Death on Credit

by Louis-Ferdinand Celine

  The very next day they took on another apprentice for the stock­room… I heard about it… He didn’t last three months… He flopped down on every landing… The work killed him.

  But innocent or guilty, a lot of good it did me… I was getting to be a real headache for the whole family. Uncle Édouard began to look for another job for me, as a salesman, I’d have to start all over again. But it wasn’t so easy for him this time… I’d have to try a different line…

  I already had a past… It would be best not to mention it. And that’s what we decided.

  * * *

  Once he’d recovered from the shock, my father started raving again… He drew up a complete inventory of all my faults, one by one… He searched for the vices hidden deep down in me like a scientist looking for mysterious phenomena… He let out diabolical screams… He was having his fits again… He was being persecuted by a whole carnival of demons… He really turned on the gas… He dragged everybody into it… Jews… schemers… social climbers… And most of all the Freemasons… I don’t know what they had to do with it… He tracked his enemies to the ends of the earth… He got so lost in his apocalypse that in the end he forgot all about me…

  He laced into Lempreinte, the monster with the stomach trouble… And Baron Méfaize, his managing director… Anybody and anything would do, as long as he could rave and splutter… He made a terrible hullabaloo, the neighbours were in stitches.

  My mother dragged herself to his feet… He wouldn’t stop bellowing… He remembered me and my future… He discovered the worst symptoms in me… The most abominable profligacy!… Oh well, he washed his hands of me!… Like Pontius Pilate!… That’s exactly what he said… His conscience was clear…

  My mother looked at me… her “cross”… It was sad, but she resigned herself… She’d never abandon me… Obviously I was going to end on the gallows and she’d stick by me all the way…

  * * *

  We had only one thing in common in our family in the Passage, and that was our terror of going hungry. We all had plenty of that. It was with me from my first breath… They passed it right on to me… We were all obsessed with it…

  As far as we were concerned, the soul was fear. In every room the walls sweated fear of going without… It made us swallow the wrong way, it made us bolt our meals and run around town like mad… we zigzagged like fleas all over Paris, from the Place Maubert to the Étoile, for fear of being auctioned off, for fear of the rent, of the gas man, the tax collector… We were always in such a hurry I never had time to wipe myself properly.

  Since my dismissal from Berlope’s, I had in addition, all to myself, the fear of never getting anywhere in the world… I’ve known poor unemployed bastards, hundreds of them, here and all over the world, people who were only half a step from the poorhouse… They hadn’t managed right!

  To tell the truth, my main pleasure in life is being quicker than the boss when it comes to getting fired… I can see that kidney punch coming… I can smell it a mile off… I can tell when a job is folding… I’ve got some other little racket sprouting in my other pocket. Bosses are all stinkers, all they think about is giving you the gate… There’s only one kind of real low-down fear, the fear of being out on your arse, flat broke and no job… I’ve always had one on hand, some lousy meal ticket, it doesn’t matter what kind… I nibble at it, kind of like vaccinating yourself… I don’t give a shit what it is… I lug it through the streets, the mountains and the muck… I’ve had such cockeyed ones they had neither shape, size nor taste… It’s all one to me… It’s no skin off my arse. The sicker they make me, the less I worry…

  I hate all jobs. Why should I make distinctions?… You won’t catch me singing any hymns of praise… I’d shit on the whole lot of them if I could… That’s what it is to work for hire…

  * * *

  Uncle Édouard was doing better and better in his hardware business. He mostly sold stuff for automobiles in the provinces, headlights and accessories. Unfortunately I was too young to go on the road with him. I’d have to wait a while… Besides, after what had happened I needed watching.

  Uncle Édouard wasn’t so pessimistic about me, he didn’t think my case was so hopeless! If I was no good at a sedentary job, he said, maybe I’d make a first-class travelling salesman.

