Death on the Installment Plan

by Louis-Ferdinand Celine

  Meanwhile I had a rough time convincing the old cutie that she’d better stay home in her cottage in Montretout … and wait for the storm to blow over … She wouldn’t listen, she didn’t see the danger … I knew our customers … She riled them up with her manner, her pipe, her veil … I heard them passing mean remarks … Besides, she stood up to them … You couldn’t tell what would happen … They were perfectly capable of skinning her alive … Inventors get terrible waves of fury, they see red … They disembowel everything in their path! She wouldn’t have chickened out, that was sure … She’d have fought like a lioness, but why ask for trouble? … We had nothing to gain … That wouldn’t save their cottage … In the end, after a lot of gulping and heartrending sighs, she saw it my way …

  She hadn’t come that day … Courtial was sawing wood in the cellar … We’d had lunch together at Raoul’s Escargot on the corner of the Faubourg Poissonnière … not bad, I’ve got to admit … He’d done all right for himself … I didn’t hang around the shop … I came right out and settled down as usual at a healthy distance on a bench across the way, behind the rotunda … From there I could watch the approaches … I could even step in if the situation got really rough … But it was a quiet day … Nothing special … Just the usual ferment … groups talking things over, chewing the fat … that’s how it had been since the beginning of last week … Really nothing out of the way … No call to be scared … no fireworks … They were only simmering … Along about four o’clock a kind of calm settled … They sat down in a straggle … Their talk was no louder than a murmur … They must have been all in … They were strung out in a line along the shop fronts … You could smell how tired they were … They’d have to give up pretty soon … I was beginning to think of the prospects … we’d have to move and dream up another racket … find a fresh batch of suckers … start up a new line of business … We had our little nest egg. But how long could it last? Hell! Two thousand francs melt away easy … if we wanted to start the paper up again and make the payments on their cottage … Actually it wouldn’t be possible to do both at once … Anyway, I was off in my daydreams … really absorbed … when far in the distance … in the Impasse du Beaujolais … I see a big lug all by himself making a terrible uproar … waving his arms in all directions … He comes charging up right in front of our joint … He grabs the handle … He shakes the door like an apple tree … He yells for des Pereires … Say, that boy is stark raving mad, he’s off his rocker … He raises hell a while … Nobody answers … He takes a brush and daubs the whole shop front with green paint … Smut, I guess … He shoves off, still raving … Oh well, that didn’t amount to much … I’d feared a lot worse …

  Another hour or two go by … The sun was beginning to go down … The clock strikes six … That was the nastiest time, the time I dreaded most … the stinking hour, made to order for riots and disturbances … especially with our customers … the crummy time of day when all the shops disgorge their little maniacs, their extra-clever employees … That’s when the lunatics are on the loose … the spawn of the offices and factories … They come out in droves, bareheaded … they run after the bus … the artisans stung by the radiations of Progress. They take advantage of the last few minutes of daylight … They leap, they bound … They’re the sober kind, water drinkers … They run like zebras … This was the battle hour! … I could feel them coming … it gave me a bellyache … This was the time they regularly landed on us … we were their aperitif …

  I pondered a little while longer … I began to think about our dinner too … I’d go and wake Courtial up … he’d asked me for fifty francs. But suddenly I give a start … A terrible noise is coming at me! Through the Galerie d’Orléans … swelling, coming nearer … It was more than a hum … It was a rumble! A storm! … Thunder under the glass roof! … I jump up … I run over to the rue Gomboust, where the worst of the ruckus seemed to be coming from … I bump into a horde of haggard maniacs, roaring frothing brutes … There must be at least two thousand of them bellowing in the chasm … And more keep gushing out of the adjoining streets … They’re compressed, squeezed against a big heavy cart … looks like a gun carriage … Just as I get there, they’re busy demolishing the double garden-fence … They uproot it at one blow … That flat cart made a terrible battering ram … They smash both arcades … Blocks of stone are falling like marbles … crashing, collapsing, bursting into smithereens right and left … It was terrifying . . They come down like thunder, harnessed to their infernal machine … The earth was trembling half a mile away … They’re bouncing in the gutters … They’re all delirious … bobbing and jumping around their catafalque, carried on by the fury of the charge! … I couldn’t believe my eyes! … They’re berserk! … There’s at least a hundred and fifty of them pulling at the shafts … galloping under the arches with that enormous load behind them!

