Léon and Louise

by Alex Capus

  The reason was that, in the two days since the Germans marched in, the medical officers of Paris had discovered 384 cases where death by self-administered poison was suspected, all the deceased being assumed to have left life’s dinner table to avoid a bitter last course of humiliation, mortification and anguish. The doctors had cut a hen’s-egg-sized lump out of each liver and sent it off to the Police Judiciaire’s Scientific Service in a preserving jar. Léon Le Gall and his colleagues would spend three weeks testing this backlog of human tissue. They detected 312 instances of cyanide, 23 of strychnine, 38 of rat poison, and 3 of curare. Only in the case of one sample did the despairing man’s method of suicide remain a mystery, and none yielded a negative result.

  After a busy but uneventful day in the laboratory, Léon set off for home. There were fewer cars than usual in the streets, almost as if it were a Sunday, not a working day, the streams of home-goers on the pavements were sparser than usual, and the buses were half empty. The second-hand booksellers had locked up their stalls and the pavement cafés had cleared away their chairs and tables. Strollers, proprietors, waiters, customers – all had disappeared, but there were no roadblocks, tanks or machine guns to be seen. Paris appeared to be resuming its traditional, thoroughly Gallic way of life – with one minor difference: the park benches and bateaux mouches were occupied by German soldiers.

  The wooden, iron-bound door of the Musée Cluny was also shut. Seated in front of it as usual was Léon’s personal tramp, into whose hat he had dropped the customary coin that morning. Léon raised his hand in greeting and was about to walk on when the tramp called, ‘Monsieur Le Gall! If you please, Monsieur Le Gall!’

  Léon was surprised. It was anomalous and contrary to the rules of the game for the man to know his name. That he had addressed and called after him was positively improper. Reluctantly, he turned back and went up to him. The tramp scrambled to his feet and removed his cap.

  ‘Please forgive me for troubling you, Monsieur Le Gall. It’ll only take a moment.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s cheek of me to ask, but needs must...’

  ‘I gave you something this morning, remember?’

  ‘That’s just it, monsieur. That’s why I’m begging your indulgence and taking the liberty of politely enquiring – ’

  ‘What do you want? Speak up, let’s not waste time.’

  ‘You’re right, monsieur, time is of the essence. To put it in a nutshell, I wanted to ask you this: Will you be giving me another fifty centimes tomorrow morning?’

  ‘What a question!’

  ‘And the day after that?’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve! Are you drunk?’

  ‘And next week, monsieur? Will I be getting fifty centimes from you every day next week and in a month’s time?’

  ‘That’s enough! Who do you think you are?’ Feeling that the man had taken advantage of his good nature, Léon turned to go.

  ‘Just another moment, please, Monsieur Le Gall. I realize how impertinent this must seem, but I can’t help it.’

  ‘What is it, man? Tell me.’

  ‘Well, the Nazis are here.’

  ‘So I’ve seen.’

  ‘Then I’m sure you must have heard what they’ve been doing to my kind in Germany.’

  Léon nodded.

  ‘You see, Monsieur Le Gall? That’s why I’ve got to get out. I can’t stay.’

  ‘Where do you propose to go?’

  ‘To Jaurès bus station. Buses leave from there for Marseille and Bordeaux.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘If you’d advance me the money you were going to give me in the immediate future...’

  ‘Well, really! How long will you be gone?’

  ‘Who knows? I’m afraid the war will be a long one. Three years, maybe four.’

  ‘And you want your daily fifty centimes for all of that time?’

  The tramp smiled and gave an apologetic shrug.

  ‘Two hundred working days a year for four years would make eight hundred times fifty centimes.’

  ‘Quite right, Monsieur Le Gall. Of course, a considerably smaller sum would also get me off the hook.’

  Léon rubbed his neck, pursed his lips and stared at his toecaps for quite a while. Then he spoke as if to himself. ‘Now I come to think of it, I can’t see any good reason not to give you the money.’

  ‘Monsieur...’

