Blood Dark

by Louis Guilloux

  “How do you know that?”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “I didn’t say that, Glâtre . . .”

  “You’d be better off thinking about your plan.”

  “I’m thinking about it, Glâtre, I’m thinking about it.”

  “And telling Monsieur Babinot about it. Then he’ll talk to the general, you see, and the affair will be prioritized. That at least, that’ll be useful . . . more so than saying stupid things about the Bolsheviks. I’ve given it some thought—they should put your museum in the parlor, eh? Don’t you think?”

  “That’s a wonderful idea.”

  The concierge came into the lodge, a thin, nervous man who wore his mustache like a peasant. “Nabucet hasn’t come?”

  “No,” said his wife.

  “As soon as I ring the bell, I’ll go back upstairs to finish arranging things. Remember to tell him.”

  Madame Marchandeau turned. Goodness, it’s true, she thought, they’re going to honor Madame Faurel soon! She’d completely forgotten. And her husband too, must have forgotten, since at any rate he hadn’t mentioned it. In other news, it had been fifteen days and Pierre, who was at the front, had stopped writing. On purpose.

  “Has the mailman come, Noël?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  She didn’t ask anything more.

  “Nothing yet?”

  “Nothing. We’ll have to wait.”

  Madame Marchandeau turned back to the wounded man and concentrated on talking to him. She wanted to be especially nice to him this morning, she thought, since she wouldn’t be able to take him to the courtyard herself.

  Noël took his keys, tucked the attendance sheets under his arm, and ran out. It was time to ring the bell.

  •

  Students, teachers hurried passed the lodge in little groups. Hall monitors entered, glancing at their mailboxes: “nothing for me?” then ducking out. The cloakroom was silent. Messieurs Glâtre and Moka, their cigarettes finished, left to pursue their engrossing conversation while strolling beneath a gallery in the Honor Court. The bell rang, letting loose the hullabaloo of recess, and almost immediately the lodge was flooded with students buying candy, erasers, and pencils. The concierge’s wife left her ironing to wait on them, in the middle of the mêlée, defending herself as best she could. The young girl fled to a corner, protecting the baby from all that noise. It didn’t last though. The bell rang a second time, the students fled—in a few seconds, all was silent again.

  “Why are they decorating her?” Georges asked.

  “For taking care of the wounded.”

  “Oh?”

  She had taken care of typhoid patients, it was said, in another hospital, close to the front. Here—where most of the school had been converted into a hospital—she had been head nurse for a while. And then she had been sick herself.

  “Do you know her?”

  “By sight.”

  “Oh Madame Stuck-Up,” said the concierge’s wife, who had gone back to her work. “Is it true what they say, that she had herself—oddly enough—enameled?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “But what does that really mean, enameled?” she pursued.

  “Beauty treatments,” Madame Marchandeau explained, without showing the slightest interest in continuing the topic.

  “What a funny world. They say too that she bathes in milk. Is that even possible?”

  “Not unheard of.”

  “It must be true,” said Georges. He laughed thinking that hers wouldn’t be watered down, unlike the milk his baby brother drank.

  “It’s a harsh world,” said the girl. “Did she really take care of contagious patients? A woman like that?”

  “Let us hope so,” said Madame Marchandeau.

  The girl didn’t say anything else. She continued across the room. The students, with their racket, had upset the baby. His naptime had passed. She started to hum, her mouth right next to the baby’s ear, rocking him with a smile, a tender, almost childlike expression.

  They had been right, his mother and father, in saying that even though this baby had been a surprise, it was even more surprising that he’d chosen to come into the world at such a moment, and it would have been better for him to stay where he was. She knew they didn’t mean what they said, and besides, she loved him. She would have brought him up all alone, if she’d had to, she would have sacrificed everything. They had cut the legs off her older brother, but they’d leave this one alone, or else—

  “Sleep, my little one, sleep . . .”

  Madame Marchandeau and Georges were whispering in the back of the room, which filled with the good smell of warm laundry. The mother bent over her iron, her cheeks red, her hair messy.

  “What is it?” she said suddenly, turning around.

