Castle to Castle (9 page)

All their newspapers, headlines a mile high . . . their right-wing plutocrats as windy as their Commies, Bopa and company! you'll say I was an easy mark! . . . Just the thing to cement their sacred union . . . conservatives and Muscovites! . . . "do we impale him? . . . Christ, yes! . . . he's made to order . . ." No compunctions over my corpse . . . nothing but kisses! . . . I know how useful I am: the worst enemies makepeace! . . . magic! . . . magic! . . .

I have to laugh . . . Obviously I'd sold the plans of the Maginot Line . . . That was taken for granted! But the question was . . . for how much? the exact figure? . . . there were lots of suggestions . . . the widow Renault didn't sell a thing . . . for billions? . . . come, come . . . let's be serious . . . that's why there's so much talk about Louis, Emperor of Billancourt! . . . and his vertebra! and his martyrdom! I'm just as much a martyr, but no bread, you won't hear my widow or son demanding explanations! . . . there won't be any X-rays or embalming . . . hell, no . . . your penniless martyr hasn't a leg to stand on! . . . the wells and furnaces are full of bigger martyrs than Renault! and nobody X-rayed them or recorded their agony . . . no Brothers of Charity . . . and their widows have remarried as quietly as can be . . . not a word out of them . . . and their sons are off fighting somewhere! . . . Dien-Pen-hu! . . . Oran! . . . and no fuss! So what do I look like griping that they've done me every conceivable wrong and that they're still persecuting me? it's an outrage, etc . . . "You cur, it serves you right!" . . . They'd do better to revive the flame . . . march up the Champs-Elysées! take the rue de Châteaudun° by storm, oh, the beautiful bonfires they're planning! oh, the terrific super-Budapests! . . . not to mention all these irritations of the arteries! . . . these swollen little prostates! . , . howling tomorrows! . . . "a bottle of mineral water! . . . oh, oh, the blockheads! . . ."

Le Bourdonnais, who was murdered, was certainly a bad egg, a hypocrite and a pimp . . . oh, no more nor less than Achille or Gertrut . . . but snowed under as he was by debts, pending accounts and bad checks! . . . I've told you how it ended . . . if he'd been solvent, he'd still be alive, they wouldn't have taken him for a ride . . . but insolvent? his number was up, it was in the cards . . . Carbuccia,° a flower of innocence, a tourist! . . . "According to who you are" . . . well, me and my white elephants . . . you can imagine what happened to me in all this! handed over . . . bag and baggage . . . to those depraved grocers! . . . they'd never stuffed their bellies so full! . . . pigs! . . . the worst thing about them is their weight, heavy heavy! . . . their deceit . . . big fat layers, their subtleties stick to your fingers . . . it takes you hours to get your hands clean . . . sticky! . . . Le Bourdonnais was washed up . . . young hippopotamus! three guesses whether they saw him coming . . . with his clumsy tricks! . . . on the Esplanade at night . . . a big hole in his back! . . . laid out cold! . . . in the moonlight! the Fualdès dame inherits . . . inherits me and sells me off . . . pass to Achille . . . that's football for you, my treasures! my geniuses! . . . rugby! . . . Fualdès receives, gets away! . . . Achille scores and wins! . . . takes the whole pot . . . stows me away in his cellar! . . . me and my white elephants! . . . I disappear from view! the Marquise de Fualdès digests . . . Old stuff! . . . The times have changed . . . Whoopee! Bagged and gagged . . . A laugh! see you next year on the ice!

A buck private in all that . . . a square like me! . . . spoiled darling! . . and, I repeat, it doesn't date from yesterday . . . ever since public school on the rue Louvois . . .which doesn't make us any younger . . . takes you back to the Impressionists, to the Dreyfus case! public school is the keynote of the people . . . Mauriac can talk "Communist," he'll never know what he's talking about! He's a hundred percent
Chartron!
° and will be to his dying day . . .
Chartron!
I flatter him!

