Bedridden for years, helpless, fabulously wealthy, the old man had been cheated out of millions by an unscrupulous nephew, forged signature, no one any the wiser, he decamped with the loot, how could they bring proceedings against him, everyone thinks the uncle is deranged and anyway what about the family, his sister, no he wouldn’t do it, you could never be too careful, whoever would have suspected the nephew of being a crook, always so correct, black tie, and a churchgoer, ah, how right they are when they say …
Or that no one had ever got to the bottom of it, there were so many papers on his table, old dossiers, old newspapers, the narration, as it’s called, of the facts in question appears to have gone unnoticed, and you can say that again, or been lost, discarded with the rubbish, his wastebasket always full, I almost had to empty it twice a day.
Because he confused what he was saying, and when I say saying, his gibberish, with what was happening to him, not much but enough for, well, his conversation with Louis for instance, I won’t insist on that given the circumstances.
Taking not the slightest bit of notice of anyone else, the women might have been alone in the world, psspss, those obscenities from mouth to ear, there’s always something more to say, just try and imagine the scene but anyway it’s classic, the old man, his night-light by his side, he isn’t asleep, three in the morning, he hears a noise, but why make you waste your time with this antediluvian story, what interest is it, I ask you.
And personally, his habit of never finishing his phrases, it drives me crazy, just because he’s losing his marbles is no reason why everyone else should suffer, but I’m boring you again.
Cutting in from time immemorial.
We’ll get there in the end with a little method.
His eyes mist over, don’t let’s be in too much of a hurry, he was wearing the latest fashion in trousers, a little American-style denim jacket with patches over the elbows, that’s the ultimate in casual elegance with the young people of today, and a hand-knitted, thick woolen scarf.
As he didn’t open his trap anymore I try to get him to confide in me, have you killed someone, he nods yes, that’s nothing, I say, it happens to everyone, nature, ups and downs, was it by poison, or firearms, or strangulation, or drowning, he was absentmindedly pulling the petals off a chrysanthemum, my question embarrassed him, well, let’s talk about something else then, and turning toward the inscription on the grave, then you knew that Mortin, he jumps, turns around too, stands up, beating heart, and says, he is the person I have come to honor, how comes it, what …
He stands there dazed, then gives me a sideways took, don’t worry young man, pull yourself together, nothing here that isn’t natural, my presence must have distracted you, then, pointing to my sepulcher, look at my dwelling place instead, a vagabond with no history, no duplicity, tell me about yourself, that will calm you.
With a little method.
I knew Alexandre well, he said, a generous friend, unhappy, persecution complex, failed author, he’d chosen me as his confidant, I learned everything about him, the poor wretch totters, I hold him by the leg, sit down again, which he does and continues his confession, which, the farther it advances the less it holds my attention, in short, held himself responsible, having one day abandoned his benefactor, for the death of the latter, a bit later he starts sobbing, I try to console him, displays of emotion, a few entries deleted, then effaced.
Or that nonsuit without appeal.
Why make you waste your time.
My name is Théodore, he said next, arranging the chrysanthemums as best he could on the marble, and mine is Dieudonné, I said, call me Dodo, if there’s anything I can do for you …
There were forget-me-nots around the edge of the grave, which made me say to the forlorn young man, nothing is sweeter than memories, don’t you think, you don’t have anyone anymore, this is what I suggest, over there, at the intersection of the side-alley and the alley where you appeared to me, you see that abandoned vault just like mine, make it your refuge and we’ll correspond through our hearts, our thoughts, well, whatever you like, and he was already making his way toward the place indicated with a little rawhide suitcase in which he had put his things.
His things, yes, that suitcase, when was it that I dared ask him what it contained, one evening no doubt when we were sitting in front of his niche, but as it had just been raining the grass was wet, he pulls out of his suitcase a cloth which he spreads out underneath us, and what else of interest have you in that suitcase, I ask, it isn’t just curiosity …
My things, he replies, nothing much, in the way of clothes I have a couple of pairs of socks left and I don’t know what else, the important thing is my papers, he shows them to me arranged in little piles, I ask him are they classified in alphabetic order, chronological order, what are they about, it’s fascinating, I was afraid he was going to turn out to be an obsessive collector of God knows what, no though, it was just his things, their order was only apparent, here, he said, this cutting for example relates part of the speech made at the inauguration of the Suez canal, and this one is the announcement of the engagement of one of my grandmother’s uncles, and this photo a little two-month-old Newfoundland puppy, and those are my school essays, and so on.
We were surrounded by the papers, it might have begun to rain again, let’s put them back in the suitcase, I said, we shall get the benefit of them gradually with the passing days, they’ll keep us company, and since you seem to be gifted, then I tell him about the slate which had been hidden until then, maybe we could try to write some essays together on the subjects contained in your box of treasures, an absurd idea which would only complicate things by multiplying the number of the irresponsible.