  While waiting, the tramp had been staring at the ground and humbly kneading his cap in both hands. Léon also removed his hat and looked in both directions as if waiting for someone to advise him on the matter. At length he put his hat on again and said, ‘Make sure you’re here just before noon tomorrow. I’ll bring you the money.’

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Le Gall. What about you? What are you going to do?’

  ‘We’ll see. Anyway, mind you take that bus. My name is Léon, incidentally. That’s what my friends call me – or did when I still had some. And yours?’

  ‘My name is Martin.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Martin.’

  The two men shook hands.

  ‘See you tomorrow, then. Take care.’

  ‘You too, Léon. See you tomorrow.’

  And then – neither of them could have said how it happened after the event – they stepped forwards and exchanged a hug.

  On getting home, Léon was amazed how noticeable Madame Rossetos’ absence already was. The pavement outside the front door was strewn with cigarette ends, pigeon feathers and dog turds, a stinking dustbin was standing in the hallway, and the route to the stairs was obstructed by five gas cylinders. Because no one had sorted and left it outside the various flats, most of the tenants having fled to the south, the day’s mail was lying on the big radiator beside the door leading to the inner courtyard.

  In Lorient harbour

  on board the auxiliary cruiser

  ‘Victor Schoelcher’

  14 June 1940

  My dearest Léon,

  It’s me, your Louise, writing to you. Are you surprised? I am. I was very surprised how badly I wanted to write to you as soon as I knew for certain I was leaving Paris and would be very far away for a long time. For the last week I’ve spent every spare moment jotting down a whole mishmash of stuff for you. This is the fair copy – reasonably coherent, I hope – which I plan to post tomorrow.

  I can’t pretend I’ve thought of you constantly these past twelve years. You can’t remain in that state for longer than a few months; sooner or later you come up against the limits of your capacity for single-mindedness. Then, quite unexpectedly, for instance during the digestive process in your lunch break, you draw a deep breath and give the subject a rest, and from then on you just go on living and enjoy your little pleasures. You go to the cinema on Saturdays and drive out into the country on Sundays and treat yourself to lunch in some country inn or other.

  What sort of life have I been living in the interim? For a while I had a tomcat named Stalin, but he slipped off the icy window sill and impaled himself on some railings four floors below. At the Musée de l’Homme there’s a very young man with a face like a dyspeptic monkey who suffers from verbal diarrhoea, thinks I’m a lady, and courts me with hot tea on cold winter days. He occasionally writes me love letters, very polite and never too long, and if I’m assailed by sneaking doubts about the meaning of life, my feminine charms or humanity in general, he takes me for walks and feeds me chocolates.

  I have a pretty good life. I don’t miss you, you know. You’re just one of the many gaps in my existence. After all, I’ve never become a racing driver or a ballerina, I can’t draw or sing as well as I’d have liked to, and I’ll never read Chekov in the original. It’s been a long time since I thought it was too bad of one’s dreams not to come true in real life; that could soon become a bit too much.

  You get used to your gaps and learn to live with them. They’re a part of you, and you wouldn’t want to be without them. If I had to describe myself to someone, the first thing that w
ould occur to me is, I can’t speak Russian and I can’t perform a pirouette. So your gaps gradually become characteristic traits and fill themselves with themselves, so to speak. I’m still completely full of you and my longing for you – or just my knowledge of you.

  Why? No idea. It’s something you get used to, that’s all.

  I was all the more surprised, while sitting in the taxi on my way to Montparnasse Station, to feel such an urgent desire to write to you, like a teenager before her first date. I was even more surprised when I said your name aloud on the back seat of that cab while preparing to leave you far behind. I scolded myself for being a silly fool, but I got out some notepaper and my fountain pen, and later on, during the endless train journey to Lorient in an overcrowded, underheated compartment, I tried to put down what I thought of to tell you.

