North (2 page)

Sure, I tell myself, it'll all be over soon . . . whew! . . .
we
have seen enough
. . . at sixty-five and then some what difference can the worst H . . . Z . . . or Y superbomb make . . . they're zephyrs! . . . nothings! the only terrible thing is this feeling of having wasted all my time and all those myriatons of effort for that hideous satanic horde of alcoholic cocksucking flunkeys . . . lady, lady! have pity! . . . "Shut up and sell your gripes!". . . hell, why not? . . . I'm willing, but to whom? . . . The buyers are down on me, it seems . . . they don't like me, they only buy authors that are practically the same as they are, plus that snippet of colored ribbon . . . head flunkey . . . head wipe-this-and-lick-that . . . skullduggery, holy water, lechery, bribery, guillotines . . . that way the reader feels at home, senses a kindred soul, a brother, indulgent, understanding, who'll stop at nothing . . .

"That'll do! . . . even among the galley slaves there were ten percent of volunteers. You're one of them."

You don't need to vote to have an opinion . . . several in feet . . . it's the privilege of old age . . . a time comes when you stop reading the articles . . . just the ads. . . they tell yon the whole story . . . and the death notices . . . you know what people want . . . and you know that they're dead . . . that's enough . . . all the rest is blah-blah-blah . . . left, center, right! . . . "Licensed enterprises" like the brothels in the old days . . . for every taste . . . little quirks and big ones . . .

You see them passing the hat for those poor refugees . . . Smyrniots, Bulgaro-Bastaves, Afro-Polacks, all so so pitiful, but hell, what about you? You don't exist any more! . . . can't you get that through your head? . . . you're through . . .

The class of 1912° is old stuff, I agree . . . but take it from me, the right time to have been born is 100 b.c.! . . . the stories we tell are a bore! . . . our plays, more yawns! and the movies and TV . . . disaster! what the people want and the élite too is Circuses! the gory killl . . . honest-to-God death rattles, tortures, guts all over the arena! . . . no more silk-and-something stockings, false tits, sighs and moustaches, Romeos, Camellias, Cuckolds . . . hell no! . . . Stalingrads! . . . tumbrils full of lopped-off heads! heroes with their cocks in their mouths . . . you come home with your wheelbarrow full of eyes, like the Romans . . . no more little gilt-rimmed programs! . . . the real stuff, blood and entrails . . . no more of your rigged brawls . . . no! the Circus will put the theaters out of business . . . the forgotten fashion will come back . . . all the rage! . . . three hundred years before Jesus! "at last! at last!" What a novel that will be! I'll start right in . . . evening dress required? hell no! "The vivisection of the wounded"! . . . That's it! so much art, centuries of so-called masterpieces, all for nothing! swindles! crimes!

° See glossary

"So you call yourself a chronicler?"

"Exactly!"

Without a qualm? . . ."

"Don't exasperate me!" I can still bear Madame von Dopf . . .

"I assure you, Monsieur Céline, if my husband had lived, we would never have had Hitler . . . that disastrous man! . . . intelligence without will comes to nothing, don't you see? . . . but will without intelligence? . . . disaster! . . . Hitler! . . . don't you agree, Monsieur Celine . . ."

"Certainly, Madame, certainly!"

