Paris Noir

by Jacques Yonnet

  ‘What it is to be susceptible! Next thing‚ they’re blubbering‚ and uncle’s snivelling as he writes: A.l.f.o. “Hey‚ watch what you’re doing!” says the old man‚ “Peeaitch!” “What do you mean‚ peeaitch?” “Ehelpeeaitch!” Well‚ blow me! Scratching out in the register‚ can’t be done‚ not for love nor money. ‘Gainst the law. No way can my moniker be altered. So that’s how I come to be called Alfophonse!’

  Alfophonse’s name made him famous in the army‚ and then among his workmates. Eventually convinced that his name must be written on the end of his nose‚ when he finds himself with someone new‚ he laughs. As others might apologize. He has a good hearty laugh. Of an epidemically infectious nature. He’ll live a long life filled with mirth right up to the very last moment.

  The Sorry Tale of Théophile Trigou

  That blesséd Théophile! One evening he opened up and confided in me. Now I know everything about him!

  Nearly twenty-five years ago the young Théophile‚ a native of Rennes‚ fresh out of school‚ demonstrated both a strong bent for classical literary studies and an irresistible leaning towards a career in the Church. His family had to reconcile themselves to letting him enter the seminary. So it was under these circumstances that he visited Paris for the first time‚ on the occasion of a pilgrimage to Notre-Dame. He took pleasure in wandering through the poorer districts near the Ile de la Cité‚ and at once responded to their ambiguous charm. A few months later‚ he returned to the capital as a theology student‚ but this time to become resident‚ close to Rue St-Jacques‚ not far from the place where another ‘scholar’ once lived: François de Montcorbier‚ whom we know as Villon.

  He must have had the temperament of a missionary or preacher. For not a week went by that our young man was not seen‚ soberly dressed‚ wearing a beret‚ haunting the vicinity of Place Maubert‚ the least attractive of whose local inhabitants he knew by name‚ and was able to get them to share their woes and confide in him the most shameful details of their life. Scavengers of fag ends‚ pickpockets and tramps no longer held any secrets from the man they not unkindly called ‘Father Greenhorn’.

  The time came when Théophile didn’t disdain to go into the lowest dives and mix even more closely with the down- and-outs. He showed a preference for those vagrants who‚ beneath a stinking carapace of grimy sweat‚ gave evidence of some education‚ acquired in ‘the days of wanton youth’‚ and they themselves took a certain pride in his friendship.

  Little by little‚ insidiously‚ the whole neighbourhood became rooted in him; this area‚ its stones and its people‚ decided to keep him there for ever‚ even if this conspiracy of vague wishfulness‚ in human beings and things‚ had to achieve its purpose at the cost of some misfortune. Which is indeed what occurred.

  Trigou was ordained and yet didn’t leave the capital. The young priest became a teacher of French and Latin in a very well-known religious establishment at Auteuil. Uneventful years passed. Théophile fulfilled his duties as teacher and educator to everyone’s satisfaction. Every Sunday during the summer months‚ he observed the Lord’s commandments by taking rest. Often he would go out of Paris‚ by himself‚ into the wooded countryside‚ and there‚ in the woodland solitude‚ cheered by birdsong‚ a modern-day Francis of Assisi‚ he would devote himself to religious texts and meditation.

  One August Sunday‚ even more stiflingly hot than usual‚ the young priest went to the forest of Fontainebleau. Feeling rather weary after a long walk‚ he sat down by a big tree‚ on a mound that seemed to have been placed there specially. He dropped off to sleep for quite a while. When he woke‚ his hips felt unusually itchy. He realized he had just enough time to get to the station and catch the train. On the walk back‚ the itchiness‚ which had spread to the entire lower part of his body‚ intensified to an unbearable degree. But with no time to spare and perhaps accustomed‚ in spirit at least‚ to otherwise painful mortifications‚ it was only once inside the carriage that he investigated the cause of his itchiness.