  It seemed to be worth trying… Appearance was important, you had to have the right clothes… To make me really acceptable they added a couple of years to my age, they got me an extra-stiff collar, I’d wrecked all the others. They got me spats too, nice and grey over my shoes, so my feet wouldn’t look so enormous, so they wouldn’t clutter up people’s doormats. My father was sceptical, he had given up hope in my future. The neighbours put in their two cents’ worth, they all gave advice… Not that they expected much of my career… Even the Passage caretaker was against me… When he went around lighting the lamps, he’d drop in at all the shops and bat the breeze. I’d turn out to be a screwball, that’s what he told everybody, sort of like my father in his opinion, good for nothing except pestering people… Luckily there was Visios, the sailor, he had a soft spot for me, he realized I was doing my best and contradicted everybody. He said I wasn’t a bad kid. There was a good deal of talk… but I was still high and dry… They still had to find me a job.

  At that point they began to wonder what they should have me sell… My mother wanted me to be a jeweller. That was her fondest hope… It struck her as eminently respectable. A jeweller’s staff had to be more than neat and spruce, they had to look really smart… And they handled treasures behind gleaming counters. But jewellers are tough when it comes to trusting anybody. They’re always trembling for their jewels! They can’t sleep, they’re so scared of being burgled, strangled and set on fire!… Christ!

  One thing that was indispensable was scrupulous honesty! On that score we had nothing to fear! With parents like mine, so meticulous, so strict about honouring their business obligations, I had a terrific reference!… I could apply to any employer!… The most obsessed… the most suspicious… with me he could rest easy! Never, as far back as anybody could remember, had there been a thief in our family, not a single one!

  Once that was settled, we began to look around. Mama reconnoitred some, she went to see the people we knew… They didn’t need anybody… In spite of my good intentions it was no cinch landing a job, even on trial.

  They outfitted me again to make me more attractive. I was getting to be as costly as an invalid. I’d worn out my suit completely… I’d gone through my shoes… In addition to my matching spats they got me a new pair of shoes, Broomfields, the English brand, with enormous jutting soles… they looked like submarines. They got them two sizes too big, so they’d last a couple of years at least… They were awfully narrow, I thought I’d sprain my ankle, but I bore it with grim determination. I hobbled along on the Boulevards like a deep-sea diver…

  Once I was patched up, my mother and I headed for the addresses we had. Uncle Édouard gave us the ones he got from his friends, we found the rest in the directory. Mme Divonne kept the shop every morning until noon while we went out job-hunting. Believe me, we had no time for dawdling… We combed the whole Marais, door after door, and then the cross-streets, Rue Quin-campois, Rue Galante, Rue aux Ours, Rue Vieille-du-Temple… We did the whole neighbourhood, take my word for it, floor by floor…

  My mother hobbled along behind… Tip-tap-plunk! Tip-tap-plunk!… She’d offer my services to every family, to little home artisans huddled behind their globes… She offered me ever so kindly… as an extra tool… a useful little drudge… not at all demanding… clever, eager, energetic… and best of all, a fast runner! All in all a good bargain… Well-trained, obedient… At our timid ring on the bell, they’d open the door a crack… at first they were suspicious… Cigarette immobilized, expectant… they’d peer at me over their spectacles… They’d take a good look… Not very appetizing, they decided… In the face of
their blousy wrinkled smocks, my mother would start her song and dance:

  “You wouldn’t be needing a young salesman, Monsieur?… I’m his mother. I thought I’d better come along… All he asks is to give satisfaction… He’s a very well-behaved young man… You can easily make enquiries about him… We’ve been in business for twelve years in the Passage des Bérésinas… The child has been raised in business… His father works for the Coccinelle Fire Insurance Company… You must have heard of it… We’re not rich, either one of us, but we don’t owe anybody a single penny… We honour our obligations… His father in the insurance company…”

  We’d generally do twelve to fifteen of a morning, all kinds… Jewel setters, cutters and polishers, chain-makers, silversmiths and even trades that have gone out of existence, like silver gilders and agate engravers.