  More lunatics roaring, tangling, tearing each other apart, trying to get a better hold on the shaft … the keel … the axles … I come closer … Christ! It’s our inventors! … I see pretty near all of them! … I recognize them one by one… There’s De la Greuze, the café waiter … he’s still got his slippers on … And Carvalet the tailor … He’s having trouble running … He’s losing his pants … There’s Bidigle and Juchère, the two who do their inventing together … who spend their nights at Les Halles … carrying baskets … I see Bizonde! I see Gratien, the one with the invisible bottle! There’s Cavendou … There’s Lanémone with his two pairs of glasses … the one who invented the mercury heating system … I see the whole gang of punks … all yelling blue murder! Christ, are they mad! … I climb up on the fence! Above the tumult … I get a good look at the character in the driver’s seat, the big guy with the curly hair that’s egging them on, the ringleader … I see the monumental contraption! It’s a cast-iron shell … a fantastic mess! It’s Verdunat’s diving bell! Armored to the hilt! … That’s it all right, I’ve seen the model a hundred times … his famous project … I’d know it in the dark! With the luminous portholes and the diverging searchlight beams … Hell’s bells! … There’s Verdunat himself, half-naked … Riding his monster … He’s climbed up on top of it! He’s shouting! … mustering his lousy troops … haranguing them! … getting ready for a new charge! …

  I have to admit that he’d warned us. He’d told us categorically that he was going to have it built at his own expense, in spite of our opinions … He was going to put all his savings into it … We refused to take him seriously … He wouldn’t have been the first to hand us a line … The Verdunats were dry cleaners in Montrouge, from father to son … He’s brought the whole family along … There they are, the whole lot of them, dancing around the bell … holding each other’s hands … doing a square dance … mama, grandpa, and the small-fry… They’ve brought us their invention … He’d promised … and we wouldn’t believe him … They’d hauled the monster all the way from Montrouge! The whole screwy tribe! The unholy alliance! … I patch up all my courage … I foresee the worst … They recognize me … They howl at me … The fury is general … They have it in for my guts … They all spit up at me … They vomit at me! …

  “I beg your pardon!” I say. “Please listen to me just a minute.” Silence. “You don’t seem to understand.”

  “Come on down, you little stinker … so we can knock the shit out of you once and for all … Cocksucker! Chameleon! Baboon! Where’s the old wise-guy? We just want to twist his guts a little …”

  That was the way they listened … There wasn’t any point in my going on … Luckily I was able to give them the slip … I hid behind the kiosk. I shouted “help” with all my might … But it was too late … Nobody could hear me in the gardens with all the thunder and lightning … Outside our door the carnage was at its height … It was like I’d stirred them up with my words, made them madder than ever … This was the climax …They undo the harness … They come out from the shaft … They aim the infernal machine straight across the sidewalk … with t
he tip against our shop front … The clamor redoubles … The lunatics from all the Galeries and environs rally around the bell … The whole mob brace themselves … “One … two … And yoop! Heave-ho!” The crowd heaves … With one swing they drive the whole catapult through the window … Everything flies into smithereens … The woodwork gives way, cracks, scatters … The whole place is wrecked! … An avalanche of glass! … The monster drives in, forces its way, vacillates, crashes! A torrent of plaster! The whole Genitron caves in! … Our winding staircase, the investors’ corner, the Tunisian mezzanine … There’s barely time to see it all collapsing in a cataract of papers, followed by an explosion of dust … Then an enormous cloud flies up, the gardens, all four Galeries are filled with whiteness … The hordes are choking, enveloped in plaster … They spit, they cough, they gag! That doesn’t prevent them from propelling their monster … The ironwork … the mirrors … the ceilings join the cascade! The bell staggers! The floor gives way, cracks, gapes open … The horrible machine teeters, dances at the edge of the precipice … tips … falls to the bottom … Christ! It’s the end of the world! Thunder all the way up to the sky! Suddenly a blast of awful piercing screams stops the mob in their tracks! … The gardens are veiled in dense dust … Finally the police turn up … they grope their way to the scene … They draw a cordon around the wreckage … More bulls come running … They charge … The rioters break up … scatter … Over by the restaurant they start galloping again … They’re all shivering with the excitement …

