Rigadoon (24 page)

"Follow me! . . . follow my canes!"

The ones Felipe had made for me, thick white pine . . . oh, kids are always ready for an adventure . . . even these dotty droolers . . . staggering, reeling, worse than me . . . tripping themselves up for no reason at all, some pebble . . . not a whimper! no, they're laughing! . . . I don't know if we've got far to go, I can't see the city at all, too much soot, too much smoke . . . I've told you this basin was about the size of the Pool of the Swiss . . . piffle! . . . much bigger! . . . I'm sure now that I get a good look . . .

Felipe's got something to say, he's got himself some information . . . all he cares about is the train to Magdeburg . . . his boss! . . . his brickyard . . . and he's a week late . . .

"Your Magdeburg isn't there any more . . . burned down! wiped out same as here! off the map!"

He doesn't believe me.

"Si! si! . . . si!"

He argues.

But his Magdeburg express won't be leaving until midnight . . . he's got plenty of time.

"We'll go get a tarp, Felipe! . . . a big piece!"

I don't want him to think, he was made to obey . . . I look at these kids . . . how many? . . . about twelve . . . these survivors of the Breslau-Hamburg trek . . . they're not fat and they're not pretty, but they're not sad either . . . the little lepers up there in Rostock weren't crybabies either . . . sadness like everything else has got to be learned, it comes with life, it takes time . . . your old man has tears in his eyes, it's chronic, all he does is cry . . . he cries because he's going to be crated and everybody else will be sticking around, having fun . . .

"Okay, kids! let's go!"

I want them to follow me . . . I'm the guide . . . nuts or not, this "chin up, kid" energy will always be with me . . . what you learn in childhood sticks . . . the rest is all beer and skittles, repetitions, fatigue, bowing-and-scraping contests.

I think he'd have had what he's asking for, they'd have thrown him in the clink . . . still, I'm not so sure they'd have taken him seriously . . . you've got to be taken halfway seriously before a French or even a German prosecutor . . . which is why it seems to me that as long as all these people . . . right left or center . . . haven't been jailed . . . and even then!!! . . . they can only be regarded as partly nuts and partly paid for . . . I'll tell you about the rank-and-file later . . .

Now we're on the edge of Hamburg, out to seek our fortune . . . so to speak! . . . up there on the embankment certain sounds are reaching us . . . muffled explosions . . . some bombs make up their minds . . . long after the raids, sometimes after months . . . years . . . of "suspense" . . . but where's our Felipe? . . . I didn't see him . . . had he split? . . . no! he's three-quarters hidden in the folds of an enormous tarp . . . actually he was underneath, I couldn't see him . . . damnation! I'm still thinking about the taenia! I can't tell you this in the right order! it's the brick and my head . . . But
alas too late, poor Taenia!
you'll forgive me! . . . if you don't, I can't help it! a slight escapade! . . . the first time is tragic, the second time is grotesque . . . alas! alas! I was telling you about these delayed-action bombs . . . we'd better be prepared for the worst . . . I'm following Felipe with his tarp rolled up on his head . . . the little cretins don't understand my French but they're only too glad to follow me . . . reeling, staggering . . . we were just as idiotic as they were . . . they knew as much as we did . . . they at least had come out of an asylum, where we came out of nobody knew . . . drooling and wobbling as bad as they did from gutter to gutter, heading for the city, well, the smoke and ruins up ahead . . . anyway gives us time for reflection . . . let us then reflect! . . . no tears or lamentations, no! I'm not asking anybody to weep for me! to hell with condolers, they can get lost! quick! . . . and stop weeping! crocodilers! . . . memories, that's what I need . . . I can't remember anything . . . so many things and people . . . I lose my way . . . like Felipe there under his tarp . . . crushed, lost . . . I'll find him again for you . . . first my memories . . . all mixed up . . . Baden-Baden . . . Le Vig . . . Restif . . . Harras . . . Moorsburg . . . Zornhof . . . I'm sure of those . . . the others, I'd need to sleep, then they'd come back to me . . . in snatches . . . one way or another . . .

"No syntax, no style! he doesn't say anything any more! he doesn't dare!"

Ah, the turpitude! that's a shameless lie! . . . I've got oodles of style! . . . that's right! . . . what's more, I'll make the rest of them unreadable! . . . every last one of them! wilted impotents! rotten with prizes and manifestoes! I can lay my plans in all security, the epoch belongs to me! I am Literature's favorite child! anyone who doesn't imitate me is through! . . . no doubt about it! okay, let's see where we are! gutted barrels, flooded terraces and urinals! vast despair! ah, grand crosses of all the Legions, super washouts, eminent jerks! . . . I'd feel sorry for you if I could, but I can't . . . not any more! . . . what can I do with all these snivelers . . . and their "studio-light" pseudo-fin-de-siècle chromos . . . I told them to go out and get some fresh air, they wouldn't listen, serves them right! let them rot, stink, ooze, end up in the sewer . . . they keep wondering what they can do in Gennevilliers° . . . easy! fertilize the fields! . . . why should I worry my head about the sewer? they'll get there and produce the sludge that's needed . . . I see Mauriac, the cancerous old drip, without glasses in his
new look
maxi-cape, the family idol, "work hard, my dear child, and you'll grow up to be like him" . . . tartufferie and neoplasm, the perfect formula for success under every regime . . . every cockeyed state . . . drums and trumpets! taraboom! guts, epiploons, and cerebellums all over the sawdust. . . the true sense of History . . . and what we've come to! jumping this way! . . . whoops! and that way! . . . the death dance! impalements! purges! vivisections! . . . twice-tanned hides, smoking . . . spoiled skulking voyeurs, let it all start over again! guts ripped out by hand! let's hear the cries, the death rattles . . . a national orgasm!

