The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin (5 page)

He handed them over.

‘Where's the one for the
Gazette de Liège
? You've forgotten the
Gazette
?'

Catastrophe, disaster! The senior
clerk's tone was dramatic:

‘Chabot, I have to tell you, this
cannot go on! Work is
work, duty is duty.
I'm going to have to talk to the boss. And now I think of it, they tell me you
have been seen in night spots where, personally, I have never set foot. To put it
bluntly, you're going off the rails. Look at me when I'm talking to you!
And you can wipe that smirk off your face. You hear? This will not do.'

The door slammed. The young man remained
alone, sticking down envelopes.

At about this time, Delfosse would be
sitting on the terrace at the Pélican, or in the cinema. The clock showed almost
five. Chabot watched the second-hand creep forward sixty times until the hour, stood
up, took his hat and locked the drawer.

The man with broad shoulders was not
outside. It was cooler. As evening approached, swathes of bluish mist rose in the
streets, pierced by light from the shop windows and the trams.

‘Read all about it!
Gazette de
Liège
!'

Delfosse wasn't at the Pélican.
Chabot looked for him in the other cafés in the centre of town that were their usual
haunts. His legs felt heavy and his head so empty that he thought he might go home
to bed.

When he reached the house, he
immediately sensed that something had happened. The kitchen door was open.
Mademoiselle Pauline, the Polish lodger, was leaning over a figure whom Jean could
not at first see. He went forward into the room, and the silence was broken by a
sob. Mademoiselle Pauline, plain of feature, turned to look at him, and her
expression was stern.

‘Just look at your mother,
Jean!'

Madame Chabot,
wearing her apron, was sitting with her elbows on the table, weeping copiously.

‘What's the
matter?'

‘You should know!' retorted
the Polish girl.

Madame Chabot wiped her reddened eyes,
looked at her son, and burst into tears again.

‘He'll be the death of me!
It's dreadful.'

‘But, mother, what have I
done?'

Jean spoke with a voice too neutral, too
clear. He was so frightened that he felt paralysed from head to toe.

‘Leave us please, Mademoiselle
Pauline, you're very kind. We've always been poor, but we've
always been honest.'

‘I still don't
understand …'

The student went out of the room, and
they heard her going upstairs. She took care though to leave her bedroom door
open.

‘What have you done? Tell me
frankly? Your father'll be home soon. When I think that the whole district
will know.'

‘I swear I don't know what
you're talking about.'

‘Liar! I know you're lying,
since you've been off with Delfosse and those … those women! Half an
hour ago, Madame Velden, the greengrocer, came in here, puffing and blowing. And
Mademoiselle Pauline was standing right here! And in front of her, Madame Velden
said a man had come to ask for information about you and about us. A man who must be
from the police! And of course he had to go and pick Madame Velden, the biggest
gossip in the district. By now, everyone will know.'

She was on her
feet. Automatically, she poured water into the coffee filter. Then took out a
tablecloth from a cupboard.

‘That's what we get for
sacrificing ourselves to bring you up! The police asking questions, and maybe even
coming to the house. I don't know what your father will say. But I can tell
you
my
father would have thrown you out by now. And when I think you
aren't even seventeen yet! It's all your father's fault. He lets
you stay out till three in the morning. And when I get cross, he takes your
side.'

Without knowing why, Jean felt sure the
so-called policeman must be the man with broad shoulders. He stared desperately at
the floor.

‘So you've got nothing to
say for yourself? You won't own up to whatever it is?'

‘Mother, I haven't done
anything wrong!'

‘Why would the police be after
you, if you haven't done anything?'

‘We don't know it was the
police.'

‘Well, who else would it
be?'

Suddenly he found the courage to lie, to
end this painful conversation.

‘Perhaps it's someone who
might offer me a job, who's asking for character references. I don't
earn much where I am now. I've been applying to places, trying to find
something better.'

She looked at him sharply.

‘Are you lying?'

‘I swear that—'

‘Are you
sure you and that Delfosse boy haven't been up to some mischief?'

‘I promise you, mother.'

‘Well, in that case, you'd
better go and talk to Madame Velden. We don't want her telling everyone the
police are after you.'

The key turned in the front door lock.
Monsieur Chabot took off his coat and hung it up, came into the kitchen and sat down
in his wicker chair.

‘Home already, Jean?'

Then he saw with astonishment his
wife's red eyes and the young man's sulky expression.

‘What's going on?'

‘Nothing. I was telling Jean off.
I don't want him coming home at all hours. As if there was something wrong
with being here, with his family.'

And she began laying the table and
filling cups. As they ate, Monsieur Chabot read the paper and commented on it.

‘Here's something that will
make a stir. A body in a laundry basket! A foreigner, of course. Probably a
spy.'

And changing the subject:

‘Did Monsieur Bogdanowski pay his
rent?'

‘Not yet. He says he's
waiting for some money to arrive on Wednesday.'

‘He's been waiting three
weeks. Well, too bad. On Wednesday, you must tell him this can't go
on.'

The atmosphere was heavy, full of
familiar smells, with light glinting on the copper-bottomed pans, and the garish
colours of an advertising calendar, still on
the wall three years later, with newspapers wedged behind
it.

Jean ate his food mechanically, and
gradually his senses dulled. In these everyday surroundings, he found himself
doubting the reality of events outside. So he found it hard to imagine that two
hours earlier he had been in the bedroom of a dancer who was putting on her
stockings in front of him and letting her peignoir sag open on to her pale, plump,
if slightly shopworn flesh.

‘Did you ask about the
house?'

‘What house?'

‘The one in Rue
Féronstrée.'

‘I … Oh, I
forgot.'

‘As usual!'

‘I hope you're going to take
it easy tonight. You look terrible.'

