Castle to Castle (10 page)

I've known him since the Dreyfus case! . . . he gets worse every year! . . . every month! . . . the crustiest pirate of them all! of the whole publishing trade! . . . him and his whole gang . . . there's nothing lower . . . You're the laughing stock of his whole shop! . . . the whole buggering mob! . . . the way they fleece you . . . champion sucker . . . only too happy to be sabotaged, looted, and insulted! . . . what a crew! . . . him and his head eunuch Loukoum!"

Gertrut of the sky-blue monocle, naturally he wasn't telling me anything new . . . hell, no . . . Gertrut Bérengères, I could have sold him some dirt . . . I knew Achille was crossing me up, I knew all about it! my, oh, my! When you come to think that he . . . old Gertrut . . . had plenty of time to spare and money coming in . . . he could afford to dig up scandals that were of no interest to anybody, except maybe himself . . . the bilious chit-chat of 1900.

To hell with all that! Gertrut! Achille! those crooks . . . I only had one thing on my mind . . . cold cash and good-bye! . . . what was I going to leave Lili? . . .
quid
? . . . how? . . . what? . . . that little nest egg? . . . but there's the rub! . . . nest egg, it's easy to say! . . . with me gone? my last gasp? I could see the rush of "claimants''! . . . the mob! . . . once the animal is dead, you see them swarming, stampeding . . . those jaws! . . . all with claims . . . with papers, without papers . . . seals, stamps . . . or without! . . . pouring out of every Métro station! . . . crocodiles with tears . . . without! . . . those teeth! all with claims! Lili will be evicted pronto. . . . out on the street . . . I can see it as if I was there . . . she's incapable of defending herself! . . . exactly the same story as on the rue Girardon . . . or in Saint-Malo . . . or Copenhagen,
Ved Stranden
20 (tuve)
. . . the same sect . . . the claimants . . . absolutely international . . . adapted to every climate . . . the same crooks . . . wherever you go . . . regardless of regime, philosophy, creed, or color . . . any pretext will do . . . they descend in swarms . . . like locusts . . . and you won't see Lili defending herself! . . . no! . . . the exact opposite . . . it's sad . . . romantic-sad . . . a dancer . . .

Why kid myself . . . Private worries, you'll say . . . but even so . . . nobody . . . Gertrut, Brottin, or anyone else . . . will advance me a plug nickel for a book like
Normance
, and that's that . . . what the readers want is a laugh . . . in the first place Paris was never bombed . . . not a single commemorative tablet, isn't that proof enough? . . . I'm the only one who still remembers two, three families buried under the nuns . . . as far as sales are concerned,
Normance
was a total flop . . . for one reason or another . . . in addition to being sabotaged . . . and then some! . . . by Achille, his clique, his ferocious lackeys, and the hatchetmen of the press! . . . I was expected to be provocative, to grind up some more Palestinians, to run myself back into the cooler! and for good! . . . "benefactors" they call themselves . . . chin up, boy . . . a rap to end all raps! . . . twenty years, my dear sir . . . life . . . oh oh, they've got the wrong slant! . . . I'm waiting to see them all pulled in . . . thugs, all flirting with the guillotine, hard labor, and solitary! to see our beautiful Guyana reopened for them! Devil's Island restored . . . with a little bonus thrown in, a little something on the tongue for each one of them . . . an epithelioma or two . . . a whole assortment . . . between the carotid and the pharynx . . .

That's all very well . . . But in the meantime Brottin gives me the lowdown: no soap! . . . "You sell less and less . . . your
Normance
? . . . a disaster . . . nothing in it to put you back in the clink . . . no pornography . . . no fascism . . . poor bastard! . . . the critics, though . . . poison fangs! the whole works! all ready! . . . it's impossible . . . they're disgusted with you! . . . what about
their
hamburger? . . . heartless! . . . their pay envelopes? . . . their families? . . ."

"Stop writing," you'll say . . . you're perfectly right . . . but what about Lili, the dogs and cats, the birds,
and the
snowdrops
. . .
we had
some
this winter
. . . maybe you've got some idea?

In fact, I can assure you: even living at rock bottom . . . cutting down on everything . . . it's a hard fight with the elements, winds, drafts, humidity, coal bills! . . . cauliflower, smoked herring! the fight to go on living! . . . carrots! . . .
or
even crusts of bread!

