Paris Noir (2 page)

Tantalizingly‚ not all of their confidences does he pass on‚ having been sworn to secrecy. For such knowledge is not to be trifled with. It can be a matter of life and death‚ as we see in the story of the shipwreckage doll or the room where nothing but the truth can be spoken. Not that Yonnet makes any attempt to argue a case. That is not his style. He presents
himself simply as a witness‚ although Yonnet himself is the protagonist of one of the most thrilling‚ chilling stories of all.

A born raconteur‚ he records with consummate narrative skill‚ an eye for the compelling detail and a finely attuned ear for the raw energy and economical humour of a Parisian argot redolent of its period‚ what he has seen and heard and experienced. In doing so‚ he brings to life a cast of unforgettable characters – from Mina the Cat‚ Cyril the Watchmaker and Poloche the Shrimp-Fisher to Pepe the Pansy‚ Dolly-the- Slow-Burner and the Old Man Who Appears After Midnight‚ to name only a few – and with all the accomplishment of a verbal sorcerer conjures up a Paris that has long since disappeared along with the population that once used to inhabit it.

In translating Yonnet's book I have tried to capture the flavour of the argot – which sounds dated to contemporary French ears – without resorting to a vocabulary too suggestive of a non-Parisian environment – American or Cockney‚ for instance. I have also appended a few explanatory notes on some of the references in Yonnet's text that would not necessarily be understood by English readers today.

Christine Donougher

An age-old city is like a pond. With its colours and reflections. Its chills and murk. Its ferment‚ its sorcery‚ its hidden life.

A city is like a woman‚ with a woman’s desires and dislikes. Her abandon and restraint. Her reserve – above all‚ her reserve.

To get to the heart of a city‚ to learn its most subtle secrets‚ takes infinite tenderness‚ and patience sometimes to the point of despair. It calls for an artlessly delicate touch‚ a more or less unconditional love. Over centuries.

Time works for those who place themselves beyond time.

You’re no true Parisian‚ you do not know your city‚ if you haven’t experienced its ghosts. To become imbued with shades of grey‚ to blend into the drab obscurity of blind spots‚ to join the clammy crowd that emerges‚ or seeps‚ at certain times of day from the metros‚ railway stations‚ cinemas or churches‚ to feel a silent and distant brotherhood with the lonely wanderer‚ the dreamer in his shy solitude‚ the crank‚ the beggar‚ even the drunk – all this entails a long and difficult apprenticeship‚ a knowledge of people and places that only years of patient observation can confer.

It is in tumultous times that the true temperament of a city – and even more so‚ of the coagulated mass of sixty villages or so that make up Paris – reveals itself. For thirteen years I’ve been compiling all kinds of notes‚ especially historical‚ for such is my profession. From them I have extracted what relates to a series of events I witnessed‚ or of which I was the very unlikely protagonist. A kind of diffidence‚ of indescribable fear prevented me from bringing this work to fruition before now.

Maybe it is due to particular circumstances that the bizarre events that are the subject of this work struck me as fantastic – but fantastic on a human scale.

I discovered in every fortuitous circumstance‚ weird occurrence and freak of coincidence a logic so rigorous that in my constant concern for truthfulness I felt compelled to introduce myself into the narrative much more than was perhaps strictly necessary. But it was essential to capture the period‚ and this period I lived through‚ more intensely than many others. I was steeped in it to the core. All the same‚ it would never have occurred to me to relate a personal story had I not been aware how intimately related it is to that‚ infinitely more complex and worthy of interest‚ of the City itself.

There are no fictional characters here‚ nor any anecdotes arising solely from the imagination of the narrator – who could just as well be any one else.

So what should be seen in this book then is not the most disquieting but disquieted of testimonies.

1941

Beyond the island and the two branches of the river‚ the city changes. In the square‚ on the site of the old morgue‚ stones dating from different periods that cannot abide each other have been cemented on top of one another. There’s a muted hatred between them. It grieves me as much as it does them. It’s inconceivable that no one gave any thought to this.

The Seine is sulking. Showing the same moodiness as before‚ when I came to pay my respects after a rather longer trip than I would have liked. This river is no easy mistress.

It will be a hard winter. There are already seagulls at La Tournelle‚ and it’s only September.

In June 1940‚ at Boult-sur-Suippe‚ I was wounded and taken prisoner. I found out that the Germans had identified me as a radical journalist. I escaped at the first opportunity.