So just then . . . when the cold feet were hanging out flags . . . when the tremblers were looting, when the deserters were triumphant, when the gollywobblers were coming up strong, when forty million yellow-bellies were taking their vengeance, it wasn't exactly the time for me to show my face! It was as if Larengon the apostate or Triolette in her "double-duty bikini" were to cross the bridge in Pest . . . If I'd been at my mother's on the rue Marsolier, they'd have got me . . . like Le Bourdonnais! . . .
bam!
. . . like on the rue Girardon . . . "you stink" . . . that's reason enough! "He's got it coming to him . . . that's all . . . Bring him out!" Vaillant, who's boasted plenty and still regrets bitterly that he missed me, and by so little . . . there he wouldn't have missed me . . . if I'd been at my mother's aged seventy-four . . .

They left me nothing . . . not a handkerchief, not a chair, not a manuscript . . . if I'd been a stiff I would have stunk . . . I'd have inconvenienced them . . . like this I wasn't in the way, they were able to cart everything off and sell it at the Flea Market! at the Auction Rooms! . . . coming up hard with the joy of it! . . . Sold out . . . I'm like France . . . sold out, bag and baggage! . . . birth certificate and all! . . . sixty-three in a week! . . . Assassins, you've got him by the balls! . . . diving off the Budapest bridge? how many like me?

It'll be mighty amusing someday if a future Lenôtre digs up our tombs and our statues, our halos and our bank deposits . . . to see how much the "pure" took in . . . how many de Beers shares? How many Rhône shares? How many castles, whores, treasures, stables, embassies? . . . more than in '89? . . . less? . . . What debates! . . . at the Sorbonne! . . . at the Trois Magots! . . . in the
Annals!
. . . and if Hitler had won . . . Aragon joining the S.S.? Triolette a charming Walkyrie? . . . ah, those lectures! . . . an earful! . . . In the
Annals
for the year 2000 . . . the grand Communist marquises fighting for seats for fear of missing a single session! . . . a single one of their super-super Herriot's dazzling fights . . . with his rear end ten times as big as our Herrioet's . . . not to mention the sensa-a-ational Abbé Pierre . . . ten revolvers!

To hell with the future . . . let's get back to our own affairs! that Gertrut should screw Brottin? . . . hell, why not? . . . that they should cut each others throats! by all means! if you see him with his eyes hanging out, be sure to tell me about it for kicks . . . I'm speaking of Achille . . . let them skin each other alive . . . both of them . . . bright red, scarlet . . . peeled! . . . a good show! but before they fix each other up, listen to this! . . . it's funny! . . . in the days of the Hippodrome on the Place Clichy, Gertrut and Achille both had a hard-on for the same woman, one of those eaters of gold francs! a rival of the Bank of France! . . . anybody who remembers those "good old" days remembers Suzanne . . . what a screen artist! and her vaporous negligees against a background of "soft blue light!" of "moonlight" . . . what a sublime artist, absolutely silent, no talkies in those days . . . it's the word that kills! . . . a woman that talks softens your pecker, ah, they came up hard at the silent pictures! . . . Take a look at the movie houses today! the trouble they have filling up! . . . blah-blah-blah . . . crushing, soporific . . . gloomy balls . . . soft cocks! . . . smiles, vaporous negligees! tender music! well be going back to all that! . . . and moonlight! I can safely say that you'll never find an idol who can hold a candle to Suzanne . . . not even with floods of money, tomtoms, and scandal . . . it's no use trying . . . I who had no time to spare, hell, no! . . . between deliveries . . . I still managed to gallop out past Bécon to see Suzanne in person on the set! . . . gives you an idea what an idol she was! . . . between La Garenne and Nanterre . . . whenever it stopped raining, they took advantage! . . . between the rubble heaps . . . hiring on the spot . . . we made up the crowd . . . I was a kid in the crowd . . . between showers, five francs! . . . two francs . . . a whistle blew! . . . everybody take shelter! . . . the first drop! under the bridge! save the equipment from the rain . . . and the dresses with their muslin trains! and the stars' makeup, carmine and oil and plaster of Paris! . . . beauties that had warmth . . . Did we help! . . . we husky extras weren't the only ones to help them to the shelters! the sightseers helped too! . . . the crowd! . . . when the whistle blew! and the first drop fell! everybody! and Suzanne!

