Authors: Raymond Queneau
At the hundred and fiftieth rung, it seemed to him that the number of rungs above him had hardly decreased. At the two hundredth rung, this semblance became a certainty; he could go on climbing like this for a very long time. To such a situation there was only one possible solution; he continued, knowing the procedure, and reached the two hundred and fiftieth and last rung. Unfortunately, that still wasn’t the summit of the cliff, for it was crowned by a thick layer of ice. To tell the truth, what at first looked like ice, was rock crystal, as smooth as the cliff; the layer was some thirty feet high.
He looked down; the sea had disappeared, and the rungs, and everything. There was nothing but this crystal. He touched it, and it was only with difficulty that he could release his hand; what he had taken for ice, and then for crystal, was solid and perfectly transparent glue. Climbing was now no more than a game. Stuck to the wall, he went from the bottom to the top, foot after hand, hand after foot, and reached the summit.
When he had got there, he saw three things: the fringe of glue, which seemed to be for the cliff what the whitish border of the seething foam of the shattered waves was for the sea; an expanse of something that seemed to him to be a lake; and the rest, which he described as a meadow. He was by the lake. On all fours, he got to the edge; it really did seem to be a lake, but the water wasn’t genuine. He had immediate confirmation of this, for a clockwork horse came to drink at it; the animal leaned over the surface of the alleged water; before he’d touched it, he suddenly raised his head again, turned around, and went off on his little wheels.
Marble tombstones were drifting across the lake, very peacefully, very calmly. And then Narcense felt a pain on both sides of his neck. The sun was still motionless. The pain spread around to the back of his neck, and around to his larynx. The sky, Narcense only realized at this moment, wasn’t blue, but white. The pain became circular; that white sky could only be made of very special air, of air which was not made for man to breathe; for me to breathe, thought Narcense. He started panting or choking; the tombstones went on floating on the atrocious liquid where toys go to drink; the sun was still motionless. Narcense died.
The morning twilight filtered through the shutters. Narcense sat up in the bed and swallowed a mouthful of air; then he fell back again. The dawn spread through the room, a very sad, very grey dawn, the dawn that surrounds railroad stations. In the small, narrow room, there was only one chair and one table; on the chair, Narcense saw his clothes, on the table, a little parcel.
He sat up in bed again, and drew a breath. He could breathe. He got up. He could walk. The sea and the cliff and the flight of steps and the lake and the wooden horse suddenly reappeared, all together. He tries to rearrange these elements. I started with a shipwreck—he took a few steps—a shipwreck in a forest. He leaned against the table. He grabbed the half
-
open parcel and looked at the strange object it contained. In the half-light, it looked like a little musical instrument, but he couldn’t grasp how it could be played. The clockwork horse reappeared; Narcense felt something like a wave of nausea and dropped the cutter-of-hard-boiled-eggs-in-thin
-
slices onto the floor.
A few seconds later the door, gently, opened; a head appeared. Narcense recognized his concierge. A cock crew; others answered it. In the distance a train whistled. Narcense thought he could make out the Eiffel Tower, but this was a mistake; the horizon, that universal castrator, allowed nothing to emerge.
As the train started, Pierre waved, and then turned his back, deciding that any other byplay was unnecessary. Skillfully avoiding the multiple threats of porters’ baggage carts and ferocious and overloaded latecomers, he reached the exit, hailed one of those tiny taxis which are the beauty of Paris and had himself driven to the Audit Bank. He would arrive just before the bank closed. That Narcense had not hung Théo, he knew from the silence of the papers; but he knew no more. When, the day before, he had woken up at dawn, lying near his car, he had indeed thought for a moment of going to see Etienne at his home; on second thought, though, he had preferred not to.
He got to the Audit Bank at ten to. While he was waiting, he contemplated the building and calculated the degree of stupidity and abjection of the architect who had elaborated that arabesque. Even so, he had to admit that the bas- or haut-relief representing the Five Continents laying their “products” at the feet of a heavy-jowled goddess of Commerce was not without some charm for him. The cluster of bananas, pineapples and elephants’ tusks, which a Negress with beautiful breasts was offering with an inexplicable smile, seemed to him particularly pleasant.
