Castle to Castle (7 page)

Though I'd never claim to be a St. Vincent de Paul or an Axel Munthe, a lot of people say I make too much of animals . . . they're right . . . zwieback, bacon, hempseed, duckweed, hamburger . . . it all goes! . . . dogs, cats, titmice, sparrows, robins, hedgehogs . . . they eat us out of house and home! and the gulls from the Renault roofs . . . in the winter . . . from the factory down below . . . on the island . . . we're suckers, I have to admit! . . . especially as they all bring their friends . . . hedgehogs, robins, titmice . . . especially in the winter . . . from Upper Meudon . . . if it weren't for us, they'd have a pretty rough time in the winter . . . I say Upper Meudon . . . from further still! from Yveline! . . . we're at the end of the Forest of Yveline . . . the extreme tip . . . then comes the Bois de Boulogne, Billancourt . . .

All right, our animals are a drain . . . I admit it . . . in times like this we should watch our step . . . we do! we do! but then ten new birds turn up . . .

The scrawniest of my charges is spoiled compared to me . . . and I work harder . . . a lot harder! . . . and my protégé doesn't suspect it . . . brain work is invisible . . . I'm ending in total bankruptcy . . . it shames me . . . Last Sunday, for instance, a lady from Clichy, one of my earliest patients, a really distinguished lady, educated, intelligent, well-informed, came to see me . . . she'd crossed Paris from end to end in the Métro, on the bus . . . what courage! . . . I congratulate her . . . she isn't even out of breath! . . . she came to ask me a little advice . . . I've taken care of her whole family . . . in turn I ask her what's become of this one and that one, people I knew well . . . news about places too . . . Porte Pouchet, Square de Lorraine, rue Fanny . . . what they've done with Rouguet's? . . . she knows . . . she knows everything . . . some of them still remember me . . . they've grown old . . . They send me their kind regards, their best wishes . . . they all know what's happened to me . . . they think it's terribly unjust . . . throwing me in the clink . . . though if I'd stayed in Clichy they'd certainly have cut me to pieces! . . . Let's talk about something else . . . about hospitals . . . about the enormous Bichat Hospital . . . and the Town Hall . . . the officials . . . the Commies and the antis . . . about Naile who committed suicide . . . he was a Parisian like me . . . it's unusual in the Paris suburbs to find an official who isn't from the Basses-Alpes or from Hainaut . . . you don't feel at ease in the Paris suburbs unless you're from the Drôme or Finistère or Périgord . . . at the Town Hall for instance . . . "Where were you born?" Courbevoie, Seine . . . the lady frowns . . . you've put your foot in it . . .

Anyway, à propos of Naile, we start talking about Aufray, the former mayor . . . and then about Ichok . . . the phony doctor, who committed suicide, too . . . it's amazing . . . you never know what's going on . . . what's being hatched and finagled in the corridors of a town hall! triple-padded doors, offices "open day and night" . . . nobody ever there . . . nowadays it's not in the sacristies that daggers are sharpened . . . that prussic acid is sold! No, the mystery, the intrigue have moved . . . you'll find plenty in the Welfare offices . . . the biggest mystery to come my way in Clichy was the business with Roudiere, a clerk in the Hygiene office . . . We'll come back to it . . . This Monsieur Roudiere died . . . of cancer! yes, yes, but make no mistake! there was politics at the bottom of it! . . . I know, I saw him . . . he was blackjacked! . . . and how! . . . laid out cold . . . his ulcer bled for six months . . . poor bastard, I won't bring him back to life . . . there's no street named after him like so many other people . . . if he'd done the blackjacking, there'd be a rue Roudière . . . what a joke! Talking this way, about one thing and another . . . reminds me of the murder in the Maison Verte . . . the stiff that disappeared . . . nothing unusual, a murder in a bar, at the counter . . . the spice, the mystery . . . is that 
they
never found the corpse! They saw
it happen
. . .
they
saw the guy
fold!
with two knives in his back . . . he was through! By the time they'd notified the cops to come see . . . and gone for a stretcher . . . the stiff had blown . . . naturally somebody must have given him a hand . . . They arrest everybody . . . the owner, the witness, the maid, the whole shebang! an hour later the bulls come back! dirty work at the crossroads! the corpse was there, back again . . . the same one! with three knives in his back! . . . that was going too far! . . . they go back to Headquarters, spread the alarm . . . but by the time they'd got back to the bar the corpse had blown again! absolutely! hide-and-seek! . . . in the end they gave up . . . From one memory to another . . . Maison Verte . . . Porte Pouchet . . . I got to talking about St Vincent de Paul . . .

"And how about St. Vincent de Paul?"

The famous old people's home . . . I've tended patients there too . . . sick inmates and nuns . . .

"How much does it cost now at St. Vincent de Paul?"