What's become of all that? . . . I ask you . . . the stars and the extras? . . . and the crowd? . . . and the rain . . . what rain! . . . speaking of those far-off days I can say one thing: The real thing is dead! . . . I know . . . a fellow like me, still attentive to the real thing . . . looks like an ass! . . . For no reason at all . . . and they're proud of it . . . they crushed the whorehouses and street fairs . . . some jerk-off! . . . now the juice squirts all over the place! . . . the whole place is a whorehouse . . . and a street fair . . . from cradle to grave . . . all fucked up! The real thing is dead. Verdun killed it! Amen! . . .

Maybe I'm going to bore you . . . something funnier? . . . more titillating? . . . Maybe . . . ? All I care about . . . you know that . . . is giving you a laugh . . . Even before the days of Suzanne, I knew the Hippodrome with its horses 
and wild
animals! the big stable! and what mobs! . . .
such
crowds that the omnibus gave up! . . . at La Trinité . . . couldn't even get started! jam-packed with enthusiasts. And what a show! men, lions, and horses, Marines, Boxers, the capture of Peking! Those are the things that give you the right frame of mind! a sense of art! I don't know many writers of the so-called left or right, holy-water addicts or Commies, conspirators of the cellar cafés or of the Lodges, who ever saw the storming of Peking like I did on the Place Clichy . . . and the bayonet charge of our little Marines! the storming of the wooden ramparts . . . the clouds of powder smoke! . . . and boom! . . . at least twenty cannon . . . all at once! . . . Sergeant Bobillot taking on a hundred Boxers singlehanded! . . . grabbing their flag! . . . and planting ours, our tricolor! on their pile of corpses . . . square in the middle! . . . Peking was ours! And the fleet! coming down from the grid! the
Courbet
on canvas! . . . the works . . . those were the shows! Those shows formed the spirit!

Oh, wait . . . something even more terrific than Peking! . . . the attack on the stagecoach . . . by three tribes of mounted Indians . . . bareback . . . you need to have seen those things! Where would you find two hundred Indians riding bareback today? . . . plus Buffalo Bill in person! . . . shooting an egg in mid-air . . . in full gallop! you won't find that in a hurry . . . no Hollywood hokum! . . . that egg in mid-air . . . Buffalo Bill and his boys . . . the genuine article, spitting flames! . . . ah, and the best of all! . . . I forgot to tell you . . . Louise Michel!° . . . Nowadays they talk about sensations! suspense! what have they got? Nothing! . . . there on the Place Clichy you didn't talk, you just looked and trembled . . . look . . . the main attraction! Louise Michel rising out of the darkness! deathly pale! all the spotlights converging . . . for half a second! "
Bow-wow!
" . . . she seemed to be climbing on a chair . . .
bow! wow!
. . . Angry! . . . out with the lights! . . . my grandmother had lived through the Commune on the rue Montorgueil she knew . . . "That's not Louise Michel, my boy . . . it's not her nose or her mouth!" . . . you couldn't fool my grandmother . . .

Nowadays it's out of the question, you won't see Khrushchev, Picasso or Triolette climbing on a chair . . . the Desmoulins-Palais Royal effect! . . . not those pallid shouters . . . appearing under the spotlights "
bow! wow!"
. . . Thorez perhaps? Mauriac?

One thing is sure, nose or no nose, Louise had a perfect right! "
bow! wow!
" . . . and angry! . . . and how! . . . I say it and I'll say it again louder . . . later on! . . . when I have time to think about it . . .