‘Yes … I'm staying
in.'

‘That'll be the first time
this week!' said Madame Chabot, who was still not entirely reassured and was
keeping a sharp eye on the expressions that crossed her son's face. The
letterbox rattled. Jean, sure it was meant for him, rushed out into the corridor to
answer the caller. His parents watched through the glass panel of the kitchen
door.

‘That Delfosse again!' said
Madame Chabot. ‘Why can't he leave Jean alone? If it goes on like this,
I'm going to speak to his parents.'

The two young men could be seen
whispering in the doorway. Chabot turned round several times to check they could not
be overheard. He seemed to be resisting an urgent request.

Then suddenly,
without coming back to the kitchen, he called:

‘I won't be long!'

Madame Chabot got up to try to stop him.
But already, with hurried and anxious gestures, he had seized his hat from the stand
and run into the street, slamming the door.

‘And you let him carry on like
that?' she snapped at her husband. ‘Is that the kind of respect you get
from him? If you would only put your foot down …'

She had more to say in the same vein,
under the lamplight, all the while eating her meal, as Monsieur Chabot glanced
sideways at his newspaper, not daring to pick it up until the diatribe was over.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Certain. I recognized him. He
used to be the inspector in our district.'

Delfosse looked even more haggard, and
as they passed under a gas lamp, his companion saw that he was deathly pale. He was
pulling on his cigarette with short distracted intakes of breath.

‘I can't stand this!
It's been going on for four hours now. Look! Turn round quickly. I can hear
his footsteps about a hundred metres behind us.'

They could make out only the silhouette
of a man walking past the houses in Rue de la Loi.

‘It started right after
lunch … Or maybe before. But I only noticed when I sat down on the terrace
of the Pélican. He came to sit at a nearby table. I recognized him. He's been
in the secret police for two years. My father called
him in when some metal was stolen from the site.
He's called Gérard or Girard. I don't know why, but I stood up. It was
getting on my nerves. I set off down Rue de la Cathédrale and he started walking
behind me. I went into another café. He was waiting a hundred metres down the road.
I went into a cinema, the Mondain, and there he was again, sitting three rows away.
I don't know what else I did. I walked, I took trams. It's these
banknotes in my pocket. I'd really like to get rid of them, because if he
searches me, I won't be able to say where I got them. Can't you say that
they're yours? For instance, that it's money your boss gave you to run
an errand?'

‘No!'

Sweat was beading on Delfosse's
forehead, and his expression was both troubled and angry.

‘But we've got to do
something
 … He's going to end up confronting us. I went
to your place because after all, we were together when—'

‘You haven't
eaten?'

‘I'm not hungry. What if I
was to throw the money into the river from the bridge?'

‘He'd see you!'

‘I could always go into a café and
throw them down the lavatory. Or, no, listen! Let's go and sit in a café and
then
you
can go into the washroom, while he goes on watching me.'

‘What if he follows me?'

‘He won't. And after all,
you have the right to lock the door.'

They were still in the district across
the Meuse, where the streets were broad, but deserted and badly lit.

Behind them, they
could hear the regular footsteps of the policeman, who did not seem to be trying to
hide his presence.

‘Why don't we go into the
Gai-Moulin? That would look more natural. We go there nearly every night. And if we
had
killed the Turk, of course we'd keep away.'

‘But it's too
early.'

‘We can wait.'

They fell silent. They crossed the Meuse
and wandered through the streets, checking from time to time that Girard was still
following them. In Rue du Pot-d'Or, they saw the illuminated sign of the
nightclub, which was just opening its doors.

They recalled their flight away from it
the previous evening, and it took a great effort on their part to approach it.
Victor was at the door, a napkin over his arm, which meant that there were no
customers to speak of.

‘Let's go in.'

‘Good evening, young gents! You
haven't seen Adèle, have you?'

‘No. Hasn't she
arrived?'

‘Not yet! It's odd, because
she's always punctual. Come in. A glass of port?'

‘Port, yes.'

The place was virtually empty. The band
wasn't bothering to play. The musicians were chatting as they kept an eye on
the door. The owner, wearing a tuxedo, was placing miniature American and British
flags behind the bar.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,'
he called. ‘All right, are we?'

‘Yes, all right.'

And now the
policeman walked in as well. He was still young, and looked rather like the
second-in-command in Jean's office. He refused to give his hat to the doorman
and sat down near the entrance.

At a sign from the owner, the musicians
struck up a jazz tune, while the professional dance-partner, who had been sitting at
the back of the room writing a letter, approached a woman who had just arrived, to
invite her to dance.

‘Go now!'

Delfosse pushed something into his
companion's hand and Jean hesitated to take it. The policeman was looking at
them. But the action was taking place under the table.

‘Now's the time.'

Chabot decided to grab the greasy
banknotes, and kept them in his hand to avoid any suspicious movement. He stood
up.

‘I'll be back in a
minute,' he said out loud.

Delfosse found it hard to conceal his
relief and, in spite of himself, he threw a triumphant glance across at his
pursuer.

The owner stopped Jean.

‘Wait, you need the key. The
attendant isn't here yet. I don't know where everyone is, they're
all late today.'

The door to the cellar was open letting
out a draught of cool air that made the young man shiver.

Delfosse swallowed his port in a gulp.
He felt it was doing him good, so he emptied his friend's glass as well. In a
few minutes, the flush of the lavatory would be washing away the compromising
banknotes.

Just then, Adèle walked in, wearing a
black satin coat
trimmed with white fur.
She greeted the musicians and shook Victor's hand.

‘Fancy seeing you!' she said
to Delfosse. ‘Isn't your pal here? I saw him this afternoon, he came up
to my place. Funny boy, isn't he! Let me just take off my coat.'