  The girl raised her eyes and the song vanished from her lips—Monsieur Nabucet was standing in the door, his hat in his hand. “I . . . I’m not intruding?”

  “Noël is in the hall, Monsieur,” said the wife with bad grace.

  But Nabucet, seeing Madame Marchandeau, rushed over to her. “What a surprise! What a lovely surprise . . . my regards Madame, my regards . . .” and he bowed low.

  Of all the teachers, Nabucet was certainly the most considerate and the most refined, the most cultured—after Cripure anyway—the politest, the most “Old France,” as he said himself, about himself. It was to the point that, if they had decided to teach etiquette and deportment at the school, as they supposedly did at religious institutions, the whole town would have spontaneously agreed to give Nabucet the job. And if he’d only taught his students the right way to greet people, already that would have been a great step forward! The way he greeted people was so flattering, all the more because he always appeared not to see you at first, to be absorbed in some profound thought, or, in other instances, to be contemplating the light. But how the first moment of greeting compensated for that distractedness! How remorseful he looked, how quickly he put a hand to his hat, with what slow, unctuous grace he lifted it and inclined his head. Could such a thing be taught? Or was it more like an inborn talent?

  “What a surprise,” he murmured again, clasping the hand Madame Marchandeau held out to him. She didn’t mistake for an instant what he meant by the word “surprised.” He was saying, loud and clear, that he was shocked to find her in a concierge’s lodge. Come, come, was that really her place?

  “I hope you’re well, my dear Madame?”

  “I thank you.”

  “Monsieur the principal is well?”

  “Very well, thanks.”

  “I’ll see him soon. And by the way, I have a piece of good news to announce—the general is well again. He’ll be attending this afternoon, I just received official confirmation. The gods are with us,” he said, his voice smooth. And he bowed again.

  “The general has been ill?”

  “A congestion, Madame, a terrible congestion, which sometimes leaves him bedridden. It’s too cruel.”

  “Poor general,” said Madame Marchandeau.

  “Oh we were all on edge! It would have been such a letdown for Madame Faurel, you see. She was so hoping to be decorated by the general’s own hands. But now we’re out of danger.” He gave a little laugh that was silken, elegant, and rubbed his hands.

  The concierge’s wife watched this scene, her two hands folded on the iron, her back hunched. She exchanged a look with her daughter, who had stopped in a corner, and was holding the baby against her as if someone were threatening to steal it. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “And how are you holding up, my brave little friend?” said Nabucet, as if he’d only just noticed Georges’s presence. He’d been standing right in front of the wheelchair the whole time.

  “Bad,” said Georges.

  Nabucet looked uncomfortable.

  “Is that so?” he said, turning first to Madame Marchandeau and then to the boy’s mother. He didn’t dare look at the girl.

  “Did you expect him t
o sing,” said the mother, “the way he is?” The words had come out before she could stop herself. But even so, when it came down to it . . .“Poor boy.” That Nabucet, he should have just left him alone, not mocked him right under his nose with his talk of decorations and generals!

  “But Madame, I understand, I understand! We’re not asking anyone for the impossible—” It was clear in his eyes that the concierge’s wife would pay dearly for her violent remark one of these days. “It’s not a question of singing, it’s a question of beating the blues, there,” he said making an elegant gesture like a light benediction, “You’ve got a touch of the blues, haven’t you, dear boy?” He put a hand on his shoulder.

  “More than a touch.”

  “Listen—why are you so down in the dumps?”

  “Leave him be, Monsieur Nabucet,” said Madame Marchandeau. This horrible scene was beyond her. She made a movement to take his hand from the boy’s shoulder. Nabucet saw and removed it himself. “This boy has no reason to rejoice, but he’s a very good kid, isn’t that right, Georges? He’s doing everything he can, I promise you. And so are we,” she added, almost under her breath.

  “If I may?”

  Oh! Why did he insist?

  “A famous philosopher—Monsieur Merlin must know him—a great philosopher once said that all sadness is a diminishment of the self.[5] And so, my dear young man, you mustn’t . . .”

