The Erasers (17 page)

His good humor has van
ished; he seems worn out by the
discussion. Nevertheless he translates for the manager, but in a completely gloomy tone:

“
He says he came by train.
”

The manager does not answer. He has changed position; his head up, his arms dangling, it is apparent he is preparing to take some action. As a matter of fact he grasps his rag and wipes it back and forth across the top of the bar.

“
What
’
s the difference,
”
the drunk begins with difficulty
…
“
what
’
s the difference between a railroad and a bottle of wine?
”

He is talking to his glass. Wallas automatically tries to think of the difference.

“
Well?
”
his neighbor suddenly asks, cheered by the prospect of a victory.

“
I don
’
t know,
”
Wallas says.

“
So there
’
s no difference for you? You hear that, bartender, he doesn
’
t see any difference!
”

“
I didn
’
t say that.
”

“
Yes you did!
”
the drunk shouts.
“
The bartender
’
s here to back me up. You said it. You pay for the round!
”

“
I
’
ll pay for the round,
”
Wallas admits.
“
Bartender, give us two glasses of white wine.
”

“
Two glasses of white wine!
”
repeats his companion, who has recovered his good humor.

“
Don
’
t wear yourself out,
”
the manager says.
“
I
’
m not deaf.
”

The drunk has emptied his glass in one gulp. Wallas is just starting to drink his. He is surprised to feel so comfortable in this filthy bar; is it only because it
’
s warm in here? After the sharp air of the street, a somewhat numbing sense of well-being penetrates his body. He feels full of kindness toward this drunken bum, and even toward the manager who scarcely encourages sympathy. As a matter of fact the latter keeps his
eyes on his latest customer; and his expression is so deliberately suspicious that Wallas ends up, in spite of everything, by being somewhat disturbed. He turns back toward the riddle-lover, but the wine the latter has just drunk seems to have plunged him back into his gloomy thoughts. In the hope of cheering him up, Wallas asks:

“
Well, what was the difference?
”

“
The difference?
”
The drunk seems completely in the dark this time.
“
The difference between what?
”

“
You know, between the railroad and the bottle!
”

“
Oh
…
the bottle
…
”
the other man says slowly, as if he were coming back from a great distance away.
“
The difference.
…
Well, it
’
s a big one, the difference
…
the railroad!
…
It
’
s not at all the same thing.
…
”

It would certainly have been better to question him before giving him more to drink. Mouth open, the man is staring into space, one elbow on the table propping up his bloated head. He stammers incoherent words; then, with an obvious effort to make himself clear, he manages to say, with several halts and repetitions:

“
You make me laugh with your railroad.
…
If you think I didn
’
t recognize
…
didn
’
t recognize
…
just leaving here.
…
We walked the whole way together
…
the whole way. That
’
s too easy! It
’
s not enough to change your coat
…
”

After that, the monologue becomes more obscure. A word that sounds like
foundling
keeps recurring, without any apparent reason.

Half asleep on his table, he stammers incomprehensible phrases, broken by exclamations and attempted gestures that fall back heavily or dissolve in the fog of his memories
…

In front of him a tall man in a raincoat is walking along the fence.

“
Hey! Aren
’
t you waiting for me? Hey, you!
”

The man is deaf!

“
Hey,
you! Hey!
”

Good, this time he heard.

“
Wait up! Hey! I
’
ve got a riddle for you!
”

Pretty rude, that man. Funny how no one likes riddles.

“
Hey, wait up! You
’
ll see: it
’
s not hard!
”

Not hard! They never guess them.

“
Hey, you!
”

“
All right, you made me run to catch up!
”

With a sudden movement, the man brushes off his arm.

“
All right, if you won
’
t let me take your arm
…
Hey, not so fast! Let me catch my breath until I can remember my riddle
…
.
”

But the other man turns around threateningly, and the drunk steps back.

“
What
’
s the animal
…
”

He chokes when he catches sight of the man
’
s furious expression; he is obviously about to beat the drunk to a pulp. The latter retreats, stammering some pacifying words; but as soon as the other man, who decides he produced his effect, starts walking again, the drunk begins following, trotting after him and whining:

“
Hey, don
’
t walk so fast Hey! Wait up! Hey!
”

