Pedigree

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Returned: 2656.’

  She repeated in an undertone, without looking up:

  ‘2656.’

  That was the catalogue number of a book. The books in the lending library were distinguished from those which were for sale by being bound in black cloth, with a tiny label at the bottom of the spine bearing a number in purple ink.

  ‘Borrowed: 4562.’

  Who could say why this was a pleasure? For it was a pleasure for him, just as it must be a pleasure for a juggler to see his white balls fall into his hand at the right moment like obedient, well-trained, living creatures. A customer asked for a book? In the twinkling of an eye Roger had reached the special catalogue which hung between two sets of shelves. O … O … Here was O … Le Maître des Forges … 4562. That pleased him, for he had remembered that it was in the four thousands … The third set of shelves on the left, going from the corner of the counter … Le Maître des Forges had been brought back the day before, he was sure of that … Two shelves down from the ceiling … He slid the bamboo ladder along on its rod and climbed up, scarcely touching the rungs and not touching the uprights at all … He balanced up there, without holding on with his hands, and took the opportunity, by means of an acrobatic feat, to put 2656 back in its place. An Halévy probably … He could have sworn it was an Halévy …

  The proof that it was a pleasure was that Monsieur Germain had come out of his den.

  ‘Why don’t you come down?’

  ‘I am coming down, Monsieur.’

  ‘Make sure it isn’t a new book, Georgette.’

  Roger said:

  ‘No, Monsieur. It’s a Georges Ohnet.’

  He was in the wrong. Try as he might, he was always in the wrong, and Monsieur Germain made that clear to him with an angry glare.

  ‘Have you finished cutting those pages?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  ‘Have you stuck on the new labels?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  How could an old man like Monsieur Germain, who was over seventy and was considered the most serious bookseller in the town, get up to tricks like that? There he was, exasperated, annoyed, unhappy, because he could not find anything to give Roger to do in order to keep him away from the customers. And that simply because he could feel that Roger enjoyed serving them.

  People were not in this world, still less in Germain’s Bookshop, to enjoy themselves. Work was a punishment from Heaven.

  ‘Go and write out a new set of labels, from 1 to 10,000.’

  There were already three sets ready for use, and the labels on the spines of the books were changed only when they came unstuck. Never mind! Roger would be deprived of the pleasure of serving subscribers and balancing like a monkey on the ladders.

  ‘Why, Monsieur Hiquet, didn’t you serve that lady?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur …’

  Well done! Unlike Roger, the chief assistant got suitably flustered, looked even unhappier than usual, and ended up by stammering like a criminal caught in the act:

  ‘I was in the smallest room.’

  Everybody knew that he had to go there twenty times a day on account of his faulty bladder, that it was sheer torture for him, and that he always came back looking ill. Now, Monsieur Germain also had trouble with his bladder, like most men of his age. Seeing Hiquet go pale, he could constantly assure himself that his complaint was mild in comparison with his employee’s sufferings.

  All this was true. Roger had discovered it long ago. Outwardly, Monsieur Germain was a grave, impressive figure. His thick white hair was cut short. All the white hairs on his face grew horizontally and his eyebrows were as long and as thick as his moustache. You never heard him coming, and he obviously wore special shoes which made no noise. Broad-shouldered though he was, you had the impression that inside his ample clothes there was just a body with no bones or muscles, floating silently in space.

  He had nothing to do. He had an office at the back of the second room, but that was simply to impress people, for his only work consisted of pinning together the bills which arrived by post so as to give them to the accountant who came two evenings a week.

  The rest of the time, he watched. It was impossible to tell what he had watched before engaging Roger. Possibly his niece and poor Hiquet? During the two months that Roger had been there, it had been on his track that the old bookseller with the shaggy eyebrows had been from morning till night. He guessed everything with diabolical skill. As soon as Roger started enjoying a particular task, he noticed it. It hurt him. He was literally in agony until he had found something else for him to do, even if it was something which was obviously futile.

