My new job is certainly fun: it has the taste of adventure. But it has more than that: It has the taste of an adventure that is a love affair. . . . I have always been a romantic, and fond of make-believe, that’s for certain, I should, therefore, be doubly careful in this matter. My runaway imagination might well cause errors in my judgments and even gross mistakes in my actions.
Suddenly, a forgotten detail surfaces in my memory: I am supposed to pass unnoticed. Djinn said so, and she insisted on it several times. Well, I happen to be doing exactly the contrary: no doubt everyone notices my joyful euphoria, and this thought calms me down considerably.
I walk into a café, and I order a black espresso. The French like only Italian coffee; “French” coffee is not strong enough. But worst of all, for them, is American coffee. . . . Why am I thinking of America? Because of Djinn, once more! This is beginning to get to me.
A paradox: in order not to be noticed, in France, one asks for an Italian espresso. Is there such a thing, as “the French,” or “the Americans"? The French are like this. . . . The French eat this, and not that. . . . The French dress this way, they walk that way. . . . Where eating is concerned, yes, it might still be true, but less and less. A sign above the counter lists foods and prices; I read: hot dog, pizza, sandwiches, roll’ mops, merguez. . . .
The waiter brings a small cup of very black liquid, which he places on the table in front of me, with two cubes of sugar wrapped together in white paper. Then, he walks away, picking up on his way a used glass left on another table.
I realize then that I am not the only customer in this bistro which was, however, empty when I came in. I have company, a young woman sitting nearby, a student apparently, wearing a red jacket and engrossed in a heavy medical textbook.
While I observe her, she seems to sense my stare, and raises her eye in my direction. I think ironically: now, I’ve done it, I’ve really struck out, I’ve been noticed. She gazes at me silently, at length, as though not seeing me. Then she returns her attention to her book.
But, a few seconds later, she examines me again, and this time she says in a neutral voice, with a sort of quiet assurance: “It’s five past seven. You are going to be late.” She hasn’t even looked at her watch. I check mine automatically. It is indeed five past seven. And I do have an appointment at quarter past seven at the Gare du Nord.
So, this girl is a spy, staked out by Djinn on my path to check my professional dedication. “You work with us?” I say after a moment’s reflection. Then, since she does not answer, I ask further: “How come you know so much about me? You know who I am, where I am going, what I have to do, and at what time. You’re a friend of Djinn, then?”
She looks me over with cold interest, also no doubt with disapproval, because she finally states flatly: “You talk too much.” And she turns her attention back to her work. Thirty seconds later, without raising an eye, she pronounces a few words, slowly, as though speaking to herself. She seems to be deciphering a difficult passage of her book: “The street you are looking for is the third on the right, straight down the avenue.”
To tell the truth, this guardian angel is right: If I hang around here arguing, I’m going to be late. “I thank you,” I say, showing my independence by an overly formal bow. I rise, I go to the counter, I pay for my coffee and I push the door.
Once outside, I glance backward toward the large, brightly lit room empty but for the girl in the red jacket. She is no longer reading. She has closed her heavy book on her table, and she follows me with her eyes, showing no embarrassment, with a hard and steady expression.
In spite of my desire to do just the contrary, to assert my freedom, I continue walking in the right direction, on the avenue, among the crowd of men and women returning home from work. They are no longer carefree and attractive. From now on, I am convinced they are all watching me. At the third intersection, I turn right into a dark and deserted, narrow street.
Devoid of any automobile traffic, even of parked cars, and lit here and there only by a few old-fashioned street lamps that cast a yellow flickering light, abandoned—so it seems—by its very inhabitants, this infrequented side street contrasts completely with the major thoroughfare I have just left. The houses are low (two stories at most) and poor, no lights in the windows. Anyway, it’s mostly hangars and work-shops here. The ground is uneven, cobbled in the old style, in very bad condition, with puddles of dirty water where the paving stones are missing.
I hesitate to venture farther into this long and narrow passage, which looks very much like a dead end: in spite of the darkness, I can make out a blind wall that appears to block the far end. Yet, a blue enamel plaque at the entrance bore the name of a real street; I mean one passable at both ends: “Rue Vercingétorix III.” I wasn’t aware of the existence of a third Vercingétorix, or even a second. . . .
Reflecting, I thought there might, indeed, be a passage at the far end, to the right or the left. But the total absence of automobile traffic is disquieting. Am I really on the right track? My thought was to take the next street, with which I am familiar. I am certain that it leads to the railway station almost as quickly. Only the intervention of the medical student has sent me on this so-called shortcut.
Time is short. My appointment at the railway station is, by now, less than five minutes away. This Godforsaken alley might mean a worthwhile saving of time. It is in any case, good for going fast: no vehicles or pedestrians impeding progress and no crossing either.
Having accepted the risk (somewhat at random, unfortunately), I must, in the absence of a sidewalk, place my feet carefully where the ground is even . . . taking the longest possible strides. I’m going so fast I have the feeling I’m flying, as in a dream.
I am ignorant, for the time being, of the exact meaning of my mission: it consists only in spotting a certain traveler (whose precise description I have memorized) arriving on the train from Amsterdam at 7:12 P.M. Next, I am discreetly to tail the character all the way to his hotel. That’s it for now. I hope to learn the rest soon.
