by Claude Izner
Entangled in a sheet, one leg hanging out of the bed, Victor was floating above the scene from the opera in which a horned Mephistopheles dressed in scarlet was lustily singing And Satan leads the dance … He groaned and shifted position. The rich baritone was still singing, the sound of his voice getting louder and alarmingly close. Disorientated, Victor half opened one eye and was immediately dazzled by the bright light coming from a skylight. Why did Mephistopheles insist on invoking the golden calf? Still half asleep and confused, he hugged the bolster. The dream dissolved but the voice continued, filling and taking possession of the bedroom. It’s Hell calling you, it’s Hell following you. Now it was coming from an earthenware stove covered in charcoal sketches. Tasha! Had he dreamt her also? The space next to him was still warm and imbued with her perfume. No, last night’s adventure was no illusion. He was filled with joy, similar to the joy he had felt as a child when his boarding school in Richmond ended for the summer. He rolled onto his stomach and buried his head in the hollow of a pillow.
‘Benjoin,’ he murmured.
What was the name of Odette’s eau de toilette? Heliotrope? Odette, who had left only the day before, was already as insubstantial as a ghost. He decided to banish her to oblivion. Propped up on his elbow, he could barely make out the face of his watch: 8.15. At that moment he saw a piece of paper on the table. A note from Tasha.
Dear Victor,
They say the early bird catches the worm so I should catch quite a few today! I’d be delighted to see you later if you are free. Here, this evening at eight o’clock. There’s coffee. Put the key under the mat when you leave.
Tasha
From the other side of the wall with its dreadful brown wallpaper, Rossini’s Barber of Seville had replaced Charles Gounod’s Faust. Vexed by that ‘Dear Victor’ — after everything that had happened last night! — he sat up on the edge of the bed. His underwear was hanging on an easel with an unfinished monochrome oil painting of a roof, a gutter and sky. He reached out for his socks. His eyes were riveted to the canvas: something was amiss. Those minuscule dark specks, at the bottom, on the right, were they stains? He peered closely at the painting. The specks broke up into little winged cones with black and yellow stripes. Bees. Unusual to see bees pollinating a gutter. Should he interpret them as a message? With an uneasy feeling, he decided not to answer that question, and then had to have several goes at pulling his long johns up his legs before finally getting them on.
He went into the nook that served as a kitchen, but, having failed to light the small charcoal stove and searched in vain for sugar in the midst of the forest of jars on the shelf, he decided to make do with a cup of cold, bitter coffee.
He took his shirt out from under the table, where it lay close to the brick wedged under the wobbly leg. Dust and breadcrumbs littered the floor. As he got up he reflected that Tasha was not one for the joys of domesticity. Opposite him, a picture of a man weighed down by terrible grief was pinned up by the book-filled alcove. Probably a drawing by Grandville; he recognised his style. He must have seen that picture in an old copy of Magasin Pittoresque. That flock of nightbirds flying around the man bore a strong resemblance to the winged creatures so beloved by Goya. He felt ashamed that he had not lent Tasha Los Caprichos.
Through the wall, the voice of Danilo Ducovitch suddenly burst into song.
‘Uz kak na Rusi carju Borisu slava!
Slava! Slava!’
Silence, then:
‘Glory and long life to Tsar Boris!
Glory, glory to Boris!’
Had the Serb been taken by the Opera House chorus? Was he celebrating his triumph?
‘Uz kak na Rusi carju Borisu!
Slava, Slava, mnogaja leta!’
In any case he was no longer singing about Figaro, Victor concluded. He felt suddenly light-hearted. Now where had she put his trousers? Ah, there, on a wicker trunk, along with his cravat, his shoes and frock coat. He tied his laces. The Russian words sung by Danilo were stirring up a vague memory. An idea was taking hold, but just out of his reach. He put on his frock coat as his mind worked on. A door slammed: Tsar Boris leaving his apartment. His memory was still teasing him: it was something to do with a name he had glimpsed recently, a name … But what name? He was about to go out when he realised that he had forgotten to put on his trousers. I give up. My mind’s like a sieve.
