The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin (3 page)

‘Look, you really shouldn't,
Jean … You were drinking again, weren't you? You didn't even
get undressed!'

From downstairs comes the smell of
coffee, eggs and bacon. Trucks are passing in the streets. Doors slam. A cock
crows.

Elbows on the table, Jean Chabot pushed
away his plate, keeping his eyes fixed on the little courtyard visible through the
net curtains, its whitewashed walls dazzling in the sunlight.

His father, observing him
surreptitiously between mouthfuls, was trying to maintain some kind of
conversation.

‘Do you know if it's true
that the big building in Rue Féronstrée is up for sale? Someone asked me about it
yesterday at the office. Perhaps you could find out at work …'

But Madame Chabot, who was also keeping
a watchful eye on her son while preparing vegetables to make soup, interrupted:

‘You're not eating
anything?'

‘I'm not hungry,
mother.'

‘Because you got drunk again last
night, that's why! Own up!'

‘No.'

‘If you think it isn't
obvious …! Your eyes are bloodshot! You look like death warmed up! What's
the point of killing myself trying to feed you to build you up! Come on, at least
eat your eggs.'

Jean wouldn't have been able to,
not for a fortune. His
chest felt
constricted. And the placid atmosphere at home, the smell of bacon and coffee, the
white walls, the soup which his mother had begun cooking, everything made him feel
sick. He was in a hurry to be outside, and above all to find out. He jumped at every
sound from the street.

‘Got to go.'

‘It's not time yet. You were
out with Delfosse last night, weren't you? And he still keeps coming round
here for you! A rich kid who does nothing because his parents have money! That
boy's a bad influence, if you ask me! And
he
doesn't have to
get up early to go to the office, does he?'

Monsieur Chabot said nothing, but kept
eating his breakfast, his eyes on his plate to avoid taking sides. One of the
lodgers came down the stairs, a Polish student who went straight outside, heading
for the university. They could hear another getting up, in the room overhead.

‘Mark my words, Jean, this will
end in tears! Ask your father if he went out on the town at your age.'

And Jean Chabot did indeed have
bloodshot eyes and drawn features. A reddish sore had appeared on his forehead.

‘I'm off,' he said
again, looking at the clock.

Just then someone rattled the flap of
the letterbox. This was the method used by members of the household or friends, the
bell being used only by strangers. Jean hastened to open the door and found himself
facing Delfosse, who asked:

‘You coming?'

‘Yes, let me get my
hat.'

‘Come inside, Delfosse!'
cried Madame Chabot from
the kitchen.
‘I was just telling Jean, this has got to stop! He's ruining his health.
If you want to gad about all night, that's up to your parents. But
Jean …'

Delfosse, tall and thin, even paler in
the face than Jean, hung his head with an awkward smile.

‘Jean has to earn his living.
We're not made of money! You're intelligent enough to know that, so
I'll thank you to leave him alone.'

‘Are you coming?' whispered
Jean, squirming with embarrassment.

‘Really, madame, I promise that
we—' Delfosse stammered.

‘What time did you get in last
night?'

‘Oh, I don't know, one
o'clock perhaps.'

‘Jean's already admitted
that it was past two!'

‘Mother, I've got to get to
the office.'

He had his hat on and pushed Delfosse
out into the passageway. Monsieur Chabot got up in turn and pulled his coat on.

Outside, as in every street in Liège at
that hour of day, housewives were washing the steps and the pavements, cartloads of
vegetables and coal were drawing up at doorways, and the cries of street vendors
could be heard echoing from one district to another.

‘Well?'

The two youths were now round the corner
and could allow their anxiety to appear.

‘Nothing! This morning's
paper didn't mention anything. Perhaps they haven't found
the—'

Delfosse was wearing a peaked student
cap. It was the
time of day when students
flocked to the university, almost a procession of them crossing the bridge over the
Meuse.

‘My mother's furious. She
blames you.'

They walked through the market place,
threading their way between baskets of fruit and vegetables, treading cabbage and
lettuce leaves underfoot. Jean's eyes were glazed.

‘And what about the money?
It's the fifteenth.'

They crossed the road, to avoid going
past a tobacconist to whom they owed fifty francs or so.

‘I know. This morning I looked in
my father's wallet. He only had big notes in there.'

And Delfosse added in a lower voice:

‘Don't worry. I'll go
round to my uncle's in Rue Léopold. I can usually manage to get left alone in
the shop.'

Jean knew the shop he meant, the main
chocolate emporium in Liège. He imagined his friend slipping his hand into the
till.

‘When will I see you?'

‘I'll wait for you at
midday.'

They were reaching Lhoest's, the
solicitor's where Chabot worked as an office-boy. They shook hands without
looking at each other and Jean had an uneasy feeling, as if his friend's
handshake was different from usual.

It was true that now they were
accomplices.

Jean's desk was in the outer
office. As the newest recruit, his job was mostly sticking stamps on envelopes,
sorting the mail and running errands.

That morning, he worked without a word,
without looking at anyone, as though he wished to be inconspicuous.
He was wary above all of the senior clerk, a severe-faced
man of about fifty, on whom his job depended.

At eleven o'clock, nothing had yet
happened, but a little before midday the clerk came over to him.

‘Have you got the accounts for the
petty cash, Chabot?'

Jean had prepared his answer to this all
morning and recited, looking sideways:

‘Sorry, Monsieur Hosay, but I put
a different suit on, and I left the notebook and money at home. I'll give it
to you this afternoon.'