"Hey there! you've gone off your rocker!"

"Absolutely!"

"Haven't you seen anything on these docks? be serious! tracks? . . . at least a crane or two?"

"Oh yes . . . a crane lying on its ear . . . and railroad switches . . . smashed to pieces . . ."

"So what's next?"

We're heading for the city, that's what! seeing there's nothing left of the harbor . . . except for these ships with their ass out of the water . . . don't make me repeat myself . . . I've said it twenty times . . . a hundred times . . . we . . . you know, Lili, Bébert, me, Felipe the Italian, and the kids . . . how many? I'd say seven . . . no! at least ten! . . . or fifteen . . . I'm not going to start counting them again! . . . let 'em come if they want to! the stinking brats! . . . and these people off the flatcars, what country are they from? they're whispering to each other . . . not in German or Russian . . . maybe Hungarian . . . I never found out . . . you go near them, not another word! . . . I don't know who they take us for . . . never found that out either . . . so forward march! the kids are looking at the ships . . . but not the least bit surprised . . . no effect at all . . . drooling neither more nor less . . . I wouldn't exactly say they talk to each other . . . sounds come out of them, parts of words, and plenty of slobber and bubbles . . . two of them bark kind of . . . they're willing to come along, which is something . . . the city and the big clouds of smoke don't scare them . . . even the explosions . . . we're hearing more and more of them . . . not concussion bombs . . . no, time bombs . . . I know all about them . . . there, maybe two hundred yards ahead I see the first big ruins . . . at the end of the basin, by the locks . . . looking back we can see the whole crowd . . . the ones that have stayed on the flatcar . . . they see us too, but they don't want to join us . . . they'd have a good laugh if something blew us up . . . say, there it is! . . . I'd been wandering again . . . we're in Hamburg . . . the city proper . . . I'd lost my bearings . . . I ought to be used to mashed-up cities, where you don't know which end is which . . . there I think it was the Sankt Pauli district . . . more than a district, practically another city, devoted to nothing but pleasure, nothing but whorehouses and fish-and-chipperies . . . my giggles came in handy! . . . I've known other ports of call with about as many fish-and-chipperies, dance halls, and floor shows . . . my first comparison would be the Brousbir° in Casablanca . . . rue Bouteru° didn't amount to much . . . Sankt Pauli was something . . . Chatham, Rochester, and Stroude may have been more impressive, especially on Saturday night, when all the garrisons were on pass and the fleet was in, troops and crews on the binge . . . and believe me, those uniforms from navy blue to scarlet, from lemon-yellow to mignonette . . . the grandiose palette of the Empire . . . the whole enormous Saturday night Rochester Chatham waterfront reeling with colors and whiskey . . . soldiers and sailors ranting, roaring, fighting . . . and don't forget the acetylene light . . . so raw, so brutal it pretty near tears their faces in two . . . and the Salvation Army singing about their hopes . . . "God's a-coming!" . . . right in the middle of the orgy! . . . harmonium and trombones . . . their Miss Heyliett° in her black bonnet does a bit of hymn-singing herself . . . a duet with the old woman that's dishing out soup . . . by the bucket . . . surrounded by ex-longshoremen and down-and-outers, both sexes . . . it's the weekend for them too . . . but that's enough publicity for the enchantments of other times . . . other ports . . . I'll get back to you! all well and good about my head, the clout with the brick, the blood coming out of my ear and et cetera . . . there are limits! respect the reader if you please! right you are! . . . all the same I'd like to point out . . . I take the liberty . . . that the smells are lacking, the aroma of chips, tobacco, and sweat . . . and of all those people, sailors, soldiers, and underworld . . . the smell of cargoes too, Campeachy, saffron, palm oil . . . absolutely essential if you're to get the feeling of being there, if those waterfronts of Richmond, Chatham, and Stroude are to be anything more than a dream . . . well, you can give it a try! . . . God help us all! . . .

I'd better get after those kids! And my head too! all this reminiscing hasn't done me any good! . . . I could get good and mad at Felipe, the damn wop . . . him and his brickyard! . . . maybe it's him that cracked my skull . . . him with his train that he doesn't want to miss, his Magdeburg express . . . I wouldn't put it past him . . . such a hurry to get back to his brickyard! . . . don't worry, I've got my eye on him! . . . lovely, supplying the whole world with bricks! . . . never mind, we'll see . . . let's get back to you! . . . I'd got my bearings . . . we were in Sankt Pauli, the night club, cathouse, and carnival section . . . not bad getting this far with our staggers . . . us and the kids . . . I still hadn't counted them . . . some other time! . . . I was all in, I'd have been glad to sit down . . . tourism and adventure are ornaments of Peace, don't try to sell me that stuff in wartime! . . . and yet, take the general staffs of the most ferocious frantic bleeding armies, look at their all-powerful leaders at the most critical moments when History is hanging . . . reeling . . . in the balance . . . this way, that way, a thread, a straw . . . and see if they don't shovel it in! and keep their cooks on their toes . . . look at the bellies on them! the distended walls . . . last stages of pregnancy. . .

As you can see, I'm hesitating . . . I cogitate, I ponder, instead of doing my job . . . prospecting the ruins . . . to see if I can't find the remains of a shop, a cracker or two, or a can of milk under these ruins . . . I admit it, these ruins are smoking . . . they even explode now and then, I've told you that . . . but not very hard . . .