Authors: Jacques Yonnet
All night and all morning‚ we talked about him and Paris‚ Paris and him. They’re inseparable. To be more accurate‚
there’s a certain Paris and a certain aspect of him that are inseparable.
I’ve seen it before‚ and it’s always amazed me: when men who’ve met by chance realize in the course of their conversation that they both have the same mistress and‚ instead of adopting the dignified‚ cold and constipated attitude appropriate to such a situation‚ laugh heartily and shower often liquid attentions on each other‚ whispering into each other’s ear‚ swopping risqué confidences and getting emotional. Well‚ it was just like that with Keep-on-Dancin’ and me‚ with regard to our city. Not an ounce of jealousy between us. We complement each other. Men are so isolated‚ prisoners of their own wretched selves‚ that they can be unbelievably sociable.
Leaving Quarteron’s‚ he sniffed the fresh air from La Montagne‚ listened to the tentative strains of an accordion that unknown hands tried their skill upon behind an open window somewhere in a block of darkness. And then he breathed in deeply‚ and said something very commonplace: ‘Ah! Dear old Paris! There’s nothing like it.’
He dragged me off to Rue Descartes. Perhaps out of professional idiosyncracy‚ I took it into my head to relate‚ for his sole benefit – and what a first-class audience! – the history‚ the anecdotal history mostly‚ of the already hushed streets we wandered. Walking past the Quatre-Sergents café-tabac awakened memories in him. ‘I know that lot well‚’ he said. ‘You might say those four guys were mates of mine: Goubin‚ Pommier‚ Raoulx‚ Bories. When I was a kid‚ the
patron
would point out a big old table in which they’d supposedly engraved their names with a knife that was hanging on the wall‚ alongside a handgun dating from the same period. There was also a colour picture in which the four of them held their glasses raised‚ with the sea and the sun in the background‚ and even on the sun they’d stuck a red cap.’
‘Yes‚ but that’s not the only establishment in Paris operating under the aegis of the four sergeants from La Rochelle: there’s another one on Boulevard Beaumarchais.’
‘Sure. And the other?’ (He was expecting to catch me out.)
‘The other? Good Lord‚ yes! Rue Mouffetard‚ Olivier’s …’
‘Olivier’s‚ that’s right.’
‘The carved and painted tavern sign used to hang outside. But they did well to move it inside and mount it on the wall …’
‘Yes‚ and do you know why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why they moved the sign inside.’
‘Because of the rain?’
‘Like hell! It’s because it serves a purpose. A purpose that you don’t even suspect. It’s closed now‚ but we’ll go there in the morning‚ as soon as it opens. I’ll tell you about it when we get there.’
I’d passed this hovel in Rue Thouin a hundred times‚ never dreaming there was a clandestine canteen in the backyard where you could eat your fill of excellent charcuterie smuggled in from Brittany. Keep-on-Dancin’ is a valued customer here; they call him Monsieur Edouard. He spends lavishly. We regaled ourselves. And Keep-on-Dancin’‚ who was in expansive mood by then‚ was determined to describe to me his harrowing youth.
‘It wasn’t really my fault. I was a strapping lad‚ and unruly‚ and I’d had a succession of “fathers” – five or six of them. They’d thrash me‚ but I could never conform‚ never be told what to do. When I was seventeen‚ a lousy NCO deserter shacked up with my whore of a mother.’
‘Don’t say that. You can’t‚ you mustn’t say such a thing. Even if you think it. Even if it’s true.’
The table must have been solid‚ he would have split it otherwise. He shouted‚ ‘It’s true‚ true‚ true. And I’m entitled to badmouth her‚ because here‚
here
‚ that’s precisely the one thing you can’t do and that’s bullshit.’
‘Now‚ just calm down.’
‘I couldn’t stand the bastard. And most of the time‚ it was yours truly who was the breadwinner. So one day I decided I’d had enough. The bozo tried to throw his weight around. I was in a foul mood. With a single punch‚ just one‚ with this fist here’ (he gazed at his huge hand as if it didn’t belong to him)‚
‘I clocked him‚ right on his temple. He fell badly. Died of concussion. I ended up in reformatory on Belle-Ile. I was with guys who had nothing left to lose‚ guys with eyes that burned too bright … You get the picture?’
‘Yeah‚ I get the picture.’
‘After that‚ there was no going back. Maybe I could have taken advantage of the 1939 war to straighten myself out: but I was in prison. And now I’m as tough as they come. I’m a hard man in my line of work‚ but basically there isn’t a more miserable wretch than myself. Understand?’
