Paris Noir (18 page)

Since the Occupation‚ the situation has changed. Zoltan keeps to himself‚ lies low‚ plays dumb. But a man has to live. Being of very muscular build‚ he finds work now and then at Les Halles.

Which is how he came to be taken under the wing of Jean Lecardeur‚ whose duty was to hand over this ‘maverick’ to the Police Aliens’ Department‚ that’s to say‚ the Germans.

‘He speaks German‚ Russian‚ all the languages of the East. We should give him some false papers. He could be useful to us.’

Yes‚ but I can’t pass him off as a Parisian when he still speaks so haltingly. In France he’s mixed almost exclusively with Jews‚ Poles and Gypsies. Besides‚ his physique won’t allow him to pass unnoticed. We’ve found him a job as a labourer with a
timber merchant‚ at Clamart. And it’s turned out well. According to Lecardeur‚ the Hungarian feels the need to get rid of so much physical energy that‚ in addition to his job‚ he seeks out and cheerfully performs the most arduous tasks. I went to see him twice. I was pleasantly surprised by his evident intelligence‚ his knowledge of men‚ his patient indulgence towards those of a pig-headed or fanatical disposition. To enable him to improve his French‚ I lent him the series of novels by Panant Istrati:
Kyra Kyralina‚ Uncle Anghel
 … He devours them and in just a few days has already made astounding progress.

It was raining outside. All day long a persistent drizzle imbued garments‚ faces‚ even the walls with a kind of chilly dampness that seemed to seep from within. We’d met up‚ all the artist crowd‚ at the Quatre-Fesses.

Feeling dejected and chilled‚ we’d unadventurously ordered for ourselves‚ each man for himself‚ some pretty poor quality drinks: thin red or acid white wine.

When Olga‚ a brunette with her hair cut very short‚ pudding-basin style‚ had reassured herself that none of us was in any mood to misbehave‚ she said‚ ‘All right. This evening‚ drinks are on the house.’ Thereupon she opened a litre of punch and immediately set it on the stove to warm up.

The atmosphere soon improved. We all had something to say about the rain and we started chatting. During the course of the evening Gérard gave Olga one of his canvases.

I gave her friend Suzy some engravings I happened to have with me. And Paquito – a new recruit – offered to go and fetch coal from the bunker at the back of the yard the following morning. Olga and her companion were so touched by these demonstrations of generous goodwill that the glasses of punch were succeeded with a pretty good Beaujolais‚ accompanied by a rustled-up snack.

Outside the rain grew bolder. Now less furtive‚ it drummed
down fiercely‚ and occasionally a vicious gust would drive it horizontally against the windowpanes. Olga asked us to help her lower the shutter and bolt the door‚ so we’d be more cosy. Who could possibly be expected to turn up at such a late hour in weather like this?

It was then that she appeared in the doorway‚ breathless from running‚ dripping wet‚ with her hat in her hand. Very beautiful. Really very beautiful. She gave the impression of having fallen with the rain‚ and as she wiped her face‚ of swallowing childish tears.

Her name was Elisabeth. She stayed‚ not in too much hurry to leave‚ waiting for the rain to stop. She stared at all of us in turn. She was probably surprised that‚ having asked her name‚ none of us felt the need to pose any further questions.

It was for fear of being disappointed‚ of finding out she was stupid or not at all virginal. We were satisfied with her just as she was. Her wet hair and pale face lent her the charms of a water-sprite.

Olga had taken off her shabby coat and hung it to dry by the stove.

The rain intensified‚ we could hear it pelting on the asphalt and roofs. We’d turned off the light that could be seen from outside. Huddled in the semi-darkness‚ squeezed up next to each other‚ we were about to take it in turn to recite in hushed tones one of the poems that haunt our memories.

At that moment brakes screeched outside the door. There were two sharp knocks on the iron shutter‚ then two more with a greater interval between them. ‘It’s Edmond‚’ said Olga. ‘I’ll go and let him in.’

She went down the corridor.

‘It’s no joke getting in here!’

My chum Edmond and his inseparable companion Bucaille jigged about‚ shaking themselves dry. Naturally they ordered drinks – all round‚ would you believe it!

We really liked Edmond and Bucaille. Nevertheless‚ they’d broken the incipient spell and we were disappointed. I was certainly annoyed with them.

True to form‚ after cracking a few coarse jokes‚ though not
too obscene on account of Elisabeth being there‚ these two cronies got out their notebooks and pencils‚ and started settling some business between themselves. Within two minutes they were shouting and hurling abuse at each other as though about to come to blows.

