Authors: Jacques Yonnet
‘My wife‚’ said Mikhail.
She smiled graciously‚ extending her hand.
I was in the middle of nowhere. The gaudy clothes‚ the horse’s white coat made the surrounding landscape‚ which was flat and rather squalid‚ take on a different hue. This Gypsy encampment could have been located in any corner of Europe‚ America‚ or Asia Minor.
‘All we need’s a bit of music‚’ I said.
‘Stay with us‚’ said Mikhail. ‘You shall have some this evening.’
There are things he’d like to tell me‚ loads of things‚ revelations I await with impatience. But these fail to come. What the nature of his latest qualms is‚ I do not know. So I can’t attempt to allay them. He finally makes up his mind‚ without conviction‚ and opts to question me.
‘Have you ever needed to be forgiven for something serious?’
‘That depends. If you mean‚ have I ever committed a serious sin‚ probably yes. But have I thought of “seeking forgiveness”? To start with‚ from whom?’
‘Not from your fellow men.’
‘Then no. Definitely not. You can’t redeem a wicked deed: you can‚ if possible‚ make amends. I’m willing to be punished for all the ill I might do. I want to pay my dues. But I don’t believe that past deeds can be cancelled out. Nor the intentions a person might have had. The intention: that’s the important thing in my view.’
‘You don’t recognize any other judge?’
‘No. Besides‚ I’m more severe than anyone else. For me‚ any notion of humility‚ of submission‚ is unthinkable.’
‘So you reject the very principle of confession.’
‘Absolutely. It offends me. Infuriates me. It’s a humiliation‚ a degradation I can’t accept.’
‘Of course‚ that’s a valid point of view.’
We were walking through the grassy rises and depressions of that outlying area. We circumvented an animal carcase. A tyre ring‚ worn down to the canvas‚ lay abandoned among the nettles. Mikhail picked it up and put it on his shoulder. I wonder what use he can possibly make of it.
After a pause: ‘But if you felt there existed inside you‚ in your physical body‚ something bad‚ impure‚ taboo …’
‘There’s always penicillin.’
‘Don’t joke about it.’
He expended his anger by giving a hefty kick to all the tins that lay in his path.
‘How am I going to get you to understand?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never had that experience.’
He decided to change tack.
‘Have you never had the impression‚ whether it took the form of a memory‚ intuition‚ or whatever‚ of having lived in some previous age?’
‘Oh‚ yes indeed. Actually‚ in two different ages‚ a little over two centuries apart‚ which I could pin down to within a few years.’
‘And where was that?’
‘Here. In Paris.’
‘And it was really you‚ you’re not just identifying with some other character?’
‘No. Exactly the same person‚ with same face‚ the same body‚ in every detail.’
He looked relieved.
‘Some common ground‚ at last. Now‚ I hope you’ll be able to understand.’
Mikhail’s family-in-law belong to the same clan. They’re all more or less cousins. I’d noticed they had more sophisticated‚ more highly developed features than most of their like: no thick lips‚ clearly separated eyebrows‚ broad foreheads‚ ears that originate at the level of their eyes and not above. They live in a patriarchal community under the rule not of a ‘leader’ but as is customary among the Gypsy people of a king‚ not elected by his subjects: it’s an hereditary position. Now‚ according to family tradition – which corresponds to a very deep-rooted belief – every seven generations‚ it’s the very same king who reappears to regenerate his dynasty. The authority of his forefathers and descendants‚ ‘kings’ too but mere links in the chain‚ is infinitely less great than his. Which is absolute and extends to every domain. The crown princes – the eldest sons – are expected to procreate as soon as they become physically capable of doing so: that’s to say‚ between thirteen and sixteen years of age. Which leads to a ‘reincarnated’ sovereign every century‚ more or less. The law of the clan lays down that on his death the king should not be buried but cremated and his ashes scattered to the wind.
A detail arises at this point that caused Mikhail to hesitate a long while before revealing to me the secret of a tradition that‚ appalling as it was‚ no one will ever dare to violate. A funeral banquet‚ organized according to an immutable rite‚ will bring together the dead king’s sons‚ and more generally speaking all his male descendants. Among other classic delicacies‚ they’ll have to partake of the deceased’s brain‚ heart and testicles‚ prepared however it suits them.
And then‚ even if they’re on the other side of the world‚
they’ll have to hurry to reach Paris and come to do penance at St Médard‚ praying in earnest for nine consecutive days. At St Médard‚ and nowhere else; for only there is the sin of cannibalism absolved.
