Authors: Jacques Yonnet
The tumult has never subsided. Actually‚ it never will. But I don’t yet know the day when I’ll be free not to be so closely involved in it. I can’t allow myself to set out here equations whose constituent parts already exist‚ which will be resolved at some time in the future‚ and whose results I need to validate. For a length of time that remains uncertain‚ I’m in the same predicament as the maniac incapable of finding a piece of string in his path without picking it up and tying a knot in it. But whatever the space given to the narrator throughout
this chronicle‚ I’m well aware this isn’t about my own life but the thrilling‚ rich and generous life of my City.
These scruples compel me to remain silent about some astounding things that I wasn’t in fact the only one to witness‚ and whose protagonists I don’t wish to identify. In the circumstances‚ it would be sheer dishonesty to change or modify names‚ dates and places.
I should like one day‚ as some anonymous pedestrian revisiting the scenes of these memories‚ to follow on the heels of an attentive reader – there are some – and to relish his delight when‚ with this book in his pocket‚ he finds himself in the presence of one of the characters described‚ mentioned or referred to earlier on‚ who do exist‚ large as life‚ and wittingly or not perpetuate their legend. I’d like people to investigate‚ to verify. You need to be an extremely well-informed reader to identify all the ‘keys’ scattered throughout these pages. Many readers may find among them the key to their own front door.
In any case‚ what you need to know is this: in certain areas of Paris‚ the supernatural is part of everyday life. Local people accept this and have some involvement with it. I rely on two easily verifiable examples that hundreds of people will confirm.
Henri the Breton‚ a decent and good-hearted old soak‚ was a porter at the Wholesale Fish Market. Those who knew him – they are many – still meet up at his headquarters: Pagès‚ the coal-merchant-cum-bistrot on Rue du Haut-Pavé. One evening in July 1950‚ Henri borrows a hundred francs from Pagès‚ supposedly to bet on the horses. By ten o’clock he’s at the Vieux-Chêne‚ already fairly tipsy. When he was drunk‚ easy- going Henri developed fixed ideas and tended to raise his voice.
‘No rowdiness from you‚’ the Captain told him.
‘No danger of that‚ Captain‚ I’m a Breton‚ an’ I’m a Christian‚ an’ I’m a gen’leman‚’ says Henri‚ with an unfortunate gesture sending an empty glass flying. He insisted on paying for damage on the spot.
Along comes Honoré Thibaudaut‚ as though by chance of course‚ the man with a blasted reputation‚ the burns man‚ the blabber. Thinner and more pasty-faced than ever‚ constricted rather than dressed in black‚ with eyes that couldn’t be more sunken.
Henri says something to him. The other refuses to reply. Henri loses his temper. ‘Anyway‚ I don’t like you‚ you carry a whiff of damnation about you. Where I come from‚ the parish priest wouldn’t have looked very kindly on you.’
Once uttered‚ those words ‘parish priest’ release a flood of distant memories in Henri the one-time choirboy. He pictures himself serving at mass in Kirity-Penmarc’h. He makes huge signs of the cross in the pipe smoke. In a rush of emotion‚ he berates the other with these terrible words:
‘Damnation! There’s a whiff of damnation about you‚ with that whey-faced expression of yours‚ like a cat shitting on hot bricks! You sold out‚ you sold out to the devil! You’re dead‚ dead‚ deader than all the dead put together! And you don’t even deserve to be pitied! Bugger off! You stink! The cemetery’s the place for stiffs!’
This was verging on insanity. Henri started declaiming melodramatically‚ ‘
De profundis clamavi‚ Domine‚ Domine
…’
Thibaudaut’s sallow complexion had turned ashen. ‘Stop it! Stop it! What are you doing?’ He was jigging about in terror.
His persecutor went on‚ ‘
Fiant aures tuae intendentes in vocem
…’
Thibaudaut fled. The Captain threatened to get angry if the Breton didn’t leave straightway. Henri complied.
‘I can’t help it‚’ he said‚ hiccupping‚ ‘I can’t stand people who stink. Of anything but fish.’
Henri must have had something to eat and sobered up a bit.
At four o’clock in the morning there was a sudden storm. A single flash of lightning lit up the tower of St Jacques (in the middle of a garden square planted with big trees).
Henri was found close by‚ beside the railings round the square‚ struck down by the lightning‚ with his hands clenched on his trolley‚ his face blue.
André Gantot was a butcher in the south-east suburbs of
Paris. Three times a week‚ he would drive in on his scooter to Les Halles‚ where he would buy his meat supplies. He was in the habit of eating at Raymond’s restaurant‚ on the corner of Rue de Pontoise and Quai de la Tournelle‚ in a house that only two hundred years ago was still part of the Meat Market (the cattle port was right opposite).