‘Of course I do. I really wish I could help you‚ and it’s quite possible that one day I might be able to. Anyway‚ there’s something I find reassuring about you.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’ve taken in everything you’ve told me‚ I understand your predicament and I deplore it‚ but try as I might I don’t feel the slightest hint of what’s called pity. I think that’s just as well.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
His thoughts ran on.
‘It’s all down to Paris. You see‚ it’s because of Paris‚ the city without its inhabitants‚ that I’m not serving life. I’m really lucky that Paris has a soft spot for me.’
‘I’d like you to explain what you mean. I’d also like to know why here more than anywhere else you can say what you like but you can’t bullshit.’
‘Madame Rita‚ you wouldn’t have a street guide?’
‘But of course‚ Monsieur Edouard.’
‘I’m pinching it from you. Here‚ buy yourself another one in the morning.’
He handed her a bundle of small bank notes.
He tore out the folded pages – one for each arrondissement – and began to lay them out on two adjoining tables.
He marked with his pen reference points corresponding to central squares‚ crossroads. And rapidly‚ confidently‚ he drew two‚ more or less straight‚ parallel lines: one on either side of the Seine. And two lines running across them. Finally‚ an irregular curve that clearly traced the route of the old city
wall‚ dating from the thirteenth century. ‘That’s the circuit. Within that circuit‚ everything’s deadly serious‚’ he said.
This was getting fascinating.
I said‚ ‘Go on.’
He took his time.
‘You know the Vieux-Chéne‚ of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘And how much do you know about it?’
‘A fair amount. The old washhouse … Casque d’Or‚ Leca and Manda‚ the brawls …’
‘What else?’
‘Periodically‚ it’s as if fire starts to run in people’s veins: knifings over the merest trifle‚ even murders …’
He chose his words for effect.
‘Listen.
Every seven years
: a pitched battle or bloodletting‚ and not just some pin prick‚ it’s got to be serious‚ the blood has to flow. And
every eleven years
– it’s a fact‚ there’s evidence to prove it – murder‚ with loss of life. There
has
to be at least one death. It’s the street‚ the place that dictates it. You know the Port-Salut?’
‘With the railing‚ Rue des Fossés-St-Jacques? Sure.’
‘What happened there during the Revolution?’
‘Save your breath. It’s been a breeding ground for conspiracies since the year dot.’
‘And is it any different now?’
‘I don’t want to know.’ (Honest to goodness!)
‘Fine. What about this place?’
He shows me on the map. It’s near the Seine. I laughed.
‘Oh‚ my! It’s an old bistrot that functions as a bit of a brothel on the side‚ just for the odd customer‚ so word doesn’t get round too much.’
‘Since when?’
‘Are you kidding? Since the days of St Louis‚ at least.
‘
Dames au corps gent‚ folles de leur corps
Vont au Val d’Amour pour chercher fortune
.’
[Fair wanton ladies go to Val d’Amour
In search of fortune’s favour.]
‘That figures. So listen to this. Do know what La Mouffetard was before?’
‘Before what?’
‘Before all of this. Before there were any houses.’
‘The Via Mons Cetardus‚ a graveyard where the Romans who occupied the City allowed Christians to be buried. In fact‚ even today‚ from time to time a sarcophagus turns up. It was the Aliscans of Paris.’
‘Right. The Christians at that time … they were sort of outcasts?’
‘Well‚ they were regarded by others with some suspicion …’
‘Did you know that since forever the Mouffe’s been a place for saying phoney prayers?’
‘Phoney prayers? What do you mean?’
‘Prayers that are different from everyone else’s. Not the common currency. Ma’me Rita‚ you wouldn’t have the last few days’ newspapers?’
‘Indeed‚ Monsieur Edouard.’
And Keep-on-Dancin’ starts going through a dozen or so papers. His attention is completely devoted to this. He produces a flick knife with a blade as sharp as a razor. Every now and again he cuts out a very short paragraph‚ without any headline; and he puts the cutting in his pocket.
In its pure form‚ suppressed anger‚ that builds up because it can’t find any conductor through which to discharge itself‚ has a potentially huge destructive power. From Keep-on-Dancin’‚ silent‚ preoccupied‚ his teeth clenched‚ there emanated a raging storm of terrible humours. Anger‚ anger alone consumed him‚ permeated him‚ had become his entire being’s sole reason for existence. Though he strove to contain himself‚ nonetheless I dreaded an imminent eruption. Unseen by him‚ I picked up one of the articles he’d cut out. It gave notice‚ without any comment‚ that one Armand B‚ condemned to death by the Criminal Court of the Loire‚ for a double murder‚ had ‘paid his debt’ to ‘society’.