All old people worry about that . . . it's their obsession . . . the price of board at old people's homes . . . my mother and father collected the prospectuses of the Bonnaviat Foundation, the Garigari Foundation, the Petits Ménages at Euques-sur-Ourque . . . in my state, I must admit the 
place for me would be St. Vincent de Paul . . .

"You know how much they ask?"

"Oh, in the old days it wasn't expensive . . . in the old days . . . but now . . . now, Doctor . . . it's 1,200 francs a day! . . ."

"A day?"

"Yes, yes . . . a day!"

"You think so? You really think so, Madame?"

That really wraps it up! . . . 1,200 francs at St Vincent de Paul . . . might as well stay with Abbé Pierre . . . same racket . . . If you ask me, that takes the green banana . . . 1,200 francs a day . . . When I think of what Lili and I had to live on . . . a far cry from 1,200 smackers! . . . what things have come to . . . it takes a genius to keep alive . . . For Brottin, of course, 1,200 francs is a joke . . with his two thousand authors in the cellar, two thousand frantic workers! . . . his Titans of the Lavender Seriss, turning them out with a crank . . . mimeographs, plagiographs . . . and so on . . . they'll give him a pension of ten million . . . Achille's as good as the Bank of France! with his authors in the cellar. . . turn the crank! and bingo! round and round! . . . he and his publishing house, his whole clique and family . . . they've all got so much bread they can't even count it . . . in thirty-six banks! all in the cellar! authors and money! . . . just go take a look at the pyramids, the impressive exterior is nothing, it's what's underneath that counts! deep down in the crypts! there sits the mummy with his goldl and his two thousand author-slaves! and sniveling Loukoum! . . . his Loukoum! . . . his private castrator! the gluttonous monster! slug mouth, hungry for shit, never leaves a scrap! the shit's in a drawing room? good! hoopla! there he slithers! dinner is served! . . . floods of slime . . . he sucks it in, he oozes it out! gulp, gulp! . . . that's him all right!

Okay, but meanwhile my patient, my old friend, had struck me a hard blow! I was aghast . . . 1,200 francs at St. Vincent de Paul! our future, mine and Lili's, looked grim . . .

Oh, you'll say, what about gas? You complain about the gas bills? . . . just give yourself the gas! . . . chin up! . . . read your favorite newspaper . . . people who can't take it any more give themselves the gas! . . . Not so good! After thirty-five years of practice I can tell you a thing or two . . . they don't always make it . . . far from it! they get revived . . . .they don't die but they suffer plenty . . . on the way out, and on the way back . . . a thousand deaths, a thousand recoveries! and the smell! . . . the neighbors come running! . . . they wreck the joint! if they've stolen too much, fire's the answer! . . . they set fire to the curtains . . . a little more suffering for you . . . asphyxia and burns . . . to cap the climax . . . No, gas is bad business . . . the safest method, take it from me, I've been consulted a hundred times, is a hunting rifle in your mouth! stuck in deep! . . . and bang! . . . you blow your brains out . . . one drawback: the mess! . . . the furniture, the ceiling! brains and blood clots . . . take it from me, I've had ample experience of suicides . . . successful and unsuccessful . . . Prison might help you! that's another way of crossing out your existence! . . . Definitely! the dungeon that annihilates time! . . . suicide little by little . . . but under normal conditions everybody can't do time . . . in Bezons, Sartrouville, or Clichy, for instance . . . ah, and don't forget Siegmaringen! . . . there it was pretty urgent! . . . the lot of them with Article 75 on their ass! . . . urgent, I repeat! they all had good reason! the nabobs of the Castle just as much as the small fry in the attics! . . . a general test of the nerves! . . . the whole planet yapping and yelping . . . reviling them as monsters and worse! . . . one kind of torture wouldn't be enough . . . thousands and thousands . . . and then some . . . for centuries! . . . even my patients at the
Fidelis
who were practically dead, with the pus pouring out, eaten with mange, spitting up their pancreas and their bowels, asked me for a way to end like in a dream . . . Some dream! The politicos in the Castle, I can tell you, were the most intent . . . how to go about it? Did I know the best way? revolver? . . . cyanide? . . . hanging? . . . Laval, of course, had his own dodge . . . Laval was proud! he wouldn't deign to ask me . . . and look what happened to him . . . cyanide spoiled by moisture . . . he was so smart! how will de Gaulle end? and Mollet? . . . they don't know . . . they go on chewing the fat . . . as for me, I'll finish myself off in the garden . . . out there . . . plenty of room . . . or maybe the cellar would be better? . . . the cellar's a good place too . . . the cat goes down to have her kittens . . . regularly . . . Lili helps her, massages her . . . nobody will help me . . . They won't give Lili any trouble . . . all neat and orderly . . . The police will investigate . . . cause of suicide? . . . neurasthenia . . . I'll leave a letter for the Public Prosecutor and a small sum of money for Lili . . . when I go over the hill . . . Lili won't get much . . . but all the same, enough to live on for two, three years . . . after all the hurricanes, tornadoes, barbarian hordes, looters of every camp, "warrants" and handcuffs . . . if we still have a few cents left . . . it's a miracle! The whole world gone haywire . . . I'd like to have seen Achille in that mess! him and his gang, his pantless Pin-brain-Trust! ,

