Castle to Castle (6 page)

If I were a quack, I'd do all right . . . that would be a way . . . and not a bad one . . . I'd turn my office in semi-Bellevue into a refriskyment center! . . . a "new look" Lourdes . . . Lisieux on the Seine . . . see what I mean? . . . but the catch! . . . I'm just a plain little doctor . . . I could be a faith healer . . . I could get away with it . . . I can't . . . or a chiropracter? . . . no . . . it's no go!

I have time to meditate . . .. to mull over the pros and the cons . . . to wonder what does me the most harm . . . maybe my suit? . . . my shoes? . . . that I'm always wearing slippers? . . . my hair? The worst, I think, is not having a servant . . . and the last straw: "He writes books" . . . they don't read them, but they know . . .

I go out to meet my (rare) patients myself, I bring them in to the gate, I guide them so they won't slip (they'd sue me) in the mud, the slush . . . or the thistles . . . I run errands . . . those are the things that discredit you . . . I take out the garbage . . . myself . . . I tote the garbage can out to the road . . . you can imagine . . . how can anybody take me seriously? "Doctor, Doctor? for the child . . . tell me! Do you know about dried extract of cod heart fiber? . . . they say it's revolutionary . . . You've heard of it? and hibernation? what say? for mama's eyes."

I can say this, I can say that, who cares . . . they won't believe me anyway! Total distrust . . .

All that isn't so bad, you'll say . . . millions have died who weren't any guiltier than you . . . that's a fact! . . . believe me, I thought about it on those excursions through the city . . . escorted, super-escorted excursions . . . not once! twenty, thirty times! the whole of Copenhagen from East to West . . . in a bus with plenty of bars, full of cops with tommy guns . . . not talkative in the least . . . tourists of every kind, "common law," "politicals" . . . all on their best behavior . . . from the prison to their Court House and back, quite a ways . . . oh, I already knew the city very well, but in a bus full of cops you see the crowd with different eyes . . . That's what's lacking in Brottin, in Norbert, too . . . though they certainly have the "common law" look . . . "
homo deliquensis
" to a T . . . the perfect Lombrosos! . . . sight-seeing in handcuffs would do them a world of good . . . they'd finally see the faces of the cocktail party world . . . their true natures . . . not only the ones in the bus . . . the crowd . . . the street . . . their true faces . . . their horrible complexes . . . parakeets and jackals . . . Politiigaard, their Criminal Court . . . don't knock yourself out: . . . Politii: "Police" . . .
gaard
: "Court" . . . it's all from the French . . . What they wanted to know? . . . Whether I'd really sold the Maginot Line . . . the forts of Enghien . . . the harbor of Toulon . . . The Danes, who had me in the lockup not for a week, for six years, absolutely wanted to know why, why? the French people, the whole of France wanted to have me drawn and quartered . . . was it for this? or for something else? The Danes had no objectionl hell, no! . . . but they wanted to have some idea . . . they don't torture in the dark, à la Française . . . oh no! . . . they reason . . . and while they reason, while they ponder, all you can do is wait, they're slow . . they don't torture with their eyes closed . . . but take care . . . the system has its drawbacks . . . while they investigate . . . sagely, earnestly . . . they don't mind letting you rot in their dungeons . . . they're worth seeing . . . I repeat the address, Vesterfangsel, Pavilion K, Copenhagen . . . death house . . . tourists, how about a little tour? . . . The Hotel d'Angleterre isn't everything. . .. or the "Little Mermaid" . . .

While they meditate about whether to hand you over or not, you do a little thinking yourself . . . your problems . . . you're no bother to them at the bottom of your hole! . . . They're a gang of Tartuffes! ten times worse than ours! . . . Protestant Tartuffes, hats off! you can rot while they're meditating . . . they don't mind . . . they're Puritans! . . . they'd meditate for twenty years . . . until you've no body left . . . nothing but rotten skin . . . scabs . . . lichen . . . pellagra . . . and blind! . . . like all the prisons in the world, you'll say . . . I won't argue . . . the Renault case isn't unique . . . and once they've finished weighing the pros and cons . . . they come and get you in the end . . .
crrreek
,
crrreek
. . . in the middle of the night . . . the heavy door . . . four bruisers in overalls! Remove the object!
Komm!
You hear the pig-sticking! That "
pip-cell"
11,12! I know what I'm talking about . . . The Tartuffe of the North is somebody! Molière's Tartuffe is a baby . . . Plenty of times I've heard
Hjelp! Hjelp!
Next day he's dead . . . you never see him again!

