The Belly of Paris (16 page)

She was still combing her memory when the Norman, straight from the charcuterie, blew in like a storm. “She's certainly polite, the big Quenu ogre!” she announced, relieved at getting it off her chest. “Imagine her telling me that I sold rotten fish. But I took care of her in her pretty little lair where she keeps tainted pork that makes everyone sick.”

“What did you say to her?” asked the old woman, all excited, thrilled to hear that the two had argued.

“Me, I didn't say a thing. Not a thing. I just dropped in to tell her very politely that I would be stopping by for boudin tomorrow evening. And then she turned on me. Filthy little hypocrite with her sanctimonious airs! But this is going to cost her a lot more than she knows.”

The three could sense that the Norman had not spoken the entire truth. But that didn't stop them from rushing to her defense with a volley of curses. They turned toward rue Rambuteau, inventing insults and making up tales about the filthiness of the kitchen and other meaty accusations. If the Quenus had been dealers in human flesh, the women's outrage would not have been more violent. The Norman felt the need to retell the story three more times.

“And the cousin?” Mademoiselle Saget asked in a mischievous tone. “What did he say?”

“Cousin?” the Norman replied in a sharp voice. “You believe this cousin story? He's someone's lover, the big goon.”

The other three protested. Lisa's virtue was an act of faith in the neighborhood.

“Go on, you never know about these slippery holy hypocrites. That husband of hers is a bit too simple not to cheat on.”

Mademoiselle Saget nodded as though she agreed with this point of view. Sweetly she said, “Besides, this cousin has dropped in from nowhere and the story offered by the Quenus doesn't smell quite right.”

“Oh, yes, he's that fatso's lover,” the fish woman again asserted. “Some tramp or bum she found in the streets. That's clear.”

“Skinny men are backward men,” declared La Sarriette with a knowing air.

“She bought him an entire new outfit,” Madame Lecœur added. “He has cost her a lot.”

“Well, yes, yes, you could be right,” said the old maid. “I'm going to have to learn more …”

The three agreed to keep one another informed about anything that happened at the Quenu-Gradelle establishment. The butter vendor claimed that she wanted to open her brother-in-law's eyes to the kind of place he was frequenting. But by then the Norman's anger had subsided, and, being at heart a kind person, she left with a feeling that she had talked too much.

Once she was gone, Madame Lecœur observed cagily “I could swear the Norman said something surly. That's the way she is. She would be wise not to talk about cousins falling from the sky, she who once found a baby in her fish shop.”

The three looked at one another and laughed. Then, once Madame Lecœur left, La Sarriette said, “My aunt is foolish to be so preoccupied with all these stories. That's what's making her so skinny. She used to beat me if a man looked at me. One thing is sure, though, there won't be some little brat turning up under her bolster, not my aunt.”

This gave Mademoiselle Saget another chuckle. And once she was by herself, as she went back to rue Pirouette, she thought how those “three floozies” were not worth the rope to hang them. Besides, someone could easily have seen them, and it would not be good to get on the wrong side of the Quenu-Gradelles, who were, after all, affluent and respected people. She made a detour to rue de Turbigo, to the Taboureau boulangerie, the most beautiful bakery in the neighborhood. Madame Taboureau was a close friend of Lisa and an authority beyond question on all subjects. When you said, “Madame Taboureau said so” or “according to Madame Taboureau,” there was nothing more to be said on the subject.
Today, the elderly spinster Saget, on the pretext of wanting to know when the oven would be heated so that she could bring in her dish of pears, sang the praises of Lisa and especially her excellent boudin. Then, content that she had established this moral alibi and pleased that she had fanned the flames of a quarrel that was erupting while positioning herself above the fray she returned home with peace of mind, except that she still could not quite place where she had seen Madame Quenu's cousin.