  This train was composed of old wooden carriages‚ of the kind still used on provinicial ‘slow trains’‚ with no corridors. The priest was alone in his compartment. He immediately discovered the explanation for the ‘providential’ and extremely comfortable mound he had unwisely sat on: it was a gigantic anthill. His trousers and underpants were full of insects driven to ferocity by having been displaced from their dwelling. It was high time‚ the priest decided in between stations‚ to deal with what had become a matter of urgency: he unbuttoned his cassock‚ took off his trousers and underpants‚ and began to shake them all out of the window. At one point along the route‚ the track curves. A powerful gust of wind tore the clothes from the dismayed priest’s hands. And the slow train came to a halt.

  Waiting on the platform‚ heaped with wild flowers‚ singing sweetly‚ and accompanied by nuns‚ were some fifty very innocent young schoolgirls from a very Christian orphanage.

  The impending danger causing him to completely lose his head‚ Théophile just had time to dive under the seat. Some of the innocent band piled into his compartment. And the train was off again!

  His trepidation‚ the dust‚ the wild flowers being shaken about‚ were a torture to our poor wretched priest. He couldn’t help sneezing into one young girl’s calves‚ and she instantly screamed blue murder. Steeled with pious courage‚ the chaperon nun dared to bend down. A satanic vision met her eyes: a pair of buttocks blue with shame. She fainted and the young girls pulled the communication cord. The train stopped in open countryside while panic-stricken screams spread from carriage to carriage. Stoker‚ engine driver and conductor all came running‚ and had the greatest difficulty in dragging Théophile out from under his seat‚ more dead than alive. On the rail track‚ he was subjected to countless taunts‚ insults and jibes to which he was unable to respond‚ entirely preoccupied as he was with holding together his (much too short) shirt- tails‚ as a mischievous evening breeze contrived to set them aflutter.

  The satyr‚ as he’d immediately been dubbed‚ was handed over to two employees of the Railway Company‚ who marched him off to the gate-keeper’s house at the nearest level crossing (several kilometres away).

  From there a phone call was made to the police. Théophile had some difficulty in establishing his bona fides. He spent the night in a cell‚ and it was only next morning that his clothes were found scattered along the embankment. At Auteuil he came up with some sheepish excuse‚ not daring to recount his misadventure‚ and for the first time ever lied to his superiors.

  Within the next few days the local press‚ alerted by the police report‚ had got hold of the story. The Seine-et-Marne Progress‚ an anticlerical rag‚ indulged in sarcastic comments‚ no less humorous than ironic‚ while the Independent‚ a self- righteous weekly‚ deplored both the incident and its rival’s lack of charitableness. That was enough for a Parisian columnist‚ Monsieur de la Fourchardière‚ to seize his opportunity and give free rein to his mordant wit. All mentioned the name of Théophile Trigou‚ in itself cause for amusement. And that was how from one day to the next this priest of ours was unceremoniously kicked out of the institution where his livelihood had been assured. Moreover‚ he was so violently traumatized by his experience‚ he never got over it.

  He doesn’t talk about the life he led during those subsequent months; but he was soon back in the Maubert neighbourhood‚ and also seen round the lycées – Charlemagne‚ Henri IV and St Louis. He’s grown a beard. Dressed in a jacket stiff with dirt‚ he wears a shirt-front and wing collar‚ but practically never a shirt. For a couple of glasses of wine or a bit of small change‚ he wonderfully assists school kids and university students with their Latin versification and translations. He’s known as ‘the Doctor’ or ‘the Professor’. He accepts his fate philosophically.

  At the same time as what happened at Rue de Bièvre‚ another house in Paris disappeared. It was in the newspapers. A gentleman from Lille – in the prohibited zone
– who owns a building in Paris‚ on Rue Labrouste‚ put his property up for sale. It was an old dilapidated town house‚ long abandoned by its inhabitants.

  A vet in the southern zone decided to buy the building‚ with the intention of setting up a dog clinic there once the war was over. A Paris notary conducted the transaction without stirring from his office. But when some sort of quantity surveyor or valuation expert turned up to visit the premises‚ there was no building.

