Authors: Raymond Queneau
At the corner of the rue Saint-Denis, a grocery store that sold macaroni is going up in flames. Farther on, some students are smashing the mandolins in a shop selling musical instruments. And thus everyone is patriotically employed, according to his ability. Of course some women are crying, but they’re the ones that aren’t very brave. Etienne, followed by his family, finally found his train, which was covered with flowers, vengeful inscriptions and plaintive lags. Charming young ladies are distributing tricolor rosettes and getting their asses felt. Great fun, this war, and of good omen. The Etruscans would be made mincemeat of. Those macaroni-eating barbarians, they’ll be beaten by two penn’orth of grated cheese. Any minute now, we’ll be entering Capua. Then really, nothing to get excited about; and even the strategists, when they really thought about it, they said they’d never seen a simpler, easier, more amusing war. Then really! And the people who said that you never knew, that the Etruscans knew some filthy dirty tricks, and that there wasn’t much to laugh at, well, they got their eyes knocked about a bit with an umbrella, to teach them to speak ill of their native land. After more than two hours, the train started quivering, then whistling, and finally pulled out. Etienne, at the window, was waving his hand (or his handkerchief, doesn’t much matter) like everyone else. Theo and Bebe Toutout, very excited, were waving their hats and shouting: To Capua! To Capua! Well, what a lark, this was something different and extraordinary. As for Alberte, she was crying; naturally; because she wasn’t a very brave woman.
—oooooo—oooooo—
“What’s today’s communiqué say?” asked the sailor.
“Part of the Etruscan army has got as far as Deuf-Omécourt. They ransacked the customs office and the telegraph office.”
“The bastards! They don’t respect anything! They’re real vandals.”
“And they claim to have a civilization!”
“Go on, then.”
“An Etruscan regiment, advancing toward a little wood, with the intention of resting and playing the mandolin, has been put to flight by a detachment of cadets.”
“Ha! ha! It’s quite obvious, victory’s around the corner, Hippolyte!”
And they drank their aperitifs with triumphant hearts.
The next day:
“French trooups have occupied the Etruscan town of Malaparte.
“It would be premature to be too precise, today, about the possible consequences of this initial success. What we must keep in mind is that a French brigade has attacked an entrenched Etruscan brigade and put it to flight: the only appropriate word here is ‘flight.’ Faced with our bowel-net charge, the Etruscans ran for their lives.
“French losses are not excessive, considering their achievement. Our troops packed a prodigious punch.”
The next day:
“Our troops still hold Malaparte, and are now facing the edge of the Madera forest, which appears to be seriously organized.
“The Etruscans are said to be getting reinforcements, but were aren’t so stupid, we are too.
“The Polish people have declared war on all the enemies of France. King Bougrelas has sent his kind regards to King Anatole, and has borrowed thousands and hundreds from him to feed and wash his troops.”
The next day:
“
The latest fashion.
The patriotism of our Frenchwomen is still as ardent as ever. It is well known that we are capturing more of the enemy’s guns than we know what to do with; at the suggestion of one of our wittiest matrons, these guns will be sawn up into rings and thus turned into necklaces as simple as they are elegant. They can also be set with pearls and sparklers (as our brave soldiers in the African Battalion would say); but naturally this would be more expensive.”
“Cousin Pompon”
The next day:
“During the course of last night, very extensive Etruscan forces, concentrated in the Madera woods, attacked us, yelling at the tops of their voices.
“Faced with this demonstration, the commander of the French troops has withdrawn from Malaparte and mustered his troops slightly to the rear; from his emplacement here he has halted the offensive of the enemy, whose numbers are superior.
“These minor operations were carried out with great brilliance. Really, with great brilliance. In all circumstances, the French infantry, and also the cavalry, artillery, tankery, aviatery and gendarmery have shown themselves far superior to the opposing troops.”
The next day:
“Poles five days’ march from Capua.”
The next day:
“The Malaparte affair: rumors of a most extreme, even a most tendentious, nature have been put about. The events, briefly, were no more than these: an infantry brigade was engaged in a thrust toward Malaparte in order to destroy the information center functioning in that town. Counterattacked by two Etruscan brigades, it retired, not of its own accord but on the order of the commander of the army corps, who judged the situation to be perilous. Its mission in any case being terminated, there was no reason to keep it there; all the Etruscan forces followed, and hurled themselves against our principal line of defense, which did not give. Our strategic situation remains the same; it is excellent.”
