Authors: Raymond Queneau
The child doesn’t know what to think. He runs over to the gate, and sees the fellow disappearing into the darkness. Opens the gate. He’d guessed right. The gate has marks on it. From the gate, yes, that’s it, you can see into the kitchen, his mother is sitting there, seeing that it doesn’t burn. They can’t afford that. The child thinks his mother is very beautiful. Then he remembers what he was supposed to be doing. He runs toward the station. At that moment, a train arrives. Three hours late. His father is bound to be in it. All of a sudden, he laughs. “Zdad going to see the gate?”
—oooooo—oooooo—
After he’d telephoned his brother to tell him that he was going to spend a few days in the country and therefore not to expect him tonight at midnight, the observer, dying of hunger, sat down at a marble table ingrained with filth, on which had negligently been laid a spoon, a fork, a glass, a knife, a salt shaker, let me just think whether I haven’t forgotten something, a knife, a salt shaker, a spoon, a fork, a glass, oh yes!—and an unchipped plate. In spite of the lateness of the hour, a similar set of equipment had been placed on a nearby table, and its occupant was making full use of it. When he had carefully wiped his plate clean, he raised his nose from it and stared at the customer, grumbling: “A hell of a delay today, what a company!” The customer was absent-mindedly looking at the photo of a transatlantic liner on the front page of a newspaper.
“Well, there’s a catastrophe for you,” exclaimed the voracious customer, not addressing his remarks to anyone in particular. “It reminds me of when the
Clytemnestra
went down off Singapore. It was bedlam! All the passengers mowing all the others down, trying to get into the boats. The captain, he had his revolver in his hand, and bang! he picked off the men trying to get into the lifeboats before the women. Yes M’sieu, he shot them, bang!”
“What a brute,” murmured the observer to himself.
The sailor, put off stride for a moment, pulled himself together: “Hm, talk about brutes, he was one all right. One day, for no reason at all, the bugger, begging your pardon, shoved his bloody great fist right in my mug. And Le Touchec, oh my, he was always kicking him up the arsehole, begging your pardon.” And after five minutes: “Shanghai, that’s the biggest bar in the world is
...
I know all the brothels in Valparaiso
...
” He doesn’t manage to get around to his nice little chick in Chile because at this moment a man came in and asked for dinner. Such an event filled the little dive with silence. The newcomer looked odd. From his shoes, which were covered with mud, you could tell that he must have been wandering about the housing development for quite some time. There was a little patch of rust on his forehead, which was traversed by an old scar. He collapsed onto a chair. The proprietor placed the necessary equipment for eating in front of him, and the newcomer started scratching the table with the end of his knife. It made a rasping sound.
“If you don’t mind, Meussieu,” said the sailor, “that sets my teeth on edge.”
The newcomer didn’t answer, and stopped. The proprietor looked at the sailor and gave a knowing wink. Which surprised the observer, who asked discreetly:
“Do you know that meussieu?”
“No, but I have a kind of feeling that he wouldn’t like to be asked what he does. He came here this afternoon. He went off for an hour. And now here he is again, looking as peculiar as ever. Hm, I’d know how to describe him to the police if I had to.”
Another one who wants to have his picture in the paper for free. The proprietor was still exchanging signs of mutual understanding with the sailor, who was meditatively picking his teeth with his own pocketknife. The observer was overcome by infinite disgust. The other man saw nothing of this maneuver.
A man got up and, standing in front of the table of another one, said:
“Pierre Le Grand.”
“Oh yes.”
“May I?”
“Oh yes. Do. Narcense.”
“Delighted.”
Handshake.
“I,” began the one, “know of no more lamentable spectacle than that of drunken sailors sobering up in sordid cafés on housing developments; nor do I know of any more ignoble than that of the owner of a sordid café who has no other aim in life than spying, spying day and night, until some criminal or other finally happens to come within his reach and he can finally serve society by denouncing him to the police. They are both there: the degenerate from the latitudes and the informer; their encounter makes you feel as if someone has shoved a sponge full of ink down your gullet.”
“You know,” said Narcense, “I’m not some criminal or other. I haven’t committed any crime, in spite of the mud on my shoes. At the very most, an outrage against public decency.”
A silence.
