“Greetings! Everybody!… Greetings, gents!… Greetings, mopey!… Greetings, pal!…”
He’s brandishing a big bottle, a whisky gallon, he takes a swig, right down his throat from the bottle… He’s making a spectacle of himself… The people are laughing themselves sick!… They’re roaring! They’re waiting for what comes next!
The pasha’s stamping, sputtering, he’s wild with rage…
“Get inside! You damned dog!… Get inside!” he yells… “Aren’t you drunk enough? And you, you little wretch, do you know what’s in store for you?…”
Ah! It’s a threat, a direct one!…
Ah! No! I don’t know a thing about it… Ah! It’s a fact!… He still sickens me, that’s sure! It’s true I’ve got only one arm!… But he’s going too far!… I’m going to let him have it!… I go through the spectators… that’ll do!… “Wait, Caliph of my heart!”… I rush up to him… Seeing him right in front of my face flabbergasts me, he’s unbelievable!… Right in broad daylight! All made up!… A mug like a plaster mask!… Some job!… Even worse than Joconde! And jowls, Madame! And rolls of fat with cream! And powder!… Even lipstick!… The effect upon me is fantastic, a terrific illusion, a mirage… he fascinates me. He’s looking straight at me too… Looks me up and down… he’s blinking… He starts scrutinizing me with his big magnifying glass…
“Oh! Oh!” he suddenly screams… “Oh my! Young man! But young man! You’re not at all well!”
Ah! I brush him off!…
“But you look very ill to me!… Come in!… Come in!… Rest yourself!”
He’s inviting me… He’s suddenly changed his tone… obsequious now, sympathetic… oily…
“You must be very tired! Come in!… Lie down!”
He’s just too polite!
I come out of my daze, I dash through the door, I find the stairway… I bound up the steps, two at a time…
A room… what a shambles!… I stumble over everything!… Boro’s sprawled out… oof! Shapeless on the sofa… He sees me… he gets up…
“Ah! There you are! Oh, my boy!… Oh, my boy!… Oh! What a mess! Have you run into Matthew?”
His first words: Matthew!… That’s all that’s worrying him…
“Where’s Matthew?”
He just keeps mumbling “Matthew!”… He doesn’t even ask what’s been happening to me!…
“No!” I answer… “I don’t know where Matthew is!… You big drunk!… But I think he’ll be along soon!… From the way you raise hell!… The way you collect a crowd!”
I was giving him my opinion.
“Me raise hell?”… Ah! He’s bristling… Right away violence!… He’s brandishing his bottle at me! He wants to throw it in my face…
He stumbles… He moves forward!… He falls all over himself!… Ba-da-da-boom!… The old guy downstairs starts howling!… By repercussion!… He’s yelping at me… a shrill whining voice… a crazy bitch!
“Will you stop it, you riff-raff! You’ll break everything! Boro play me the ‘Merry Widow Waltz’!”
There’s also a piano in the corner… The pasha wants music!… Quite exacting! A wish of his!… He’s screaming with desire!
“The ‘Merry Widow Waltz’… You hear me? The ‘Merry Widow’!”
Immediately he throws a tantrum… He flutters around! Jumps about… a real madwoman!
He sets the whole shop bouncing, shakes the floor! What a racket! He keeps time by knocking on the ceiling!… With the cane!… He’s raging for the ‘Merry Widow Waltz’!
“Shit!” the other one answers… “Shit! You dumb hussy!”
That was Boro from his sofa… He shot that one down the stairs…
“You’re already drunk, Borokrom!” the old guy answers… “You’ve been drinking like a hole!”
They’re at one another now…
“Like a hole?”… Ah! That’s the limit!… “Tell me, what kind of hole? What kind of hole? Arsehole, is that it?”