At the stroke of six, he abandoned these superficial observations and brought his gaze down to human level. Etienne caught sight of him and raised his arms, giving him to understand that he was expecting, or better still, hoping to see him.
“Oh, I am so pleased to see you again! How nice of you to come and meet me. I didn’t know how to find you again. I wasn’t very polite to you the day before yesterday, I was a bit rude, even
...
”
“Oh no, oh no.”
Etienne was speaking very rapidly.
“Yes I was. I was rude to you, and I’m sorry. I thought you were making fun of me, that you were playing the prophet. But in fact, what you foresaw did happen. That same night. How did you know? Do you mind if I tell you what happened, first? The man with the scar is called Narcense. I discovered that the same afternoon
...
”
Pierre takes Etienne off to a quiet little café and listens to him as he recounts the whole story. So Narcense tried to hang himself, and Théo disappeared.
“The next morning, Narcense and his concierge left very early, without any explanation. I heard them talking; but I went back to sleep, like a fool. During that time, they cleared out. By midday, Théo still wasn’t back; my wife was in despair; I went and reported it to the police. What a day! At six o’clock, he came home. He said he’d been afraid, and that he’d been wandering all night and all day—he seemed very tired. I think he was lying, but I really don’t care. As for Narcense. I don’t know any more about him than what I’ve told you.”
None of this was particularly fascinating; only two points interested Pierre: Etienne’s visit to Blagny, and Narcense’s address.
“But how on earth did you come to know of that bistro in Blagny?”
Etienne gave him a strange look.
“That was a discovery.”
Then:
“You still haven’t told me
...
”
Pierre could guess well enough what he wanted to know; but what could he tell him? If Etienne were to see Narcense again, he would hear of his part in the Les Mygales adventure; and perhaps Narcense would even repeat everything he, Pierre, had been rash enough to say. He’d lose ground. Until it actually happened, the best thing was to keep quiet.
Etienne is staring at him. What insistance! What passion! What gravity! What innocence! Pierre, suddenly, feels ill at ease. For a moment, he lowers his eyes, but then quickly pulls himself together, and goes on:
“That French fries place at Blagny, I’d very much like you to take me there. What an odd place it must be!”
“Would you like to go there now? Although—no, not today, if you don’t mind; I’d be too late; as it is, I must leave you right away. Tomorrow, if that suits you.”
“Tomorrow—that’s fine. Here?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
For a moment, Etienne doesn’t quite seem to know where to look.
“There are so many things I’d like to ask you.” (He holds out his hand.) “About existence.”
He leaves.
Pierre has remembered an address: 8 Boulevard of the Unknown Officer. That’s worth knowing; but, watching Etienne disappear, he suddenly has the disagreeable impression that things have gone beyond him.
—oooooo—oooooo—
Sitting astride a chair, Saturnin was meditating. He was picking his teeth; more precisely, one. A well-dressed gentleman said to him.
“I would like to speak to Meussieu Narcense.”
Saturnin raised his head and answered:
“Not in.”
The well-dressed gentleman persisted:
“Out or away?”
Saturnin explains:
“Znot in, I tell you,” and resumed his meditations. The gentleman retreated a few steps, about twenty, and turned around; he saw Narcense, who was going out, and was coming straight toward him without seeing him. When he reached him, Hello, he said, and Narcense looked at him. He started by using exclamatorily the adverb the corresponding adjective of which would be good, then uttered the syllables that composed the name of the person he had recognized. Not at all surprised, at that; questioning, rather.
“I haven’t seen you since the other evening,” said Pierre. “I waited for you until morning. Yesterday, Etienne Marcel told me what happened; and what’s more, your address. I came to see you.”
“Thank you. I do actually owe you an apology.”
“Not at all, not at all.”
“What do you think happened?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, between the time you left me and the time Marcel found me?”
“I’m waiting for you to tell me.”
Narcense was silent. Changing the subject:
“Actually, how on earth did you get into my life?”
Saturnin was watching them talking with feigned indifference.