The next day:
“The Etruscans are continually putting out false news. They are now even going so far as to talk of their ‘victory’ at Malaparte.
“French newspapers must daily insist on the systematic falsification of the truth being practiced by the Etruscans. If we allow lies to be spread without denying them, there is some chance of their being believed.”
“They’re liars, that bunch,” said the sailor.
“Don’t talk to me about that,” agreed the barkeeper, without making his thought any more explicit.
“Well, give me a picon and water, but don’t dilute it, eh, I only like it straight.”
And they drank their aperitifs, with triumphant hearts.
—oooooo—oooooo—
“Huh, there goes Bébé Toutout,” said the sailor.
“Call him, then,” suggested Hippolyte, and a few seconds later, the dwarf came in.
“Well, friends,” he exclaimed heartily, “are you going to stand me a drink?”
“What would you like?”
“A nice rum. Tomorrow, it’ll be on me.”
“Well, Bébé, what news do you have for us?”
“Pff, pff. Lousy weather, eh, lousy weather.”
“That’s true enough,” conceded the sailor, “talk of lousy weather, it’s lousy weather all right, that’s true enough.”
“And the boss, how’s he getting on?” asked Hippolyte.
“He wrote this morning again.”
“What’s he say?”
The dwarf knocked down his rum and winked.
“Another.”
“Good old Bébé! Tell us.”
He produced a bloodstained piece of butcher’s wrapping paper.
“This is a copy of a card to the brat.”
“Read it to us.”
“Ahem, ahem, Modane, December the 15th.”
“He’s in Modane, then?”
“Obviously. I’ll go on. My dear Théo. I haven’t written to you for a long time, but your mother must have given you my news. I think of you both with much affection and hope to see you again soon, because this war can’t last long.”
“Ah, you see what he says.”
“He duh know anything about it.”
“Even so, he muss know more about it than you do behind your counter. He’s better placed than you are to know about it, even so.”
“That’s true enough.”
“If he says the war’s not going ter last long, that means it’s not goingter last long. Dun it?’
“Ah well, all the better.”
“What a walloping we’re going to give them, the Coches.”
“Hang on. Let me read it. Ahem. Can’t last long. We haven’t seen any action, here. A few planes came and bombed us, but didn’t do much damage.”
“Ha, ha, ha! their bombs don’t go off. They already said that in the paper.”
“All they can do is make macaroni.”
“Ha ha ha!”
“And even then, French noodles are far better.”
“That’s true enough.”
“I haven’t finished,” said the dwarf.
“Well, go on, then.”
“So I’ll see you soon, then, my dear Théo. Love your mother and work hard. Your father: Etienne.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, but
...
”
“You want another rum, eh?”
“I believe I do.”
“He’s a bad one, this Bébé Toutout.”
“A nice rum. I’ve got a letter for the lady in my pocket.”
“Oh! you haven’t! read it to us.”
The rum was poured.
“Ahem, ahem, Modane, December the 15th. My beloved Alberte. I’m in a filthy hole here. We get terribly bored and I don’t know what stops me leaving. But where’d I go? I’m caught, and you ought to see what sort of a mousetrap it is, and what a horrible bit of cheese they offered us. It’s not possible to run away now. It’s extremely cold. It’s snowing hard; we are badly billetted, badly heated and badly dressed. The hospital is packed full of patients. About twenty die every day. We bury them in great style. This is our chief occupation. The enemy planes come and bomb us every day, too. Yesterday they blew up the powder magazine. Two hundred and fifty dead. We spent the day picking up the pieces, more or less on all sides. And it was so cold! We don’t do anything except bury the dead and get bombed. It can go on like this for a long time. That’s another very stupid thing. What am I doing here? It’s absurd. If it could last less than four years
...
”
“And then what does he say?”
“If I could only see you again, Alberte, if I could only see you again and once more feel your nipples getting hard
...
”
A very cold, very icy drizzle had started falling. The roofs were shining, the road was gradually turning into a slimy cesspool, and the darkness was dripping down with the rain onto the silent estate. The dwarf went on with his reading, his nose glued to the paper because he was shortsighted and it was pretty dark. Sitting astride his chair, his head in his hands, the sailor was listening without saying a word, and Hippolyte, behind his counter, was still drying the same glass.