He locked the door and put the key under the mat. Tasha! He would see her this evening! He felt like singing too, but didn’t, because he was always out of tune. He thought of buying flowers, chocolates, violet drops or perhaps some tea. Yes, maybe she’d like some camomile? What an idiot I am! He bounded down the stairs.
In the courtyard he almost collided with Danilo Ducovitch and Helga Becker. Red-faced and glaring, the small woman in her cycling clothes and the bearded giant were hurling abuse at each other.
‘You evil, cruel woman!’ shouted the Serb.
‘You sponger!’ returned the German.
Victor greeted them as he went by. They paused a moment to look at him, then continued with their quarrel.
‘Vulture!’
Victor reached Rue de Clichy, passing a shop whose sign had always intrigued him: ‘For mothers of children devoted to blue and white’. He turned back and, buoyed up by his good humour, opened the door and cried, ‘And what about Little Red Riding Hood?’
Laughing wildly, he went on his way. A little further along, the wide windows of Prévost, the confectioner, caught his attention. He could never resist those Legion d’Honneur medallions.
The Batignolles-Clichy-Odéon omnibus came down the hill, jolting on its iron wheels. As there was no one at the bus stop, the conductor was preparing to spur on his horses when Victor appeared, arm outstretched and carrying a chocolate Eiffel Tower.
Kenji looked up at the statue, unveiled just a month ago. His back turned on faraway Notre-Dame, and proudly ensconced on a monumental plinth in breeches and stockings, the great writer and printer Étienne Dolet dominated Place Maubert. Kenji felt sympathetically towards Dolet, whose philosophical opinions had been judged heretical. He had been hanged and burned in 1546 a few steps from the current Boulevard Saint-Germain where ten or so carriages were now parked. Waiting for custom in the shade of the trees, the cabmen wagered that General Boulanger would return from exile and were generally putting the world to rights. Kenji walked up to them, holding the special edition of Le Passe-partout.
‘Good day, gentlemen. I’m looking for Monsieur Anselme Donadieu.’
‘He’s at La Guillotine, telling his story to anyone who’ll listen and offer him a drink. Some people have all the luck. Nothing like that would ever happen to me!’ replied a ruddyfaced coachman.
‘La Guillotine?’
‘It’s actually Le Château Rouge, on Rue Galande.’
Kenji raised his hat, smiling, and walked away.
‘Hey, my friend, better watch out for crooks. They can be tricky with foreigners …’
The coachmen guffawed.
Taking no notice of Joseph’s sullen expression, Victor hurried into the stockroom to deposit his half-melted tower somewhere cool. He came back up smiling.
‘I must go and change, Joseph. But why the fish-eyed look? It’s only a bit of chocolate,’ he said, holding out his sticky hands.
‘Things would work much better if I knew where to get hold of you, Monsieur Legris, now that you are famous.’
‘Famous? What do you mean?’
‘I mean famous — people are beginning to write to you at the newspaper … Here’s a letter that an errand boy delivered this morning. Congratulations!’
Victor read the envelope, which Jojo was holding out to him.
M. Victor Legris
Journalist at Le Passe-partout
Rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs
‘Put it in my pocket and I’ll read it when I’ve washed my hands.’ He started up the spiral staircase.
‘Tell me, Monsieur Legris, now that you work at the newspa
per, you must have details about the Expo murders. What do you think? Did that Russian in the coach simply die of natural causes or not?’
‘As Monsieur Mori says, death is only simple in poetry!’
‘Thanks for nothing,’ muttered Joseph grumpily.
In the kitchen, Germaine, with tousled hair and apron askew, was stirring the contents of a saucepan with a wooden spoon. Victor sniffed, recognising the aroma of partridge and cabbage in a cognac sauce. He would have liked to point out the inadvisability of preparing dishes with a sauce during a heatwave, but he held his tongue. Germaine, who was an outstanding cook and had worked for Victor and Kenji for seven years, was conscientious and undemanding, but she could be very touchy if criticised. In fact, the good woman turned into a real harridan who could sulk for hours, and that was very bad for her cooking.