It’s too outrageous!… Boro gets up! He wants to hear that to his face… what the old guy’s insinuating! He’s going downstairs… shit! He stumbles… he staggers… He gets to the stairs… His shirt hanging out like a smock, his belly sagging… He’s reeling again… Boom!… He tumbles, upsets… rolls down… crashes into the shop… A mess… Right into the whole works… Right into the crockery… The pyramid of fruit dishes… plates! Thunder!… A cataract!… The old boy’s choking with fury… The customer in front of the counter yelps… she’s bleating with horror… She wants to run away… she can’t!… Everything falls all over her!… The old guy tries to help her, to pull her out! He yanks at her, by her shoes… he takes a firm stand… Ho! Hip! Hup!… The whole works tumbles down again!…
“Help!…” the customer cries out… The old guy screams, “Help! Boro!… Boro, can you help me?… You, you tramp? You just standing there?”… He’s talking to me. I go downstairs… He wants me!… I dash forward… I grab her by the feet… I get her out of the chaos… back into the light… The two fatsoes immediately start brawling again. Insults, threats, right over the lady’s belly… With her underneath screaming to death!…
Boro grabs the old guy by the hair… Ah! Now he’s going to bash him!… The turban wobbles!… He’s squeezing his Adam’s apple… He’s strangling him, by God!… He calls the customer to witness… how he’s going to strangle the old guy…
“And he wanted to murder me!… I’m telling you, Madame, a pirate!”
And then, so she won’t misunderstand, they both fall on her, they come crashing down on her… they roll over her, body to body… she was just a slender thing… She’d come to borrow on her “bond”, her Mexican stock… She’s still holding it in her hand… Ah! She won’t let go!… She’s clutching it… She was too scared of robbers!… And she keeps on yelping…
“Help! Help! The door please!… The door!…” But Boro didn’t want her to slip away… He was holding onto her skirt!… While squeezing Claben by the collar… He was afraid she’d yell outside… but there’s the caliph escaping!… Flattening himself, making himself flabby-wabby under the grip… he sort of melted himself from enormous to all shrivelled up under the force… his whole big arse, his big belly… he’s slipping… dissolving… he gets away… just look at him! Pop!… He’s up again! All balloon! He springs up from the combat! He rushes to a big knife there on the table… Luckily I move fast, I grab him by his skirts… his baggy pants… I tear at his silks, head over heels!… Pa-ta-ta-boom!… His arse in the air!… Ah! Good thing I came!… Boro lets right go of the client… he grabs a rifle from the umbrella stand, a big-game Winchester, an awful bludgeon… and he runs after the Horror! The fight goes on! He’s going to whack him with the butt! He’s brandishing his blunderbuss in the air! There’s a scramble in the back of the room!… It’s all closed in… muffled… I can hardly see… just the light of a water lamp… an odd-looking gadget on the table, there near the customer… a big globe… a drip glass for oil underneath…
I can just about see the hysteria!… the way they’re both whacking away at each other!… I want the lady at least to be saved!… My presence of mind!… I grab hold of her again in the pile of crockery… I pull her out again by her skirt… I yank! Heave-ho! I get all of her out! I stand her up straight! Vertical! She’s wobbly!… She can’t stand up! She sits down… she’s breathing hard…
In the back… in the darkness… the two keep at it like mad! A struggle! Terrific hmphs!… The old guy’s money bag turns inside out!… It’d been slung across his back… clink!… Clink!… Clink! It all spills!… Rolls out… pours… scatters… clinking everywhere! A whole wave of gold!… Coins!… Coins!… They go on strangling each other… they roll over together… right in the gold!… Horrible grips… They come up against the customer… They knock her off her chair again!… She rolls under them again… she’s caught under the wrestlers agai
n!… She’s being crushed!…
“Mister! Mister!” she begs… “The door please!… The door!…” She’s starting it again…
I can’t pull her out from under the lunatics this time, that’s the end of it now! They’re planted squarely on top of her… she’s all flattened out!… I crawl towards the door… I give up!… Air!… I’m all in!… I’m croaking too!… A puff!… A breath! Have pity! I’ve made it!… Oof! I push! The door! The cool wind! Ah! The old man’s choking! Ooh! awful!… Right in the breadbasket, on top of the other, in the back, in the dark, arms locked!… The air got him! Choking outright!… It was too cool! “Asthma! Asthma!” he gasps at me! He’s suffocating!… Puking!… Ah! He’s going to drop dead sure thing… his eyes are rolling! And it all collapses! Kaftan, silks, puffed pants, the guy himself… He’s there on the floor… he’s drooling… groaning… We unhook his jacket, he’s having convulsions, foaming, a mess!… He’s going to pass out!… His eyes are rolling like crazy!… The customer spins round with fear… she flies out through the door!… She leaves everything there!… Her things, her bag!… Her stocks!…
She just about gets out when another dame breezes in… This one was even worse!… Starts screaming right away… clamouring! A fit of barking! She’s hardly seen the thing, the pasha like that on his back… a horrible scene right away… Boro knows her.