‘Now‚ you’re free to regard me as a savage.’
‘Not at all. I wasn’t expecting to hear what you’ve just told me. It’s still too fresh in my mind. And anyway‚ far be it from me to pass judgement. But have you already attended such a meal‚ experienced a ceremony of this kind?’
‘No. The last “Great King” was cremated on the island of Oléron‚ in 1880. It’s a problem in France‚ for we don’t have the right to dispose of our dead‚ or even to transport them.’
‘So what will you do next time?’
My question seemed to provoke in him a certain unease.
‘Everything’s arranged. He’ll be shut up in a box filled with salt and the caravan will travel until it finds some uninhabited or remote spot‚ far from any village‚ in the Landes‚ for example.’
‘And where have you got to in your dynasty?’
‘My father’s the present king‚ he’s number six‚ and the oldest son is me.’
It was my turn to feel somewhat uncomfortable. Gabriel himself‚ Mikhail here‚ destined for the cooking pot!
‘So you’re the reincarnated king. But how old are you?’
‘Thirty-eight.’
‘No children yet?’
‘Sixteen‚ including four daughters.’
‘And it’s only now you’re getting married?’
‘For the fourth time.’
‘I didn’t know your people practised polygamy.’
‘They don’t. I’m allowed to. No one else is. I’m allowed to do anything.’
‘But how come you were a rag-picker when I met you?’
‘All of us‚ the kings just like everyone else‚ are obliged to spend some time alone and in extreme poverty. It’s the oldest member of the clan‚ not necessarily the king‚ who decides when it’s time to go and how long the ordeal’s to last.’
‘What determines that decision? His mood? His judgement? Some sixth sense?’
‘Certainly not. With us‚ it’s much more complicated. Accounts have to be settled.’
On this point‚ he refused to be drawn any further.
‘I can’t understand why your people pretend to profess the Catholic faith while on the other hand their customs seem contaminated with pagan practices from the most distant past. Not to mention this ritual cannibalism‚ which is a little too reminiscent of the nineteenth-century travel journal. Admittedly‚ in that case‚ it was happening in a place like Caffre or Papua New Guinea.’
‘I want to show you something.’
The back of a caravan is set up as a shrine. A flame flickers on a glass of oil. A faint smell of incense hangs in the air. Vases attractively filled with fresh flowers stand on the shelf that serves as an altar. An extraordinary virgin of blackened silver is in the centre of an icon.
Dominating all this is a polychrome wooden crucifix. It’s very old. Of Hungarian or Rumanian craftsmanship. It’s no ordinary Christ figure: the head is raised‚ the eyes look skywards. The left hand‚ detached from the cross‚ is raised in a gesture of farewell – or appeal. The effect is ungainly.
‘Listen carefully.’
He makes two rapid movements to indicate the two structural elements of the cross. From top to bottom‚ from left to right.
‘That’s time. That’s space. They’re mutually restrictive‚ they imprison each other. A man cannot conceive of one except in terms of the other. True or not?’
‘That’s quite true. It’s indisputable. We weren’t made to transcend those givens.’
‘Indeed. Man stuck in the middle. Right? At zero point. We can’t escape that. We’ve no right to. That’s Christian humility for you. That’s obedience. That’s discipline.’
He gives a contained sarcastic laugh. His eyes are shining. An insane pride is stamped on his brow. He points to the free hand.
‘There‚ that’s our secret‚ our … my heritage. We’ve managed to escape. To transcend everything. We’re no longer subject to any constraint. Think about that. Often.’
Time‚ the x-axis. Space‚ the y-axis. The rest of us stuck in the middle. I promise you‚ Mikhail‚ to think about it much more often than I’d like to.
Berlin‚ February 1948
I took the tram from Tegel‚ the U-bahn from Wedding. Brandenburg Gate: ten kilometres of houses blown up on Unter-den-Linden. It’s freezing cold. There are children tobogganing amid the devastation.
I walk up towards Stettiner Bahnhof (their Gare du Nord). Near the urinals‚ a young nancy-boy on crutches – about seventeen‚ with the face of an angel‚ he has only half a leg – asks me for a light. Apparently‚ with him‚ for three marks‚ it’s ‘a deal’.
Inside the station: police raid. German cops and Russian NCOs search the rucksacks of gaunt individuals hurrying to board gloomy carriages fitted with plywood panels instead of glass windows.
