's crown, the cardboard crown which travels with him everywhere in his wanderings, the battered crown set with glass diamonds. He puts it on his head and sets off down the nights and through the ages, sorrowing as he goes, blessed with ancient beauty, halts in front of the solitary king who stands before him in the mirror, smiles at his reflection, his companion through life, keeper of his secrets, his reflection which alone knows that he is a king in Israel. 'Yes,' he murmurs to his reflection, 'they will build the Laughing Wall, and in the blue temple the bright water will sing.'
He jumps. Is it the police? He asks who is it. The florist's deli very-man. He puts on a dressing-gown, removes the false nose, half opens the door, shuts it quickly, and puts the bouquet in the .bath. What next? But of course, he can eat, that's it, fellow-me-lad, eat. He can still eat, eating never lets you down. His Majesty is about to eat. He picks up the phone; orders cakes so that he doesn't have to wait for anything to be made, so that he can feel instant happiness.