  I’m now sitting on the edge of the bunk in my sweltering cabin, notepad on lap, having carefully locked the door, and I still don’t know what to say. Yes, I do: everything and nothing, neither more nor less. The one thing I know for sure is, I won’t send this off until the last moment, when the postman is going ashore and the engines have steam up and the ropes are being cast off and I can be certain there’s no possibility of my being ordered ashore and sent back to Paris.

  As you read these words you’re probably standing on the mat outside your front door and scratching the nice, flat back of your head. I picture the concierge handing you the letter with a conspiratorial frown, and you staring incredulously at the sender’s name on the back of the envelope as you climb the stairs and slit it open with your forefinger. In a moment Yvonne will appear in the doorway and ask if you’re coming in. She’s bound to be worried, seeing you standing there with an envelope in your hand. Perhaps she’s afraid it’s a death notice, or your marching orders, or a termination of tenancy, or a notice of dismissal. So you hand the letter to her without a word, I imagine, then follow her in and shut the door behind you.

  (Hello, Yvonne, it’s me, little Louise. No need to worry, I’m writing this far away and addressing it to the Rue des Écoles on purpose, to rule out any secrecy.)

  You know, Léon, I admire your wife for her diplomatic skill, but also for the courageous way she puts up with your good behaviour. I’d have sent you packing ages ago, doubtless very much to my own detriment, because I couldn’t have put up with your impeccable conduct any longer.

  Because you really have behaved well these past twelve years, that I grant you. You’ve never stalked me or tried to waylay me, never phoned the Banque de France or sent me billets doux addressed to the office. Yet you’ve suffered just as I have, I’m sure.

  It would of course have been childish of us to act out all the lovers’ little rituals in secret. Apart from being pointless, it would have been distressing for all three of us, and I’d have taken it amiss if you’d failed to keep yourself to yourself. On the other hand, there were many times when I wondered if I oughtn’t to be rather annoyed with you for complying so fully and completely with the communication ban I imposed on you. I haven’t been as well-behaved as you, by the way. One can get a good view of your living room from the rising ground in the little park near the École Polytechnique, did you know? Fourteen times in the past twelve years I’ve taken the liberty of standing there and peering through your lighted window as if I were looking into the interior of a doll’s house. The first time was the night after our excursion together, the second the Sunday after that, and then at irregular intervals roughly once a year. It was always in winter, because I needed to do it under cover of darkness – I know the dates by heart. The last eight times I took a pair of binoculars with me.

  I felt rather silly, playing the detective hidden behind a tree trunk, but thanks to the binoculars I was able to see everything: your three boys playing soldiers in the living room, your little daughter’s gap-toothed smile – once, even, your wife’s nice breasts; the new bookcase, too, and the fact that you now wear glasses when you tinker with your funny bits and pieces. You and your funny bits and pieces, Léon! I think it was partly them that made me fall in love with you in the old days. A rusty pitchfork, a worm-eaten window frame and a half-empty can of paraffin... You’re one of a kind!

  I never skulked behind my tree for longer than fifteen or twenty minutes, by the way – I couldn’t have even if I’d wanted to. Somehow, the news that a woman was all on her own in the dark spread like wildfire – every lonely lecher in the Latin Quarter got wind of it. Once I had to explain to a gendarme what I and my binoculars were up to in the park so late at night. I talked my way out of it by claiming to be an ornithologist – spun him a yarn about sparrows roosting close together for warmth on winter nights and taking it in turns to stand guard.

  Anyway, I enjoyed seeing you in the bosom of your family. Every time I did, it was like a trip to another dimension, an insight into a parallel universe or into the life I myself might have led, but for that shell-hole in the road or the mayor of Saint-Luc’s infatuation with my incomparably graceful, swanlike neck. To me your family is a subjunctive made flesh, a three-dimensional subjunctive, a living, life-size doll’s house, the only disadvantage being that I can’t play with it.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m content with my life and I’m not looking for another. Besides, I wouldn’t know what to say or which I’d choose if I had the choice between indicative and subjunctive. The question doesn’t arise in any case, because no one has that choice.