Gantot was a pretty unpleasant character. Thick-set and dull-witted‚ a big-mouth and a braggart‚ he annoyed everyone with his infelicitous remarks. On the morning of April 1st‚ 1947‚ news phoned through to Les Halles took two hours to cross the Seine: André Gantot‚ who’d left Raymond’s very late the night before‚ had had a fatal accident driving home that night. His scooter had skidded. Hit a tree. He was killed instantly.
His fellow traders at Les Halles immediately organized a collection and bought a huge wreath there and then that was placed in front of the stall where he usually made his purchases.
On the stroke of midday‚ stupefaction: looking fresh as a daisy and very pleased with himself‚ André Gantot turned up to enjoy the effects of what he considered a good joke. All he encountered were stony faces. No one failed to convey to him the general disapproval. Sheepishly‚ he thought he’d get away with just buying everyone a drink.
On April 1st‚ 1948‚ exactly the same news spread through Les Halles and made the usual round.
‘He’s really going too far‚’ said his colleagues. And no one thought any more about it. At La Tournelle‚ everyone agreed this inveterate stupidity could rebound on him badly.
Little did they know how right they were. The next day it turned out that the butcher‚ having set off late the day before‚ had stopped off at several bars along the way. He’d even offered a young man a lift. Five hundred metres from his house‚ sure enough‚ André Gantot had factured his skull against a tree. The young man was unhurt. We later saw him. ‘André bled like an ox‚’ he told us. ‘He didn’t skid‚ he drove straight into the tree at top speed. As if he were attracted by the obstacle‚ drawn towards it. I’ll never be able to make any sense of it.’
Of course he won’t. But the lads who all knew Gantot‚ and didn’t much care for him‚ don’t see this as anything but perfectly normal. The incident is still well remembered in the neighbourhood.
I didn’t have the nerve to tell Dr Garret during his last visit to Paris what happened in Rue Zacharie – Rue des Maléfices – during the summer of 1950. This incident so deeply affected me‚ I avoid mentioning it. And until the very last moment I felt prevented from describing it here. It makes you think that if there is a pervasive spirit‚ it’s wariness that hangs in the air.
Who
is apprehensive‚
who
has reason to fear such evidence should be brought to the attention of mankind‚
what
is feared‚ and
why
?
I’d like this final anecdote to have the austerity of a report.
My work on the Vieux-Pont had prompted a film producer to conceive of a short documentary devoted to ‘legendary neighbourhoods’. Among these legends‚ that of the blind man – the Man-Who-Sings – which Garret related to me in his London retreat‚ seemed to us the most poetic. I was commissioned to write a synopsis of the script. By common consent‚ we decided to call the film
Rue des Maléfices
. A female street- singer was to play the leading role. I’d written the lyrics for two theme songs that my brother‚ a professional musician‚ was to arrange.
So it was that one warm night conducive to fruitful ruminations‚ three companions‚ pondering on their projects and puffing on their pipes‚ walked down that street in the footsteps of the medieval couple. They were the journalist Raphael Cuttoli‚ my brother and I. Luckily – it was two o’clock in the morning – there was one small restaurant still open: the Athènes‚ run by Denis the Evzone. There was only one customer there‚ eating rice: Serge B‚ a big Gypsy fellow‚ whom I vaguely knew from having met him at the Friday poetry meetings of the Islanders on the Ile St-Louis.
‘I didn’t know you lived round here.’
‘Yes‚ nearby‚ at number 16. A garret. But it’s a hassle. I have to keep the light on all night. So I’m running a night-light off the downstairs neighbour’s meter‚ without him knowing.’
‘Why do you need the light on?’
‘You mean you don’t know? It’s the Blind Man’s room.’
I was stunned. Cuttoli and my brother‚ to whom I’d related the story maybe a quarter of an hour earlier‚ were thunderstruck.
‘What blind man? Tell me‚ quickly‚ tell me.’
‘Some cock-and-bull story. An old‚ very old tradition is attached to this garret – this attic rather. No subsequent tenant has managed to stay more than a few weeks. It seems that the ghost of an unkempt blind man who walks with a limp appears to them in their sleep. And without waking them‚ the blind man passes over their eyes a long broad hand that’s luminous‚ translucid and icy-cold.
‘These people wake up full of anguish. They have some recollection of a horrible nightmare‚ and they have the sensation that the blind man has drawn the light out of them: they see less clearly‚ their eyes blink and can’t take the sun. In the end it gets too much for them. They leave. The owner‚ an elderly woman‚ fed up with all of this‚ didn’t want to let the room any more‚ at any price. I had to beg her. But although I’ve never encountered any ghost‚ these things unnerve me. So I leave the light on all night‚ as an additional precaution. And so far I’ve slept soundly.’