I have a little money. Enough to survive two weeks‚ perhaps three. But all I have in terms of identity papers is the service record of Sergeant Ybarne‚ a priest with no family‚ who died in my camp – and a demobilization document I concocted for myself.

I don’t know whether it will be possible one day to regain
my own family name. I have constantly to beware of patrols and raids‚ especially those carried out by French policemen.

I don’t yet know where to sleep. I’m not without trustworthy friends: a good dozen. I’ve lurked beneath their windows and always thought better of calling on them.

I wandered through the Ghetto‚ behind the Hotel de Ville. I know its every paving stone‚ every brick of every house. I came away disappointed‚ almost angry. There’s an atmosphere of despair‚ acceptance‚ resignation. I wanted to breath a more vigorous air. It was towards Maubert‚ with its secret smile‚ that an overriding instinct guided my steps. I’m drawn to Rue des Grands-Degrés. I’ve just got this feeling I’m sure to shake hands with a friend there.

This little green clapboard shed is the ‘shop’ (not quite three square metres in size) of Cyril the master watchmaker. Born in Kiev‚ God knows when.

Old Georgette the washerwoman‚ one of the doyennes of La Maube‚ who remembers the Château-Rouge and Père Lunette and the opening of Rue Lagrange‚ told me in 1938‚ ‘That guy’s incredible. I’m getting on for seventy and I’ve known him for ever. Watchmender with second-hand watches to flog. Never any trouble. Every now and then he changes his name. Says he’s entitled to. That’s the fourteenth woman he’s on to now. He’s buried more than half the rest. And his face still looks the same as ever. I can’t figure it out.’

It was certainly curious. More immediate concerns prevented me from paying much attention to ‘the case’ of Cyril. And then‚ some time later‚ I meet him in a bar and tell him the story (that I’d just pieced together) of the building his shack leans up against.

A colonel in the days of the Empire (when all colonels were courageous) lost a leg at Austerlizt. This led to his retirement. The officer sought permission from the Emperor to return
to Paris with his horse‚ with whom he had developed a close friendship. The Emperor was in a good mood that day. Permission was granted.

Colonel and horse bought the house‚ and had an extra storey built on to it. It has a big courtyard paved with sandstone. A huge watering trough was installed in it at great expense. For His Nibs the Horse was in the habit of taking baths and could only drink from running water. The colonel’s assets and pension were insufficient to pay for the three or four fellows who shuttled back and forth with their buckets‚ between the Seine and the sybaritic nag’s intermittently flowing stream. Colonel and mount expired simultaneously‚ locked in each other’s embrace.

Cyril found this highly amusing. We drank a lot and became bosom pals.

Cyril has found me a refuge. He took me to Rue Maître- Albert. A street that dog-legs down to the river. Pignol’s – a low dive – is a tiny place‚ crammed with people. Snacks are served behind closed shutters.

Hourly patrols come storming up the street. Their boots can be heard a long way off. It sounds as though the asphalt answers ‘turd’ to every resounding step. As soon as they turn the corner‚ we dim the light and keep our traps shut. They feel a sense of desecration. They penetrate the hostile darkness with a tremendous fear in their guts‚ like a man who’d force himself on a woman who resists.

A power failure. Apparently this is now a frequent occurrence. The proprietress‚ Pignolette‚ the only person Cyril introduced me to‚ lights some candles. I then observe the watchmaker’s face (in normal light he looks forty years old at most).

Countless‚ extraordinarily fine‚ parallel wrinkles leave no area of his skin unmarked. He looks mummified. I recall Georgette’s words. Cyril has already got me to recount my adventures. Now it’s his turn.

Having joined the Foreign Legion under an assumed name at the outbreak of hostilities‚ luckily he put up a good fight.
Military Cross and distinguished service medal. Didn’t get caught. They let him keep the name he’d adopted: so he’s issuing his own bill of health. But since Cyril‚ as I well recall‚ once described to me‚ in great detail‚ the fighting he was involved in on the French Front in the 1914–1918 war‚ as well as the famous Kiev massacres‚ when the Shirkers were tied to the rails and slow-moving locomotives sliced off their heads‚ this story bothers me slightly. This matter of time. And of being in so many different places.

