Authors: Jacques Yonnet
Pastis served in a cup to make you think that customs and excise don’t know what’s going on.
A busty tart scenting a potential client gives me a deeply meaningful‚ heavily masscara-ed look. I acknowledge it by offering her a cigarette. I convey my refusal with a world- weary smile. And‚ following Keep-on-Dancin’s instructions:
‘Is Solange around?’
‘Which one?’ says the tart. ‘The new one or the old one? Tall or short?’
‘I don’t know … a friend sent me. The new one‚ has she been here long?’
‘Oh‚ no … She came out of the slammer three weeks ago …’
‘Then I think it must be the other one. Will you have something?’
Her black satin-corseted boobs wobble like jelly. She pulls the door handle towards her and yells into the empty street.
‘Mimile!’
A lazy voice answers from upstairs.
‘Yeah …’
‘Go and fetch Solange‚ and hurry up about it!’
‘All right! All right! I’m going …’
A German walks in. The tart comes over all kittenish. A Persian kitten‚ on account of the possum fur wrap she’s wearing. Overcome‚ sinking on to a stool too small for her large buttocks‚ she says‚ ‘Rascal!’ The Hun glances at her‚ steely- eyed. He shouts‚ ‘
Weg da! Weg
!’ Furious‚ outraged‚ he takes off without even finishing his beer.
The girl gets indignant.
‘What’s wrong with the guy? Honestly‚ they’re all poofs … If this carries on‚ I’m going back to working in a brothel.’
I have to fork out ten francs to get rid of the guy in a flunkey’s jacket who’s brought Solange. She’s very‚ very pretty. Like a Dresden doll. She offers me a slender hand‚ questioning me with her big bright eyes that have no need of any make-up.
I say under my breath‚ ‘Keep-on-Dancin’ …’
‘Ah‚ right! Come with me.’
Her voice isn’t in the least bit rough. This girl‚ a tart? I don’t get it. She walks quickly‚ with me on her heels‚ sweeps into a hotel on Rue Pierre-Lescot‚ takes the stairs four at a time‚ calls out in front of the glassed-in office on the mezzanine‚ ‘It’s Solange. I’m going up to number eight.’
‘Well‚ what happened?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘With the Corsican?’
‘I don’t really know. I don’t ask questions.’
She’s surprised.
‘Really? What’s your name?’
I give her the agreed alias. She seems delighted.
‘Oh‚ that’s great! My‚ did he go on about you! You’ve sure got a friend there‚ one in a million! So‚ what can we do for you?’
‘Nothing right now. I just thought I’d make contact. If there’s trouble‚ I might have to show up at any old time‚ unannounced. And when that happens‚ I’ll need … absolutely everything.’
‘Don’t worry‚ worse things have happened. Going by your own name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ever done time?’
‘No.’
‘No problem then.’
We chatted about the war‚ the long-awaited landing‚ and Keep-on-Dancin’‚ especially about him‚ for whom Solange has the most touching admiration.
‘Guys like that‚ they don’t make them any more. Not since the last war. Today’s young lads‚ they’re wimps‚ I’m telling you.’
That’s it: she’s dropped the formality. We’re on familiar terms now. The ice has been broken. And I found out a few things I didn’t know!
‘Yes‚ it was Tricksy-Pierrot that told us. Sacchi didn’t play straight. Keep-on-Dancin’ beat him up in a bar …’
‘I know‚ I was there.’
‘…and told him to stay away from La Montagne and not set foot in this neighbourhood – in fact‚ anywhere they might have run into each other. Sacchi‚ the little creep‚ was determined to betray the gang to the cops before making himself scarce. He tried twice: the first time‚ everyone got away. But the second time the cops had some informers in place: they caught Brizou red-handed.’
‘Ah‚ so Brizou’s been arrested.’
‘Joseph Brizou‚ yes. And he won’t be out for a while. There were a hell of a lot of charges outstanding against him. Keep- on-Dancin’ was livid. It didn’t take him long to track down Sacchi’s address: he’d gone to ground in a villa on the main road near Melun. One fine morning Keep-on-Dancin’ and Pierrot went to pay him a visit. Sacchi knew he was done for. He wouldn’t open the door. They climbed over the gate and found our Corsican friend telephoning the police. Well‚ they didn’t mess about. Crrr! Crrr! Crrr! His throat and both flappers. They made their escape through the garden as the fuzz arrived from the other direction. They managed to shake them off and cut across country. They filched clothes they found in barns. Disguised as yokels‚ they legged it to Mormant‚ where they caught the train. That was a fair old distance they covered!’