It happens in Fresnes? . . . naturally . . . everywhere! . . . Renault? Tomorrow Cocteau . . . tomorrow Armide . . . Abbé Fatso isn't, exempt! . . . or Dr. Clyster! . . . even Mauriac in his bikini, the "Express" as he calls himself . . . they'll catch up with him! they catch up with everybody, at midnight in the cage . , .

Hjelp!
that means "help" . . . you've caught on! you arrive in Copenhagen . . . "Taxi!" . . . Hotel d'Angleterre? . . . Certainly not! Vesterfangsel! . . . don't back down! insist! that's where you want to go! you want to see it! not the Little Mermaid! You want to hear:
Komm! Hjelp!
. . . that's all! . . .

When I think of the people I hear talking politics, I can see them in the bus . . . a real bus! with real gratings, jam-packed with criminals like you! . . . not criminals à la Charlie Chaplin! honest to God criminals with handcuffs and straitjackets! guarded by a dozen tommy guns . . . what a show! . . . the passersby weave and waver, cling to the shopfronts . . . for fear this might happen to them . . . their consciences quake! scared shitless! . . . memories . . . it's a rare passerby that hasn't got a little abortion tucked away . . . a little theft . . . nothing to be ashamed of! the only thing to be ashamed of is poverty! the one and only! Take me, for instance, no car, a doctor on foot! what do I look like? . . . The advantage of a doctor, even if he's a prize dope, is that with a telephone call . . . he gets there . . . often there's no ambulance available . . . taxis? . . . you can never find one . . . even the most idiotic of doctors has his car! . . . even with my ghastly reputation . . . the old jailbird . . . if I had a car, people wouldn't think me so crummy, so old . . . cars. and more cars . . . what a laugh! . . . that one up there wasn't mine! nor any of these down here . . . I'm expecting Achille's . . . in case he wants to show me his horrible accounts . . . proving that I owe him enormous sums, so he says!
homo deliquensis
, as I've said . . . give him the whole bus to himself! and hell, why not? his whole Trust with him! . . . and Norbert trotting along behind! in handcuffs and corset! that's the way I see it!

When you got to Police Headquarters, you could wait at least five, six hours . . . for somebody to come and get you . . . five, six hours on your feet, each man in a vertical coffin, under lock and key . . . I can safely say that I've stood for hours and hours in the course of my life . . . on guard, cooling my heels, in war as in peace . . . but in those vertical boxes at the Copenhagen
Politiigaard
. . . I've never felt like such a creep . . . waiting to be questioned . . . by whom? about what? I had plenty of time to think it over . . . here we go! . . . they opened my box . . . they helped me up the stairs . . . they had to! . . . two cops . . . the effects of beriberi and also of waiting at the vertical . . . the office was on the fifth floor . . . the cops helped me ever so gently . . . never any brutality . . . I tried everything to shake off my dizziness . . . to keep from staggering . . . from crumpling . . . no use! . . . I fold up . . . that's my pellagra! . . . You can read in any medical treatise that it's easy to cure the scurvy . . . a few slices of lemon . . . your health, sir! . . . all the same I'm a wreck and always will be . . . they'll bury me this way . . . okay, okay! So I'm on my last legs, but that's no excuse for losing me in transit! I was telling you about the stairs . . . Here we are on the fifth floor . . . an amusing little sidelight on their
Politiigaard
. . . the way it's stacked . . . corridors and corridors so twisty . . . hairpins and corkscrews . . . that supposing you made a break . . . no matter when or where . . . you always end up in a court where the "bruisers" are waiting for you . . . special cops . . . you get a message that sends you to the hospital. . . so don't get any fancy ideas . . . for me it was out of the question . . . not with my hundred years . . . all the "treatises" in the world can't change it . . . what's done . . . is done . . . your Nordic prison is built with that in mind! Those guys who are sticking their necks out now in Budapest and Warsaw . . . some of them are going to end up in the house of numbers . . . it's in the cards . . . ask them in twenty years what they think about all this . . . the tourist, as I said, doesn't see a thing, he follows the guide . . . Hotel d'Angleterre, Nyehavn, the tattooed babies, the Big Tower . . . the Mermaid . . . he's satisfied, he goes back home, he talks a blue streak . . . He's seen . . . two, three horses with the trademark of the Carlsberg brewery, wearing their little summer hats! . . . that's what the tourist sees! 