People considered ‘reputable’ because of their three-piece suits are gathered here together with genuine tramps‚ shovelling down the same grub. I noticed the bespectacled fellow on the end of the bench‚ his crew-cut hair‚ his very dark-ringed protruding eyes. Cyril whispers‚ ‘Apparently he’s a poet. His name’s Robert Desnos.’

I asked for the key to my room.

Exhaustion has made me hypersensitive. A rheumy lorry passes by‚ a very long way off. I hear it‚ I sense it descending Rue Monge. It’s going to drive round the square‚ turn into the boulevard on the left. I can ‘see’ it. I’m sure of it. It sends a shudder through cubic kilometres of buildings. This evening the neighbourhood’s nerves are on edge.

Ici tous les plafonds ont eu la scarlatine

Ça pèle à plâtre que veux-tu – ô Lamartine
 …

[Here all the ceilings have had scarlet fever

As you’d expect the plaster’s peeling – O Lamartine …]

That dark‚ circular‚ ringed stain above the bedside table is where the petrol lamp used to hang‚ stinking and leaking like nobody’s business. A nasty fly-specked light bulb dangles over my head‚ swinging fractionally. It makes the shadows move. The lorry draws closer‚ and the disturbed shadows cannot quite settle back into place: then the room itself shares in the general unease.

Mobilization had caught me by surprise on my return from a trip to Eastern Europe. In my bohemian two-roomed
apartment‚ I’d accumulated documents and books about the history of Paris. I’d not had time to read them.

I slipped into my place during the day. The Germans have put a seal on my front door: that’s to say‚ two strips of what looks like brown wrapping paper stamped with the eagle and swastika. They think they can impress the world by such pathetic means. For me‚ it was child’s play to get inside‚ gather together a bundle of linen‚ documents and books‚ put everything back in order and leave without being seen.

So I retrieved‚ among others‚
Paris Anecdote
by Privat d’Anglemont‚ the 1853 edition; a huge and a very old collection of
Arrests Mémorables du Parlement de Paris
; and two precious notebooks that will enable me to collate records of events‚ places and dates. Besides‚ the Nationale has once again opened its doors to me. Also‚ the Arsenal‚ St Geneviève‚ and the Archives. I’ve managed to reconstruct a medieval legend‚ which relates to the very place where Cyril has been working for so many years. Here it is.

In 1465 the Ruelle d’Amboise‚ which led from the river to Place Maubert‚ originated in the teeming industriousness of Port-aux-Bûches. The sluggish Bièvre formed a kind of delta at that point‚ before mingling its muddy tannin-polluted waters with those of the Seine. Unsquared logs were left to pile up in the stagnant mud that made them imperishable. A brooding unease overhung Paris. Charles the Bold’s forces were sweeping down from the north. Along the Loire‚ the Bretons‚ won over to the Burgundian cause‚ were pressing hard on the Duke of Maine’s people. Francis of Brittany and the Duke of Berry had also joined forces against the crowned king‚ Louis XI. In the City itself‚ the Burgundians were plotting. The overextended police forces were unreliable. So there was a relaxation of the vigilant watch kept on the serfs‚ semi-slaves‚ vagabonds‚ pedlars and hawkers congregated below the walls of the town.

On the very site of Cyril’s shack‚ a watchmaker who had arrived from the Orient‚ a convert to Christianity who displayed ‘great piety’‚ set up business. He made‚ sold and
repaired time-pieces‚ which were extremely valuable and rare in those days.

His clients were inevitably members of the nobility or wealthy merchants. Tristan the Hermit‚ who lived in a house very close by‚ appreciated the watchmaker’s skill and had taken him under his patronage.

The watchmaking trade was thriving. The Oriental had repudiated his barbarous name and called himself Oswald Biber. (Which means ‘beaver’ as does the old French word ‘Bièvre’.) The wily fellow lived frugally‚ and yet he was known to have become very wealthy. Meanwhile‚ some Gypsies who had been driven out of the City established their encampment in the vicinity of Port-aux-Bûches. They read the future in tracings made in the sand with the end of a stick‚ in the palms of women and the eyes of children.

Some prelates got upset and condemned this as magic. But there wasn’t enough wood in the entire port to burn all those who rightly or wrongly would have been accused of witchcraft. The Gypsies – at that time they were called ‘Egyptians’ – were on good neighbourly terms with the watchmaker. Perhaps it was because of this that a rumour developed and gained currency‚ according to which the pious Biber was in reality in possession of forbidden secrets. With the passage of time it had to be acknowledged that such was the case.