But what about my style and my masterpieces? . . . cabala, boycott . . . naturally! I say string up all the plagiarists! and not only the plagiarists, the incompetents too! God knows! . . . at Achille's alone, thousands of them . . . for my money Dumel, Mauriac, Tartre, same noose! . . . the dozen Goncourt prize winners on the next tree! . . . oh, and I forgot the Archbishop of Paris! before the "due process" crowd . . . we wouldn't want that . . . start asking for his head at the Porte Brancion.

Talking about gas and such trifles, the bill's due tomorrow . . . I owe for two "readings" . . . I owe the tax collector, too . . . I owe for coal . . . I repeat myself? . . . hell . . .
in
the same situation . . in the same mess . . . you'd be yelling so hard they could hear you in Enghien . . . they'd have to come and get you . . . with sedatives and straitjackets! Lili and I've been going on like this for fifteen years . . . with the pack at our heels . . . Fifteen years is a long time . . . the ferocious Teutonic occupation was only three years at most . . . think it over!

I see that I'm boring you . . . change the record! . . . string up the bourgeoisie? . . . the bourgeois of all parties . . . I'm all for it, posolutely! A bourgeois is a hundred percent stinker . . . I'm thinking of one in particular, Tartre! the cream of the sewer! the way he slandered me, moved heaven and earth to have me drawn and quartered, I vote him five . . . or six nice malignant tumors between the esophagus and the pancreas . . . top priority!

Tartre robbed me and slandered me . . . don't try to tell me different . . . but no worse than my relations . . . and he's not amusing like my aunt! . . . far from it . . . my aunt's shock . . . practically a stroke . . . at seeing me again! . . . that I wasn't dead! . . . that they hadn't executed me! . . . "You? Your . . . she couldn't believe it . . . "You here?"

As you can imagine, she'd helped herself . . . walked off with three pairs of curtains, six chairs, and all the enamel saucepans . . . not that she needed any of it . . . hell no! . . . she had two . . . three . . . of everything . . . but as long as everybody was helping himself and I was her nephew, why shouldn't she too? . . . she, empty-handed? . . . when my joint was being sacked . . . by total strangers . . . and she was my aunt after all . . . In the first place I had no business coming back . . . I was supposed to die in prison . . . hanged . . . impaled . . . naturally she should inherit . . . the most natural thing in the world . . . Tartre inherited from me, too . . . and plenty of others! . . . "Hello, auntie" . . . she jumps out of her bed in her nightgown to look at me! me! "He murdered his mother! . . . arrest him! . . . arrest him!" . . . Her first words . . . straight from the heart! so overcome with emotion that she ran out screaming, denouncing me: "Monsieur le Préfèt! Help! Help! arrest him! He killed his mother! Monsieur le Préfèt! Help!" . . . down the Faubourg Saint-Jacques and along the Quais . . . "Help! . . . help!" The cops caught her on the run, beat her up at the police station . . . took her to a different station . . . released her . . . beat her up again! 'It's him, it's him! . . ." She started in again . . . in the middle of the night on the Quai des Orfevrès . . . she wanted the prefect of police to step in . . . to throw me back in stir . . . so I'd never come around asking for a chair . . . That was my aunt! . . . friends, relatives, all the same! . . . scavengers when you're outlawed! . . . after spending the rest of the night running around the Food Market, shouting that I had murdered my mother, galloping from one stall to another, she finally collapsed in a pile of leeks! . . . that time they trussed her up . . . took her to the hospital . . . she was still yelling that I was this . . . that . . . any damn thing . . .

Once they've stolen everything you own . . . your furniture, 
manuscripts, knicknacks, curtains
. . . you can
expect the
worst . . . especially from relatives and friends . . . your vicious benefactors! . . . meaner than, a sawed-off shotgun . . . the passion they put into tracking you down . . . my aunt in the bughouse . . . Tartre gone Commie . . . every last one of them ready to throw an epileptic fit if I even looked at them . . . As I said, Auntie wanted for nothing! Or Tartre! . . . well-heeled . . . everything in duplicate! in triplicate! . . . in town . . . in the country . . . frigidaires, automobiles, lackeys . . . the horn had been sounded for me . . . they were in on the hunt . . . that's all . . . Anything for me to be surprised about? . . . stupid bastard! . . .

I'm sidetracking you with trifles . . . I was telling you about Gertrut Morny . . . his keen interest in me . . . Tartuffe! . . . that I should leave Achille, that contemptible, scheming saboteur, for the Editions Berengeres . . . that Achille was my ruin . . . that Loukoum's greatest joy . . . him and his whole tribe . . . was reducing me to nothing . . . at the bottom of their cellar . . . me and my white elephants . . .