When he had wiped his hands, Victor tore open the envelope. A line written in awkward script wandered over a page torn from a notebook.
29 June
I must see you, it’s very urgent, come to my house before midday.
Capus
Had the letter been sent to the newspaper the day before? It was possible. In that case Capus was expecting him today. What time was it? Ten past eleven. Victor gave up the idea of getting changed, stopped off briefly in the kitchen to cut himself a slice of bread and a piece of Emmenthal, and went downstairs without hearing Germaine’s admonition: ‘Nibbling something between meals will ruin your appetite!’
Perched on his rolling ladder, Joseph was looking for an illustrated edition of La Fontaine’s fables for a spotty young man. He was relieved to see Victor return, but he was already flying out of the door.
‘Monsieur Legris!’ shouted Joseph, seeing himself abandoned yet again. He sent up a prayer to the god of shop assistants to bring Kenji Mori back immediately to the Rue des Saints-Pères.
Outside the bookshop, a fat pigeon pecked at invisible grains. When it flew heavily off, Victor watched its flight as far as the opposite pavement, where his attention was caught by a large figure half hidden in the entrance of an apartment block. The build, the cast of countenance and the very long hair were familiar. Danilo Ducovitch. What was he doing there? He was the last person Victor would have expected to see, but he seemed to get everywhere. And with such an intense character, he was probably in love with Tasha. Perhaps he was jealous? He remembered giving him his address the other evening as they left Café Volpini. Oh, he’s probably come to ask me to take him on. I hope Joseph will be able to deal with him.
There were just a few people on the embankment where the sun beat down. As Victor went past the Institute, he fancied he heard footsteps behind him. He stopped, and shortly afterwards the noise stopped. So, Ducovitch is following me. He is jealous, but probably not enough for him to want to fight me. He turned round. No one. A couple of old soldiers, maids with shawls and straw baskets passed by, indifferent to what was going on around them. Victor began walking again, not completely reassured. The impression of being followed stayed with him.
Finally he reached the district of la Maube where he saw a heavy-set man go into a café. He quickened his pace. Cupping his hands around his eyes he pressed his face up against the dirty window and saw what looked like a market porter leaning against the counter. It was not Danilo Ducovitch. My goodness, I must be going mad, or getting paranoid! I can’t have eaten enough these last few days. In fact, his head was spinning a little.
The armoured concierge must have been sweeping the corridors, as the courtyard was empty. Victor knocked on Capus’s door. He could hear the noise of the city, punctuated by the cries of a baby nearby. He knocked with the flat of his hand on the cracked wood of the door, putting his ear against it.
‘Monsieur Capus … Monsieur Capus, are you there? It’s Monsieur Legris.’
He hesitated, then quietly turned the door handle, expecting to feel resistance. The door opened. Inside, the shutters were half closed. The only movement came from the dust particles dancing in the slender rays of light.
‘Monsieur Capus, it’s Victor Legris from Le Passe-partout … Is anybody there?’
A grating noise and a barely discernible movement came from his left. Victor stayed still, listening for another sound. He had cramp in his calf.
‘I’m getting out of here,’ he murmured.
The blow struck him full on the shoulder. He staggered backwards, his arm numb. He fell heavily. There was a wild meowing, which mutated into a long wail. A shape sprang up and quickly disappeared. Victor felt the room expand. Above him a menacing shadow threw itself against the ceiling with the speed of a spider climbing its web. Instinctively Victor rolled aside, banging his head on the corner of a piece of furniture, and closed his eyes, ready for the worst. His heart was pounding so hard that he did not hear the door being locked. The pain flooded back and a black veil descended over him.