“You’re very sensitive, Meussieu Le Grand. I don’t see it the way you do. That sailor is very amusing, even though his stories are a bit antiquated. He repeats himself, but don’t you repeat yourself? Who doesn’t repeat himself? He doesn’t do it as well as other people, that’s all. I like sailors; they please me, their life, something in their eyes. Personally, I hardly even move out of Paris, as you see. But these people who’ve seen so many different countries, when they come back to their home town, they bring
...
”
“That’s a load of bull.”
“Thanks,” said Narcense. “The fellow behind the bar, though, I can’t say I like him much. Look how he’s trying to hear what I’m saying. But isn’t this little suburban bistro amazing? What’s the time? 10:30. Look, when you come down to it, though, it’s true for the sailor. Why the hell did he go so far?
I
find this bistro great and tragic. The half moon in the window. The owner pretending to be dozing behind his bar, but really all ears. The sailor’s going. Bell. The lousy dog, very odd, that dog, raises its head, and lets it fall again. A railroad worker comes in and drinks a boiling hot black coffee, laced; then goes back to work, after exchanging a few brief words about the accident with the boss. The phonograph was going, earlier. It was touching. I’m sorry, but I just can’t be skeptical. What’s more, I’m not a philosopher. No, really not. But it just happens, every so often, that something very ordinary seems beautiful to me and I’d like it to be eternal. I’d like this bistro, and that dusty light bulb, and that dog dreaming on the marble, and even this night—to be eternal. And their essential quality is precisely that they aren’t.’”
“Really—don’t you ever suffer?”
“There were women in my life, before. Now, there’s one. One I despair of.”
“You were talking just now about an outrage against public decency?”
“What of it? Don’t things like that ever happen to you? Do you think there’s still a train for Paris?”
“Innkeeper!” (Um er, um er, the last-named insinuates.) “What time’s the next train for Paris?”
“Um er, um er, 10:47.”
“Excuse me, I’m going back to Paris. What about you, do you live here?”
“No, in Paris. But I’m going to spend a few days here. I’m observing a man.”
“Well, well. Novelist?”
“No. Character.”
“Good-by, Le Grand.”
“Good-by, Narcense.”
—oooooo—oooooo—
On the platform, a black mass of human beings waiting. You might have thought it was flypaper. The day, a bit dazed, hadn’t yet properly dawned. The air, perfectly purified by the night, was again beginning to stink slightly. The number of waiters was increasing all the time. Some were barely opening their sleep-worn eyes, others seemed more exhausted than ever. Many were bright and cheerful. And almost all had a newspaper in their hands. This abundance of paper didn’t mean a thing.
Outside the signal room, a being of curious shape was also waiting: he had as you might say only the minimum possible density for a bimane,
{9}
even though anyone who had seen him only a few days previously would have been amazed at his rapid tridimensional development. This character was also reading a paper, the
Journal.
Friday. He skims through the politics, skims through the news; takes his time over the sports, which slightly intrigues a young man who is assiduously observing him. After which he carefully studies the week’s programs. A glance at the classified advertisements, 5 minutes 12 seconds! he’s finished his paper.
Singing its usual little song, toot-toot, the train comes into the station with much gusto. The papers are folded and their owners courageously dart into an appalling melee, each is trying to conquer his usual seat. When everyone is accommodated, the receptacle is closed. And once again, the merry train sets off for the big city (taking good care not to walk on the track. Strictly forbidden).
The being of minimal reality looks out of the window. He calculates the number of times he’s probably seen that particular factory and is surprised that he’s never noticed that weatherboarding hut
CHIPS
a bit further on. Like the little ducks, he thinks. He suddenly conceives a really extraordinary project: one day he’ll go and have some French fries (chips) in that hut. Has a moment’s anxiety wondering whether
CHIPS
isn’t someone’s name: Mr. Chips. (Good-by.) But he doesn’t think it’s very likely, and smiles.