He was white-faced. The senior clerk
looked surprised.

‘Are you unwell?'

‘No … er … I
don't know. Maybe a little.'

The petty cash was kept separate from
the other accounts: it was the money used to buy stamps, and pay for postage or
other minor everyday expenses. Twice a month, on the 15th and the 30th, Jean was
given a certain sum and he was supposed to write down all the payments in a
notebook.

The office staff left for lunch.
Outside, Jean looked around for Delfosse, and saw him not far from the
tobacconist's window, smoking a gold-tipped cigarette.

‘Well?'

‘I've paid this one
off!'

They fell into step. They needed to feel
surrounded by people.

‘Let's go to the Pélican. I
went to my uncle's. I only had a few seconds. I put my hand in and took more
than I meant to—'

‘How much?'

‘Nearly two
thousand.'

The figure terrified Chabot.

‘Here's three hundred for
the petty cash. And we'll share the rest.'

‘No!'

They were both equally on edge, with the
difference that Delfosse's intensity was almost threatening.

‘Why not? Don't we always
share everything?'

‘I don't need the
money.'

‘Neither do I.'

They glanced automatically up at the
stone balcony on the first floor of a building: this was where Adèle, the dancer at
the Gai-Moulin, lived in a furnished room.

‘You haven't been down there
have you?'

‘I went past the club, Rue du
Pot-d'Or. The doors were open, like every morning. Victor and Joseph were
sweeping the floor.'

Jean clenched his fingers, making the
joints crack.

‘But you
did
see him,
didn't you, last night …?'

‘I'm sure it was the
Turk,' said Delfosse firmly, with a shiver.

‘And there weren't any
police in the street?'

‘No, nothing. It all looked
normal. Victor saw me and said hello.'

They went into the Pélican, sat at a
table looking on to the street and ordered English beer. And Jean immediately
noticed another customer, practically facing him.

‘Don't turn round. Look in
the mirror. He was there last night in … You know what I mean.'

‘That big
fellow? Yes, I recognize him.'

It was the customer who had come last of
all into the Gai-Moulin, a large imposing-looking man, who had been drinking
beer.

‘He can't be from
Liège.'

‘He's smoking French
tobacco. Careful, he's watching us.'

‘Waiter,' Delfosse called.
‘How much? And we owed you – forty-two, was it?'

He held out a hundred-franc note,
letting others be seen.

‘Keep some for
yourself.'

They didn't feel comfortable
anywhere. Hardly had they sat down than they were setting off again and, in his
anxiety, Chabot turned round.

‘That man's following us! At
any rate, he's behind us.'

‘Shut up. You'll get me
scared now. Why would he be following us?'

‘They must have found
the … the Turk by now. Or else he wasn't dead.'

‘Shut up, can't you,'
snarled Delfosse, more angrily.

They went another few hundred metres in
silence.

‘Do you think we should go back
there tonight?'

‘Yes, of course. It'd look
funny if we didn't.'

‘I say! Perhaps Adèle knows
something?'

Jean was so jumpy that he had no idea
where to look, what to say. He dared not turn round, but behind him he could sense
the presence of the man with broad shoulders.

‘If he crosses the Meuse when we
do, it means he's following us!'

‘Are you going home?'

‘Yes, I have
to. My mother's furious.'

He might almost have burst into tears
right there in the street.

‘He's coming on to the
bridge! You see, he
is
following us.'

‘Shut up. See you tonight. This is
my house.'

‘René?'

‘What?'

‘I don't want to keep all
that money. Look—'

But Delfosse was going into his house
with a shrug of his shoulders. Jean walked on more quickly, glancing in shop windows
to check whether he was still being followed. In the calm streets of the district on
the other side of the Meuse, no further doubt was possible. His legs began to
tremble. He almost had to stop, feeling dizzy. But on the contrary, he walked even
faster, as if drawn onwards by fear.

When he reached the house, his mother
asked him:

‘What's the
matter?'

‘Nothing.'

‘You're as white as a
sheet.'

And then, angrily:

‘This is a fine thing, isn't
it? At your age, getting into such a state. Where were you last night? Trailing
about with what kind of people? I don't understand why your father
doesn't take a firmer line with you. Come on. Eat up.'

‘I'm not hungry.'

‘Still?'

‘Mother, please leave me alone. I
don't feel well. I don't know what it is.'

But Madame
Chabot's piercing gaze showed no sympathy. She was a sharp, fussy little
woman, on the go from morning to night.

‘If you're not well,
I'll call the doctor.'

‘No, no, please …'

Footsteps on the stairs. Through the
glass panel in the kitchen door, they could see the head of one of the students. He
knocked, then looked in, his face anxious and wary.

‘Madame Chabot, do you know the
man who's walking up and down in the street?'

He had a strong East European accent,
and blazing eyes. He got excited at the least occasion.

He was older than most students. But
although he was officially enrolled at the university, he never attended any
lectures. They knew he was Georgian, and that he was involved in politics back home.
He claimed he was a nobleman.

‘What man, Monsieur
Bogdanowski?'

‘Come and see.'

He drew her across to the dining room,
which overlooked the street. Jean hesitated to follow them, but in the end he too
went to the window.

‘He's been there a quarter
of an hour, walking up and down. I know what that means! He's from the
police.'

‘No,' said Madame Chabot
with a show of optimism. ‘You see police everywhere! He's just waiting
for someone.'