Lili fighting the world? . . . I can't quite see it . . . Lili so generous . . . all generosity . . . like a fairy! . . . she'd give everything away . . . but what can I do about it? . . . I've done my best . . . ah . . . "Lavarède and his three sous!"° . . . That was easy! Big deal! Going from one country to another through a thousand terrible adventures . . . my oh my, so he said . . . we say: hill of beans! . . . we went through four ferocious armies! thundering . . . from sky and rails! . . . blasting everything! roasting everything! men, armored trains, babies, mothers-in-law . . . Flying fortresses . . . whole squadrons of them . . . ah, our kit and boodle! and the little money we had! and ourselves! . . . what we went through! deluge on deluge . . . a little worse than the Théâtre du Châtelet, I assure you! . . . real flames, real bombs, take it from me! Göttingen, Cassel, Osnabrück! volcanoes extinguished, revived, rephosphorized, remayonnaised . . .
bing!
and boom . . . the suburbs on top of the cathedrals . . . locomotives on belfries! . . . perched! Satanbamboula! seeing's believing! . . .

I come humbly back to my own case . . . Göttingen, Cassel, Osnabrück . . . who gives a damn . . . any more than about Trebizond or Nantes! . . . cities that might just as well have burned for two hundred years more . . . And Bayeux! and Baku! . . . and why not Naples? All burning . . . fire pots,
pot-au-feu
with all the punks in them! meat! guts! vegetables! . . . speeches, tremolos and statues, blablablah . . . . roll the drums! Troubles, never see the end of them! we'll never get out . . . out of the muck . . . even if we never bought anything . . . what about the taxes? . . . gloomy bastard! . . . business demands optimism . . . defeatist punk! troubles? . . . troubles? . . . We've got too many to go worrying our heads over Hanover, Cassel, Göttingen . . . and what's become of their inhabitants . . . why not people from Billancourt . . . Montmartre? the Poirier family on the rue Duhem? . . . come, come, a little modesty! a little delicacy, if you please! . . . Lili's enough to worry about! . . . Lili, I was telling you, has no sense of thrift . . . with me gone, will she have enough to get by for two years? . . . only two, no more . . . dancing lessons don't bring in anything! the ballerinas are always on tour . . . or on vacation, or pregnant . . . she won't have enough for two years . . . I'll have done my level best . . . nothing to reproach myself with . . . old, tired, and disabled: I'm taking a powder . . . it'll all run off smoothly . . . without a hitch . . . with a hunting rifle . . . no license required . . . Aftereffects of 1914 . . . I wouldn't want to break the law . . . never an outlaw . . . I've known what it means . . . thanks to the lunatic crumminess of my brothers! two-timing traitors the whole lot of them . . . take it from me . . . all raving feebleminded idiots, I've known plenty, or on the other side people like Achille, ferocious, vice-ridden bastards, loaded with bread, their pockets full of party cards . . . all the parties . . . who can poach and flout the law to their heart's content! illusory immunity! Back to your pigsty! I know what I'm talking about . . . I hear boys who think they're pretty smart making light of the Code . . . oh oh! . . . where have they come from? . . . what office? . . . with what envelopes in their pockets? armbands? . . . fingerprints? I'm still waiting to see the ideal wise guy, the hep kid straight out of Carco, grabbing himself a thick slice at the expense of the Law . . . I'm waiting . . . in Criminal Court, for instance! calling the Judge a creep . . . sneering . . . and the Prosecutor a tongue-tied nitwit! and watch them all quaking! thumbing through the dictionary of argot . . . turning pages . . . begging his pardon . . . the Judge hiding under his Code . . . huddled up, white as a sheet! . . . But the truth, alas, is different . . . the Law wins out . . . wherever you go! Uganda! Soviets! . . . Twelfth Chamber! No rapper . . . take it from me . . . will ever weaken . . . ever listen to your bright boy . . . no need of a closed session! . . . the bright boys haven't got a chance! . . . slickers from Neuilly, pimps from La villette . . . Louis XV drawing-room or bar on the Avenue Zola . . . same difference! the wise guys clam up! once they get to the "Tenth," they forget everything they ever knew! . . . underneath the gibbet? . . . ditto. . . at the guillotine? . . . in front of the firing squad? . . . the best you'll get out of them is historical sayings . . . Take Laval . . . "Vive la France!"