Death on the Installment Plan (30 page)

In the eddies the people felt oilier, stickier than our people. My suitcase got tangled up in legs, I passed from one paunch to another. I took a gander at the food piled up in the shop windows. Little mountains of hams … Valleys of bologna … I was mighty hungry, but I was afraid to go in. I had a pound in one pocket and some change in the other.

After a lot of pushing and poking we ended up on the riverfront … The fog was pretty thick … You get used to stumbling … Mustn’t fall in the river … The whole place was rigged up like a fair, with little booths and some regular stages … Thousands of lamps and what a mob! … Peddlers fished for suckers in the crowd … shouting themselves hoarse in their language … There were lots of stands all along the esplanade, to suit every taste … Fish and chips … mandolins, wrestlers, weight lifters, a sword swallower, a bicycle track, little birds … there was a terrific mob around the canary pecking the “future” in a box … There was something for everybody … nougat … whole barrels of currant jelly, dripping all over the place … A dense cloud comes down from the sky … it falls on the fair … for a moment it hides everything … blots out space … You can still hear all right, but you can’t see a thing … neither the man nor his acetylene lamp … Ah, a gust of wind! There he is again … A real gentleman in a frock coat … He exhibits the moon for twopence … for three he gives you Saturn … it’s written on his sign … There’s the mist again, falling on the crowd, spreading out … Everything’s muffled … The guy breaks off his spiel, folds up his telescope, curses, and clears out. The people are all laughing … You can’t even move anymore … People lose each other, then they get together outside the stands where the light is really bright. Music drifts over from all directions … You think you’re right in the middle of it … It’s a kind of mirage … Like you were bathing in sound … That’s a banjo … A nigger on a carpet right beside me, whimpering on the ground … he imitates a locomotive, he’s going to run everybody over. We’re all having a fine time, we can’t see each other.

The fog lifts and blows away … I’m not in a hurry anymore … I can take my time about getting to Mean-well … This place on the riverfront suits me … the fair and the strangers in the haze … There’s something very pleasant about a language you don’t understand … It’s like a fog swirling around in your thoughts … It’s nice, it’s like a dream, there’s really nothing better … It’s fine as long as the words stay in the dream … I sit down for a while quietly on my blanket, against a stone post, on the other side of the chains … I can lean back, I’m pretty comfortable … I watch the whole show passing … A whole string of sailors with lanterns on the end of long poles … They’re funny guys … Confusion! Fireworks! … They’re all dead-drunk and happy … They push and shove and squeal like cats … They throw the whole crowd into a panic. They can’t get ahead … Their snake dance gets tangled up in a lamp post … It winds and unwinds … One of them collapses in the gutter … They’ve knocked the nigger over … Shouts … challenges … insults … Suddenly they’re roaring mad … They want to hang the nigger from the trolley pole … What a racket! … A mean fight starts up … The whole place is steaming and sizzling … The blows fall like drumbeats … terrible grunts and groans … Whistles blow … A troupe of extras come running … A screaming cloud … A whole squad of police, blue with pointed black helmets … They’re in a terrible hurry … They pop out of the streets, out of the shadows, from all over … on the double … And the soldiers who’ve been strutting along the stands, dandling their riding whips, start running too … They plunge into the fray … Catcalls from the sarabande … They stagger and fall … Every color in the rainbow! A battle of samples … Jonquil … green … violet … A free-for-all … a scramble … The women escape into the corners with their acetylene lamps, the lights blend with the fog … all screaming something awful … terrified … skinned alive … Police reinforcements arrive … parrot color … Majestically they join in the dance … They’re toppled over, their clothes are torn off. A battle in a bird-house … A welter of riding whips and plumes … A charabanc with four horses bounds out of an alley … It stops short in the middle of the riot … Some more bruisers pour out … They fling themselves on the mob like a ton of bricks … they’re giants and they move fast … They nab the most truculent, the drunkest, the ones that are yelling loudest … They toss them into the van, completely upside down … The corpses pile up inside … The battle dies down … The ruckus is swallowed up in darkness … The wagon gallops away … And that’s the end of the riot … The crowd flows back toward the bars, to the mahogany counters … to guzzle harder than ever … The roadway is clear … little carts go by … French fries … sausages … periwinkles … Glasses are clinked … Knives cutting into sausage … The swinging doors are in constant motion … right and left … A drunk stumbles and falls flat in the gutter … The procession circles around him … People dawdle past … A bevy of floozies … cackling and guffawing … sailors push them into the doorways … They talk … they belch … the bar absorbs them … The Scotsmen dash in …They’d like to fight some more, but they really can’t… .