I subsequently had the opportunity to check out what this fellow had said: it was true. My old acquaintances from the Maube – Georgette‚ Old Marteau‚ Jean the mattress-maker‚ and many others – have all‚ everyone one of them in turn‚ been through that experience with the old man. You really have to worm it out of them. They talk of it solely with dread. All of them complain of defective eyesight which they attribute to their stay in ‘the Attic’. Most of them wear dark glasses.
‘I must visit your room.’
‘All right. Come tomorrow during the day.’
‘No. Right now. It’s urgent. It’s important. It’s essential.’
I buy a litre of Samos wine. And now all four of us are climbing the stairs. Halfway up‚ Serge says to me‚ ‘I share the room with a friend. An actor. He may be in. Otherwise‚ he’ll be back any minute.’
To enter ‘the Attic’‚ you have to duck‚ follow a long corridor – like a kind of trench – and climb another few dangerously worn steps. Here we are at last: a rather squalid mess‚ not at all amusing despite the inscription painted on the peeling plaster:
You’re not at home here‚ keep these premises in a shambolic state
. We made ourselves comfortable as best we could on some rickety chairs‚ and filled some sticky glasses.
‘And now‚’ says Serge‚ ‘tell me a little bit about why you have such a keen interest in this pad?’
I was already steeped in ‘my’ film‚ and without immediately tackling the legend of the man who was going to die‚ I paint a picture of St Séverin in the thirteenth century‚ with its hordes of beggars:
Malingreux
‚
Sabouleux
‚ and
Rifodé
s. The door creaks. In comes number two. A young guy. Tall‚ untidy‚ check shirt‚ with a thick head of hair. A fine handsome head‚ but a little drunk. Introductions are quickly made.
‘My mate Thierry‚’ says Serge. Right.
Thierry sits down beside me. I tell the story of the man overcome with weakness‚ the woman who becomes identified with the night‚ the tree on the riverbank‚ the rising darkness.
Serge was standing behind his friend. But Cuttoli‚ my brother and I observed with anxiety Thierry’s eyes‚ his trembling hands‚ his pale face: he was going out of his mind.
All stories come to an end. I couldn’t drag it out for ever. When I concluded with the word ‘blind’‚ it was met with a howl.
Thierry went beserk. No longer able to control himself‚ and his strength increased tenfold by a desperate surge of long- contained fury‚ he leapt on us. Despite our efforts‚ he managed to smack Cuttoli’s face‚ and in the scuffle Cuttoli lost a shoe. It was only after having torn out the electric wires that we succeeded in reaching the staircase‚ then the street‚ leaving
behind our briefcases crammed with documents‚ scores and manuscripts – the fruit of weeks of work.
We needed to get it back‚ which meant a lot of hassle‚ involving the police … So the three of us‚ my brother‚ myself and a bloodied Cuttoli‚ end up at the Panthéon police station‚ where no one could make any sense of the fact that a guy could suddenly go crazy at the relating of a legend.
For a long time afterwards Thierry was not at all well. He too complained of problems with his eyesight. And his mental health.
I’d recounted this distressing incident to my friend D‚ an official in the city administration. The next day he came to see me‚ thoroughly rattled‚ and asked me point-blank‚ ‘Who was Provost of Paris in 1268‚ which is when that legend dates from?’
‘Easy.’ I consult my Lazare. ‘Augier‚ Jehan Augier.’
‘Right. And what was he doing in 1268?’
‘Well‚ we just settled that: he was Provost of Paris.’
‘Maybe so. But he was still in the East‚ returning from a crusade carried out by order of the king St Louis‚ at the request of the Infidels themselves. Who for once wanted to join forces with the Christians‚ as far back as 1240‚ in order to drive out of their lands the hordes of Genghis Khan. Augier had set sail‚ and was heading towards the coast of Africa.’
‘So?’
‘Back in Paris‚ he’d delegated his authority to various individuals: in particular to one of the churchwardens of St Séverin‚ whose name was Thierry de Sauldre. A Flemish nobleman. Thierry de Sauldre fell under a spell – at least it was the activities of a sorcerer that were blamed for the ailment he was stricken with‚ which gradually deprived him of his eyesight. In 1269 he issued a decree prohibiting access to Rue des Maléfices to “all who are blind‚ whatever the origin of their blindness.” We can trace the fortunes of his family since then. In the eighteenth century the De Sauldres emigrated and became colonists of Guadeloupe. The last descendants returned from there just recently. And Guadeloupe‚ by the
way‚ is where
he
was born‚ your aggressor the other night‚ the raving lunatic.’