He put away his cuttings, they were held together by bits of string, rubber bands, clothespins, paid no attention to me for a long moment, then put his suitcase back in his niche saying forget what’s worrying you Monsieur Dodo, it can’t be really serious, looking at you one envies your diaphanous state, everything can be seen on your face, it won’t do you any good to cross out, delete, efface, consider me a little like your slate, I will only remember what you want me to of your words.
I had thought I saw innocence in his eyes, was it perfidy.
Traces of effacement.
The time it takes to transcribe a phrase.
Entries crossed out and then effaced.
Was it the story of a father or of a son, words of the one or of the other.
Surging back, the old myths, cockchafers of despair.
As for the kid, he was still listening to his radio in the barn, the maid had to call him to lunch once, twice, finally she went to fetch him, come on Théo, your uncle’s already at table, and wash your hands quickly, the kid turned off his radio and first ran to the washhouse and rinsed his fingers then still running went and joined his uncle in the dining room, they ate in silence, the master just managed to ask his nephew what he was doing with his Thursday holiday, a vague reply from Théodore who was struggling to peel a pear, his uncle took it out of his hands and peeled it for him, then the boy went out and the old man drank his coffee by himself, the maid came back to clear the table, he was dozing in his armchair, she made an awkward movement as she was picking up the coffee tray, the cup fell to the floor and smashed, the master jumped and called her a clumsy creature, you can’t pretend it was the cat.
He went out into the garden and made his way over to the well, what a noise coming from the bottom, that illocalizable murmur, never give up, words confused here, the web of their days.
While she went back to the kitchen where her niece who had lunched with her was waiting for her, and told her how her father had met her mother in the cemetery, your mother was putting flowers on her parents’ grave like every first of November, she was trying to meditate but a man not far away was looking at her, captivated, he went up to her and asked her the first thing he could think of, where was the vault of this or that family, she replied by pointing in its direction, but the p
ot of chrysanthemums she had just put down was blown over by the wind and he set it straight, a conversation started up about the dead, you can imagine the sort of thing, is that any place to do your courting, you must admit, all the same he carried on with it, they walked home together and they got engaged two months later, if I’d been your mother I’d have been afraid of the evil eye, cemetery lovers, just imagine, but they were very happy as you know.
She went on chatting, after she’d washed the dishes, complaining about her master who was losing his marbles, gets confused in what he says, and when I say says, on account of staying alone all day in his study, his papers, he needs something to take his mind off them, God knows what goes on in his head instead of, I don’t know, getting some fresh air, going out with the child a bit.
For instance a walk to the cemetery, why not.
But Théo has no such expectations, he likes it with his Uncle Dodo, as he calls him.
Your box of treasures.
Because the maid, who has always played the innocent, probably knows much more than she lets on about the occupations and projects of her master, it seems she ferrets through his papers, his letters, his dossiers, she knows enough to realize that a word let fall by the old man here or there, though it has no connection with the present moment, has one with his work, his reading, his researches, but what people are saying, is it true, is it all so important, the maid is a woman like all the rest, a bit of curiosity is better than none at all, it shows what an interest she takes in her master, he should be grateful to her.
On her way back she stopped at the cemetery, she meditated at her late husband’s grave, set to rights the pot of chrysanthemums blown over by the wind, the grave is next to that of her daughter and son-in- law and their youngest and her mother and father, the whole tribe.
Old formulas, old papers, old filth, old chimeras, everything is disintegrating.
And there’s something abnormal about that kid, a disguised adult curiosity, always prying, always by himself reading, how can you expect him to be his age, did we read like that, you remember, it was the devil’s own job to get us to stick our noses in a book, he’s got into bad ways, and anyway the maid tells anyone prepared to listen to her that he has ridiculous ideas, his imagination is in a ferment, he believes he’s living the adventures in his novels, he’s going to make life difficult for them.
A body without a soul.
His imagination is in a ferment.
Then went back up to his room and started work again, a kind of essay, memoir, or God knows what.
Entries deleted then effaced.
All the June flowers, cornflower, poppy, pheasant’s eye, betony, cow- wheat, love-in-a-mist, white campion, centaury, hemp-nettle, coronilla, bugle, St. John’s wort, Venus’s navelwort, sweet clover, hemlock, honeysuckle, speedwell, broom, water iris, yellow rattle, self-heal, meadow sage, butter-and-eggs, marjoram, delphinium, a fearful avalanche, the voice begins to falter, who will take account of this passionate innocence, the innocence that causes the resurgence of the old myths, cockchafers of despair.
The lilies of the big sleep.
Oasis of the night.
The meeting in the cemetery, that suitcase full of treasures.
Guffaws.
A pause.
All regrets stifled, task accepted, to recompose as a defense against anguish, no matter where it may come from, that unforgotten dream, then finally leave it far behind, an old ceiling cluttered with birds and flowers in the taste of a bygone age, and progress toward the inaccessible without landmarks, without erasures, without notes of any kind, unattainable but present, which must be believed in for fear of never dying.
Make the journey again from one grave to the next, alley number three hundred and thirty-three, side-alley number seven hundred and seventy-seven, find Théodore, chilled to the bone, take him in your arms, warm him up, once again say some kind words to him, his papers, his treasures, say yes to him again, once again make the journey, that calvary, no other way out.