  They examine us some more… They put down their magnifying glasses to get a better look… to make sure we’re not bandits… murderers… escaped convicts!… Once reassured, they became friendly, even sympathetic!… Except they don’t need anybody… not for the moment! They couldn’t afford any overhead… They made their own calls… The whole family was in the business, all together, in their tiny niches… The seven stories on the court were honeycombed with their burrows, their workshops were like little caves carved out of the walls of what had once been fashionable houses… They’d stopped trying to keep up appearances… They lived on top of each other, wife, kids, grandmother, all working together… At the most they’d take on an apprentice for the Christmas rush…

  My mother ran out of arguments and suggested as a last inducement that they take me on without pay… that really made them jump. They’d clam up tight and slam the door in our faces! They were suspicious of anybody who’d work for nothing! It looked shady as hell. We’d have to start all over again. My mother concentrated on inspiring confidence, but it didn’t seem to get us very far. She couldn’t very well represent me as an apprentice in stone setting or machining fine metal… It was too late for that… I’d never be handy with my fingers… The most I could expect to be was a blabbermouth, an outside salesman, a common ordinary “young man”… My career had been bungled in every way…

  When we got home, my father wanted to know what was what… We were always empty-handed and it drove him nuts. All evening he’d thrash around in the most terrible nightmares… You could have furnished a dozen loony bins with the contents of his dome…

  My mother’s legs were all twisted from climbing stairs… She felt so funny she couldn’t stop… She kept limping around the table making the most terrible faces… She had drawing pains in her legs… she was racked with cramps…

  We’d race off bright and early to other addresses all the same… Rue Réaumur, Rue Greneta… the Bastille, Rue des Jeûneurs… and especially the Place des Vosges… after several months of begging and stair-climbing, of puffing and pestering for nothing, my mother began to wonder whether people couldn’t tell by the cut of my jib that I was nothing but an insubordinate little no-good… My father didn’t doubt it for a moment… He’d known it for years… His certainty was reinforced every time we came home empty-handed… dazed, panting, dog-tired, wet from running, drenched inside and out with sweat and rain…

  “It’s harder to get that kid a job than to liquidate our whole stock!… And I don’t have to tell you, Clémence, that wouldn’t be easy!”

  He hadn’t been educated for nothing, he knew how to make comparisons, to draw inferences.

  My last suit was already sagging in all directions, with great big bags at the knees, stairs are death on clothes. Luckily I was able to borrow an old hat from my father. We wore the same size. It wasn’t in very good shape, so I always held it in my hand. The part I wore out was the brim… People were awfully polite in those days…

  * * *

  It was high time Uncle Édouard found me a decent address. We were really out of luck. We didn’t know what to do. And then one day the whole thing got straightened out!… He came in at lunchtime, beaming and burbling. He was absolutely positive. He’d gone to see this man, a master engraver. He was going to take me on! It was in the bag!

  Gorloge was his name, he lived on the Rue Elzévir, in an apartment on the fifth floor. He went in mostly for rings, brooches, embossed bracelets and small repair jobs. He took anything that came his way. He struggled along from day to day. He didn’t expect much. He tried to give satisfaction regardless…

  Édouard infected us with his confidence. We couldn’t wait to see him. We didn’t even finish our cheese. In two seconds flat my mother and I were out in the street… A short bus ride, the Boulevards, the Rue Elzévir… Five flights… They were still at table when we rang the bell. They ate bread soup too, big bowls of it, and then noodle gratin, and nuts for dessert. They’d been expecting us. My uncle had sung my praises. We had come at just the right moment… They didn’t gild the pill… They didn’t try to hide anything… They were having a hell of a time with their engraved ornaments… They made no bones about it… for twelve years there hadn’t been anything doing… They were still waiting for things to pick up… They were moving heaven and earth… but the resurrection didn’t come… The customers had other things in mind. Ruin was staring them in the face…

  Even so, Monsieur Gorloge was holding out, he was putting up a fight… He still had hope… He dressed like Uncle Arthur… the proud artist, with a goatee, a flowing bow tie, long pointed shoes and a baggy smock all covered with wine spots… He sat there at his ease. He was smoking, you couldn’t even see him behind the eddies of smoke… He fanned it away with his hand.