  The cops clear the onlookers away from the disaster site … I knew all the rioters … I could turn in the whole lot of them … It would be a cinch … I know who is the meanest of the whole gang … the rottenest, the most violent … the biggest stinker of them all … I know some who’d be in for ten years! That’s right! But I don’t go for vengeance much! It would only make things a little lousier than they are … that’s all … Better attend to urgent business … I run into the crowd, I pass from group to group … I make myself known to the cops … “Have you seen the boss? Courtial des Pereires?” I ask in all directions.

  Nobody’s seen him. I’d left him at noon … Suddenly I catch sight of the commissaire … the one from the rue des Bons-Enfants … The exact same little punk that had been running us ragged … I go up to him … I tell him the boss has disappeared … He listens … He’s skeptical … “You think so?” he says … He doesn’t believe me. “I’m positive!” So he climbs down one side of the crevice with me … We both of us search … I yell … I call … “Courtial! Courtial! … Get up!” The cops yell too … Once, twice … ten times … I go around the edge of every hole … I lean down over the abyss… “If you ask me,” the jerk says, “he’s at the whorehouse.” They were going to give up … when suddenly I hear a voice!

  “Ferdinand! Ferdinand! You got a ladder?”

  It’s him! It’s him all right! He surfaces from a deep pile of rubble … He fights his way out … His face is full of flour … We throw him a strong rope … He catches hold … we hoist! We pull him out of the crater! … Unharmed, he assures us … He was only taken by surprise, wedged, squeezed, absolutely blocked between the bell and the wall … But we can’t find his lid. That vexes him at first … He blusters … His frock coat has suffered … He doesn’t press the point … He refuses any kind of first aid … He refuses to go to the pharmacy … Then he gets snotty with the cops … “I shall bring action, gentlemen,” he says just like that … Then without waiting for an answer, he climbs over the rail and the beams and the wreckage … We’re outside. “Make way! … Make way! …” He pushes through the crowd. His frock coat has lost its tails … He’s completely defrocked … He’s all powdery, he looks like a Pierrot. The stuffing drops out as he runs … he only runs harder … He drags me toward the exit on the Louvre side … He clutches my sleeve. He’s trembling something awful … He’s not the old high and mighty …

  “Come on, come on, Ferdinand! Make it snappy! Take a look behind us. Nobody’s followed us? … You’re sure? Keep on moving, boy! … We’ll never come back here … Not to this joint … It’s an infamous trap! You can take my word for it! It’s an obvious conspiracy … I’ll write a letter to the landlord.”

  Now that our office was all smashed up, I had no place to sleep … So we decided I’d move out to Montretout … We looked in at the Insurrection … He couldn’t take the train with his coat in rags … The owner was kind enough to lend him an old coat … We had a little chat with two screwballs … Courtial’s pants were full of holes … They had to be mended … Everybody’d seen the riot, heard the screams and all the commotion … they were all excited … Even Formerly joined in … He wanted to do something for us, to take up a collection … I told him we didn’t need it … It would have given me a pain to accept … I said we had some money left! He’d made a pretty pile out of my old man … He could afford to be generous … So he paid for the drinks, another round, and then still another.

  It was getting kind of hot … It was the end of June … With all that awful dust and talking so much our throats were mighty parched … we must have drunk at least ten twelve bottles … We were zigzagging as we left … It was very late … We were still pretty excited … We just barely caught the last train out of the Gare du Nord.

