Authors: Jacques Yonnet
I’m kitted out with the blue uniform of a flying officer‚ although my original service branch is the infantry. French circles here are dismal: in commenting on events‚ no one demonstrates any nobility of sentiment‚ let alone the most basic sense of History. At Patriotic School‚ in Duke Street‚ where we meet to attend lectures devoid of interest‚ visitors cannot but be dismayed by the extraordinary mediocrity of those who fully expect one day to become prominent figures. It’s less demoralizing at the St James’s club where men of action dine and clink their jars of stout‚ play bridge and talk of nothing but the weather‚ literature (detective novels!)‚ food and women.
The East End‚ Whitechapel in particular‚ has lost the essence of that somewhat perfidious charm that seems calculated to bear out Mac Orlan.
Admittedly‚ at Old Berlemont’s in Dean Street‚ there are evenings when you can enjoy a good dose of hearty laughter and a rather inane‚ self-confident unconcern redolent of the boulevard or the banks of the Seine. But it doesn’t happen very often. Frith Street has the Mars‚ a Greek restaurant where a congenial group of French-speaking intellectuals gather. None of them admits to angling for a job above the level of under-secretary of state in the future French government once the country’s liberated. This modesty is entirely to their credit. But I’d like to see their faces if they had to get through a French-Gestapo police raid at St-Michel or anywhere near a Paris railway station‚ with their pockets stuffed with incriminating documents.
I had only one thing on my mind: to track down Dr Garrett. And I have. This energetic old man is a Major and teaches‚ at West Norwood Hospital‚ foreign doctors and nurses recruited to the Home Guard.
He recognized me straight away – after nine years! – and his evident delight gave me great pleasure. He asked me how much time I had to spare‚ and whether I’d recently flown over Paris. He must have understood from my embarrassed reply that I wasn’t free to talk‚ however much I would have liked
to satisfy his curiosity. Garret made no secret of his intention to monopolize my every available moment.
I eagerly consented: spending time with a man like him is the most wonderful escape. Garrett lives in Harold Road‚ not far from the Convent Hill Catholic School‚ recently hit by a flying bomb. He lives by himself in a small bedsit converted into an improvised laboratory – which is something of a collection of curiosities‚ and not at all common in England. Mrs Garrett‚ also a doctor‚ runs a department at the hospital in B‚ a town in Wales where the couple have their family home.
Normally‚ Dr Garrett is not involved in therapeutic medicine. An ethnologist and biologist‚ he gives the layman the impression of dissipating his energies in strangely divergent areas. To anyone familiar with his work who has been following his progress‚ it all makes complete sense.
Garrett is of Scottish origin. He speaks every one of the Highland dialects‚ as well as Welsh‚ Gaelic‚ and the different Breton languages. But he’s absolutely impervious to French.
He brings me up to date with his most recent research‚ which the war has to some extent interrupted. For a few months every year he scours not only the South of England but also Scotland‚ Ireland‚ the Isle of Man and as far north as the Shetlands‚ in search of rare objects that are all used for a particular purpose: magic rituals‚ which apparently persist to an extraordinary degree in all these parts of the country.
Some of his finds he keeps‚ right here in fact: chalices of hammered pewter‚ elaborately-wrought goblets‚ bracelets of bone or ivory engraved with runic symbols; pots of every shape; books‚ parchments‚ very ancient documents in which geometric figures are scattered throughout texts in foreign languages‚ some in ‘English-style’ Latin‚ others in Gaelic and even Friesian.
It’s Garrett’s ambition after the war to set up a museum dedicated to witchcraft as once practised‚ and indeed still practised‚ throughout northeastern Europe.
When I expressed surprise at the fact that Garrett should compromise with systematic quirkiness the more ‘pragmatic’ concerns with which I associated him‚ the doctor launched
into a long explanation in which he stated that human knowledge was now ridiculously circumscribed‚ that for thousands of years occultism had been crucial to the most extraordinary instances of scientific ‘revelations’ to mankind‚ and he put forward the hypothesis that the great civilizations of Memphis‚ Nineveh‚ Carthage and Babylon were perhaps not solely the product of millions of brutalized slaves ruled by a mindless elite.
He argued strongly that the study of paranormal phenomena ought to be pursued in depth‚ especially during times when serious upheavals such as this present war were afflicting the planet.
