Authors: Jacques Yonnet
Whenever he was around‚ Paulette had eyes only for him. Apparently one day he invited her to visit his barge. Paulette turfed out the few regulars in the bar at the time‚ locked up and posted the key through the letterbox. They headed off together in the direction of the Seine. None of us has ever set eyes on them again.
So the hotel was left to itself‚ Paulette’s room pillaged‚ the bar ransacked. At night the tramps‚ who’d forced their way in through the back door‚ would come down the corridor and invade the bar‚ where they slept all piled on top of each other.
There was another‚ much more serious cave-in. The city authorities got involved: immediate evacuation of the building was ordered. The police had to be called in to evict a whole gaggle of tramps‚ moaning and shouting‚ dragging their brats and bundles away with them. The doors and windows were bricked up.
Meanwhile‚ an architect came‚ assessed the damage and took samples of the building material. We hear that the walls of the house are infected with a real disease: a kind of ‘mushroom’ gets inside them‚ and eats away at them‚ right to heart. The stones crumble like blown plaster. And what’s more‚ the ‘disease’ is apparently contagious‚ and a threat to other buildings.
The whole lot has to be demolished‚ and very soon.
Every morning the Gypsy passes by‚ and stops in front of the house‚ just for a little while.
It was a team of French workers that started the job. From the upper storey they set up a kind of shoot made of planks‚ and shored up the front walls. They began taking down the roof‚ or what was left of it. But all this is thirsty work‚ and every quarter of an hour these lads would go off for a drink‚ at this bar or that: the Vieux-Palais‚ Chez Dumont‚ Chez Bébert. The owners of these different establishments‚ the regulars too‚ didn’t fail to tell the whole story of the Gypsy‚ the sick hairless dog‚ the now leprous and crazed Valentin‚ Paulette’s elopement. A professional demolition worker doesn’t much like stories that prey on his mind.
Work had scarcely begun on the second storey when these six fellows – including the foreman – also began to feel peculiar pricklings in their hands‚ armpits‚ groins.
They all‚ simultaneously‚ found actionable grounds for breaking the contract they had with the public works’ contractor. And the site remained abandoned: no one wanted to take a pickaxe to those jinxed walls.
The spring rains turned the staircases into cascades‚ the ceilings into waterfalls. The house was in danger of collapsing into the street at any moment.
I don’t know how the Germans got to hear about it‚ but it was a team of Poles‚ conscripted from the mines in the North‚ and brought on site by truck‚ with a couple of armed German soldiers on guard‚ who razed it to ground in two days.
The rubble was removed as it came down.
Today it’s all tidied up‚ the ground properly levelled. The Gypsy comes by every morning at about eleven o’clock‚ loaded with bags. Deliberately‚ he settles himself on a crate in the middle of the plot‚ and sorts out the ‘goods’ he’s collected‚ to be passed on to the master ragmen: scraps of wool‚ rags of other textiles‚ paper‚ metal‚ old bones‚ refuse of all sorts.
At last the smile that Blackbeard has is the one for happy days. He’s on conquered soil.
The Ancients understood the omnipotence of the underside of things.
Pasteur
Followed step by step‚ relived hour by hour‚ the story of the house that no longer exists would not by itself give a total picture of that period. Since my escape I’d been unable to shake off an immense fatigue that from time to time suddenly and at totally unexpected interludes completely knackered me‚ so overwhelmed me I was afraid of collapsing on the spot.
I consulted Cyril.
‘Sleep‚’ he prescribed. ‘No other solution. Whenever you feel the urge‚ go and lie down‚ somewhere nice and warm‚ and take a nap. But mind you don’t just fall asleep anywhere when you’re in a weak state. If you’ve found a good spot where you feel relaxed‚ it’s because you’re protected there. Try and stick to it. That’s very important.’
He’s right. At his suggestion‚ I moved the position and orientation of the bed in my room five or six times. Now that it’s at an angle by the window‚ I feel comfortable in it‚ quite safe. What Cyril said holds true to within a metre.
Cyril’s not the only one who has contributed to completing my education. Several people have taught me that there exists‚ in the underlying order of things‚ a potential for humour that corresponds to paradoxical requirements. Laughter is proper to the man? Perhaps. But the incident that provokes us to laughter‚ the comical incident‚ belongs to all creation‚ from the amoeba to the crystal. In short‚ nothing should be taken too seriously.