Back to my fifth floor! hoisted by cops on both sides . . .here we are! they sit me down . . . three
Krimimlassistents
are going to question me . . . by turns . . . oh, without the slightest brutality . . . But so invariably boring . . . "Do you admit handing over the plans of the Maginot Line to the Germans?" And myself just as invariably: No! and I signed! every bit as serious as they were! all this went on in English . . . that gives you an idea of the decline of our language . . . If it had been under Louis XIV or even Fallieres, they'd never have dared . . . "
Do you admit?
. . .
Do you admit?
. . ." My ass!
no!
non! signed . . . no comment! once I had said no and signed, they put my handcuffs back on and took me down to the bus . . . and off again . . . the whole city, from East to West!

It went on like that for months and then one day I couldn't move at all . . . the three
Kriminalassistents
came over to see me . . . in my hole . . . to ask me
the
same question all over again . . . and when I say a hole I mean a hole! go see for yourself, ten by ten, twenty feet deep . . . a well . . . just the thing for moss, beriberi and lichens! I who lived eighteen years in the Passage Choiseul, I know something about dismal abodes . . . but the Venstre takes the cake! a slight suspicion that I'd die there? definitely . . . no scandal, no brutality . . . "He couldn't take it!" Take Renault for instance . . . the way they went about it! Stupid to be in such a hurry! two years at the bottom of a well, they'd have had him! Nothing to worry about! . . . for me, five, six months . . . I'd kick off . . . I was supposed to! . . . seventy-five percent disability! . . . No soap! . . . I stuck it out! Lousy luck!

Now, ten years later, here in Meudon-Bellevue, nobody asks me anything . . . they tease me a bit . . . but not much . . . I don't worry my head about them either . . . other troubles . . . gas, electricity . . . coal! and carrots! The pirates who walked off with everything I had . . . sold it all in the Flea Market . . . they don't have to worry about hunger . . . or anything else . . . crime pays . . . Olympic champions for crust! arm-bands, ribbons . . . ten . . . twelve party cards! if they'd cut off my head with a penknife, they'd have been on the Arc de Triomphe! glory! and not "unknown"! . . . Oh no, in neon lights.

But maybe it's wrong of me to complain . . . I'm alive after all . . . and I lose an enemy or two every day . . . cancer, apoplexy, gluttony . . . it's a pleasure the number that pass on! . . . I'm not hard to please . . . a name! . . . another! . . . there are good things in life . . .

Oh yes, I was telling you about Thomine . . . Thomine, my cat, I forgot! senility is no excuse . . . I was telling you about my patients too . . . my last few . . . in consideration of my kindness, my patience, and because they're all very old and I refuse to be paid! oh, absolutely! . . . these few very very old people still come around . . .

My way of life dates from the Second Empire . . . a practitioner of the "liberal arts" . . . supposedly . . . Once I've paid my taxes and my dues to the Medical Association, paid for my license and a bit of heat, and my burial insurance . . . I'm cleaned out . . . that's the truth! . . . flat! . . . liberal arts . . . a good joke . . . I know what you're going to say: "Bleed your Achille! all he has to do is sell a few of your books! . . ." Hell! that's one thing he's careful not to do . . . all he can do is scream that I'm ruining him . . . talk about monumental advances . . . oh, hypocritical Achille! . . . what people! . . . he does everything in his power, two-timing, three-timing, apocalyptic maneuvers! . . . to prevent people from buying my books . . . he keeps me in his cellar, he buries me . . . there'll be a new edition in a thousand years . . . but here and now in Bellevue . . . I can croak . . .' "Ah yes, Céline! . . . he's in our cellar . . . he'll be out in a thousand years! . . ." In a thousand years nobody'll speak French! ah, jug-headed Achille! hell, it's like lace! . . . I saw lace dying out . . . with my own eyes . . . my mother in Père Lachaise hasn't even got her name on her grave . . . that's proof enough . . . I'll tell you about her . . . Marguerite Céline . . . on account of me, the shame of it . . . for fear people would spit on it . . .