A siren interrupted his monologue‚ which was almost like a sermon.
I don’t really think I betrayed the Allied cause in revealing to Garrett that I’d come from Paris and was returning there shortly. He hasn’t been back to France since 1919. He asks me if the mausoleum erected near the Arc de Triomphe still exists. He overwhelms me with questions about my ancient city‚ and especially the St Séverin neighbourhood‚ which seems to interest him more than any other. I assume it’s because of Huysmans. I think I exceeded his hopes by relating in detail all the strange events I’ve witnessed in the last few years. He was extremely interested in my account of the jinxing of the house in Rue de Bièvre by the Gypsy. He asked me to describe in the most minute detail the wooden statuette that turned up in old Hubert’s cellars.
‘I’ve been postponing my honeymoon every summer for the past twenty-five years‚’ he said. ‘I’m longing to show my wife round this Paris of legends. I want to get over there as soon as possible.’
‘I look forward to making you welcome.’
He talked about St Séverin. I seized my opportunity.
‘What became of the document you once showed me: a
map of the City and the Sorbonne district‚ with place names in old English?’
‘It’s in my library‚ in B. It’s one of the most precious items in my collection.’
‘You remember that Rue Zacharie‚ marked on your map with the name Witchcraft Street – Rue des Maléfices?’
‘Of course I do‚ I remember your amazement‚ and your interest in researching the history of that ancient district. Have you come across any further information on Witchcraft Street?’
‘I know that for just a few years it was called Rue des Trois-Chandeliers‚ and towards the end of the thirteenth century Rue de l’Homme-Qui-Chante.’
‘And do you know why?’
‘I think the three candlesticks commemorate an exorcism. According to the ancient ritual for pronouncing the Great Anathema and exorcizing the evil spirit attached to a man or an object‚ three priests dressed in their ceremonial stoles‚ after reciting the sacred words‚ must hurl to the ground three candlesticks‚ each bearing three lighted candles. The nine flames are supposed to be extinguished simultaneously. Holy water is then sprinkled on the ground or on the object now freed from demonic possession. As for the name Rue de L’Homme-Qui-Chante‚ I don’t know what the explanation for that is‚ much to my regret‚ because it must relate to a very ancient and probably very splendid legend‚ now lost for ever.’
Garrett was rinsing glasses with a smile. From a cupboard filled with books and journals‚ on the door of which hung a helmet‚ a ration box and a gas mask‚ he produced a whisky flask.
‘Sit back and make yourself comfortable. I’m going to recount that legend to you. I myself am not allowed to commit it to writing for it belongs to the oral tradition perpetuated since the fifteen century by members of an extremely exclusive secret society‚ which I agreed to join‚ more out of curiosity than intellectual need. With my express authorization‚ you a foreigner will be allowed to record it and add it to your archives.’
Dumbfounded‚ I lit a pipe and waited‚ ‘wet with anticipation’‚ as Keep-on-Dancin’ would have said.
‘First of all‚ you need to know – to remember‚ rather – some historical facts that regrettably tend to be forgotten in France. The fact that Paris was for many years an English capital. The fact that when “our” king’‚ (I started to smile)‚ ‘Henry V made his entry into “your” capital on the first of December 1420 – what on earth are you laughing at?’
‘You talk of “my” capital‚ which is fine by me‚ as long as you don’t blame me for what my compatriots were up to five hundred years ago. But “your” king Henry V … Where were your ancestors at that time‚ Dr Garrett? Are you quite sure they were his subjects‚ and if so‚ were they willing subjects?’
‘That’s the least of my concerns. I was saying that when he entered Paris‚ Henry V‚ King of England‚ was acclaimed by the populace.’
‘It requires only the slightest sense of mystification to get anyone acclaimed by any crowd. These days …’
‘If I may continue: Henry V was proclaimed King of France and England at St Denis. He was later crowned at Notre-Dame to great rejoicing.’
‘In other words‚ you’re justifying the Hundred Years’ War.’
‘More or less. For it enabled our two peoples to become deeply interdependent‚ allowing the most fruitful of intellectual exchanges.’
‘You mean‚ the French are “anglicized” without knowing it.’
