Authors: Jacques Yonnet
‘What are you intending to do now‚ about Keep-on- Dancin’?’
‘Get two tough guys to come along with me‚ meet up with him and provoke him. He has to touch my ears once more. But only touch them‚ mind: I don’t want to take a beating like I did the other day.’
‘And then what happens?’
‘One way or another‚ he’s in for a hard knock.’
‘Yeah‚ but tell me‚ what was in that tin of yours that smelt so bad?’
‘Don’t talk to me about it. It’s disgusting. All I can tell you is that in order to obtain it I had to get a grave-digger from Bagneux involved.’
‘You mean‚ that was the smell of putrefying flesh?’
‘Maybe.’
Having parted company with the skunk – ugh! I felt like vomiting! – I rushed back to Klager. I couldn’t help myself‚ I wouldn’t have been able to sleep. He greeted me without surprise.
‘That guy … you know him?’
‘Very vaguely. I don’t like him. He intends harm to a person I’ve not known for very long either‚ but for whom I have a certain regard. That aside‚ not much to recommend him.’
‘The one who was there on Sunday?’
‘Precisely.’
‘And you’ve come here for …?’
‘I couldn’t exactly say. Originally‚ I think I’d better admit straight away‚ though I’m sure it’s not what you’d like to hear‚ out of sheer curiosity. And now because I must learn more about things I was previously completely unaware of.’
‘But who exactly are you?’
From what I told him‚ just a technical education supply teacher‚ curious by nature‚ passionately interested in everything related to Paris as it used to be‚ and whatever survives of its old traditions.
‘A journalist?’
‘Not in the least‚ especially not right now.’
That made him smile. We understood each other. He ushered me through the door at the back of the room.
Our conversation lasted two long hours. I cannot report it in its entirety‚ here or anywhere else‚ now or later. I’m bound to secrecy‚ and it’s much more out of respect than fear that I hold my tongue and stay my pen.
If by any chance‚ however‚ I happen to speak of Monsieur Klager‚ or write about him‚ I’m entitled to reveal what follows.
First of all‚ Klager’s real occupation doesn’t in any way consist of ensorcelling his fellowmen or casting spells on this or that part of their anatomy. Nor engaging in occult and baleful prayers. Klager is a brass-worker. He makes metal objects – bowls‚ goblets‚ vases‚ buttons‚ brooches – in repoussé. Right now‚ the shortage of tin and copper‚ either as sheet metal or in any other form‚ means that Monsieur Klager has been forced to do something slightly different: he makes all kinds of lanterns and light fittings. With consummate skill and very good taste‚ he uses whatever materials he happens to come by.
But this man‚ whose life should have been free of any care other than that of his very profitable livelihood‚ had not always known days of plenty and reliable friends. While still young‚ in order to avert a disaster that would have compromised his peaceful existence for ever he felt constrained to
resort to a magus from Lorraine. The latter died suddenly of a stroke during a particularly serious and delicate ‘operation’. Ever since that day‚ Klager has been the involuntary heir to an enormous complex of forces – good and evil‚ to put it in very elementary terms – that he administers like a banker‚ according to his conscience and depending on the opportunities that arise to ‘unload’ – as he puts it – an ‘accrued glut’.
‘But why do you allow your power to be used both ways?’
‘Do you think that the bad people who come to me would behave any better if they didn’t know me‚ and would do less harm?’
‘But you take money for what you do.’
‘Don’t worry. I haven’t kept a centime of that money for myself: it ends up in deserving hands. And that’s not exactly charity.’
And am I any different? I try to anticipate the points of impact‚ simply in order to limit the damage‚ but there’s nothing I could do to reduce the hail of bombs.
September 1943
We’re under the full sway of uncertainty‚ indecision‚ flagging defiance. Every Frenchman has pinned to his kitchen cupboard a map‚ bought from a street hawker‚ of ‘The Theatre of Operations in the East’.
Every midday and every evening at nine o’clock‚ with a pencil or if he’s patient with the aid of little pins‚ he amends his ‘front line’ as he listens to the news from Radio London.
This is as far as his worries extend‚ his fighting spirit is confined to this. There’s increasing acceptance of the idea this endless conflict is just a huge con that we French can hardly complain about‚ for compared with all the rest of Europe we seem to be spoiled little darlings.