I follow them in with my suitcase … Nobody asks me anything … They serve me first … A whole mugful of syrup, thick and black and frothy … it’s bitter … it’s beer! It tastes like stewed smoke … They give me back two coppers with the queen on them, the one that just died, with the face like a rear end … the fair Victoria … I can’t finish their brew, it turns my stomach and I’m mighty ashamed. I go back to the procession. We pass the little carts again, with the lamps between the shafts … I hear a regular orchestra … I look around and locate it … It’s right near the landing … It’s coming out of a big tent, a blaring uproar … They’re singing in chorus, completely out of tune … It’s amazing the way they manage to torture their mouths, to dilate them, to blow them up like real trombones … And pull them in again … They’re on their last legs … They’re dying of convulsions … They’re praying and singing hymns … There’s this big tall battle-ax with only one eye, she’s yodeling so hard it’s like to pop out of her head … The way she’s jigging and heaving, her bun starts sliding down over her nose, and her bonnet with the ribbons too … she thinks she’s not making enough noise, she grabs her man’s trombone and blows, she spits a whole lung into it … But it’s a polka she’s playing, a regular hornpipe … The gloom is over … The people begin to dance, they hug each other, they hop, they shake each other up … The guy in the uniform that’s looking at her must be her brother, he looks just like her except for the beard, and besides he’s got glasses and a nifty cap with an inscription. He seems to be sulking … He’s got his nose in a book … All of a sudden he breaks into a fit too! He grabs the horn from his sister … He climbs up on the stool, spits a good oyster … and begins to jabber … The way he’s waving his arms and beating his breast … working himself up into an ecstasy … I can sec it must be a sermon … His words come out sobbing … tortured … it’s unbearable … The characters around them are laughing fit to kill … He defies them, challenges them, nothing can stop him … not even the whistles of the boats stemming the current … He goes right on thundering … Personally, he gives me a pain … He puts me to sleep … I sit down on my blanket … I cover myself, nobody can see me, I’m hidden by the sheds … The Salvation Army guy is still yelling, screeching his lungs out … He makes me tired … It’s cold, but I wrap up good … I feel a little warmer … The mist is white, then blue. I’m right next to a sentry box … It’s getting dark, little by little … I’m going to sleep … Over there, that’s where the music is coming from … It’s a merry-go-round … a barrel organ … From across the river … that’s the wind … the lapping of the water …

A terrible groan from a boiler woke me with a start … A ship was coming up the river … fighting the current … The Salvation Army characters from before had cleared out … Niggers were jumping up and down on the stage … somersaulting in swallowtails … landing in the street … Their lavender coattails spun around behind them in the mud and the acetylene glare. ”The Minstrels,” it said on their big drum … They went on and on … a roll of the drum … a happy landing … a pirouette … A great big enormous siren rips through the echoes … The crowd stops in its tracks … They all move down to the edge to watch the ship landing … I wedge myself into the staircase right next to the waves …

A lot of brats in little boats were whirling around in the eddies looking for the hawser … The launch, the big fat one with the enormous copper boiler in the middle, was rolling like a top … She was bringing the papers. The East Indiaman was having a tough time with the current … She was still in midstream, in the middle of the blackness … She didn’t want to come closer … with her green eye and her red one … Finally the wise guy came in after all, bashing against an enormous bundle of sticks that was hanging from the dock … It cracked like a pile of bones … She had her nose into the current, she roared in the rough water … She churned against the mooring buoy … a tethered monster … She let out one little howl … She was beaten … all alone in the glistening whirling water … We turned back to the merry-go-round, the one with the organs and the mountains … The party was still going on … I felt better after my nap … It was like magic … an entirely different world … fantastic … like a crazy picture … All of a sudden I felt they’d never catch me again … that I’d turned into a memory that no one would ever recognize … that I had nothing more to fear, that nobody’d ever find me again … I treated myself to a ride on the merry-go-round, I held out my change. I took three whole rides with three crazy floozies and some soldiers … They were cute, they had faces like dolls, eyes like blue candies … I was dizzy … I wanted to take another turn … I was afraid to show my dough … I went off a little way into the darkness … I tore open my lining, I wanted to take out my banknote, the whole pound. And then the smell of something frying steered me to a place right near the locks … It was fritters … I could smell them a mile away … on a cart with little wheels.