God knows the guests of the Simplon in Baden-Baden were Gaullists, out-and-out anti-Hitlerites. . . ripe for the Allies! . . . with the Cross of Lorraine in their hearts, in their eyes, on their tongues . . . and none of your small-time flops, none of your demented down-at-the-heel shopkeepers . . . oh no! . . . plush addicts every last one of them, four star, two three chambermaids to every suite, sun balcony overlooking Lichtenhalallee . . . the banks of the Oos, that little brook with its genteel lappings, bordered by rare trees of every kind . . . silver-haired weeping willows trailing their branches . . . a hundred feet long . . . in the water . . . three centuries of fancy gardening . . . the Simplon only took people from the very best families, former reigning princes or Ruhr magnates . . . owners of steel mills with a hundred . . . or two hundred thousand workers . . . still . . . I'm speaking of July '44 . . . very well supplied with food, and very punctually . . . they and their hangers-on . . . butter, eggs, caviar, marmalade, salmon, cognac, Mumm's extra . . . airborne shipments, dropped by parachute on Vienna, Austria . . . direct from Rostov, Tunis, Epernay, London . . . the wars raging on seven fronts and all the oceans don't interfere with their caviar . . . the super-squashery . . . Z-bomb, sling, fly-swatter . . . will always respect the
delikatessen
of the high and mighty . . . You won't see Kroukrouzof eating monkey meat in this world! Or Nixon feeding on noodles or Millamac on raw carrots . . . the tables of the high and mighty are a "Reason of State" . . . That's how it was at the Simplon . . . everything they needed! . . . on every floor assassins dressed like waiters carrying compote with maraschino . . . For those people, I don't have to tell you, money was no problem . . . guests and flunkeys thought nothing of putting ten fifteen millions on a single card at the "Mark Exchange" . . . and Christ, were they in a hurry to unload that stage money! . . . to buy something with it, anything . . . but where did the stuff come from? from right next door, from Switzerland . . . and via Switzerland from the Orient, from Morocco . . . and the prices! . . . whole wheelbarrows full of marks! . . . okay . . . okay . . . but what about the layout? . . . A whole floor of the Simplon was fixed up . . . genuine merchants! . . . curled, pomaded, swarthy . . . and slippery! . . . with the charm of a jaguar, fanged smiles, cousins of Nasser, Laval, Mendès, Youssef . . . "Come right in, dear patrons!" and those magnates, you should have seen the barrels full of foreign currency! . . . the Simplon bazaar open for business . . . the real thing! a Bukhara rug: ten pounds of "Schlacht Bank" ° weighed out! . . . swept in! . . . tomorrow you'll see the same people in the bazaars of the Kremlin, Russia, or the White House, U.S.A., in the middle of another war! . . . ten twenty Hiroshimas a day,
boom boom
, sound and fury, that's all! . . . those hideous clashes, love taps, nothing at all . . . who cares as long as Mercury gets his own! . . . that's what counts! . . . in the Russian labor camps, in Buchenwald, in the darkest dungeons, or under the atomic ashes, Mercury is right there! Find his little temple . . . and you'll be all right. . . life goes on . . . So does Nasser and his canal! . . . and marmalade! . . . and genuine Rostov sturgeon! . . . and if you please, don't let the last remaining parachute get any ideas about dropping anything but a good big case of Chianti, plus glasses and beveled mirrors, "pure Venice," better than best! nylon underthings "Valenciennes style"! . . . for die "Kommissar" ladles! . . . ah, those perfumed idols, surfeited with tortures, yawning at the gallows . . . last parachute, remember those "ratafla-nylon" blouses! . . . don't make me say it again! . . . forget about those boring contraptions for pulverizing five provinces! so packed with neutrons that you'll never find Saint-Lazare Station again! . . . or a stray locomotive bolt! . . . enough of your nonsense!