‘And the English have assimilated their Continental experience from that time much more than you think. But this is what I was leading up to: the Englishman is essentially a mystical being. And‚ because he’s scrupulous‚ he’s apprehensive. And therefore susceptible to everything that might be interpreted as a superhuman manifestation‚ whether it be a legend of esoteric significance – as in this case – or an event of peculiar resonance. Don’t forget‚ all the official bodies in Paris – parliament‚ clergy‚ and especially the university – were in favour of the English at the period I’m talking about.’
‘Of course!’
‘And that your University had such influence here that it attracted the elite of our own faculties’ future members. Now‚ the English‚ Scots and Irish who stayed in your Latin Quarter must have fallen so much under Paris’s spell that they’ve left us with the most stirring collection of tales‚ legends and fables connected with the City’s stones. Here then‚ is the story of the Man-Who-Sings‚ orally transmitted by the descendents of a Welsh officer who heard it there.’
A man was dying. And he knew it. He was beyond suffering‚ at the utmost limit of his strength. His final steps were numbered. As were his final moments and his last wishes. In deep and quiet contemplation‚ in which were mingled love of the poor and forgiveness of the wicked‚ he’d already taken leave of the living‚ with whom he would no longer concern himself.
It only remained for him to bid farewell to non-living things‚ the silent and familiar witnesses of an arid‚ dull and joyless life. The man had overestimated his capabilities. For while bustling mankind that passed by him in Rue Sac-à-Lie took even less notice of his presence than ever before‚ the things that loved him – and had never told him so‚ perhaps they realized too late – were loath to see him depart for ever. They tried desperately to detain him.
The dying man thought he had just enough strength to make his way to the end of his street‚ from St Séverin‚ the church under whose porch he’d so long been a beggar‚ to the banks of the Seine – at that time the embankments were gently sloping.
It was twilight. Exhausted‚ the man leaned against the wall as he walked. People called out to each other‚ children ran about and shouted‚ creating a disturbance. And these excessively loud noises danced in moving colours before the man’s eyes‚ who thought he would collapse.
At the place where the street narrows‚ a lantern hanging above a pile of rubbish winked at the man and reflected back to him as a blazing ball a fragment of the setting sun. And the man was wounded by this light‚ and the purple and gold that
caught the roof-edges bruised his pupils‚ and the farewell fraught with unspoken regret that the stones‚ and shop signs‚ and the dancing‚ grimacing marmousets on the corbels bade him‚ wrang his poor heart. Utterly exhausted‚ the man was about to sink to the ground‚ like an empty wine-skin. But the woman kept him from doing so.
She too had that look in her eyes of those who are dying. She was walking up the street‚ making the same slow progress as the man trying to reach the tree on the riverbank that he had chosen to lie down beside‚ where he would die‚ gazing up at the stars. The woman turned and came back. She slipped an ice-cold hand under the man’s arm to support him. Then as the dying couple‚ already detached from all life on this earth‚ covered the remaining distance‚ darkness instead of falling rose from the earth.
Darkness rose from the shadows‚ stones‚ gloomy crannies‚ like a living ink. And as this dense and opaque darkness‚ welling up from below‚ engulfed the town‚ the woman gained strength and her grip became assured. She held her arm around the man and led him firmly to the fateful tree‚ where they lay down on the riverbank as night filled the sky and blackened the contours of the stars’ eyes. No one understood exactly the nature of the contract that bound these two beings.
But the following day there were no bodies found beneath the tree.
Who that woman was‚ no one ever knew‚ nor what became of her.
As for the man‚ suddenly filled with renewed vitality in which he revelled with robust joy‚ he sang in the street. He sang in a high‚ clear‚ warm voice abounding with all the light of the world.
But he was now blind.
Paris‚ May 1944
It’s Sunday. It’s very sunny.
I left England at midnight on Thursday‚ and here I am dawdling along the Quai de la Tournelle‚ with a Dunhill pipe in my mouth‚ and my hands in the roomy pockets of a raincoat to which the Thames’ fogginess still clings.
Whenever I pass a German‚ or even just people-who- don’t-know‚ I’ve the childish impression of having played a good trick on them‚ and I chuckle to myself.
My goodness! He must be tough‚ this
Oberleutnant
. Although an infantryman‚ he’s wearing his iron cross pinned to his collar. He’s kitted out with the full paraphernalia of an artist and is quietly painting a canvas – not bad‚ not bad at all: the succession of bridges‚ and in the foreground some broad- beamed barges that have been tied up for months‚ straining at their moorings.