‘What about the ears? What’s become of them?’
‘Keep-on-Dancin’ wanted to keep them both as lucky charms. He was obsessed with the idea. But he dropped one as he scarpered. It wasn’t a good moment to go back and look for it …’
‘I don’t know where Keep-on-Dancin’ is now‚ and I don’t want to know. But if you get a chance to send him a message‚ tell him not to keep it‚ tell him from me.’
‘Not to keep what? The flapper?’
‘Yes‚ the flapper.’
I describe to her what happened at Klager’s place‚ the Bièvre‚ the ointment‚ the smell. She gazes at me with a reproachful expression.
‘Seeing as you claim to be a friend of his‚ that was when you should have killed the Corsican.’
‘There’s no guarantee that would have settled the matter. And you have to understand‚ not everyone’s free to do as they like.’
Solange asked me if Keep-on-Dancin’ had told me about that psychic circuit – those uncanny places – he’d identified‚ running through the streets of Paris. I described my enthusiasm
the night my new friend had expounded his ideas on the subject of cyclical events and fateful whereabouts. Solange went into raptures.
‘He’s a smart guy‚ there’s no one smarter. You know‚ it’s because of him I’m in this room. He identified the place‚ just like that‚ without knowing anything about it. He came with some newspapers‚ really old and all yellowed‚ that referred to the house way back in the past. I think he even asked an architect for the plans.
‘He said‚ “It’s number eight I want.” He got himself introduced to the owner and talked him into it. He paid a year in advance‚ a whole year! They moved the previous tenant next door‚ and here I am.’
The building isn’t new. The walls are thick. The solid doors have old grilled hatches in them. There’s an enormous beam running across the ceiling.
‘And have you noticed anything special about this place?’
She rests her hand on my arm‚ confidingly. ‘Listen‚ my friend. Most of the clients I bring up here – the ones I have now are almost exclusively regulars – it’s not even for sex. They want me to listen to them: they come‚ a long way even‚ to tell me the story of their life‚ in minute detail‚ in every particular‚ and to share with me whatever’s on their mind. So I give them advice‚ when I’m confident of not getting it wrong. They nearly all want to be comforted. What do I do? I cosset them. You’ve no idea how sweet they are. And stupid. But I’m the sentimental type. The more stupid they are‚ the more I like them. It’s just the way I am.’
She had a tear in her eye.
‘And Keep-on-Dancin’‚ is he … protecting you‚ then?’
‘Oh‚ I’m not his girl. He’s a pal‚ a real pal‚ like no other. As long they know that‚ no one’s going to give me any trouble.’
‘Tell me‚ is it you or the room that encourages your clients to bare their souls?’
‘Both. Anywhere else doesn’t have the same effect on them. Or on me. Keep-on-Dancin’ told me‚ “You’ll hear all sorts of things here. But no one will ever be able to put one over on
you.” And it’s true: there are punters who’d like to pass themselves off as their boss‚ as someone more successful than they are. Not that it matters‚ mind. But no way is there any bullshitting within these four walls. They all come clean. When I see Keep-on-Dancin’ again‚ I’ll get him to give me the lowdown on what happened here before. I’m interested now. He mentioned some Russian and his girl …’
Good Lord! I’ve just twigged. I knew it was Rue Pierre- Lescot‚ but I didn’t know it was in this building‚ and probably in this very room. April 1814. The Empire was in its final death throes. A few Cossak cavalry squadrons with the Prussian regiments‚ having entered the capital through the gate at Clichy‚ bivouacked for a day and a night on the Champs- Elysées. After a dismal parade at the end of which‚ if contemporary historiographers are to be believed‚ the Parisian ‘upper crust’ behaved with a certain lack of dignity‚ the troops were granted furlough and had to be divided up into different sectors. The officers were billeted at the Palais-Royal‚ the men quartered in the Great Fleecery. Rue Pierre-Lescot‚ it was said at the time‚ cost the Russian army as much as a battle.
‘An unfortunate girl‚’ it was later reported in
The Constitutional
‚ ‘seduced and abandoned by her seducer‚ and who had subsequently fallen into the abyss of prostitution’‚ happened to end up spending the night with a Cossak NCO. Among the jewellery that her vanquisher‚ like a real barbarian‚ dangled before her eyes‚ she recognized a family medallion that her brother‚ a sergeant in the National Guard‚ always wore over his heart. It couldn’t have been taken from him without first killing him. So the girl was obliged to yield herself to her brother’s murderer.