Take it from me . . . at the Simplon Hotel in Baden-Baden there was everything you needed to get along very nicely . . . Not just people from the Ruhr
Koncerns
and the Central-Europe-Balkan banks, there were slightly wounded generals from every front, especially at the table of Cabinet Minister Schlemann, representing the Chancellery . . . believe me, those folks wanted for nothing . . . choice food not to mention the plots, conspiracies, and timetables . . . you'll say I'm making it up . . . not at all! . . . faithful chronicler! . . . of course you had to be there . . . the circumstances, not everybody's luck . . . the end of the meals, flushed with roasts, heavy secrets, burgundy . . . irresistible menus!. . . delicacies from start to finish, from the hors d'oeuvres to the strawberries and whipped cream . . . melba? . . . syrup? . . . more?. . . less? . . . lemon peel? . . . and all those waiters, so attentive, listening and taking note, hesitations,
ja
, and sighs . . . the finest flower of the espionage networks, Commie, Fifi,
Geheimdienst
, Wilhelmstrasse, tutti-frutti . . . every feed bag! . . . as handy at tending four "mikes" at once as at serving pheasant, lobster with two sauces, and celery with one-hand! at the same time! to twelve customers . . . supple, silent, precise) . . . a lot of them had waited on Pétain, on Goering at the Ritz in Paris . . . and not just Hermann! all the high Nazi dignitaries and the Baroness de Rothschild . . . Let the ragged, crackbrained, down-at-heel racists! . . . no matter where, no matter how, the élite is always the élite . . . have the meetings, the shit! the motions, the shouting, the raised fists, the lowered fists, the thumbs upside down! That stuff is for the rank-and-file! Let the scum get down on their knees, down on their faces! To the shithouse! . . . A waiter at the White House, the Kremlin, Vichy, or the Simplon has a way of passing the hors d'oeuvres . . . unmistakable . . . red cabbage or cauliflower, "borsht" or pot-au-feu, your "rank-and-file gangsters" will always fart the same way, it's dismal . . . even on beaujolais or vodka! . . . their whole digestion is different: Windsor, Kremlin, Elysée! . . . what does the
Huma
,° the "intelligentsia" of the wretched of the earth, want? . . . its fervent dream? . . . to fart like Kroukroutchev or Picasso! . . . to be wretched like them! . . . not so easy! . . . style, traditions, thick wall-to-wall carpeting, soundless platters! . . . Peasants, desist!

"Would you care for some of this consommé with asparagus tips? . . . Smoother . . ."

"Many thanks, Your Highness."

Perfect! . . . same for the turbot . . . No need to ask twice.

Naturally the Bibici,° Brazzaville, and Chaux-de-Fonds ° were informed before we were, of the slightest fluctuation in humor, the most infinitesimal gurglings of the bidets . . . hour after hour you could hear the loudspeakers in the corridors blaring out news of the Simplon from every radio station in the world. . . by way of Trebizond you found out what was going on in the next room . . . all the arrivals and departures . . . Hell! Nobody cared . . . that enormous phony, so dapper, the plenipotentiary
Legationsrat
Hans Schulze, had thoughts only for his own troubles . . . All he could think of was security . . . his estates, his family in East Bavaria . . . the rest of us, naturally, could end in the slaughterhouse! . . . he had his "network" all right . . . the flunkeys, kitchens, corridors, and head-waiters told him absolutely everything . . . hour by hour . . . everything that happened in the rooms, baccarat, daisy chains, snow . . . my job was if anybody got sick . . . report due every morning . . . it's a fact, nobody can claim there were any secrets at the Simplon Hotel . . . I've told you in the preceding book about Sigmaringen . . . as long as the "intelligence" reports keep pouring in, as long as they pile up, and get nicely tangled . . . everything's okay! . . . it can go on this way for centuries! take Borne, Nineveh, Byzantium, Babylon . . . and closer to home the Soviets . . . you'll see we can go on for two . . . three thousand years, the Soviets and us . . . with spy trials,
ballets roses
,° brawls between rival police forces, blood purges . . . and more speeches and more elections! Hurrah! pithecanthropus coming up hard! . . . didn't come out of hiscave for nothing! . . . palavers, cloak-and-dagger work, microfilms and
dolce vita!
refinements of cock play and fork play! . . . our friend
Legationsrat
Schulze asked for nothing more . . . plenty of "intelligence" and the life of a prince . . . I tended him and his family . . . with his offices, his governesses, and children he occupied the whole "sunny wing" of the hotel . . . could he have asked for more? . . . well, yes! . . . matter ofcuisine . . . he wasn't satisfied . . . not at all! . . . they ruinedhis bouillabaisse! . . . not for lack of care . . . no . . . they did it on purpose! . . . that's right! Schulze, the connoisseur, forten years consul in Marseilles! imagine sending him such slop! sabotage!

"Doctor! Doctor! Taste this sludge . . . fit for the Salvation Army!"