Edmond had put down in front of him a pile of old books that had been saved from pulping. The boys and I started to look through them. The argument between the two rag- pickers went on interminably. It’s all beyond me‚ but I think I understood that one of them was accusing the other of having sold him some copper more dearly than the going rate. They ended up shouting figures at each other. ‘A hundred and eighty!’ ‘Two hundred and five!’ Then from behind the stove‚ behind the rest of us‚ a shrill quavering voice said very calmly‚ ‘A hundred and eighty-eight! It’s dropped six francs since the day before yesterday!’

I had plenty of time to notice that the Old Man’s hair and beard were unruffled and completely dry as if he were immune to the weather‚ or had emerged from some underground tunnel whose outlet nobody knew of.

He asked for some warm milk and gazed at us good- humouredly.

‘So‚ my friends.’

He pointed to Elisabeth.

‘Who’s this young lady?’

‘A friend‚’ said Gérard.

‘Elisabeth‚’ said the water-sprite with a smile.

The Old Man Who Appears After Midnight stroked his beard with that familiar slow gesture.

‘Elisabeth … mmmmm … yes … pretty.’

The rain drummed its fingernails on the lintel outside.

‘Where does the young lady live?’ asked Edmond.

‘Rue d’Ulm‚ beyond the Pantheon‚ with my aunt.’

‘I’ve got the van. No point in getting your feet wet. At five o’clock I’ll give you a lift. Until then‚ you might as well relax …’

Edmond‚ Bucaille and Paquito started a game of cards.

Olga and Suzy dozed in each other’s arms.

Gérard found a sheet of canson drawing paper and began to sketch a portrait of the girl.

As usual I offered round my packet of cigarettes. The Old Man thanked me with a meaningful smile‚ a smile that said‚ ‘You don’t seriously expect
me
to smoke?’

Yet he drinks milk and‚ on other occasions‚ wine. So why not?

There’s no way of getting him to talk. I know he never answers direct questions‚ especially about himself. But that’s no reason to be so timid and unenterprising. I’ve known fear before now – but not fearfulness. With the Old Man‚ that’s how I was‚ tongue-tied and pathetic‚ and I felt the total absence of radiance‚ projections of warmth or any other emanation that might have issued from him. I was intimidated by a moving stone. The Old Man could read me like a book‚ and he smiled. He doesn’t know how to chuckle‚ he can’t possibly know. It was he who broke the ice.

‘What became of that Pole you brought along to Rue de Bièvre one day. You seemed very anxious about him.’

I notice he addresses me as ‘
vous
’. I had the impression he normally used the familiar ‘
tu
’ with everyone. His question throws me into confusion. The number of times I’ve thought about that moment when I felt death lurking‚ taking stock‚ as though quite at home. I try to respond. ‘But that was during the daytime. You weren’t there. How could you …?’

To silence me‚ a wave of his hand‚ and the same meaningful smile‚ which this time said more or less‚ ‘You don’t seriously expect me
not
to know something?’

I yield to his authority. ‘The lad survived. He’s not in France any more. He’s keeping himself in training somewhere else‚ until he can get back to work.’ And I made a noise‚ ‘Bzzz … bzzz …’‚ pointing at the ceiling.

The Old Man looks at me intently. ‘No news of Keep-on- Dancin’?’

‘No. Because I don’t want to hear any. I know he’s alive and that’s enough for me. Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t know which of the two would have been better off
not spending so much time with the other. But you were bound to meet.’

These words were spoken in a tone of voice that removed any suggestion of slight or offence that might have been detected in them. They mostly conveyed a strange regret. Could the ‘powers’ of our old after-midnight visitor be so restricted?

I’ve had plenty of time to relive that awful moment when‚ sensing Watsek to be a marked man‚ I exerted all my energies to try and save him‚ this time at least‚ from a fateful end. As others would have prayed with the most concentrated fervour.

Watsek made it. Only the young gunner was killed. There should have been two corpses. That claim was outstanding‚ and death wants its due. Which of the others?

If I learn of Keep-on-Dancin’’s death‚ even in twenty years’ time‚ I shall feel partly responsible.

The water-sprite was tired‚ the light too poor. Gérard put away his drawing and decided to finish it another time: the girl had promised to come and see us again.

I borrowed a sheet of paper from Gérard and a charcoal pencil. I did a fairly elaborate sketch of the Old Man – he complied with good grace – which I carefully put away in our group’s portfolio until I could fix it. Watching me strive so hard to capture his features‚ especially the detail on one of his hands‚ seemed to delight the Old Man. He didn’t say why.