“Delphine! Delphine!” he calls…
It’s the maid… He tells me it’s the maid!…
Where’s she coming from?… She immediately throws herself on her boss… She covers him with tears, with kisses!… She’s very fond of her Mr Titus… She wants him to come right to his senses… to open his eyes!… Boro’s busy with him too!… He also wants him to come around!… He’s doing all he can… He’s squatting in contortions… He’s breathing into him everywhere… in his ears… in his mouth… Ah! The battle’s over!… Now it’s everything to save the man!… He stretches out his arms in the form of a cross… He lifts him up… lowers him… artificial respiration… That does him good immediately… He starts breathing a little… they sit him down… with his back to the wall… they prop him up with cushions… he breaks down again… slumps again… he falls to the right… then to the left!… He wants to inhale smelling salts… he mumbles… groans… he wants!… The salts are in the closet! On the first floor! Quick! Quick! Quick!… Boro can’t go up! He has to work on him… So I jump up!… I find them right away… The bottle’s empty! Woe upon woe!…
It makes Delphine roar!… What an ordeal!
“Mr Titus!… Please! Wake up!… Be yourself!”
Awful clamours! She grabs him… shakes him!… He’s got to come to! Got to revive! All means! Use everything! She’s an extraordinary maid! Blazing with affection and zeal!… You can’t deny it! She’s a fine person! Her boss isn’t a pretty sight! Her hippo’s not dainty! He’s lying there in his silks full of his filth… his vomit… he’s still gurgling!… His eyes are swivelling… they get rigid… revulse… Ah! It’s horrible to watch!… And then poof!… He turns crimson!… So livid just a second ago!… He’s swelling up with big gobs… his mouth’s full… he makes an effort… Relief comes!… She holds his head… she helps him…
“Good! Mr Claben! Good!”
She’s quite pleased… She’s down on her knees, holding him up… she’s encouraging him… at every gasp a nice word… Finally he pukes it all out!… She’s quite happy!… He’s still disgorging his bile… and more green stuff… all around… even over Boro at his side… who’s looking on… it splashes around… I get a big gasp of it too… He’s feeling much better! He wants to be put back on his bed… There behind the screen… in the shop itself… on the enormous four-poster… I take a look… I see it… full of furs, piles of them, mattresses… in big soft heaps… We hoist him up on it, whew!… He’s heavy! We arrange his pillows… Have to put his jacket on him, his yellow and purple silks, his turban, he insists on it! He’s getting kittenish again! Ah! That means he’s feeling better!… Got to let him have all his trinkets, all his pasha junk, his bells and moiré ribbons! And now his money bag! And his blunderbuss!… Top to toe! Fine! He wants all of it right there on his bed!… All beside him!… Right away! He’s quite demanding… He’s got no more confidence… and his jeweller’s glass!… And his carved cane!… Got to have it all right there!… He’s had his head punched in… he’s got a shiner!… Blue and red and bleeding!… And his left eyebrow’s split open!… Delphine’s kissing him… she grabs him around the waist, hugs him… cajoles him, adores him!… She’s an ardent servant!… Ah! She came in the nick of time!… She’s not too young a woman… I can’t get a good look at her in that damned dive… all windows closed… just that dirty disgusting lamp that gives light like a turd… They haven’t opened a blind! He refuses to, won’t hear of it!… He starts groaning a little… still a bit weak… She throws herself on him with caresses!… He doesn’t want anyone to send for a doctor… He absolutely refuses… Delphine’s soothing him… fondling him… He demands music… All his ideas are coming back…
“Boro! Boro!” he mutters, whining, unhappy… “Boro! Boro!… The ‘Merry Widow Waltz’!”… Still wants it!… He insists on it…
Boro’s sprawled out there collapsed, in a pile of furs at Claben’s side… He’s fallen asleep on the pile… The battle royal’s done him good… His nerves were wound up… He’s snoring now with his belly in the air… We shake him… He’s got to obey!… It’s the sick man’s will…
“Get up! Get up! Get to the piano! You big loafer!”
Delphine doesn’t give a damn that he’s sleeping! Everything for her boy!