  “Two legs gone, that’s also a diminishment.”

  “He’s reasoning!” cried Nabucet, “A headstrong lad, you see. What a rascal,” he said, bursting into a flabby, spineless laugh, as if all of it had been nothing but a joke. “It’s reasonable to . . . reason,” he replied, turning serious. “It’s fine, it’s even very fine. But remember one thing: life is internal. In-ter-nal . . .” Making a quick pivot, almost a pirouette, he turned on the girl and cried, “What a magnificent baby!”

  She had no time to recoil. What a horrible face he had—watery eyes, colorless, dull skin, covered in frizzy hairs, gray teeth, a big, quivering nose veined with blue. He tilted his head towards his shoulder, like a virtuoso with his violin, and smiled. But his eyes were defiant.

  “What a lovely child.”

  “He’s sleeping, sir.”

  “Oh, have no fear . . .” with a trembling, almost involuntary gesture, he slipped his hand between the little baby’s body and the girl’s breast. She went pale, blushed, her eyes widened—he was still smiling.

  “Leave me alone!” she said, jumping back.

  “Little wildcat . . .” The word had escaped him. He was definitely going to have to get a handle on himself—wasn’t it just last week he’d been slapped by a brat of fifteen?

  “I love babies,” he said (Nabucet never lost his composure for long). He bowed to Madame Marchandeau—“My respects, Madame.”

  She couldn’t avoid extending her hand.

  He nodded right and left, pirouetting as he imagined the marquises of old would have done, and hurried out.

  “Just because we’re only concierges!” the girl murmured with angry tears in her eyes. Madame Marchandeau was thinking it was a blessing he hadn’t asked about Pierre . . .

  The mother went back to her work with a sigh.

  •

  Nabucet left the lodge, scarlet-faced. A young man running across the corridor almost bumped into him and didn’t apologize. He was one of his old students too, who had become a monitor, a scholarship case—a boy who should at least provide a model of decorum! In his haste, the young man had dropped a book and hadn’t even noticed. Nabucet picked it up, smiling. “Monsieur Montfort!”

  He whirled around.

  “Your book, my dear Francis,” said Nabucet, tipping his hat. Montfort hadn’t yet taken off his own. He came forward, clearly quite frustrated, a sign which Nabucet deliberately misinterpreted, for instead of giving him back his book, he took his outstretched hand and shook it vigorously. “All’s well with you?”

  “Yes, thank you, sir.” With visible effort, he added, “And you?” Nabucet smiled. “Oh very well,” he said. “It’s very kind of you, my dear boy . . .”

  He didn’t let go of Montfort’s hand, and smiling all the while, his head tilted, he examined the strange monitor’s outfit with invisible irony. It was so silly to dress this way! Why those boots? He wasn’t going riding. Why that bowler hat? It was grotesque to see that hat on the head of an adolescent. It was an old one, worn out along the edges, clearly too big, and Montfort wore it on an angle, so that it didn’t fall into his eyes. But big as it was, it still left an abundance of curly black hair showing. As for the pockets of his jacket, they were full of books, and he had yet more under his arms. A real bohemian!

  “You seem quite rushed, my dear Francis?”

  “It’s true, sir.”

  “Don’t you have a minute,” said Nabucet, looking into his eyes, “couldn’t you grant me a minute? Yes? I need to tell you . . .”

  He lead him out into the Honor Court, a vast square that for the moment was gray and empty, surrounded by columns supporting the semicircular arches of the galleries. There, he finally dropped his hand. “You’re aware, of course, of all the affection we have for you, aren’t you? Well then, I was with the principal yesterday and . . .your name was mentioned. You understand?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  “The principal is an exceptionally tolerant person. He’s a good man. I’m not saying he’s too good, you hear, I’m not saying he’s weak. Far from it! But in these times, I believe, and he does too, that . . . energy is vital. Isn’t that so?”

  “Of course.”

  Nabucet steepled his fingers as he spoke.