That same day, in the evening after dinner, Florent decided to go for a walk along some of the covered streets of Les Halles. A fine mist was rising, and the empty pavilions were a mournful gray, studded with the yellow teardrops of gas flames. For the first time Florent felt out of place. He recognized the inept way in which he, a thin and artless man, had fallen into a world of fat people. He realized that his presence was disturbing the entire neighborhood and that he was a problem for Quenu, as a counterfeit cousin with a dubious look. He was saddened by these thoughts, not that he had noticed the slightest coldness on the part of his brother and Lisa. It was their kindness that upset him, and he found himself guilty of insensitivity and putting himself up in their home. Self-doubt started to overtake him. Recalling the conversation in the shop that afternoon gave him a vague feeling of uneasiness. As his mind was invaded by a memory of the scent of meat at Lisa's counter, he felt himself sliding into a spineless lack of resolve. Maybe he had been wrong to refuse the position of inspector that had been offered. This thought provoked an internal struggle, and he had to shake himself to rediscover the resolve of his conscience. A damp breeze was coming up, and it blew through the covered passages. By the time he was forced to button up his coat, he had regained his calm and his conviction. It was as though the smell of fat from the charcuterie, which had weakened him, was now blown away by the wind.

He was going back home when he ran into Claude Lantier. The painter, concealed in the folds of his green coat, had an angry, muffled voice. He was in a fury against painting, declaring it a dog's
trade, and swore that he would never again in his life pick up a brush. That afternoon he had kicked his foot through a study he had been working on, of the head of that tramp Cadine.

Claude was prone to such fits caused by his inability to produce the kind of durable, living work of which he dreamed. At such times nothing existed for him any longer, and he would wander the streets seeing only darkness and waiting for the next day's resurrection. Usually he said that he felt bright and cheerful in the morning and horribly depressed in the evening. Each of his days was a long, disillusioning struggle. Florent barely recognized the night wanderer of Les Halles. They had already met a second time before this, one time in the charcuterie. Claude, who knew the real story of the fugitive, had taken his hand and declared that he regarded Florent as a good man.

But Claude rarely went to the charcuterie.

“Are you still at my aunt's?” he asked. “I don't know how you can stand being around that kitchen. It stinks in there. If I spend an hour in there, I feel like I've eaten enough for the next three days. It was a mistake to have gone there this morning. That's what ruined my study.”

Then, after he and Florent had walked a few steps in silence, he continued, “Oh, what fine people. They're so healthy, it makes me ill. I'd like to paint their portraits, but I don't know how to do such round faces that don't have any bones. You wouldn't see my aunt Lisa kicking her foot through her pots. I was a fool to have wrecked Cadine's head. Now that I think about it, it wasn't that bad.”

Then they began chatting about Aunt Lisa. Claude said that his mother had not seen anything of her in a long time. He had the impression that Lisa was ashamed that her sister had married a worker. And besides, she did not like to be around the less fortunate. As for himself, he told Florent how a generous man had sent him to college because he had been taken with the donkeys and old women that he had drawn when he was only eight years old. But the good man had died, leaving him an income of a thousand francs a year, just enough to keep from starving.

“I would rather have been a worker. Take a carpenter, for example.
Carpenters are happy men. Say they have to make a table. They make it, then they go to bed happy to have made their table, completely satisfied. Me? I hardly sleep at all at night. All those damn studies that I can't finish dance in my head. I never finish anything, never, never!”

His voice almost broke into sobs. Then he tried to laugh. He cursed, searching for foul language, wallowing in muck with the ice-cold rage of a fine and delicate spirit who fantasizes his own degradation. He ended by squatting in front of one of the Les Halles gratings that ventilate the markets below—cellars where the gas burns permanently. Down there in the depths, he pointed out to Florent, Marjolin and Cadine were peacefully eating their supper, seated on a stone block used for slaughtering chickens. The two young waifs had found a way of hiding in the basement and living there after the gratings were closed.

“What an animal, an extraordinary beast!” Claude repeated with both admiration and envy of Marjolin. And to think that animal is happy. If they want their treats, they just hide together in one of those big baskets full of feathers. At least that's a life! My God, you're right to stay at the charcuterie. Maybe that will fatten you up.”