I haven’t yet gone halfway down this endless street, when suddenly a child bursts across ten yards in front of me. He comes from one of the houses on the right, one a little taller than its neighbors, and he runs across the street as fast as his little legs will carry him.
On the run, he trips over an uneven paving stone and falls into a puddle of blackish mud without a cry. He lies still, sprawled with his arms thrown out in front of him.
A few quick strides and I am bending over the motionless little body. I turn him over carefully. He is a boy, about ten years old, dressed strangely: like a kid from the last century, with breeches, knee socks, and a full smock, rather short, cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt.
His eyes are wide open: but his pupils are fixed. His mouth isn’t closed, his lips tremble slightly. His limbs are limp and inert, as well as his neck; his entire body is like a rag doll.
Luckily, he did not fall into the mud, but just on the edge of that hole full of dirty water. This water, looked at more closely, seems viscous, brown, almost red rather than black. A strange anxiety suddenly overwhelms me. Does the color of this unknown liquid scare me? Or what else?
I check my watch. It is 7:09. Impossible, now, to be at the railway station in time for the train from Amsterdam. My whole adventure, born just this morning, is already over, then. But I can’t find it within me to abandon this injured child, even for the love of Djinn. . . . Oh well! Anyway, I’ve missed the train.
A door on my right is wide open. The boy undoubtedly comes from that house. Yet, there is no light that I can see inside, neither at the ground floor, nor the one above. I lift the boy’s body in my arms. It is extremely thin, light as a bird.
Under the faint glow of the streetlight nearby, I get a better look at his face: he has no apparent injury, he is calm and handsome, but exceedingly pale. His skull must have hit a paving stone, and he is still unconscious from the impact. Yet, he has fallen forward, arms o
utstretched. His head did not, therefore, hit the ground.
I pass over the threshold of the house, the frail burden draped over my arms. I proceed with caution, down the long corridor that runs perpendicular to the street. All is dark and silent.
Having found no other way to go—no door or cross hall—I come upon a wooden staircase. I seem to glimpse a faint light from the floor above. I walk up slowly, for I’m afraid of stumbling or hitting some invisible obstacle with the legs or the head of the still-unconscious kid.
Two doors open onto the landing of the second floor. One is closed, the other slightly ajar. This is where the faint light comes from. I push the door with my knee and enter a room of very large dimensions, with two windows looking out onto the street.
There is no light in the room. There is only the glow of the streetlights that comes from outside through the curtainless windowpanes. It allows me to make out the shapes of the furniture: a bare wooden table, three or four unmatched chairs, their seats more or less caved in, an iron bedstead and a large number of trunks of various shapes and sizes.
The bedstead holds a mattress, but no sheets or blankets. I place the child, with all possible care, onto this crude couch. He is still unconscious, with no sign of life except for a very faint breathing. His pulse is almost imperceptible. But his large eyes, remaining open, shine in the gloomy light.
I glance around for an electric switch or something else that might provide light. But I see nothing of the kind. I notice, at this point, that there isn’t a single light—chandelier, shaded lamp or bare bulb—in the entire room.
I step back out on the landing and I call out, in a low voice at first, then louder. No answer whatsoever reaches my ears. The whole house is plunged into total silence, as though abandoned. I don’t know what else to do. I am abandoned myself, outside of time.
Then, a sudden thought takes me back to the windows of the room: Where was the kid going on his brief run? He was crossing the road from one side to the other, straightaway. He might, therefore, live on the other side.
But, on the other side of the street there are no houses: only a long brick wall with no apparent opening at all. A little farther on the left there is a fence in disrepair. I go back to the stairs and I call out again, still in vain. I listen to the pounding of my own heart. I have a very strong feeling, now, that time has stopped.
A faint creaking sound, in the room, calls me back to my patient. Two steps away from the bed I am jolted, instinctively recoiling. The boy is in exactly the same position as before, but now he has a large crucifix laid on his chest, a dark wooden cross with a silver Christ, that reaches from shoulder to waist.
I glance all around. There is no one but the child lying outstretched. So my first thought is that he himself is responsible for this macabre setting: he pretends to have fainted, but he moves when my back is turned. I examine his face very closely; his features are as frozen as those of a wax figure, and his complexion just as pallid. He looks like an effigy sculpted upon a tomb.
At that moment, looking up, I become aware of the presence of a second child, standing at the threshold of the room; a little girl of about seven or eight, motionless in the doorway. Her eyes are fixed upon me.
Where does she come from? How did she get here? No sound has signaled her approach. In the dim light, I clearly distinguish, nevertheless, her white, old-fashioned dress with fitted bodice and wide gathered skirt, full but rather stiff, falling all the way to her ankles.
“Hello,” I say, “is your mama here?”
The girl keeps staring at me silently. The whole scene is so unreal, ghostly, frozen, that the sound of my own voice rings strangely off-key to me, unlikely, as it were, in this spellbound atmosphere under the weird bluish light. . . .