‘It won’t be long before the inevitable happens‚’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get to Olivier’s by first light.’
I said‚ ‘It’s a beautiful night. There’s something of Villon in the air.’
Keep-on-Dancin’ gave a start. ‘Villon! Did you say Villon? François Villon?’
‘Well‚ of course.’
‘Hang on. I’ve got something to show you.’
In his gun pocket‚ he had a luxury leather-bound edition of Villon’s
Testaments and Ballads
. But with him‚ nothing could surprise me any more.
‘He’s my man‚ my hero‚ if I’d known him‚ we’d have made a curious pair. I should have had a brother like him.’
He wanted to trace the poet’s footsteps. ‘So how far up the Rue St-Jacques did his uncle Guillaume live? And where exactly was the Pomme-de-Pin located?’
I answered his questions as best I could. We recited to each other under our breath ‘The Ballad of the Gallows-Birds’.
‘No‚ your pronunciation’s wrong. It’s much simpler than that.’
He meekly corrected himself. After which he heartily slapped me on the back. ‘You’re a great pal‚ and no mistake.’
I’d forgotten that since midnight‚ it was Sunday. On the stroke of five‚ we went out for a breath of air. At the very same moment‚ two hundred gnomes‚ goblins‚ elves or witches‚ clothed in rags‚ carrying enormous bundles‚ harnessed to trolleys or hauling improvised carts‚ emerged from the shadows like maggots out of a cheese‚ and coughing‚ belching‚ yawning‚ jostling‚ arguing‚ hurried in the direction of St Médard. These were the ‘owners’ of the first stalls of the famous Mouffetard Flea Market‚ on their way to fight over the best places on the pavements of Rue St-Médard and Rue Gracieuse. A very ancient concession permits the rag-pickers and anyone else who wants to come here‚ every Sunday morning‚ to trade their goods on the pavement‚ without having to hold a licence‚ or pay any fee.
At Olivier’s‚ the small smoky room ‘decorated’ with old colour covers of the
Petit Journal Illustré
was already filled with a chilled‚ damp‚ acridly steaming rabble.
The shop sign‚ of imposing size‚ brightly coloured and
freshly revarnished‚ is affixed to the wall‚ to the left of the entrance.
The bas-relief figures of our four conspirators‚ each with a glass in hand and fired with enthusiasm‚ stand out against a seascape background overcast with pitch-darkened clouds. The naive skill of the craftsman who made this piece‚ a real jewel of popular art‚ betrays the exact date of its conception and completion: some time during the course of the year 1822‚ this jobbing-sculptor was in the grip of emotion‚ the generous indignation of a population incensed by the absurd beheading on Place de Grève‚ of four very young prankish insurrectionists. I ask you‚ what NCO in his cups has never made up his mind to save France – or some other country?
Keep-on-Dancin’ nudged me with his elbow. A man stood motionless in front of the sign‚ which he seemed to be examining with close attention. He was not in the least affected by the increasing rowdiness. It was dawn. Revealed against the light was a sharp profile set off by a narrow fringe of greying beard. I got as close as I could to this man. I’m sure I’m not mistaken: he was praying with unusual fervour‚ I could
feel
it. This went on for some minutes‚ very long minutes. Almost imperceptibly‚ the man bowed his head three times. And then he turned and approached the counter. Keep-on-Dancin’ went up to him and with easy familiarity placed his arm under his elbow. I thought they knew each other. But not at all. Keep-on-Dancin’ signalled to Olivier‚ with his thumb‚ to serve the fellow a drink‚ whatever he wanted. And then my newfound friend drew from his wallet a large sum of money: several thousand francs. Discreetly‚ he offered them to the guy. ‘For the family‚’ he said‚ in an undertone. The man thanked him with a knowing smile and a handshake that spoke volumes. He went off without having uttered a single word. Keep-on-Dancin’ produced one of those cuttings he’d taken from the day before yesterday’s newspapers.
I said‚ ‘Thanks. I’m beginning to understand.’
‘Maybe‚ but you don’t know the whole story yet‚’ he said.
And he whisked me off once again. He pointed to the
Vieux-Chêne. Between the two first-floor windows were displayed the old oak’s twisted branches and sturdy roots.
‘Could you say how old that tavern sign was?’
‘No. All I know is that it was already there by about the middle of the seventeenth century.’
‘What’s it made of?’
‘Wood‚ with several layers of plaster mixed with alum‚ to protect it.’
‘What kind of wood?’