  It was gone. No sign of it. Vanished into thin air. A wasteland where kids come to play ball and piss in the rubble. An action’s been brought for ‘disappearance of building’. And the newspapers have relaxed reporting restrictions in order to publish the story in exhaustive detail‚ along with huge photos with nothing to see in them‚ featuring a house that’s no longer there. Even the cabaret singers have latched on to it and are having a field day. Meanwhile‚ Bizinque is crowing. He now spends his evenings cutting out and filing the articles that relate his exploit.

  It’s been common knowledge here for the past four months: Bizinque‚ and he alone‚ is the roof-scalper‚ tap-remover‚ gas- pipe scavenger responsible. He then methodically attacked the woodwork and structural frame of the building. He’s never made any secret of it‚ and he’s treated us to a good few drinks. Architect Vergnolle doesn’t think anyone will get on to him about this. So much the better.

  The Ill-Fated Knees

  Yesterday Bizinque turned up with a pretty strange fellow I vaguely knew: it was Monsieur Casquette.

  Monsieur Casquette is an undertaker’s assistant. Despite his twenty-four years’ good and faithful service‚ he’s not a funeral director. His military medal‚ his liking for ‘a job well done’ might have won him faster promotion. But he is doubly handicapped: in his‚ let us say‚ average intelligence‚ and his physical appearance. Short and stocky‚ Monsieur Casquette has an incredibly big flat head.

  In the 1920s he had to get his regulation headgear made to measure. This departure from normal practice entailed countless waivers and signatures at different levels. In the Municipal Bulletin the initials of a senior city bureaucrat‚ later minister‚ ratified the administration’s authority‚ delegated by an official vote‚ to equip our man with a custom-made ‘casquette’‚ or peaked cap. The nickname stuck and even he has been known to forget his real name.

  Having always remained an ordinary undertaker’s assistant‚ Monsieur Casquette practises his craft in the 5th arrondissement. He carries out the most loathsome tasks with a natural simplicity. Until recently‚ he was in the habit of playing cards in the evening‚ in Rue Monge‚ with some quiet friends.

  But Monsieur Casquette is by nature quick to take offence. On one occasion‚ one of his fellow card-players cheated by way of a joke. Monsieur Casquette took it very badly: after a rather lively exchange of words‚ he threw down his hand and walked off‚ cursing. ‘Go on‚ make fun of me while you can. I shall bury all three of you!’

  The next day no one gave it another thought. But the undertaker’s three mates‚ all elderly gents‚ passed away in record time‚ and the very distressing task of having to bury them fell to their friend. The regulars at the little café were crass enough to remind him of his words‚ and to suggest perfidiously that he had the ‘evil eye’.

  In fact‚ over the course of last winter‚ he laid to rest so many people of his acquaintance‚ those around him are upset. Everyone now avoids any mention in his presence of the sick or the very weak and old. It’s even whispered that Monsieur Casquette‚ who is actually a very decent man‚ is the unwitting and unwilling instrument of fate‚ and that he’s the vehicle of sinister forces. People are cowardly in the face of the unknown. The undertaker’s oldest friends have ended up shunning him: he’s surrounded by such an atmosphere of wariness‚ of fearful silence‚ that he’s becoming neurotic and has started drinking.

  The Old Man Who Appears After Midnight

  The Irish drew up their own map of Old Paris. The one that Dr Garrett showed me. I’d like to do likewise and compile a very specialized map‚ of ‘streets of legend’ – which are not necessarily the oldest. There are in a few small areas of the city places where a sense of eternity pervades everything that happens. The simple folk that populate them are the last people to realize what kind of timelessness they represent. Some of them constitute what can only be described as a sheer phenomenon of survival.

  At Pignol’s‚ for instance‚ there are evenings when we experience what I call the ‘magic’ hour. This word‚ for me‚ is fraught with meaning: I use it rarely. I’m wary of it. But I know why I’ve written it here.