As there is nothing else to do but venture a few words, I force myself to speak this innocuous sentence:
“Your brother fell.”
My syllables fall, too, awakening neither response nor echo, like useless objects deprived of sense. And silence closes in again. Have I really spoken? Cold, numbness, paralysis begin to spread through my limbs.
CHAPTER THREE
How long did the spell last?
Suddenly making up her mind, the little girl walks decisively toward me without a word. I make an immense effort to pull out of my pervading numbness. I rub my hand over my forehead, over my eye-lids, again and again. I finally manage to come back up to the surface. Little by little, I am regaining my senses.
To my great surprise, I am now seated on a straw chair at the head of the bed. By my side, the boy is still asleep, lying on his back, his eyes open, the crucifix on his chest. I manage to stand without too much effort.
The little girl holds before her a brass candelabrum which shines like gold; it is fitted with three unlit candles. She walks without the slightest sound, gliding in the manner of an apparition, but that is because of her felt-sole slippers.
She places the candelabrum on the chair I have just left. Then she lights the three candles, one after another, with care, each time lighting a new match and blowing out the flame after use, to return the blackened stub to the box afterward with total concentration.
I ask: “Where is there a telephone? We are going to call a doctor for your brother.”
The little girl watches me with a kind of condescension, as one does when addressed by a maniac or a half-wit.
“Jean is not my brother,” she says. “And the doctor is of no use, since Jean is dead.”
She speaks in the conciliatory tone of a grown-up, not at all like a child. Her voice is well modulated and sweet, but expresses no emotion. Her features very much resemble those of the unconscious boy, in a more feminine way of course.
“His name is Jean?” I say. The question is superfluous; but suddenly the memory of Djinn over-whelms me and I feel, once more, a violent despair. It is now past seven-thirty. The affair is pretty well finished, I should say pretty badly finished. . . . The little girl shrugs her shoulders:
“Obviously,” she says. “What do you want to call him?” Then, still with the same grave and reasonable air, she goes on: “Already, yesterday, he died.”
“What are you talking about? When one dies, it’s forever.”
“No, not Jean!” she states with such categorical certainty that I myself feel shaken. I smile inwardly, nevertheless, at the idea of the bizarre spectacle that she and I are making, and of the absurd dialogue we are exchanging. But I choose to play the game.
“He dies often?”
“These days, yes, rather often. Other times, he will go several days without dying.”
“And it lasts long?”
“An hour perhaps, or a minute, or a century. I do not know. I do not have a watch.”
“He comes out of death by himself? Or you must help him?”
“Sometimes he comes back by himself. Generally, it’s when I wash his face; you know: the last rites.”
I am beginning to grasp, now, the likely meaning of this whole scene: the boy must have frequent fainting spells, probably of nervous origin; cold water on his brow serves to revive him. I cannot, however, leave these children alone until the boy regains consciousness.
The candle flame now casts a pink glow on his face. Warmer highlights soften the shadows around his mouth and his nose. His pupils, under this new glow, reflect dancing lights, breaking the fixed stare of his eyes.
The little girl in the white dress sits down carelessly on the bed, at the feet of the would-be corpse. I can’t refrain from reaching out, to protect the boy from her jolting the metal box spring. I get, in return, a scornful glare.
“The dead do not feel anything. You should know that. They are not even here. They sleep in another world, with their dreams. . . .” Lower, more confidential tones muffle the timbre of her voice, which grows softer and more faraway to whisper: “Often, I sleep next to him, when he is dead; we leave together for heaven.”
A feeling of void, an immeasurable anguish, once
more, assaults my mind. Neither my good will nor my presence serve any purpose. I want to leave this haunted room; it weakens my body and my reason. If I can manage to get a satisfactory explanation, I will leave immediately. I repeat my first question:
“Where is your mama?”
“She is gone.”
“When is she coming back?”
“She is not coming back,” says the little girl.
I no longer dare to insist any further. 1 sense here some family drama, painful and secret. I say, to change the subject:
“And your papa?”
“He died.”
“How many times?”
The stare of her eyes, widened by surprise, full of pity and reproach, soon make me feel guilty. After a remarkably long time, she finally condescends to explain:
“You are talking nonsense. When people die, it is final. Even children know that.” Which is logic itself, by all evidence.
I am not getting anywhere. How can these kids live here alone, all by themselves, without father or mother? Perhaps they live elsewhere, with grand-parents or friends, who have taken them in as an act of charity. But, more or less left to themselves, they wander all day here and there. And this empty, run-down building, without electricity or telephone, is only their favorite playground. I ask:
“Where do you live, you and your brother?”
“Jean is not my brother,” she says. “He is my husband.”
“And you live with him in this house?”
“We live where we want to. And if you don’t like our house, why did you come? We didn’t ask anything of anyone.”
After all, she is right. I have no idea myself what I am doing here. I sum up the situation in my head: a phony medical student redirects me into an alley I did not choose; I see a kid run just in front of me; he falls and faints dead away; I carry his body to the nearest shelter; there, a grown-up sounding and mystical little girl holds forth without rhyme or reason on the subject of the absent and the dead.
La Maison de Rendez-Vous and Djinn Page 2