The producers‚ directors and stage-managers of future wars should have learned by now that a war‚ just like a film‚ cannot sustain periods of tedium. If the rearguard gets fed up and bored‚ the front-line combatant feels the effect‚ and this has an enormous influence on the quality of his output (fighting‚ that is).
As for me and my friends‚ whose information comes from sources not at all propagandistic‚ we know this will end sooner or later with the already orchestrated defeat of the German forces. We’re on the winning side. But I tell myself that if I were capable of holding any convictions and these drew me to the other side‚ I’d be no less blithe a loser‚ and I’d have no apprehensions whatsoever. Anyway‚ I congratulate myself every day on being in permanent contact with a select group of people who are no more in the business of altruism than anyone else – each man is primarily pursuing his own personal adventure – but who bring to bear an edge of danger‚ risk‚ violence‚ excitement without which dying of boredom would be only our just desert. All the same‚ if one day we hear
talk once again of ‘authorities’ being entitled to some respect from a population that has regained its citizen status‚ the restored institutions – republican or otherwise – will have considerable difficulty in getting themselves taken seriously.
Fortunately the City is vigilant. It too has its secret weapons. Since the summer it has released safety valves that form part of a wonderful mechanism‚ known only to itself. For the past three months we’ve noticed the most heartening appearance all over the place of eccentrics‚ more or less raving lunatics‚ cranks‚ and reinvigorating crackpots. The most modest lay claim to securing only the well-being of France‚ or Europe. But the majority take on the whole World with a capital W‚ if not our poor little planetary system in its entirety. We already had our established comics: the ineffable Ferdinand Lop‚ about whom the most ignorant purveyors of anti-semitic‚ anti- democratic (as if that still had any meaning)‚ anti-whatever shit prose vent their indignation at ten francs a line in the appalling
Pilori
. I’ve long been convinced that our national institution Ferdinand isn’t as crazy as he likes to appear‚ and I think there’s something courageous about him. He lets the wolves howl and continues to receive a succession of contradictory messages announcing the arrival under the Pont des Arts of the submarine that will eventually pick him up and take him to the North Sea to negotiate a settlement between the warring parties. So what’s so stupid about that!
There’s Raymond Duncan‚ on Rue de Seine. Olympian‚ hieratic‚ cunning‚ superficial‚ he feels the need to dress like a character in an Aristophanes’ play adapted for Barret’s circus. He ignores the kids who make fun of him in the street. He continues to preside over ‘Socratic dialogues’ attended by frightful old trouts wearing huge hats‚ fantastic creations in which stuffed birds frolic among French-style gardens scattered with candied fruit. Duncan has managed to outwit the very naive Occupying Authorities: although an American‚ he’s not subject‚ as the rest of his compatriots who remained in France are at this time‚ to the regime of concentration camps‚ with all due honour‚ respect and deference owed to the shareholders and co-owners of many a steelworks‚ armaments
factory and other bauble-manufacturing plant located in Hitler-controlled territory. There’s Fèvre‚ the booted‚ jacketed‚ pensioned-off soldier‚ with his long straggly hair under his bell-crowned hat‚ his wan face typical of the persecution maniac‚ his eunuch voice‚ his corkscrew cane. There’s Praying- Dodo‚ in a perpetual state of ecstasy‚ who‚ blessed with amazing suppleness‚ falls to his knees every ten paces‚ with his hands held out before him‚ and touches the pavement with his forehead‚ grown calloused as a result. And a few others of lesser distinction and interest‚ but no less longstanding members of the cohort of everyday eccentrics who will leave their mark on this quarter-century. They’ve been categorized‚ accepted‚ included once and for all. Only a country bumpkin would be prompted to raise an eyebrow.
And now we have the new ones‚ the unsuspected prophets‚ messiahs‚ krishnas‚ those ‘we’d always been waiting for’. There’s no part of the city that doesn’t pride itself on its own preacher.
Montmartre has its ‘public astronomer’ who for forty sous will show you the Moon and its craters through a gimcrack telescope‚ and treat you to a bonus tirade: ‘Ambassador of the stars‚ in the name of the billions and billions of galaxies’ (which is not greatly compromising)‚ ‘I protest against the war and I see the way out …’
Auteuil has Baptiste the tramp‚ a veteran‚ of the 1914 war of course‚ who predicts the imminent self-destruction of humanity‚ and the conquest of the world by horses‚ sea horses‚ land horses‚ the ressurrected ghosts of all horses killed in all battles of all ages.