He, for ten years consul in Marseilles, sent for the chef . . . the chef was from Marseilles too! and they talked it over, with the accent! the whole German Army in retreat, losing Europe, abandoning twenty armies, but what really had the Simplon Hotel worried was Schulze's bouillabaisse . . . sent in by "special delivery"!
rascasse
, garlic, saffron, little fishes from the Côte des Maures, twenty varieties, parachuted into the kitchens in specially cooled tanks at prearranged hours . . . war or no war, nobody was going to claim later on that there had been negligence at the Simplon Hotel . . . but all the same, that bouillabaisse inspired comments. . . and worse, suspicions!. . .

Naturally, down there in their basement kitchens they may have been shaken up a bit . . .
Marauders
, no manners, pretended to be heading for the hotel . . . pretended . . . that's all . . . loop-the-loop, pirouette and good-bye! . . . off to bomb the countryside! . . . but down there in the basement kitchens they had good reason to think their number was up . . . the earth trembled . . . and the kettles . . . and the grated cheese for the bouillabaisse . . . but even so Schulze and the chef weren't so sure . . . couldn't it be one of the cook's helpers? . . .

I haven't told you about the Casino! . . . unpardonable omission! . . . the rendezvous of Europe's élites. . . nobility, diplomatte corps, theater. . . long before the "masses" started traveling and America coming over in three hours . . . those gaming rooms . . . "Transylvanian baroque" upholstered in raspberry and gold velvet . . . you expect to run into des Grieux ° . . . Manon is rehearsing . . . ten Manons! . . . absolutely unrepentant! . . . fiendish gamblers! . . . the red and the black . . . lashes, boobs, hips . . . and that bra that's on the lam!

Florid colonels, liverish councillors, ailing old bags with heart trouble . . . pale . . . pale . . . without a sou left to their names . . . or the strength to get up and go . . . wartime, no orchestra . . . no sound but the unchanging
rrrrr
of the wheel . . . and that melodious voice, briskly . . .
"jeux sont faits!"
. . . The nobility from the Simplon came in to take a look. . . genteel, contemptuous . . . but the
collabo
"refugees," especially the ladies, clung three . . . or four. . . to a chair . . . panting in expectation . . . .

The Casino pastry shop was always jampacked with Boche war widows . . . convalescing from emotional shock . . . bring on the
babas au rhum!
. . . and the cream puffs and brioches this big! . . .the blueberry tarts and the platters of éclairs . . . a sight for sore eyes! . . . I've got to admit that we indulged just a little . . . the hard times came later . . . I've told you! Sigmaringen, the artificial cake, more plaster than flour . . . don't let it bug you . . . I'm telling you all this every which way . . . the end before the beginning! . . . what does it matter? the truth alone matters! . . . you'll catch on . . . I catch on . . . A slight effort, that's all! . . . You take more trouble with a modern painting! . . . Is it so hard to visualize those convalescent war widows taking the "cure," packing away cakes, petits fours, strawberry tarts . . . pitchers of creamy chocolate . . . no trouble at all. . . all those mouths full, dripping . . . the hard part was getting out! the revolving doors! . . . the waiters had to push them . . . all those somnolent ladies . . . they'd land somewhere . . . in the park . . . on this bench . . . or that . . . belching . . . dreamy . . . and linger for hours, digesting . . .

The croupiers . . . something else again . . . they had no fun at all . . . no time for petits fours! . . . convicts of the chips! . . . "place your bets! . . .
five!"
. . . in addition they had their pupils to train, one apiece . . . on the stool beside him, a specially selected war cripple, a basket case in uniform . . . no time to lose! rehabilitation of crippled veterans . . . and they'd better learn quick . . . to toss the ball . . . to rake in the stakes . . . five! three! four!
"les jeux sont faits!"
the dexterity of luck! . . . harmonious unbroken movements, chips . . . flawless delivery! . . . the tradition of the Baden Casino doesn't date from yesterday! . . . Berlioz played there and Liszt . . . and all the Romanov princes . . . the Naritzkins and Savoys . . . the Bourbons and Braganças . . . we, of course, seemed like intruders, we, unwanted on all the shores of Europe . . . well, anyway it was an opera, the comic kind . . . you spectators have nothing to worry about . . . History passes by, plays on, and there you are . . . I'll tell you all about it. . .