  In general it comes the day after a grim day‚ on which one of us has received bad news: the death of a distant loved one‚ or the arrest of a friend. Here‚ we share our sorrows as if by osmosis. We all suffer intensely‚ dutifully‚ as if to relieve the person principally concerned. And we only speak of the unhappy event to try and attenuate‚ assuage‚ avert what might arise from it. Our silences are filled with suppressed anger. But every time‚ something unexpected happens to restore the atmosphere‚ by shifting‚ rearranging our way of thinking. Often the conversation‚ desultory at first‚ revolves round a mythical figure‚ a curious character‚ a semi-phantom everyone claims to have met though I still don’t know whether he exists in the same way as you and I‚ or whether he’s part of the suggestive fantasy that envelops ‘the Village’ and sometimes takes possession of it by unhinging the minds of all its night- birds‚ simultaneously. We’re talking about the Old Man Who Appears After Midnight.

  In this most deceptive and secret corner of the capital‚ many are the bars where the night life‚ though far from noisy‚ is in full swing between midnight and five in the morning‚ during the hours of curfew. Apart from the gang of bohemians of whom I am in some sense the key player and prime mover‚ it’s mostly the dustbin-rakers and wholesale rag-and-bone men who keep these unsociable hours‚ all shutters closed‚ all doors bolted‚ whistle wet and ears pricked. Then‚ tradition has it – unfortunately‚ I’ve so far been unable to check the foundations of this tradition – that when an argument which cannot be resolved sets at loggerheads people of opposing views‚ whether it’s over military operations‚ black market transactions‚ or the buying price of non-ferrous metals‚ the Old Man turns up‚ without anyone having seen him enter. Huddled in a dark corner‚ seated with his tall walking- stick beside him‚ he chips in and with a few words confounds the cocksure or the wrong-headed.

  The Old Man doesn’t appear to all and sundry. In any case‚ no one’s ever seen him until after midnight‚ and only in these parts: at Pignol’s‚ Quatre-Fesses‚ Trois-Mailletz‚ Dumont’s. He takes a mischievous pleasure in making his entrance or exit when people’s attention is focused elsewhere. He reveals his presence with a little laugh‚ a kind of chuckle‚ or else he says something – a simple truth – that’s spot on‚ and comes just at the right moment‚ leaving nothing more to be said. Often when there’s a quarrel to settle‚ questions are put to him‚ but he only answers when both parties are present. And his word is regarded as final. ‘God’s Honest Truth‚’ say the old women – Salagnac‚ Georgette‚ Thérèse …

  The old fellow’s a good man. It was he who patched things up between Edouard and Bébert‚ the two junk dealers who fell out over some story about fencing stolen goods of which neither one of them was guilty. It was he who reconciled the Graillot couple‚ despite the slanderous lies that had been told about Graillot’s wife. He saw to it that at the critical moment little Bibiche was kept away because of mumps‚ and diagnosed Solange’s daughter Zouzou’s scarlet fever.

  I get to hear all this from Pignolette‚ who appears to have a strange reverence for the Old Man. Her voice changes when she talks about him. It seems to quiver slightly. I don’t know what to reply or what to think. I’m living in an unreal world.

  The Ill-Fated Knees

  Fourteen metres and a hundred and thirty kilos. These are the records held
at the Café Guignard‚ on the corner of Rue Dante‚ by the bar counter and the patron respectively. This colossus has the huge beaky-nosed head of some strange creature. It’s impossible not to think of the grotesques on the Pont-Neuf. His bushy brown eyebrows especially lend his face a strength that’s both solid and nervy‚ though somewhat belied by his flabby cheeks.

  I’m not particularly fond of squalor‚ and I don’t believe it was the stale smell of sweat‚ warm sour drinks‚ and fetid urine that drew me there that sweltering afternoon. Monsieur Casquette was having a quiet tipple. I offered to buy him a drink. He seemed pleased to see me. Perhaps relieved. Everyone was gathered in one part of the room‚ over on the right. A collective hysteria‚ a vile brutish laughter had taken possession of this human scum‚ their shoulders and behinds all heaving in unison. Emanating from this convulsive coagulation of bodies could be heard in snatches the sound of an argument: two shrill voices trading abuse in the most lurid language that it would be pointless and inappropriate to record here.

  I overcame my sickened indifference and went over‚ followed by Monsieur Casquette‚ to view ‘the spectacle’. It was well worth it.