  In Montretout luckily the sky was full of stars … and even a little moonlight. We could almost see the way … Even so, to keep from going wrong on the pathways of Montretout, especially up on the hill, you had to be mighty careful … At that time street lamps or road signs were unheard-of … It was only by dead reckoning, by instinct, by the feel of it that you could steer your way in among the shacks … It was mighty dangerous … There were always nearly four or five murders every year as a result of tragic blunders … People that got lost … or wise guys … that picked the wrong house … that went up to the gate and rang the bell when they shouldn’t have … The poor stupid bastards would get themselves riddled with bullets … from service revolvers, from Lebel carbines … and in two seconds flat the neighborhood dogs would finish them off … It was a ruthless collection of the most ferocious carnivorous mongrels … horribly aggressive, trained specially for the purpose … They’d bound to the kill … There wouldn’t be anything left of the poor devil … I’d better explain, though, that this was just when the Bonnot gang * were doing their stuff, they’d been terrorizing the whole northwestern suburbs for the last six months, and they were still at large …

  Everybody was in a panic, suspicious as hell … Once the door was shut, those people didn’t know father or mother … It was no time to be getting lost …

  Your worried cottager, your rich miser would spend the night peering out through the blinds, sleeping with one eye, clutching his gun!

  At the first sign, the crafty burglar, the shifty tramp could consider himself strung up, rubbed out, extinguished … They’d have needed a miracle (o get their balls out of there … Those people were vigilant all right, and the darkness was murder …

  Under the station shelter Courtial didn’t feel easy in his mind … He was thinking about the hike ahead of us … the assorted ambushes … He stopped to think a minute … Then “Let’s go! …” After the first few steps on the road he began to whistle good and loud … kind of like yodeling … That was his rallying tune … It was supposed to identify us in the danger spots … We plunged into the night … The road got very soft, full of holes and mush … We could vaguely make out shapes in the darkness … the outlines of shacks … At every fence the dogs barked and bayed and howled at us … We walked as fast as possible, but then it began to rain … A sea of molasses! The road climbed in zigzags.

  “We’re heading for the top of Montretout,” he informed me. “The summit … Wait till you see the view.”

  Their house, La Gavotte was the highest point in the region. He’d often told me, it looked out over the whole countryside … He could see the whole of Paris from his bedroom … He began to be out of breath … Still, the mu
d wasn’t thick … Supposing it was winter! Then a little farther, after the bend, I made out signals, a lamp moving … up and down … “That’s my wife,” he cries out … She’s talking to me in code: S … T … I … N … One down! Two up.” Anyway, we knew we were on the right road … We were still climbing though … We went faster and faster… Pooped and panting, we come up to the house … Our old battle-ax with her lantern comes running down from her platform … she jumps on the boss … She was good and mad … she wouldn’t let me get a word in … She’d been making signals after every train since eight o’clock and then some … She was really in a dither … And besides, what was I doing there … I wasn’t expected … What was the big idea? … She kept firing questions at us … all of a sudden she noticed that he’d changed his rig … We were too dog-tired to break it to her gently … Balls! … We go in … We sit down in the first room …We give it to her straight … Naturally, when he was so late she’d been expecting some kind of trouble … But now this total disaster, we couldn’t have told her anything worse … bang, right square in the puss … It knocked her cold … her whole face began to tremble, even her moustache … She couldn’t get out a sound … Finally the tears unwound her …

  “So it’s all over, Courtial? … Tell me, is it all over?” She collapsed onto her chair … I thought she was going to conk out … The two of us were standing there … we got ready to lay her out on the floor … I got up to open the window … But she comes to … She’s frantic … She jumps up from her chair, quivering all over … She pulls herself together … She hadn’t been out for long … She’s up again … She wobbles a bit on her pins … She steadies herself … She gives a hefty clout on the table … on the oilcloth …