On receiving his call-up papers for military service‚ a fellow by the name of Borjois noticed that his first name was Alfophonse. You read that correctly: efohpeeaitchohen. He started laughing‚ and showed it to his mates‚ who cracked up‚ as well they might‚ and Alfophonse thereupon embarked on a discreet but necessary investigation. He likes to report his findings in the argot he speaks better than anyone else. For Alfophonse is a purist: he’s from Glacière‚ where traditions are not about to die out.
‘You see‚ when my old lady pupped me‚ I had three older sisters. “A boy‚ at last!” says the old man.’ (At this point‚ I’ll pass over the physiological details that would lack colourfulness in correct French.) ‘Now my uncle‚ my old lady’s bro‚ I have to tell you‚ is a pen-pusher in the local council administration. And it’s His Nibs that does the entries for the Directory‚ as you might say. So his brother-in-law goes to see him: “Hey! Gus‚” he says‚ “got some news for you! Your sis has pupped a boy! The real thing‚ complete with nuts and a joystick.” “Listen‚ Albert‚” says uncle‚ “when the same thing happens up the Prince of Wales’s neck of the woods‚ the king of England has twenty-one shots fired from a single cannon. Well‚ you and me are going to put away twenty-one shots. Down the hatch! Without a moment’s delay!” And off go the two brothers-in-law to knock back twenty-one glasses of red. No messing about! Going back to the office‚ they’re a bit unsteady on their pegs. Then uncle picks up his pen to enter me into the local Directory. “We’re not done yet‚” he says‚ “we need a name for the little blighter.” The old man racks his brains. Draws a blank. Then he says‚ “Remember granddad‚ Gus? D’you remember? Alphonse‚ he was called. D’you remember? Well‚ Alphonse is what we’ll call our lad. Like granddad!”
‘What it is to be susceptible! Next thing‚ they’re blubbering‚ and uncle’s snivelling as he writes: A.l.f.o. “Hey‚ watch what you’re doing!” says the old man‚ “Peeaitch!” “What do you mean‚ peeaitch?” “Ehelpeeaitch!” Well‚ blow me!
Scratching out in the register‚ can’t be done‚ not for love nor money. ‘Gainst the law. No way can my moniker be altered. So that’s how I come to be called Alfophonse!’
Alfophonse’s name made him famous in the army‚ and then among his workmates. Eventually convinced that his name must be written on the end of his nose‚ when he finds himself with someone new‚ he laughs. As others might apologize. He has a good hearty laugh. Of an epidemically infectious nature. He’ll live a long life filled with mirth right up to the very last moment.
That blesséd Théophile! One evening he opened up and confided in me. Now I know everything about him!
Nearly twenty-five years ago the young Théophile‚ a native of Rennes‚ fresh out of school‚ demonstrated both a strong bent for classical literary studies and an irresistible leaning towards a career in the Church. His family had to reconcile themselves to letting him enter the seminary. So it was under these circumstances that he visited Paris for the first time‚ on the occasion of a pilgrimage to Notre-Dame. He took pleasure in wandering through the poorer districts near the Ile de la Cité‚ and at once responded to their ambiguous charm. A few months later‚ he returned to the capital as a theology student‚ but this time to become resident‚ close to Rue St-Jacques‚ not far from the place where another ‘scholar’ once lived: François de Montcorbier‚ whom we know as Villon.
He must have had the temperament of a missionary or preacher. For not a week went by that our young man was not seen‚ soberly dressed‚ wearing a beret‚ haunting the vicinity of Place Maubert‚ the least attractive of whose local inhabitants he knew by name‚ and was able to get them to share their woes and confide in him the most shameful details of their life. Scavengers of fag ends‚ pickpockets and tramps no longer held any secrets from the man they not unkindly called ‘Father Greenhorn’.
The time came when Théophile didn’t disdain to go into the lowest dives and mix even more closely with the down- and-outs. He showed a preference for those vagrants who‚ beneath a stinking carapace of grimy sweat‚ gave evidence of some education‚ acquired in ‘the days of wanton youth’‚ and they themselves took a certain pride in his friendship.
Little by little‚ insidiously‚ the whole neighbourhood became rooted in him; this area‚ its stones and its people‚ decided to keep him there for ever‚ even if this conspiracy of vague wishfulness‚ in human beings and things‚ had to achieve its purpose at the cost of some misfortune. Which is indeed what occurred.