But what about Gertrut? . . . I've told you about his face . . . not an old chair-woman like Achille. More the musketeer type, with a musketeer's goatee . . . plus the big sky-blue monocle . . . sure . . . he handed me a line, promised me the moon . . . the sales I'd have . . . I'd recapture the "public favor"! It's true I hadn't much to lose! I couldn't have found a bigger crook than Brottin! . . . for eighty years and then some whole generations of authors had been trying to make a dent in his pocketbook, he'd never coughed up, not twenty francs! . . . in the battle for advances! . . . Achille put up the resistance of a Hercules! but maybe there was one little ruse that might work . . . get him to fork out ten thousand . . . twenty thousand . . . No harm in trying. "So long, Achille! I'm leaving . . . sick of your face . . ." He runs after you . . . with his sweetest smile . . . what hatred! Suits me! Let him hate me!

I didn't trust Gertrut around the corner . . . guess I've told you . . . but he was really rich, never a dull moment, when you got him started on Achille . . . the anecdotes, going back thirty! forty! years . . . the rottenness of that man . . . showed me what I could expect of him! he cheated right down the line . . . at everything . . . at cards, at the races, at Enghien, at the Stock Exchange . . . he couldn't help it . . . the way he hornswoggled his authors, his employees, his maids . . . the bogus loans . . . that they never saw . . . vouchers, contracts . . . flimflam . . . made them sign releases . . . receipts! . . . how many had committed suicide, fished out of the dam at Suresnes? . . . including giants of the pen and ladies once famous who'd be a hundred and thirty years old today!

Enough chit-chat . . . here comes the man to read the water meter . . . I'd better be thinking about that kilo of noodles, that smoked herring . . . Hatred or not, Gertrut had the faraway "don't-bother-me" look of the rich . . . he didn't understand about noodles . . . they were brutes of a feather . . . the same exasperation . . . you, yes you, stupid, how dare you mention noodles to them . . . rich people are only interested in sport . . . the Stock Exchange, the paddock . . . the sport of making their Suez stock go up . . . of swiping each other's actresses, having them mounted by their jockeys . . . the sport of passing red lights . . . every known sport . . . they drool, they're coming apart at the seams, but never a charity ball without them . . . and the little cocksuckers . . . and kidnapping each other's authors . . . but there is one sport they avoid like the plague . . . writing . . . they'd sooner shit in bed . . . publishers aren't crazy! Writers die of toil? What of it? . . . so do donkeys . . . what would Achille do with a piece of paper? Just tell me that . . . what sport? . . . what rotten thing would he make? Or Gertrut? . . . paper dolls? . . .

If only, for instance, I could count on the critics . . . just a little publicity . . . even insulting . . . not Mauriac's whole circus, of course not . . . confessionals and playful urinals! . . . or Trissotin Tartre . . . the united survivors of twenty years of blah-blah-blahl . . . no . . . I'd be satisfied with a few murmurs . . .

I can do without? Think so? . . . But don't say I didn't try.

Time to take action . . .

When it comes to action, I'm Napoleonic . . . Let's go. Arlette° on one arm . . . Simon° on the other . . . and forward march! Is that the studio up ahead? . . . we'll take it by storm . . . here we go . . . rejoice and take heart! . . .

Alas! . . . this cavern? The ruins and leftovers of three . . . maybe four Expositions! funereal bric-à-brac . . . and under that vaulting? higher than three . . . four Notre-Dames . . . all papier-mâché, stucco, giant canopies . . . This is it . . . this is the place . . . Oh, solemn moment . . . our voices . . . no good! we start all over . . . another recording . . . First Simon! . . . I've got to admit, I was moved. . . the phony vaulting resounds! . . . or if it's not the vaulting it's an amplifier! and myself, usually so soft-spoken, my voice is so horrendous it almost puts me to flight . . . what an effect! . . . I wouldn't have believed it . . .

Not at all, they say . . . you won't leave without singing something? . . . no false modesty if that's what they want . . . here we go . . . one! two! . . . vaulting or no vaulting . . . I ask the M.C., the one who speaks French a little . . . if the idea is to put them on sale? . . . my songs, my harmonies and false notes? . . . If maybe I could . . . ? Just a little record? . . .

"Oh no, Maître! No, later! . . . much later, I hope! . . . for our discotheque . . . your necrological recording!"

I saw what they were after! Later? later? . . . I disagree! . . . the prose, the readings . . . perhaps . . . but the songs, oh no, just as they are and right away . . . a bit of eternity on the wing.

I wasn't going to tell them that.