“We were bombed again just now,” the dwarf went on. “A few more dead. That’ll keep us occupied for a bit. It’s starting to snow. Ah! if I could see you again, Alberte, if I could see you again.”
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough for you?”
The rain was carefully cleaning the bistro windows. The mud was encroaching on the pavements. Through the silence, they heard a train coming into the station. The 4:37; it was an hour and a half late. Then Yves le Toltec raised his head.
“You want me to tell you something? Eh? Well, what’s got to happen, the civilians have got to hold out, that’s my way of thinking.”
—oooooo—oooooo—
Having put away five rums and six aperitifs, the dwarf was beginning to have had as much as he could carry. He was even forgetting that it was time to go for his shoup. Théo became impatient and went to fetch him. He found the café full of smoke, and stinking, and six or seven men bawling and arguing, perfectly satisfied with both themselves and the world. The dwarf was hiccupping and warbling a patriotic song, in the course of which “truss them” purported to rhyme with Etruscans, and France with lance.
In spite of his protests, Théo extracted him from the midst of the slobbery laughs of the jubilant assembly. He carried him under his arm, because the dwarf would have been quite incapable of avoiding the puddles and mud-patches. The gate squeaked, and then shut again. The steaming shoup was waiting on the table. Alberte was waiting, too.
Théo went in without wiping his feet and deposited Bébé Toutout on a chair. The homunculus was wild-eyed, and stammered some incoherent words. He made a show of picking up a spoon. But five rums and six aperitifs are a lot, even for a dwarf. He dropped his spoon in his plate, nastily splashing the beautiful clean tablecloth, hurriedly tumbled down from his chair, reeled into the kitchen and there, on the floor, puked. After the first few spurts, Théo led him into the bathroom. Very ill, the midget. Once his stomach was empty, he threw himself on to his bed and there fell fast asleep, snoring into his vomit-splashed beard.
When he went back into the dining room, Théo found his mother in tears. He tried to make excuses for the dwarf. That’s something that can happen to everyone, to get drunk.
“Oh, I’ve had enough, enough of that animal, enough of this house, enough of this suburb. Wasting away here, that’s fine. But alone. I want to be alone. Take the beast away, step on him, throw him away. I don’t ever want to see the hideous little man again. Take him away, take him away.”
“…”
“Waiting here for news, waiting alone in this hole, that’s fine. But to have to put up with the presence of that frightful creature. No, I can’t go on. I want to be alone, Théo. Take the hideous creature away. No. Don’t take him away. Let him stay here.
I’ll
go away.”
“…”
“I’m frightened, here.”
“…”
“I’ll go and live in Paris. With Mme. Pigeonnier. I saw her yesterday. She offered me a room in her new apartment. Yes, I’ll go there. And you can stay here, with the animal.”
“…”
“No, it isn’t absurd. It’s just like that. I want to. To want something, for once. Just once. To get away from this mud, this swamp. Not to hear that gate squeak any more. That more than anything. For it not to squeak any more. Oh! For it to be over!”
“…”
“Your father won’t say anything. He’ll think I’m right. You can be sure of that. He’ll think I’m right. And that other thing, you can hear him snoring, snoring, snoring. It’s horrible! Why did he come here, that vampire? Oh! to get away! To get away!”
“…”
“When’ll I go? But I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“
...
”
“At once. Yes, at once. That snoring, that’s too much. I’ll go at once.”
“
...
”
“And you, you’ll be able to manage on your own, my little Théo. I’ll give you some money every week and you’ll get by. Won’t you, my little Théo? I’m going. And don’t let that dwarf try and find me. He’s your friend, isn’t he? Let him stay with you! Look after him! Take care of him. Protect him from the rigors of life, of winter. Winter is life; isn’t it, Théo? You can hear how he’s snoring, your dwarf. And you can hear the rain, the rain that never stops. I’m going somewhere else. Yes, to Mme. Pigeonnier’s. She’s a charming woman. You don’t know her, Théo. You can’t possibly judge her. She’s genuine, nice, kind. Yes, I will go to her. And you’ll stay here with your friend, the dwarf. Promise me you will, Théo! Do you promise?”