Trigou was ordained and yet didn’t leave the capital. The young priest became a teacher of French and Latin in a very well-known religious establishment at Auteuil. Uneventful years passed. Théophile fulfilled his duties as teacher and educator to everyone’s satisfaction. Every Sunday during the summer months‚ he observed the Lord’s commandments by taking rest. Often he would go out of Paris‚ by himself‚ into the wooded countryside‚ and there‚ in the woodland solitude‚ cheered by birdsong‚ a modern-day Francis of Assisi‚ he would devote himself to religious texts and meditation.
One August Sunday‚ even more stiflingly hot than usual‚ the young priest went to the forest of Fontainebleau. Feeling rather weary after a long walk‚ he sat down by a big tree‚ on a mound that seemed to have been placed there specially. He dropped off to sleep for quite a while. When he woke‚ his hips felt unusually itchy. He realized he had just enough time to get to the station and catch the train. On the walk back‚ the itchiness‚ which had spread to the entire lower part of his body‚ intensified to an unbearable degree. But with no time to spare and perhaps accustomed‚ in spirit at least‚ to otherwise painful mortifications‚ it was only once inside the carriage that he investigated the cause of his itchiness.
This train was composed of old wooden carriages‚ of the kind still used on provinicial ‘slow trains’‚ with no corridors. The priest was alone in his compartment. He immediately discovered the explanation for the ‘providential’ and extremely
comfortable mound he had unwisely sat on: it was a gigantic anthill. His trousers and underpants were full of insects driven to ferocity by having been displaced from their dwelling. It was high time‚ the priest decided in between stations‚ to deal with what had become a matter of urgency: he unbuttoned his cassock‚ took off his trousers and underpants‚ and began to shake them all out of the window. At one point along the route‚ the track curves. A powerful gust of wind tore the clothes from the dismayed priest’s hands. And the slow train came to a halt.
Waiting on the platform‚ heaped with wild flowers‚ singing sweetly‚ and accompanied by nuns‚ were some fifty very innocent young schoolgirls from a very Christian orphanage.
The impending danger causing him to completely lose his head‚ Théophile just had time to dive under the seat. Some of the innocent band piled into his compartment. And the train was off again!
His trepidation‚ the dust‚ the wild flowers being shaken about‚ were a torture to our poor wretched priest. He couldn’t help sneezing into one young girl’s calves‚ and she instantly screamed blue murder. Steeled with pious courage‚ the chaperon nun dared to bend down. A satanic vision met her eyes: a pair of buttocks blue with shame. She fainted and the young girls pulled the communication cord. The train stopped in open countryside while panic-stricken screams spread from carriage to carriage. Stoker‚ engine driver and conductor all came running‚ and had the greatest difficulty in dragging Théophile out from under his seat‚ more dead than alive. On the rail track‚ he was subjected to countless taunts‚ insults and jibes to which he was unable to respond‚ entirely preoccupied as he was with holding together his (much too short) shirt- tails‚ as a mischievous evening breeze contrived to set them aflutter.
The satyr‚ as he’d immediately been dubbed‚ was handed over to two employees of the Railway Company‚ who marched him off to the gate-keeper’s house at the nearest level crossing (several kilometres away).
From there a phone call was made to the police. Théophile
had some difficulty in establishing his bona fides. He spent the night in a cell‚ and it was only next morning that his clothes were found scattered along the embankment. At Auteuil he came up with some sheepish excuse‚ not daring to recount his misadventure‚ and for the first time ever lied to his superiors.
Within the next few days the local press‚ alerted by the police report‚ had got hold of the story. The Seine-et-Marne
Progress
‚ an anticlerical rag‚ indulged in sarcastic comments‚ no less humorous than ironic‚ while the
Independent
‚ a self- righteous weekly‚ deplored both the incident and its rival’s lack of charitableness. That was enough for a Parisian columnist‚ Monsieur de la Fourchardière‚ to seize his opportunity and give free rein to his mordant wit. All mentioned the name of Théophile Trigou‚ in itself cause for amusement. And that was how from one day to the next this priest of ours was unceremoniously kicked out of the institution where his livelihood had been assured. Moreover‚ he was so violently traumatized by his experience‚ he never got over it.
He doesn’t talk about the life he led during those subsequent months; but he was soon back in the Maubert neighbourhood‚ and also seen round the lycées – Charlemagne‚ Henri IV and St Louis. He’s grown a beard. Dressed in a jacket stiff with dirt‚ he wears a shirt-front and wing collar‚ but practically never a shirt. For a couple of glasses of wine or a bit of small change‚ he wonderfully assists school kids and university students with their Latin versification and translations. He’s known as ‘the Doctor’ or ‘the Professor’. He accepts his fate philosophically.