At Grenelle‚ there’s the raving Ben Derrer‚ who by special favour is in constant communication with Mohammed. A third sex has come into existence‚ henceforth responsible for perpetuating the species. From now on it’s a mortal sin to put to normal use whatever bits of human plumbing we may have at our disposal. The future belongs to abstainers‚ masturbators‚ paedophiles and lesbians. So there you have it!
In Parc Montsouris‚ it’s a more serious business‚ because there’s a whole gang of them. Two gangs rather. What am I
saying? Two sects who very decorously meet in the Marronniers temple‚ above the waterfall‚ and very politely indulge in absurd discussions. They are the ‘Radiant Vectorists’ and the ‘Perpendicants’. They’ve repeatedly baffled the guards‚ who must have thought they were using some sort of private language and left them alone. But when some police informers got to hear about them‚ they organized a raid. Apparently‚ it all came to nothing. They were just a bunch of low- grade clerks‚ very junior employees‚ harmless pensioners quite incapable of explaining why they felt the need to talk a lot of nonsense for at least an hour every day.
Yes‚ there’s a wind of madness blowing these days – and this is no random choice of metaphor. No one’s immune from the collective enervation that’s affected people’s minds. Everyone considers himself a bit of a hero. Including – and this is the real disaster – the genuine heros. Those who ought not to see themselves in those terms for some time yet. I’m thinking of the guys I rub shoulders with every day‚ who‚ having been parachuted in‚ are being hunted down‚ and face the prospect of violent death if not the most dreadful torture. They’re well aware of what the slightest folly‚ the smallest departure from the very strict and very basic rules of caution might lead to. It makes no difference. They’re all capable of picking a fight with the most insignificant
Feldwebel
they might happen to run into at the wrong moment.
At Place Maubert‚ where their carefully fostered – this is one of their secrets – physiological plight keeps my tramps in a permanent state of nirvana‚ a universe of soft light and muffled sound‚ a weightless‚ insubstantial world‚ life’s an orgy of ultimatums and melodramatic gestures. A request for a glass of brandy on credit is met with a tirade that would have done Corneille proud.
Imagine the literary buff‚ steeped in his beloved classics‚ rejoicing in a memory that sings‚ prepared to dispense kilowatts of goodwill‚ who fetches up at the Odeon on an off day. There are days like that‚ when everything rings hollow‚ and even the hollowness is unconvincing. There’s nothing to be done about it: the inspiration’s not there. He’s left with a terrible sense of
disappointment‚ resentment‚ against whom he doesn’t exactly know: the playwright or the actors? All he can do is curl up in bed‚ alone‚ all alone‚ and console himself with suitably wrought alexandrines.
With the tramps it’s different. The one who swears to God he’ll soon make his fortune solicits a miracle. For he knows that miracles can happen. You have to prop yourself up or sit down in a quiet corner‚ make sure you don’t attract any attention‚ close your eyes if you can – and listen. The fellow talks to himself. He lays out his gems. ‘On the head of Geneviève who had a little girl that died at the age of seven …’
This is way past the point of melodrama. This is high drama‚ the real thing. An event is never just what it is in itself and nothing more. It’s what goes on around it‚ at the same time‚ that makes it – potentially – a tragic situation.
You have to have been exposed to this‚ at least once‚ to understand it.
The responsibilities‚ day by day more serious‚ that I’m taking on constrain me to be always mentally alert.
So I’m now quite incapable of dozing as I used to‚ of devoting quite as much time to day-dreaming and doing sweet nothing. My investigations‚ my research take up all my leisure time. I would eventually like to publish‚ among other things‚ a glossary of French words that owe their origin to the lesser-known aspects of Parisian life. I’ve already conducted some very curious analyses and made some unexpected discoveries.
There is an ordinary‚ respectable‚ and equally unpretentious noun that nevertheless derives from the most Rabelaisian earthiness: the word ‘
patère
’. You know‚ that thing that causes you to forget your raincoat‚ on which people who still wear them hang their hats.
The word also means (according to Larousse) ‘gadgets’ fixed
to the wall that serve to support curtains.
Patère
supposedly derives from
patera
‚ a Latin word that means something completely different. Well‚ far from it‚ as it turns out.