“Get up!”… He’s got to get up, the louse! And right away! “Go on! Go on! ‘Merry Widow Waltz’! Pianist! Damn it!”… That’s the way they handle him!…
The piano’s upstairs… he’s got to climb up again! He yawns… stretches… All the same he goes… Good God, get going!… He grabs hold… staggers to the rail… Delphine hustles him along… She has authority over him… Old Potbelly’s still groaning… he wants his music, he’s wailing!… He’s starting to choke again…
Finally, there it goes!… It starts… There’s his waltz!… The notes! At last! The runs!… Prelude!… He’s made up his mind!… After all!… A shower!… Two trills!… We’re off! pedal!… Cascades! Triple time!… Spinning round!… It’s delightful!… The waltz whisks you up!… The shading… the arpeggio!… And then largo, rich chords!…
Once started… all you wanted… never tired… forward!… Evenings… nights… if you wanted!… It sort of excited him too, in a way… his big can on the stool, he just kept bouncing around… jigging away in rhythm… it kept him pretty busy.
* * *
I have been telling it all like a moron… First I’ve got to organize myself… give you something of an idea, something of a picture of what it was like… the place, the setting… It’s the excitement that throws me off, flusters me, spoils the effect. I’ve got to react!… got to describe the whole set-up to you… the Van Claben warehouse, his pawnshop…
It had a wonderful location, just outside Greenwich, right on the park and overlooking the Thames a way off, the whole panorama of the river… a magical kind of spectacle… From his first-storey windows you could see the riggings, the whole India Dock, the first sails, the tackle, the April clippers, the Australian ocean liners… Farther off, beyond Poplar, the ochre chimneys, the wharves of the Peninsulars, the steamboats from the Straits, dazzling white, with high decks…
Ah! It was an ideal spot, no denying it, for looking out, the view and everything, for anyone who’s got a turn for voyages, navigation, playing truant…
A wonderfully situated house, a whole theatre in front of his windows, an amazing setting of greenery on the greatest port in the world… In the good season it turned straight into a dreamland… Should’ve seen the display of flower beds!… All kinds, yellow, red, purple, dazzling
, all varieties, enough to get you all worked up, restore all your confidence, pleasant giddiness…
Only a sullen mope would contradict me!… Especially after the winter of 1915–16, so harsh and merciless… It was a terrific springtime!… Nature’s maddening sweetness, a blossoming of the grove, enough to bust open the cemeteries! To make the tapers dance a jig!… I saw it! I can talk!…
When spring started cutting up that way it always had a bad effect on the Horror, whose story I’m telling… it made him jumpy! Out of sorts… He didn’t want to hear about blithe blossoming… He’d shrivel up in a bad temper at the back of his shop, closed in, shifty-looking, he was suspicious of the radiant season, he kept all his windows and blinds shut… He couldn’t tolerate the whiffs of spring. He’d lock up his shop at six in the evening. He was afraid of clematis, of daisy magic, he tolerated only the customers… All he wanted to see was business, customers, not little birds, no, nor roses. He could take care of himself! He spat on crazy nature!… There was only one thing, for example, that made him woozy, moony, tender, soft, that was music… Greedy enough to gobble up his hands, a disgusting pig, a damned first-class usurer, you could moisten him only with melody, and not a little either!… Totally!… Didn’t give a damn about tail, tobacco or pretty faces, dead set against whisky, not a homo either, nothing at all, he was really frigid, except to little piano tunes, to melodious fantasy. And he never went out… you had to go and get him. He didn’t go out because of his asthma that the fogs from the river would bring on at the first whiff… I’ve given you an idea of an attack… Boro knew his boss, he’d take advantage of the magic spell!… When he was down to nothing, beaten by the cops or the races, he’d come in from London unexpected, he’d fall on the Horror, attack him by the digestion, and put him to sleep melodiously… If you could have seen the job, the style!… The old guy would never have admitted that it gave him such pleasure. It was almost his damnation, especially after lunch. Must have been something exceptional, all the circumstances of life, that they’d known each other formerly, in the past, a way off in their youth, for him to let himself be bewitched that way by such a crafty scoundrel, even worse perhaps than himself… I learnt all about it little by little… in the course of things… piecemeal. Boro didn’t complicate things, he’d go straight through the shop, without shilly-shallying, not a word, he’d climb upstairs, impolite, attack the ivories… The old guy would curse and swear as he passed, he’d yell out insults, he’d go nuts for a while, he’d call him a hyena, a blackmailer, a stinking disgusting fat pimp… Boro, who wasn’t tongue-tied, would let him have it right back, there’d be a nice show of fireworks!… And then it would subside, pretty quickly… They were just being a little kittenish… They were quite pleased with one another…
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