“You can talk to a woman in the street, not to a man. Unless you’re a homosexual. Are you a homosexual? No, you aren’t a homosexual. I remember you spoke to me in Obonne, at that bistro that I found tragic, then at the restaurant, the other day. It’s very simple. What do you claim to be?”
“Nothing,” said Pierre.
“At least, you’re rich. My pursuits don’t allow me to be that.”
“I’d like to help you.”
“Lend me money? No thanks. He’s a strange guy, my concierge, you know. He reads all my letters, he opens them and seals them up again. I don’t resent it. Not because he saved my life; no. Nor Théo’s life. But, as he says himself, he’s an oddball. I can’t resent his incursion into my private life.”
And, after a silence:
“I’m in a terrible predicament.”
“I can help you,” Pierre repeated. “I know Shibboleth
...
”
“I know him, too.”
“He’ll give you a job in one of those night clubs he promotes during the summer in fashionable resorts. He’ll do that for me.”
“Thank you. I’m in a terrible predicament.”
They started walking.
“The world is fascinating,” said Narcense, “and death is part of the world. When I found myself climbing up into that tree with the slipknot around my neck, I laughed like anything, I assure you. I laughed for at least fifteen seconds. It was no ordinary situation, and the clearing was so incredibly beautiful
...
I looked to see whether Théo was finally coming. I heard footsteps. A bird sang in a tree. All this happened very quickly.
I raised my head and lost my balance. Saturnin can’t explain why I didn’t break my back; I think I was holding the rope in one hand and the knot didn’t tighten till a few seconds later. In any case, the consequences were very unpleasant. I’d rather not talk about them.”
“Which means that no one knows whether you tried to commit suicide or not,” Pierre insinuated.
“I didn’t mean to present you with a psychological problem,” said Narcense.
Pierre had not the slightest desire to solve any problems of that kind; Narcense’s impressions of being hung left him completely cold. He should get this saxophone player sent to some seaside resort. He suddenly wondered why he was talking to this person; really, there was no reason. What did he have to do with him? He was amazed to find himself in such company. Nothing Narcense said was of any interest to him. He started to hate him. For a moment. Leaving him without ceremony, he hailed a taxi, promising himself that he certainly wouldn’t ask Shibboleth to do anything for him. As for Narcense, he went on his way, which led him straight to uncle. “He was annoyed because I mentioned psychology to him.” he thought, “but even so, he’s a decent fellow.”
—oooooo—oooooo—
Old Taupe had his own idea of happiness; he had acquired it in poverty; he had elaborated it in penury. Happiness, for him, consisted in excessive security. Since he had been ruined, he no longer feared ruin. Having reached the minimum of existence, he was afraid of going beyond it. Supported by a heap of junk and scrap iron, he thought himself happy; he thought himself wise; he was, moreover, alcoholic and lecherous.
Junk and scrap iron, he was afraid of dealing in more valuable objects; he only allowed himself dog-eared novels, dilapidated furniture and battered household utensils.
The whole week he entrenched himself in a distant shack, hidden in a sort of cul-de-sac behind the chemicals factory, a dusty, stinking desert, where no human creature ever ventured. On Sundays, he went and exhibited his rubbish in the market in Blagny; that was taking great risks. He always trembled when he came out of his shell; confronting the world terrified him; but this market had become a habit; he wasn’t afraid of it any more, he liked it.
After five years of this life, he persuaded himself that his wisdom had reached its apex, and he started drinking methodically. Then he became libidinous, and his desires were centered on the Belhôtel’s maid, Ernestine. This affected his serenity to a certain extent, but he didn’t notice it. He still thought he was happy. He dreamed of Ernestine, and doubled his dose of alcohol. He even went as far as buying a door.
“The less you own, the less you suffer,” he informed Belhôtel, “
You
want to make money, but you’ll lose it one of these days. You don’t know what it’s like to be rich. Yes, the less you have, the happier you are. Here, give me another liter of white.”
At the far end, Ernestine was laughing as she served a group of workmen. Several tables were occupied when the chlorine and sulfur knocked off, and the men were drinking aperitifs.