Suddenly he left. Florent climbed up to his garret, troubled by the anxiety of uncertainty. The next morning, he avoided the shop, taking a long walk along the banks of the Seine. But when he returned for lunch he was struck once again by Lisa's kindness. She again mentioned the position of fish inspector, without pushing too hard but as something worth thinking about. As he listened to her, a plate full of food in front of him, he could not help being influenced by the comfort of the dining room. The mat beneath his feet felt soft, the hanging copper lamp glowed, the wallpaper had a yellow tint, and the light oak furniture—all filled him with a sense of well-being that threatened his sense of right and wrong. But he still had the strength to refuse, explaining his reasons once again, though at the same time realizing what bad taste it was to be making such a crude show of his stance in a place such as this.

Lisa did not get angry but instead smiled, that beautiful smile
that embarrassed Florent far more than her suppressed irritation the evening before. At dinner they spoke only of winter pickling, which would keep everyone in the charcuterie busy.

The evenings were getting cold. As soon as dinner was over, they all went to the kitchen because it was warm there. It was so spacious that several people could sit there without getting in anyone's way. The gaslit walls were covered in white and blue tiles up to the height of a man. On the left was a huge iron stove with three deep wells in which were set three pots whose bottoms were blackened by coal soot. At the end a small chimney rose over a cooking range used for grilling with a smoker above. Above the stove, higher up the wall than the skimmers, the long-handled cooking spoons, and the grilling forks, was a row of numbered drawers containing bread crumbs, grated crusts—both fine and coarse—and spices—cloves, nutmeg, peppercorns. On the right, the chopping table, a huge oak block, leaned against the wall, all cut and scarred; various pieces of equipment attached to it—an injection pump, a stuffer, a food mill, with their cogs and cranks—gave a sense of mystery and the disturbing impression of a kitchen in Hell. All around the walls, on boards, even under tables, were heaps of pots, terrines, buckets, platters, tin tools, a battery of deep pans, tapered funnels, racks of knives and chopping tools, skewers and larding needles, a whole world of things that lived on fat.

Despite the excessive cleanliness, grease dominated; it oozed from the white and blue tiles, shone on the red floor tiles, gave a gray sheen to the stove, polished the chopping block to the glow of varnished oak. And in the vapor from the three continuously steaming pots of melting pork, the condensation, falling drop by drop, ensured that there was not, from floor to ceiling, so much as a nail that did not drip grease.

The Quenu-Gradelles made everything themselves. The only items they bought from outside were potted meats from celebrated houses, rillettes, conserves in jars, canned sardines, cheeses, and escargots. Starting in September, the cellar, which had been emptied in the summer, had to be refilled. After the shop closed they worked late into the evening. With the help of Auguste and Léon,
Quenu stuffed saucisson, prepared hams, melted saindoux, and prepared the poitrine, lard, and strips for larding. It made an impressive clatter of pots and grinders, and the scent of the kitchen rose and filled the entire house. All of this had to be done in addition to the daily preparation of fresh pork, pâté de foie gras, galantines, hare pâté, fresh sausages, and boudin.

By eleven that evening Quenu had two pots of saindoux working and was starting on the boudin. Auguste was helping him. At a corner of the square table Lisa and Augustine were mending linen, while across from them sat Florent, his face turned toward the stove, smiling. Little Pauline had stepped onto his feet and wanted him to send her “jumping in the air.” Behind him Léon was chopping sausage meat with slow and even strokes on the chopping block.

Auguste went to look for two jugs of pig's blood in the courtyard. He had bled them himself at the slaughterhouse. He brought the blood and entrails back to the shop and left the pig carcass for the kitchen boys to dress and cart over in the afternoon. Quenu claimed that no one in all of Paris bled a pig better than Auguste. In truth, Auguste was an expert judge of blood and the boudin was good anytime Auguste said, “The boudin is going to be good.”

“So, are we going to have good boudin?” Lisa asked.

Auguste put the two jugs down and slowly answered, “I think so, Madame Quenu, yes, I think so … The first sign is the way the blood flows. When I pull out the knife, if the blood runs off too slowly, that's not a good sign. It shows that the blood is poor quality.”

“But,” Quenu interrupted, “doesn't that also depend on how far in the knife was pushed?”

Auguste's pale face showed a smile. “No, no,” he answered. “I always stick the knife in exactly four fingers. That's how you measure it. But you see, the best sign is when the blood runs out and I beat it with my hand in the bucket. It has to be a good, warm temperature, smooth but not too thick.”