This kid that was messing with the batter … I can’t say she was pretty … She had two teeth missing in front … She never stopped laughing … She had a fringed hat with a big pile of flowers on top … crushed under the weight … a regular hanging garden … and long muslin veils that hung down into her kettle … She took them out with a sweet smile … She seemed very young to be wearing such a thing even at that time of night … even under those cockeyed circumstances … that lid really sent me … I couldn’t take my eyes off it. She was still smiling at me … The kid wasn’t twenty, with pert little boobies and a wasp waist … and an ass the way I like them, taut, muscular, with a good split … I walked around her to get a good look. She was still absorbed in her grease … She wasn’t proud or standoffish … I showed her my change … She served me enough fritters to stuff a whole family. All she took was one little coin … There was sympathy between us … She could see from my suitcase that I’d just got off the train … She tries to make me understand something … She tries to explain … She speaks very slowly … She pronounces each word separately … Well, then I begin to feel jumpy … I shrivel up … The poison runs through me … As soon as anybody starts talking to me I get mean … I didn’t want any more gabfests … Save your breath! I’ve had enough! … I know what it leads to … you can’t fool me … She gets politer, sweeter, more endearing than ever … Anyway that hole in her mouth when she smiles makes me sick … I make motions to show that I’m going for a walk over by the pubs … to have a little fun … I leave her my suitcase in exchange and my blanket … I put them down beside her camp chair … I make a sign for her to watch them … I go back to the crowd …

With nothing to weigh me down, I head for the shops … I stroll past the piles of grub … But I’m full up, I can’t eat anymore … The clock strikes eleven … Drunks come out in waves and stream down the esplanade … this way and that way, crashing against the wall of the customs house … tumbling, roaring, spreading out, dispersing … The ones that are stewed but still swaggering step into the pub stiffly, rhythmically, buttoned crooked but buttoned, and head straight for the bar … There they stand speechless, transfixed, riveted by the mechanical din, the “valse d’amour.” I’ve got piles of money left … I took two more helpings of beer soup, the kind that makes you piss …

I went out with a little thug and another burper with a little cat under his arm. He was miaowing between the two of us … I didn’t get very far … I retreated into the next pub … I staggered through the swinging doors … I sat down on a bench … waiting for it to pass … with all the boozehounds … There was a crowd of dames in short jackets, in feathers and tarns and hard-brimmed straw hats … They were all talking like animals … barking and belching … They were dogs, tigers, wolves … crabs … I was beginning to itch …

Outside, through the window, fish were passing now … You could see them clear as anything … They were moving slowly … undulating past the glass … coming out into the light … They opened their mouths, little puffs of fog came out … There were mackerel and carp … They smelled like it too, they smelled of muck, honey, acrid smoke … everything … Another little slug of beer … and I’ll never be able to get up again … That’ll be fine … They drool, they chortle … all those bums … They’re all fighting, they give each other clouts on the ass that would kill a mule … The stinkers!

But then the piano stops, the bartender in the apron throws us all out … I’m in the street again. I unbutton my collar … I feel lousy … I drag myself through the shadows … I can still see the two street lamps a little … not much … I see the water … I can see it lapping … Ah! I can even see the way down. I take the steps one by one … I lean on the rail, I’m very careful … I touch the drink … on my knees … I vomit on it … I make a violent effort … I feel better … An enormous burst comes down on me from above … a whole meal … I can see the guy leaning over … Seconds … A slimy mess … I try to stand up … Hell, I can’t make it … I sit down again … I take the whole business … Oh well … it runs into my eyes … Another retch … Wah! … I see the water dancing … white … and black … It’s really cold. I’m shivering, I tear my pants … I can’t throw up anymore … I lie down again in a corner … The bowsprit of a sailboat passes over me … It just grazes my head … The guys are coming. A whole squadron of them … They’re coming out of the fog. They’re pulling at the oars … They pull up at the dock … The sails are furled at half-mast … I hear the mob coming, stamping along the dock, that’s the fatigue squad …