  Mme Gorloge sat across the table from him on a low stool. Her tits were squashed against the workbench, she was round all over, magnificent bulges… Her curves overflowed from her apron… she was cracking nuts with her fists… a staggering blow from way up, enough to split the table wide open. The whole workshop shook… She was quite a number… a former model… I found that out later… The type appealed to me.

  As for wages, the subject didn’t even come up. We didn’t want to be indiscreet. That would come later… I didn’t expect him to offer anything. But then he made up his mind after all, just as we were leaving. He said I could expect a regular wage… thirty-five francs a month… transportation included… And besides I had prospects… a sizeable bonus if by my efforts I succeeded in reviving the engraver’s craft. He thought me a little young, but that didn’t matter because I had the sacred fire… because I’d grown up in the racket… because I’d been born in a shop!… It was a deal… all very heartwarming… one cheery remark after another…

  We went home to the Passage full of enthusiasm… The rainbow at last. We finished our meal. We emptied the jam pots. Papa took three helpings of wine. He let off a fine fart… like he’d almost stopped doing… We kissed Uncle Édouard… There was wind in our sails again after the awful famine.

  * * *

  The next day I went to the Rue Elzévir bright and early to get my collection.

  The way Monsieur Gorloge was lounging around when I came in, I thought he’d forgotten me… He was sitting at the wide-open window, looking at the rooftops… Between his knees he had a big bowl of coffee. He wasn’t doing a damn thing, that was plain. The view amused him… the thousands of courtyards in the Petit Marais… He had a dazed dreamy look… That can be mighty fascinating, it can’t be denied. The lovely lacework of slate… the light playing over it… the intermingled colours… the way the gutters twist and twine. And the sparrows hopping about… And the wisps of smoke coiling over the deep chasms of shadow…

  He motioned me to keep my trap shut and listen to things… to take in the scene… He didn’t like to be disturbed… He must have thought me rather uncouth. He gave me a sulky look.

  All around the court, from top to bottom, at every window it was like a Punch and Judy show… heads popping out… bald ones, bushy ones, pale faces… squeali
ng, griping, whistling… And then different noises… A watering can tips, falls, bounces down on the big cobblestones below… A pot of geraniums slips… and flops kerplunk on the concierge’s lodge. It breaks into smithereens. The concierge comes bounding out of her grotto… flinging her cries out into space. Help! Bloody murder!… The whole house is in an uproar… Every pest in the place rushes to the window… They spew fire… they spit at each other… They challenge each other across the void… They’re all yelling at once… You can’t make out who’s in the right…

  Monsieur Gorloge hangs out of the window… He doesn’t want to miss one crumb… He’s crazy about these scenes… When things quiet down, he’s heartbroken… He heaves a sigh… and then another… He goes back to his bread and butter… He pours himself another bowl… he offers me some coffee too…

  “Ferdinand,” he finally says, “I’d better tell you again that it’s not going to be any sinecure selling my merchandise… I’ve had ten salesmen already… They were good boys, nothing wrong with them! And plenty of grit!… Actually you’re the twelfth, because to tell you the truth, I’ve tried my hand at it too… Well, there you have it! Anyway, come back tomorrow!… I’m not on form today… And… well no, hang around awhile!… Monsieur Antoine will be coming in… Maybe I ought to introduce you… Oh well, you might as well be leaving at that!… I’ll tell him I’ve hired you!… Won’t he be surprised!… He doesn’t like salesmen! He’s my first assistant… my foreman in fact!… He’s a tough customer!… No doubt about that!… You’ll know that as soon as you lay eyes on him! But he’s very helpful!… Yes, yes, I can’t deny it!… I want you to meet little Robert too, our apprentice… He’s a good kid! You’ll get along fine, I’m sure! He’ll give you the collection… It’s in the bottom of the closet… It’s unique, see what I mean?… It’s pretty heavy though… About fourteen, fifteen kilos… Nothing but models!… Copper and lead… The earliest pieces date back to my father!… He had some beautiful things! Unique! Unique! I remember seeing his Trocadéro!… All hand-carved, mounted as a diadem! Can you imagine? It was worn twice… I still have the photograph. I’ll show it to you one of these days…”