  You’ve got a good-looking family and you’re a good-looking man, Léon. Middle age suits you. Earlier on, when you were younger, one might have found your serious cast of mind a trifle dull, but now it suits you admirably. Have you started drinking a bit? It seems to me you’re usually holding a glass of Ricard. Or is it Pernod? I’ll refrain from commenting on the fact that you’ve taken up pipe-smoking since last winter. It does age you rather. If you were my husband I’d forbid you to smoke a pipe, indoors at least. I still smoke Turmacs, incidentally. I’ll have to see if one can buy them where I’m going. If not, you’ll have to send me some.

  Strange to say, it’s only now, when we’ll be separated by so much – an ocean, a war, maybe a continent or two, not forgetting all the years that have already gone by and are still to come – that I can be really close to you again. It’s only now, when a few thousand kilometres will insulate us against deceit, lies and underhandedness and we very probably won’t see each other for a long time, that I feel really close to you once more. Only far away from you am I really at home with myself, only far away from you can I dare to open my heart without losing myself. Can you understand that? Of course you can. You’re a clever boy, even though such feminine dilemmas and paradoxes are alien to your masculine heart.

  You take a more straightforward view of all these things, I know. You do what you must and refrain from doing what you shouldn’t. And if, for once, you do do something you shouldn’t, you remain on good terms with yourself simply because a man sometimes has to do what he shouldn’t. You stand by what you’ve done and take responsibility for it and make sure life goes on.

  Incidentally, it isn’t true you’ve never seen me all these years. I feel sure you spotted me that time you chased me round the bookstall in the Place Saint-Michel. I simply ran faster than you – I always was the quicker of us, wasn’t I? – so I ended up chasing you, not the other way round. When you came to a stop and scanned the square, I was standing right behind you; I could have put my hands over your eyes and called peekaboo! And when you turned on the spot I turned too, keeping behind your back. It was like a Chaplin film – people laughed. But you didn’t notice a thing.

  So now I’m going overseas, I don’t have the least idea where to. I don’t know if it’ll be dangerous or if I’ll ever come back, and they still haven’t explained what they expect me to do. I suppose I’ll have to play the office girl somewhere, what else?

  Last Saturday I drove to work as usual in my Torpedo, which is showing its age a bit (the bearings and gearbox have had it and the
rear axle is bent out of true). I was intercepted at the main entrance by Monsieur Touvier, our general manager. The god of the demigods who inhabit the executive floor of the Banque de France, he normally takes no notice of lower forms of life like office girls from the ground floor. This time, however, he not only took me by the arm but inclined his majestic head and murmured in my ear in his soft but imperious voice:

  ‘You’re Mademoiselle Janvier, aren’t you? You’re to go home at once and pack. Leave your car here and take a taxi.’

  ‘Yes, monsieur. Right away?’

  ‘This minute. You’ve an hour. Light luggage for a long journey.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A very long journey. Your tenancy has already been terminated. We’ll take care of your furniture.’

  ‘What about my car?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, we shall compensate you. Be quick, you’re expected at the Gare Montparnasse an hour from now.’

  That was a statement, not an order, so I went home, packed a few clothes and some books and said goodbye to my worldly goods. I haven’t left much behind, just a decent walnut bed with a horsehair mattress and a swansdown duvet, a chest of drawers, a leather armchair and a few kitchen utensils. But no broken heart, in case you’re interested, and no faithfully waiting swain.

  I’ve had a few romances and affairs over the years – nobody likes getting bored – but alas, they all became dull and insipid very quickly. Besides, I came to realize that I get less bored on my own than I do in the company of some man who doesn’t altogether appeal to me.

  So I’m still unattached, as they say – partly, no doubt, because by some miracle I’ve never become pregnant. Besides, it’s amazing how easily you can live among a city’s four million inhabitants for ten or twenty years without getting to know anyone apart from the greengrocer on the corner and the cobbler who nails new heels on your shoes twice a year.