When he opened his eyes, he saw a pair of seven-league boots and shards of glass a few centimetres from his face. With a huge effort of will, straining every painful muscle, he managed to stand up by gripping the edge of a table. Once his eyes were accustomed to the gloom he noticed a bulky shape covered with light-coloured canvas on one of the iron beds. He leant over the mattress and carefully pulled back the cover, but dropped it again immediately, stifling a cry. He had touched something cold. For a brief moment he tried to tell himself that what he thought he had seen was merely a trick of the light. He breathed in deeply several times and pulled the canvas back sharply. Henri Capus lay on his back, his head thrown back. A bloody gash ran from ear to ear across his throat. A large dark stain was spreading over the bolster.
Shocked and terrified, Victor started to tremble violently. His senses refused to accept the reality of what he saw.
‘Mac-Mahon!’
The shout made his flesh creep. He stayed rooted to the spot, his head gripped in a vice, holding his breath.
‘Mac-Mahon! Where are you, my sweet?’ wailed the concierge behind the door. ‘I know you’re in there, you old scarecrow. It’s no use pretending. Give me back Mac-Mahon, otherwise … Wait a bit, I’m going to fetch Old Chocolat. That’ll show you!’
A snapping sound. The woman did not seem to be moving. Too long — she was taking too long to leave. Finally her slow footsteps receded along the corridor.
The acrid odour of phenol began to irritate Victor’s nose. He had to get away, quickly. Back to fresh air and life. He groped his way, arms outstretched. Feeling sick, he managed to grab the door handle. The door would not open. He tried again – nothing. He shook it frantically but to no avail. He was shut up with a dead body! If he were to explain what had happened, who would believe him?
Panic-stricken, he stepped back. He suddenly thought of Kenji recounting the Great Fire of London for him as a schoolboy: ‘Think, don’t throw yourself into the flames. There is often a way out.’ A way out … the window! Of course, he risked being caught in a dead end or seen by witnesses; his attacker would have thought of everything. Even so, he had to reach the window. He stumbled against something soft: the seven-league boots. He lost his balance and almost fell on the remnants of a glass jar but caught himself at the last minute by grabbing a bedpost. Despite himself, he found he was looking at the shroud concealing Capus’s body. He imagined it suspended in an enormous jar, with the label: ‘Inhabitant of Rue de la Parcheminerie’. He raised himself onto the narrow windowsill, grazing his fingers as he tried to open the window latch, which had probably been jammed for years. With clenched teeth, he set to furiously, striking the glass violently with his clenched fist. Open, damn you! His fist went through the pane and the glass shattered into fragments. Blood ran down his palm. In a blind rage, he tore down the dirty curtain and wrapped it around his good hand. With repeated blows he managed to force the worm-eaten wood to give way, and the window opened. To the left of the building was a courtyard, to the right, a passage. Just as he was about to jump out, two children suddenly appeared from the left chanting: ‘You old
drunk, old drunk, we can see you, you’re covered in blood, we’re going to tell old mother Frochon that you’ve eaten her moggy!’
Screaming horribly and terrifying the children, Victor tumbled out onto a pile of wooden crates, then rushed blindly on. He came across a narrow passage in the wall that was so low he had to duck down. Then there was another courtyard and beyond it, the street. He ran, pursued by a dog and dodging a beggar, who was rummaging in a dustbin. An alley zigzagged between humpbacked houses. He hid in a doorway, his heart racing. He really needed to pull himself together. He wrapped his injured hand in the scrap of curtain he still had. The cut was superficial and gradually the bleeding was stopping. He moved his arm cautiously: nothing was broken and the pain was lessening. He adjusted his frock coat, smoothed down his sleeves and flattened his hair. Right by him was all the bustle of the boulevard: the sounds of voices, footsteps and wheels clattering on cobblestones. He threw himself back into the flow of passersby. Once he had stepped onto the embankment at Quai Montebello, he felt much more his old self. As he recovered his spirits and hurried in the direction of Quai Conti, he was overwhelmed by the emotion that he had held back throughout his mad escape, his throat tightened and he started to cry.