  This war had been declared as soon as they had met. There was a notice stuck to the window with sealing-wax: ‘Young man required.’

  It was about ten o’clock on a bright, sunny morning. Désiré was feeling better. He still kept to his room, but he was no longer confined to bed and spent his time reading by the window. Roger, who was looking for a job, had honestly thought that fate was smiling on him, and, smiling himself, as fresh and innocent as that gay morning, he had gone into the shop.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘It’s about the job. It hasn’t been taken yet, has it?’

  It was to Mademoiselle Georgette that he had spoken, with such obvious anxiety, such passionate hope that the miraculous job had not been taken, that she had smiled sympathetically at him straight away.

  Now, Monsieur Germain was there, lurking in a corner. He had seen his niece’s smile, and that in itself had been a sort of catastrophe.

  ‘What is it, young man?’

  Roger, that particular day, was incapable of bristling up, even in the face of the most obvious hostility.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur. I hadn’t seen you. I saw your advertisement and took the liberty of presenting myself. I should be only too happy if I could serve your purpose, because my father is ill and I have to start earning my living as soon as I can.’

  ‘What sort of education have you had?’

  ‘I’m still at college. That is, I was at college until four days ago, when my father had a heart-attack. I’ve nearly finished my third year.’

  ‘This isn’t a post for you. I need somebody to do the odd jobs and run errands.’

  ‘That’s all right, Monsieur, I’m ready to do anything you like.’

  In the space of a few seconds, looking at the window-display before coming into the shop, he had created a new ideal for himself, and now he felt sure that he could not fulfil that ideal anywhere else but in the Germain’s Bookshop. He could see the resistance facing him but he refused to be discouraged.

  ‘I can’t pay you more than fifty francs a month.’

  Monsieur Germain said this on purpose in order to get rid of the boy, for his previous assistant, who had not been as well-educated as Roger and had been dismissed for stealing stamps, had earned seventy-five francs a month.

  ‘That will be enough for me, Monsieur.’

  He would have worked for nothing if necessary, he was in such a hurry to tell his parents that he had found a job. He was also eager to finish with the college, where he had not been for four days, but where nothing was known yet of his decision.

  ‘Have you any references?’

  ‘I haven’t had a job before.’

  ‘I mean letters from people who can testify to your honesty.’

  ‘I’ll bring you some, Monsieur. All I ask of you is one hour. Please don’t engage anybody else during that time.’

  He had run to Schroefs’. Everything paled into insignificance in the face of this job which he had to obtain at all costs.

  ‘Monsieur Germain? I know him very well. We’re on the board of directors of the same bank. Germaine subscribes to his lending-library. I hope you won’t give me cause to regret recommending you?’

  ‘I promise you that, Uncle.’

  He went off with his letter. The streets were like a heady bath. He sped towards the Botanic
al Gardens, where a cousin of his mother’s lived whom they saw only very rarely and who was a justice of the peace.

  ‘Listen, cousin: Father is very ill, something may happen to him any day, and I’ve got to go out to work. I’ve nearly found a job, at the Germain’s Bookshop in the Rue de la Cathédrale.’

  Everybody was on his side. He was determined to be so pleasant that the whole world would love him. His ideal had changed. No more yellow shoes or loosely tied cravats. No more cosmetics or centre partings. He was sorry that his suit was fawn. He would have preferred it to be a dark, neutral shade. He would have liked to have the discreet bearing and manners of the clerks who went past at fixed times like Désiré and were pointed out as models of diligence and respectability.

  He had said that he would be back in an hour? It had taken him no more than forty-five minutes to obtain his two letters. He had run all the way. He rushed into the bookshop, panting for breath, his eyes shining triumphantly.

  ‘Here you are, Monsieur. This letter is from my uncle Hubert Schroefs, the wholesale grocer in the Rue des Carmes. The other one is from my cousin Lievens, the justice of the peace.’

  ‘You told them it was a very humble post?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  What could Monsieur Germain do? Furious, he gave in.