Resistance was impossible‚ but not revenge. While the sated Cossak slept‚ Judith took one of Holophernes’ pistols and blew his brains out. The next day she made a full confession of what had motivated her to do this. The French police‚ obliged to incarcerate the culprit and inform the Tsar’s representatives‚ during the night substituted for the prisoner some poor wretched woman who had died at the Hotel-Dieu.
And Judith continued to pursue elsewhere her career as a prostitute driven to despair.
Solange was keen we should spend part of the evening together. But I didn’t have time. She said as we parted‚ ‘If by chance your work gets you involved with some dubious type‚ a guy you don’t trust‚ bring him to me‚ he’ll lay himself bare‚ just like the others. You know‚ I can be a real bitch‚ if I want to.’ I kissed her with genuine affection. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt this way about a whore.
I gave Solange’s offer serious consideration. I’d like to know what Heisserer (alias Lagarde) is up to. The other day he tracked me down at the Quatre-Fesses‚ where I thought I was safe. His fake ration card needed to be stamped‚ to make it look as if he’d collected his quarterly allocation of coupons from the town hall. For the police even check up on that.
But I have the feeling that was just an excuse. Heisserer told me that since he has no regular job at the moment‚ he was prepared to help me out if there was anything he could do. If necessary‚ he would travel.
I need liaison agents for Paris: our best cyclists have gone to the South‚ or Normandy. I gave Heisserer some money – in fact he didn’t seem to need it particularly – and put him in the hands of the secretaries at the operations centre‚ promising to take him on ‘officially’ later if he proved satisfactory and providing he liked the work. It’s only now that I have some misgivings – very vague‚ actually – about this guy.
It was as easy as anything. Yesterday the four of us had dinner together: Heisserer‚ Solange‚ and Paulette‚ my former neighbour. We parted company at half past eleven‚ just in time to get back to our respective homes. Heisserer lives too far away. He seemed delighted that Solange should carry him off‚ on the grounds she’d find him a place to sleep in a more ‘civilized’ part of town. They must surely have gone to bed together.
Sunday evening
This morning‚ acting on Pierre-Luc’s suggestion‚ I went and wandered round the Bicêtre flea market.
There‚ tramps even more wretched than in the centre of town‚ most of them very old‚ flounder among chaotic piles of scrap iron‚ chipped crockery‚ faded garments‚ all kinds of objects whose purpose has long been forgotten. I applied myself to reconstituting a Breton spinning-wheel‚ buying separate bits here and there from different traders. Two men walked very slowly among the busy junk dealers and rag mongers. The Sleeper on the Pont-au-Double and his brother‚ who looks amazingly like him‚ dressed identically‚ wearing the same kind of hat. I followed them. I was lucky‚ for they headed over to the snack bar where I’d left my purchases. They sat down. The Sleeper was served a big bowl of tapioca with milk‚ which his able-bodied brother fed to him with a spoon. Now and again he wiped the paralytic’s lips‚ tidied the collar of his shirt. It was touching and very sad. After the tapioca‚ the Sleeper drank a few sips of wine.
‘That feels better‚’ he said in a lifeless voice‚ with a heart-rending smile.
People looked on sorrowfully. They all seemed to be waiting for something. I heard them say‚ ‘What a pity! He’s such a good man!’
How could this half-untenanted carcass‚ quite incapable of harm or of being good for anything have created such a reputation for himself? I soon found out. The brother – they call him Monsieur Frédéric – cleared the bowl and glasses off the table and laid a notebook on it. And the procession began.
A man in blue overalls came and sat down between the two Lancelin brothers: he unhooked the top of his garment‚ lifted up his shirt and uncovered his hip.
‘It’s here that I get it‚’ he said.
‘How did it start?’ asked Monsieur Frédéric.
‘Lifting a pig of iron. I went at it the wrong way; it wasn’t the right position. I must have twisted my back.’
‘Show me the movement you made.’
The man stood up‚ mimed the action of someone lifting something very heavy from the ground.
‘You’re not straining. Do it again and put some strength into it.’
The patient did so‚ but without following all the way through with it: he grimaced in pain.
‘I see what the problem is.’
Monsieur Frédéric bared a little more of his hip and a bit of his back. He sat the guy down in front of the Sleeper‚ whose hands he took hold of and placed on the painful part of the injured man’s body. Some twenty people observed the scene in total silence. The
patron
came out from behind his counter so as not to miss anything. The Sleeper‚ whose face‚ contrary to what you might expect‚ displays a lively intelligence‚ appeared to be lost in thought. He remained like this for a long while.