We made some coffee. Notre-Dame struck five o’clock. We all got to our feet. In the confusion that preceded and followed our farewells‚ the Old Man melted away.

The next day I bought some Lefranc fixative and borrowed Gérard’s aspirator in order to preserve my portrait of the old boy‚ which I considered quite successful. I hunted through the portfolio in vain‚ I couldn’t find my drawing. In the end we took out every single item it contained‚ one by one. I recognized my sheet of paper‚ carefully laid flat on a piece of white card. The drawing had completely disappeared‚ as though it had been rubbed out. We had to clean the bottom of the portfolio‚ for the cloth was blackened with charcoal powder.

Elisabeth came back to see us now and again. And then it became a habit. Very young‚ newly arrived from the country. No other family but her aunt‚ a prospector for old books and rare documents.

Funds were low: ‘the black flag flew over the cooking pot’. The girl had no work experience‚ and certainly didn’t have the face or the hands of a domestic servant or waitress. We wanted to help her out.

Gérard eventually sold a few canvases. Paquito received some pretty meagre funds from his family‚ but they came regularly. Séverin survived‚ by falsifying foreigners’ passports when their visitor’s permit expired. For this‚ he used my own fake ID materials. As for myself‚ I put everything I earned into the kitty‚ as well as my allowance from the network budget. For everyone it became easier to get by. Meanwhile Doudou Landier‚ born in Tahiti‚ an excellent painter and sculptor‚ was allowed to ‘join the club’. And Clément Dulaure‚ a sign painter‚ decorator – wood-graining and marbling – who thought that because he occasionally copied a postcard with the skill of a good craftsman it was only natural he should be included in our group. Much younger than the rest of us‚ and ‘not one of the lads’‚ he was soon Elisabeth’s lovesick suitor. A very pure‚ shy‚ romantic suitor. Apart from the poet’s cape‚ all he needed was the balcony‚ the guitar and the knotted climbing rope.

One day we hatched a scheme amongst ourselves. We’d get Elisabeth to pose for a few hours a day in Doudou’s room‚ which was spacious. We’d pay her‚ and it would be too bad if one of us didn’t manage to produce a saleable piece of work out of it.

Dressed up in more or less bizarre costumes‚ the girl posed with a guitar‚ a child‚ a bandoneon‚ and a large earthernware oil jar that we chose to see as an amphora.

The lovesick Clément didn’t get back till the evening.

Our canvases‚ gouaches and drawings found favour here and there among the local metal traders. Géga especially became something of a patron.

On one occasion Elisabeth agreed without any problem to
pose with a bared breast. It was with no ulterior motive‚ and certainly with great tactfulness that we asked her to give us a few quick full-nude poses every day. To show her how natural‚ commonplace‚ necessary and uncomplicated it was‚ we took her to the Grande-Chaumière one day.

She agreed‚ on condition we kept it a total secret. And above all‚ above all‚ ‘Don’t tell Clément! He’d be really upset.’

Ah! That body‚ that line‚ that pearly whiteness! For the past two months we’ve felt akin to the artists of classical antiquity.

England. That peninsula

is connected to the Continent only by the sea-bed

because of the wariness of its inhabitants.

Pierre Mac Orlan

London‚ February–March 1944

Exploring London in wartime‚ a city with stiff upper lip‚ gritted teeth‚ clenched fists‚ makes you realize that Paris is a bit of whore.

Every day and every night for weeks now‚ London has been bleeding and hiding its wounds with impressive dignity. A ‘
don’t show off
’ attitude prevails. From time to time a sputtering doodle-bug (a V1) shatters the torpor of the overcast sky. One second‚ sometimes two … at most three … of silence. Visualising that fat cigar with shark fins as it stops dead‚ sways‚ idiotically tips over‚ then goes into a vertical dive. And explodes. Usually it’s an entire building that’s destroyed.

Apparently the Civil Defence rescue teams observe a very strict rule of discretion and restraint. You never see any panic. In this impassive city detachment is the expression of panic.

I’m obliged to keep secret what’s happening in Paris‚ and above all the nature of the mission that brings me here for a short stay. At a barracks in the south‚ beyond Morden‚ a model of the base at Brétigny has been built‚ partly on the basis of my information‚ on a scale of one to a thousand – which is huge. The teams that are to be sent in to plough up the runways and destroy ammunition depots and magazines at this important transit camp study the topography of the terrain in minute detail. Every two days accurate reports come
in –
Secret Urgent
– on the location of new flak equipment. Good work if ever there was.