  ‘When can you start work?’

  ‘Straight away, if you wish.’

  ‘Let’s say tomorrow morning. Be here at half past eight sharp.’

  That had been over two months ago and the bookseller had not forgiven him yet. It was the first time that anybody had opposed him and had won his way, smilingly, almost playfully.

  The director of studies at the Collège Saint-Servais had done something astonishing. Although Roger had not sat for his examinations—and everybody knew that he would not sit for them—he had given him a diploma as if he had finished his third year in the normal fashion.

  At bottom, wasn’t this excessive generosity just a trifle contemptuous? Roger refused to believe this. Not only was he modelling his dress and his walk on those of ordinary folk, but he wanted to adopt their way of thinking.

  He was not in the least unhappy. He lived in a reassuring world. He liked going through his old district where accountants and bank-clerks lived, and this summer the new little houses, with their windows open to air the bedrooms, struck him as cosy and inviting. He was thinking seriously of joining the Catholic Club where Désiré had once been the prompter in the dramatic society. He was going to become a member of the Old Boys’ Association of the Friars’ school.

  Désiré had gone back to his office. He was obliged to set off earlier and to take the No. 4 tram at the corner of the Rue Puits-en-Sock and the Rue Jean-d’Outremeuse, for he could no longer make the long journey to the Rue Sohet on foot. Roger lingered in the kitchen with his mother. It was the fruit season and she had begun making jam. He looked at the alarm-clock, stood up, put on his straw hat and picked up his walking-stick, for he considered that with a walking-stick he looked more like a ‘man going to the office’.

  Often, before he got to the Pont d’Amercoeur, he caught sight of his father standing in front of a shop-window. Désiré had set off a quarter of an hour before. With his long legs, he should have been far away. But he was forced to stop practically every hundred yards, to wait for the spasm which was immobilizing him to pass.

  He was ashamed of being ill. As often as possible, he stopped in front of a window-display and pretended to be taking an interest in the goods on show, even the wilting vegetables in a shabby little shop. Some good soul had already found an opportunity to say to Élise:

  ‘It’s funny, Madame Mamelin. Your husband, who used to be such a serious man, has started making eyes at girls.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He stops in front of shop-windows and sometimes stays there for a quarter of an hour flirting with the shop-assistants.’

  Poor Désiré. He smiled a somewhat embarrassed smile when his son caught up with him. Roger had thought of going round by way of the Pont de Bressoux, but his father would not have been taken in.

  ‘Well, son?’

  ‘Well, Father? A bit out of breath?’

  ‘It’s finished now. Don’t wait for me. You walk faster than I do and it’s time you were away. Everything still going well at your office?’

  He said office on purpose, just as they spoke of the office in the Rue Sohet, because this created another link between them, a sort of equality.

  ‘Very well indeed. I know all the ropes now. I could take Monsieur Hiquet’s place at a moment’s notice if necessary. There are customers who prefer to deal with me because I’m more familiar with the books. Some of them ask my advice. Instead of asking for such-and-such a title, they say to me:

  ‘ “Give me a novel of the same sort as the last. That was a good one.” ’

  Unfortunately Monsieur Germain was watching. His hatred expressed itself in childish ways. For wasn’t it childish to take away from his employee all the jobs which he did willingly and well?

  It was Roger who, every morning, went into the corridor to get a pole with a hook on the end, with which he raised the shutters. During this time, Hiquet, who in the morning was invariably pale and red-eyed as if he had not slept a wink all night, took off his jacket in a small box-room and put on his black cotton overall.

  Roger, for all that he took a pride in his appearance, had suggested ordering a similar overall for himself. Instead of being pleased at this sign of zeal, the fierce old man had growled:

  ‘There’s no point in doing that.’

  Because he did not intend to keep him on, that was clear! He had been forced to take on this exuberant young fellow who seemed to find his work child’s-play, and he had not managed to catch him out so far; but he was patient and stubborn, and he knew that that would come sooner or later. The main thing was not to let the opportunity slip.