People stop as they pass, turn around and step aside to make room for this surprising couple; a tall, powerful man wearing a raincoat too tight for him and a pale gray felt hat whose brim conceals the upper part of his face is walking fast, head down, hands in his pockets; he walks without rushing and seems to pay no attention whatever to the creature—strange as he is
—
who accompanies him, sometimes on his right, sometimes on his left, most often behind him, where he makes a series of unexpected swerves with the sol
e purpose, it seems, of keeping
up with him. He manages to, more or less, but at the cost of a considerable amount of gymnastics, covering a course twice or three times as long as the one which would be necessary, with spurts of speed and stops so sudden that he looks as if he
’
s going to fall down at any moment. Despite these continual difficulties, he still manages to keep talking, in fragments, it
’
s true, but so that certain elements remain intelligible:
“
Hey! Wait up!
…
ask a riddle
…
”
and something that sounds like
“
foundling.
”
Obviously he has had too much to drink. He is short and potbellied, wrapped in odd clothes, mostly in tatters. But from time to time the man walking ahead turns around without any warning and the drunk, terrified, steps back to keep out of reach; then as soon as the danger seems less, he starts walking again, stubbornly trying to catch up with his companion and sometimes even hanging onto his arm to hold him back—or else getting a step ahead of him only to find himself, an instant later, trotting along far behind—as if he were trying to make up for lost time.

Night has almost fallen now. The light from the rare street lamps and a few shops does not manage to create anything but a dim, fragmentary illumination—interrupted by gaps, more or less widely fringed with vague areas where the mind hesitates to venture.

Still the staggering little man persists in his chase, though perhaps he has undertaken it somewhat at random, and has not even figured out what its origin is.

Ahead of him, the wide, inaccessible back has gradually assumed terrifying dimensions. The tiny L-shaped rip on the left shoulder of the raincoat has grown so large that a whole flap of the garment has been detached and floats in his wake, like a flag, beating furiously against his legs. As for the hat, which was already drawn exaggeratedly far down
over the
face, it now forms a tremendous bell from which escapes, like the tentacles of some giant octopus, the vortex of intertwined ribbons to which, finally, the rest of the coat has been reduced.

The little man, in a supreme effort, manages to grasp one of these arms; he hangs onto it with all his might, determined not to let go; hard as Wallas shakes him, he can no longer disengage himself. The drunk clings to him with an energy he seemed quite incapable of; but when his head bumps the floor in a convulsion, he suddenly releases his grip, his hands open and the body rolls to the ground, limp, inanimate
…

The manager does not seem very affected by this scene. The drunk has probably had such fits before. With a strong grip he picks him up and sets him on his chair, while a wet rag restores him to consciousness at once. The man is cured as though by magic; he rubs his hand over his face, stares around, smiling, and declares to the manager, who is already back behind his counter:

“
He wanted to kill me too!
”

Nevertheless, since he does not seem to be holding this attempted murder against him, Wallas, who is beginning to be interested in this character, takes advantage of his mood to ask for information. The drunk, fortunately, has a much clearer mind than before his fall; he listens carefully and answers questions readily: yes, he met Wallas yesterday at nightfall, leaving this very
café
; he followed him, caught up with and accompanied him, despite Wallas
’
unfriendliness; the latter was wearing a pale gray felt hat slightly too big for him and a tight raincoat with a small L-shaped rip on the right shoulder.

“
Last night, a man in a raincoat
…
”
So this man was the drunken bum Madame Bax noticed from her window, and the malefactor himself would be none other than
…
Wallas cannot help smiling at the absurdity of his conclusion. If it could only be determined that the suspect resembles himself! It is difficult to rely on the judgment of such a witness.

The latter, in any case, persists in confusing them, despite Wallas
’
new denials. The other man walked along with him long enough—he says—for him to recognize him the next day. According to the rather vague indications he gives as to their route, it seems that they followed the Rue de Brabant, then the Rue Joseph-Janeck for its whole length, to the parkway, where Wallas
’
hypothetical double went into a post office.

Then the drunk came back to drink at the
Café
des Allies.

The manager feels the story has something funny about it: why doesn
’
t this man want to admit that he was seen the day before? He must have something to hide
…
Last night? He
’
s the one who pulled the job. He came out of the little house when the drunk surprised him; he managed to lose him on the other side of town and then he came back to spend the night in peace here. Now he would like to know what the drunk remembers about his escapade. He probably thinks his memory is too good, since he has just tried to knock him out: bumped his head
…
that
’
s it. He must be the one who pulled the job.

Unfortunately the hours do not coincide: when the old housekeeper ran in to call the ambulance, he was
…
Still, he
’
d better be careful and tell the police about this shady customer; after noon, there is the risk of a fine if he is not reported, and if anything happened
…

The manager picks up the telephone book which he leafs through for a long time, glancing suspiciously over the counter at the tables. Finally he dials a number.

“
Hello, is this the registration service?
”

At the same time he glares accusingly at Wallas.

“
This is the
Café
des Allies, ten Rue des Arpenteurs
…
a lodger to declare.
”