  “I believe—and this is an unofficial notice I’m giving you, my dear Francis—I believe he intends to call you into his office today.”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t say fine in that insolent tone. The principal and I myself, and everyone here, we only have your best interests in mind, whatever you might think. For whatever reason Monsieur Marchandeau might want to call you into his office—and I don’t know, you understand—but I’m certain, you take my meaning, absolutely certain, that he has a great affection for you. Really so much. He takes you for a star, an ace, as they say these days.” He put a hand on Montfort’s shoulder and paused: “Promise me that whatever happens, you’ll strive to be worthy of that affection?”

  “But Monsieur Nabucet, I have no idea what it could be about.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Surely not a fault with my work, in any case. I’m very exacting with my work.” Montfort was proud.

  “A certain flippancy of dress . . .”

  “I make sixty francs a month, Monsieur.” Could he not, finally, leave him the fuck alone, this . . . parson?

  Nabucet exclaimed, “You see that! You’re a bit headstrong! Hmm, my dear Francis, allow me, permit your old teacher—yes, old, I’ll have a head of white hair soon—I’m saying, permit your old schoolmaster who, once again, cares for you very much, allow him to give you a piece of good advice: don’t go up against authority. You’ll be broken.

  Oh, oh!” he said, throwing his head back, “I know what you’re thinking. I’ve been your age, I understand your rebellions, they’re so natural! But they’re only paper tigers, my boy, flimsy paper. Come, you’ll come round like I did, and so, if I can revise your memory a little, you’ll say to yourself, ‘That Nabucet wasn’t all wrong. He knows how the world works.’ And then, see here, just see here, at a time like this, mustn’t each man think only of his duty? Go on, don’t be late. We’ll see each other again and return to this debate. It’s my mission to follow my students long after they’ve left my class. Go on! Learn how to live in the real world. Don’t be too much of a . . . poet.” He shook his hand.

  “My book?”

  “Oh, excuse me . . .”

  The whole time they’d been talking, Nabucet had kept the book under his armpit. Perhaps he hoped Francis would forget to reclaim it? He handed it back, glancing a
t the title. “Excuse my meddling, my dear boy. Frankly, it wasn’t on purpose . . . That’s a very controversial book, isn’t it?”

  “Thank you, sir.” said Francis, taking back the book.

  “Above the Battle,”[6] said Nabucet, shaking his head, “I wonder what he means by that—really!” And he watched Francis who hurried away, settling his bowler hat on his overabundant hair as best he could—an operation which never succeeded on the first try. “Idealist!” he muttered with contempt.

  If he’d been in the principal’s place, he wouldn’t have tiptoed around. He would have made this long-haired romantic dress more appropriately, in a way that better suited his position; he would have forbidden him to spread his absurd ideas, to bring books into the school that were as subversive as that outrageous, poorly conceived, and poorly written volume by the despicable Romain Rolland. And if he’d had to, he would have tossed out this . . . poet, if that had been the simplest solution. This was the case he’d made to the principal the day before, remarking that if the principal wasn’t careful, he might get into a scrape with this undesirable. But the principal was such a weak man, so hard to persuade, and lately so sad! It was difficult to watch. He wasn’t up to his job, he had to admit it. A man who allowed his wife to spend whole hours a day at the bedside of a wounded man, that was permissible, but in a concierge’s lodge, that was doubtful, it was really unacceptable—it lacked dignity. He should have had the tact to make his wife understand it wasn’t her place. If she had so much charity to dispense, there were organizations, weren’t there! She could certainly work with one of them. But she didn’t visit anyone else. As for that loose cannon, the poet, clearly the principal’s duty should have been to protect himself against juvenile follies that would lead where? Nowhere. To starvation. One of Nabucet’s students had become a poet, a writer—no need to ask where that ambition led! And what happened to him? Nabucet had run into him one day in Paris on the boulevard Saint-Michel. In rags, wearing shoes run down at the heels. He told that story as often as possible to his current students, to warn them, to give them a taste of “real life,” to press them into graduating with honors. Because the diploma opened doors, while poetry closed them. That was his view. But the principal seemed uninterested in everything. Oh sure, he hadn’t heard from his son in a while, that was a pain, but really, he wasn’t the only one.