A meussieu in the corner notices the smile. But what’s caused it? Last night, wasn’t the face convulsed? From another seat, a great sack of potatoes also observes the smile. “Another nut,” he decides. “Soon have to be put away.” He discreetly presses his foot on that of the man opposite him, who raises his snout from a rag which is the simultaneous defender of public decency and the metallurgical industry, and directs his attention, with an artful movement of his neck, to the nut. They smile at each other. They know the being of minimal reality, and the being of minimal reality knows them. They’ve exchanged: goodmorningmeussieuhowareyouthismorningnotsobadandhowareyouthere’sabitofanipintheairbutit’sgoingtobehotlaterons. The one facing the engine is a bearded and short-sighted hatter who made a fortune during the war manufacturing very French caps; since he has a lot of children, he thinks it’s his duty to travel third class, on account of their future (the children’s). He has a car too, but it’s only for Sundays : it’s used for carting the brats about. As he’s shortsighted, the local people don’t think his brats’ chances of survival are very high. Only yesterday, the silly dope ran into the barrier at the Outer Circle level crossing.
“Just as well I’m a good driver; otherwise, my friend, there’d have been a catastrophe, a ca-tass-trophy. If I hadn’t had all my wits about me, we’d all have been dead, a terrible accident—terr-rrible; but I kept my wits about me (slap on the thigh of the meussieu with his back to the engine) hahahahahahaha.”
The meussieu with his back to the engine, who has some regard for the hatter, smiles admiringly. The observer looks at them both ferociously. The minimal reality has stopped smiling, he’s still cherishing his project: he’ll go and have some French fries. Which day? He can hardly do so other than on a Saturday afternoon. What will his wife think of this curious venture? She’ll think it very odd. He’ll never be able to explain to her. Either he won’t do it or he won’t tell her about it, he’ll tell her he was working late. He doesn’t at all like lying. Right, now he’s really in a quandary. He frowns, and purses his lips.
“When I was seven years old, I was working ten hours a day for my father, who was a china merchant. And he didn’t spare the blows when I broke something, believe me. That’s how I was brought up, and I’ve no complaints. Ah, it’s not like that these days!”
It’s the back-to-the-engine perorating. The observer is amazed: then there
are
people who talk like that, and then he smiles (inwardly, because he aims at impassivity) at his naïveté. Now he’s appreciating it. The back-to-the-engine carries on imperturbably;
he
is a banker. At least that’s what he claims; he’s suspected of being at the very most an exchange-broker. But in any case, he’s a very respectable meussieu. He contributed fifty francs to the prize-giving and twenty-five francs to the firemen (or something else). The mothers are a bit suspicious of his white hair; they’re afraid he might be a satyr; they keep their little girls shut up when he’s about. He’s very respectable meussieu, but he mustn’t get giddy. So he exaggerates his pomposity in order to avoid this.
“I can go and have some French fries tomorrow. When she asks me, ‘Well, you’re late, aren’t you?’ I’ll say: ‘Yes, I went to have some French fries at Blagny.’ If she looks at me in amazement I’ll say: ‘Yes, I just suddenly felt like it.’ It’s idiotic, this business. I shall go home tomorrow just as I always do. Hm, that young man was in the same compartment as I was last night.”
They are nearing Paris. The hatter and the banker are discussing an important question: how much is the pension of the holders of the military medal? The train throws its load out onto the platform. The mass moves quickly towards an aperture, and there disintegrates. Some take the B train, others the V, others the CD, and others the metro. Others walk. Others take a time to gulp down a coffee with a croissant. The observer yawns, and goes home to bed.
—oooooo—oooooo—
Ever since she’d seen a man run over, at about 5 in the afternoon, outside the Gare du Nord, Mme. Cloche had been in ecstasy. Naturally, she said she’d never seen anything more horrible; and that must have been so, because poor Potice had been carefully laminated by a bus. By a series of carefully prepared chances, she happened to be sitting, at about the same time, opposite the same place, on the terrace of a café that a blessed coincidence had placed precisely there. She ordered camomile tea, and patiently waited for the same thing to happen again. That was it, so far as she was concerned; she’d be there every day. Waiting for an accident. Absurdly, the ideal line from pavement to pavement that Potice hadn’t been able to traverse to its extremity, absurdly, this line now seemed to her to be necessarily linked to fate, destiny or fatality. Something shocking had happened there: yellow brains on the asphault; so there, indefinitely and inexplicably, horrible accidents were bound to recur, and Mme. Cloche adored the shocking and the horrible. The camomile tea was tepid and the sugar inadequate; the waiter was informed of this extremely bluntly. She took off her fur wrapper, for it was very hot, and scrubbed her face with a gray
-
checked handkerchief; the customers avoided looking at her. As for her, she was waiting.