  Local deliveries, which were fairly rare, naturally fell to the newcomer. Mamelin came back with his face flushed from these errands in the open air, as if he had been playing a game. Monsieur Germain had been unable to tolerate this. It was a difficult problem to solve, since if Hiquet ran the errands, Roger would have to be allowed to serve the customers in the meantime.

  Henceforth the parcels to be delivered were put together on one side. In the evening, before shutting the shop, Monsieur Germain murmured:

  ‘Incidentally … Would you be so kind, Monsieur Hiquet, as to deliver these two or three parcels on your way home … Monsieur Mamelin will deal with the others …’

  After the day’s work! The old man rubbed his hands. He would have been even happier if Roger had protested at this supplementary work.

  Roger had promised himself to do his utmost to disarm this undeserved hatred. How often had Élise reproached him with being incapable of showing respect to others? If only she could see him now, and hear him replying in an angelic voice which she did not know he possessed, with a slight nod of the head:

  ‘Yes, Monsieur … No, Monsieur … Straight away, Monsieur …’

  Mademoiselle Georgette was disappointed. Seeing him come into the bookshop one sunny morning, she must have hoped that this young man with the bold eyes would at last dare to do what nobody had dared before: to speak up loud and clear and challenge the tyranny of her finicky old uncle.

  But nobody had ever been more docile than Mamelin.

  A good many times, school friends of his had come in, including Chabot, who was a subscriber to the lending-library. If Roger had taken a single step forward, they would have shaken hands with him. He could even have used the familiar tu in speaking to them. Who knows whether this was not what Monsieur Germain was hoping for?

  He had done nothing of the sort. He had stayed ‘in his place’, as they put it at Aunt Louisa’s, without any feeling of rancour, indeed even taking a secret pleasure in it.

  That was how you had to look at life when you had been brought up in the Place du
Congrès district and were destined to end your days there.

  His cousin Germaine Schroefs also came in to change her novels. He could feel that she was embarrassed. She asked with a condescending smile:

  ‘Are you still satisfied with my young cousin, Monsieur Germain?’

  And the latter just replied with his bearlike growl.

  Another young woman, of remarkable elegance, had come into the shop one afternoon, followed by her companion. The book-seller had rushed up to her as if she were an important person. She had bought all the latest books, touching them one after another with her fingers gloved in pale kid.

  ‘Put it with the others … And this one … This one too, if you will …’

  ‘Shall I send them to you as usual?’

  She had not paid. The best people did not pay, and you sent them their bill at the end of the year. Just as she was going out, she had turned back.

  ‘Get your assistant to cut the pages, won’t you. I detest cutting the pages of books.’

  A moment later, Monsieur Germain was dictating to his niece:

  ‘Sold to Mademoiselle Estelle Peters, of Tongres …’

  He had looked at Roger, and Roger had not flinched.

  ‘As a matter of interest, Monsieur Mamelin, isn’t she a relative of yours?’

  ‘I suppose she’s my cousin, Monsieur.’

  ‘Why do you say that you suppose?’

  The old man had scented a piece of impertinence. That was the great word! He was always suspecting Roger of impertinence, and that was something he detested as much as Estelle Peters detested cutting the pages of her books.

  ‘I say I suppose, Monsieur, because I’ve never seen her.’

  He scarcely knew his Uncle Louis of Tongres, whom he had caught sight of at a funeral. He knew that he had two children, a son and a daughter, that the son was a doctor and that it was to his first communion that Élise had gone the day she had cried so much and his father and he had taken her to the station.

  Years had gone by since then, and now, in the back-room of Germain’s Bookshop, Élise’s son was cutting pages for Louis’ daughter. Without any feeling of rebellion. His mind was made up once for all. He would not rebel again. Life was not unpleasant like this. There was sweetness in resignation. He suspected that some people, like his mother, derived a somewhat perverse pleasure from it. If a catastrophe occurred, nobody would be able to say that it was his fault.