Fiery hues of the chrysanthemums, last blaze before the winter months.
White morning frost, little November sun.
Doesn’t time fly, I’d left my topcoat in my hole, Théodore put his over my shoulders, we have, you may remember, many things to look at together, and opened his suitcase again.
Without landmarks, without erasures.
Multiplying the number of the irresponsible.
We shall get the benefit of them gradually with the passing days.
As for the old invalid, he hears a noise in the kitchen, he says who’s there, no answer, he begins to worry, can’t get up, peace reigned once more when suddenly the man bursts into the room, takes a key from the bedside table and empties the safe of all its gold, then effaces all trace of his visit, puts the key back where it belongs and goes off to make merry in the Antipodes.
Or actually murdered, throat cut with a kitchen knife, they discover him three days later, terrible stink, disorder, everything upside down, the murderer, it’s clear, was looking for the key to the safe which is now wide open, the bedside table had been knocked over, he must have had to tug hard to open the drawer which had disgorged its contents into the chamber pot where toothpicks and matches are floating.
What are you saying, his nephew, such a distinguished gentleman.
Tittle-tattle, a different version each time.
The jabbering Parca.
The list of the deceased is getting longer, and the news items, preferably scabrous, like that business of the murder ten years ago which is the spitting image of the one last week, and when I say last, you remember, that old man found dead at the bottom of his bed, his nose in his chamber pot, a butcher’s knife planted in his back, the murderer was a so-called nephew who escaped to the Antipodes with the loot, but the maid, who knew plenty about her master’s goings-on, when she was tidying up the papers in the study, in spite of having been told not to, is supposed to have seen, apart from the newspapers, some dossiers, like all men of law have, a whole heap of horrible photos of people who’d been strangled or hanged or had their throats cut, enough to give you the willies, the old man really must have been losing his marbles to be interested in that stuff at his age, as if there weren’t enough misfortunes and wars in the world, when he doesn’t want for anything, him so well served, so well housed.
Was it by poison, or firearms, or strangulation, or drowning, he was absentmindedly pulling the petals off a chrysanthemum.
Low sky, slight drizzle, night was falling, the cemetery is two kilometers away, he was wearing a raincoat, walking fairly slowly so as not to arouse anyone’s suspicions as he passed in front of Magnin’s, then in front of Thiéroux’s, and Dubard’s, and Chenu’s, might have been going to see his uncle in spite of the late hour, alibi, Madame Dubard saw him, she was at her window, distinctly, just about to close the shutters, was the old man ill.
For to come back to the conversation the master had with Louis, it could only have been about that old man’s murder, since the master had claimed he hadn’t been there when Louis was talking about it to the maid, unless he had been feinting and actually had heard it but, annoyed by what he was learning had feigned ignorance, yes, with a bit of cross-checking we’ll get there, the kid had heard the maid talking about it either to Louis or to her niece so during lunch he comes out with his remark about uncles who have millions, which upsets the old man but doesn’t surprise him in the least, he peeled a pear for his godson and said go and eat it in the garden.
Certainly everyone was preoccupied by this business, and with good reason, you say a distant relation, he only saw him once a year, stinking in his hole and as stingy as they come, all his life he had complained about the indifference of his family and friends, expressing surprise that they didn’t visit him, that they didn’t spoil him, didn’t come billing and cooing around him, the old crackpot with all his millions, no one ever saw the color of them, you must admit that puts people off, some of his relations hated
him, you know what adults’ conversations are like, to harbor grudges against someone for years and years, not surprising that the children take a leaf out of their book and when the day comes avenge the family at one stroke.
What a lot of dead people around us.
The other one saying no you’ve got it all wrong, that business goes back to the time when Théo was a child, it could only have been another nephew, the mother didn’t only have one son, as for the papers discovered in his papers, there’s not the shadow of a doubt that they were concerned with murders of old men, or that according to his maid he used to study old dossiers dealing with penal matters that a nephew passed on to him, with plans of apartments, witnesses’ statements, interrogations of the accused, borrowed from the office of the Clerk of the Court where his father is a judge, hence the master’s brother-in-law, she knew him well, or knew them well, you lost the thread in all that din.
A lady who knew a lady who had seen the fellow in question with her own eyes at three in the morning, or was it Madame Buvard, she was young at the time, was coming home from a dance with her intended, the man had branched off at the corner near the mailbox and started running in the direction of the crossroads, you mean the cemetery, she thought right away that it was fishy, her fiancé went to see in the apartment block, the automatic light was still on, he went up to the fifth floor and that’s where he saw …
An invisible manitou.
The landing door was ajar, he went down again and said we’d better go and tell the police, there’s an old man living on the fifth floor, he’s sure to have been burgled, at this hour the night watchman was asleep, we woke him up, he asked us our names and addresses and professions, he almost didn’t let us go, my fiancé said it’s a fat lot of use being public-spirited with these dimwits, if they come and question you you aren’t to say anything if I’m not there.
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