Round the station‚ black market trading in potatoes‚ matches and horrible Rusky fags (‘
Papyruski
’‚ they say). And who do you think it is‚ wearing a Jerry cap and grey-green combat jacket‚ that sells me a packet?
Tricksy-Pierrot! Pierrot from Keep-on-Dancin’’s gang!
He hasn’t heard. He’s stunned by the news.
Keep-on-Dancin’s first trial was annulled. The second dragged on for ages. He was condemned to death by two different courts on loads of charges. He was guillotined ten days ago.
‘Topped! They did that to him! And you think that’s going to be the end of it? To hell with it all! I’m going back to Paris!’
‘Please‚ Pierrot‚ don’t be a fool.’
Paris‚ March
Keep-on-Dancin’ had been executed‚ and no one was protesting about that. ‘Those were the rules of the game‚’ in his own words. He shouldn’t have let himself get caught in such an idiotic way like that. But around Mont-St-Geneviève we’d all known him‚ and everybody began to consider and comment on the actual process of execution. And outraged by it‚ everybody declared it was degrading to all of us‚ appalling‚ disgusting. It’s the beheading that sickens them. An Arab told us that the beheading of a single Muslim‚ however abominable a criminal he might be‚ causes millions of fists to be raised against the sacrilegious Christians. A Muslim does not present himself before Mahomet purged of all his earthly sins with his head under his arm. Dolly-the-Slow-Burner was terribly upset. It became quite another matter when Tricksy-Pierrot showed up‚ bearded‚ bespectacled‚ unrecognizable.
In the back room at Quarteron’s they rallied a few supporters and held a kind of war council. Everyone agreed ‘it shouldn’t end there’. Dolly’s unbridled anger verged on hysteria. It was she who had the nerve to reach the conclusion‚ ‘Either we’ve got guts‚ or we haven’t. I say‚ we ought to do in a cop.’
Feelings were running high among the others. Pierrot backed Dolly.
‘Absolutely‚ they need to be taught a lesson. If the law’s left to the fuzz‚ it means the death of the petty crook …’
A little later Alexandre Villemain turned up. Drunk‚ like he was every evening. And like every other evening when he was drunk‚ he came out with the same old story.
‘I’m like you … I’m with the police …’
Everyone stared at him with interest.
It’s curious how the waters of the Seine act differently on the drowned‚ depending on whether they’ve eaten or drunk‚ or the proportion of unabsorbed alcohol circulating in the system. When two days after the memorable meeting between
the friends of Keep-on-Dancin’‚ Villemain was fished out on Quai du Marché-Neuf‚ his hands and feet had become chalk-white and enormous. His dosser friends organized a collection.
So he didn’t have to be buried in an unmarked grave.
Solange is inconsolable. She’s made up a little bag that she wears next to her skin like a scapular. She’s tucked inside it the last memento she has of her friend. An exhibit that was produced as evidence in court‚ stolen during the trial. A human ear‚ a right ear‚ tanned like leather‚ long and a little pointed.
I’ve treated her and her girlfriends to a bottle of champagne. They’re wondering if I’ve come into an inheritance‚ or something. It’s made them feel slightly uncomfortable. This is no way to ‘bury’ a friend.
Today I’ve lost all sense of modesty. For the first time I’m celebrating an award. I’ve been decorated. I show Solange the citation from which I’ve cut out the verbiage:
‘Resolution no. 1347 dated 18th November 1945 … on the 4th June 1944 uncovered a Gestapo agent who came to him to join the network. Killed him and disposed of the body … thereby saving the organization’‚ etc.
Solange made an effort to smile. She said‚ ‘All that’s down to Keep-on-Dancin’. I realize more and more he’s not as dead as all that‚ which bucks me up. Besides‚ it’s being taken care of …’
‘Oh? By whom?’
‘You’re not one of the family yet. It takes a long time‚ you know. You’ll work it out for yourself later‚ much later.’
And off she went‚ saying‚ ‘
Bye-bye
.’
A client was waiting for her out in the street.
October 1951
Doctor Garret and his wife‚ Priscilla‚ are in Paris. He‚ a northern god‚ of powerful build beneath luxuriant white hair. She‚ small‚ dark and plump‚ and always laughing.
For the past week I’ve been acting as their guide. We’ve thoroughly explored the districts of the old City. As well as the catacombs‚ the quarries‚ the underground tunnels of Belleville‚ the course of the Bièvre. I’m determined that Garret and his wife shouldn’t miss out on anything I can provide them with‚ in terms of stories‚ specific information and‚ to the extent that Paris colludes with me‚ enchantment.