Paris Noir

by Jacques Yonnet

  There was nothing to be done but to send for a priest. Even before midnight he was reciting the prayers for the dying.

  No one ever knew what became of the Bohemian. Once again all foreign nomads were driven out of the City‚ with the intention they should be banished from the realm.

  Many people believed that during the requiem mass they saw the pure-faced virgin above the choir in the St Aignan chapel stir‚ and her complexion darken.

  And who was the German poet’s inspiration for the legend of the Roi des Aulnes (Der Erl-könig)?

  Here‚ I must yield to the voice of the great Kostis Palamas:

  ‘Music becomes flesh and thrives in a new world‚ a new man … He‚ the last-born‚ son of music and love‚ shall arise in triumph over an ample land‚ prophet of a soul yet more ample …

  ‘Take me in your arms‚ o great virgin forests‚’ he said‚ ‘and listen! And we embraced him in our dream and the voice of the singing lyre consumed everything‚ became an abyss‚ a dream and an incantation: we became a temple‚ and he a bard‚ a prophet‚ a god of harmony …’

  O Bohemians of my Bohemia! Happily the curses and anathemas heaped on you for centuries have not shaken the vigilant fraternity of your true bards.

  Every day the words that Keep-on-Dancin’ and the Gypsy imparted to me – theories‚ observations‚ advice and warnings – are substantiated and acquire deeper meaning.

  ‘It’s not for nothing there are so many bistrots in Paris‚’ Keep-on-Dancin’ asserted. ‘The reason so many people are always crowded into them isn’t so much they go there to drink but to meet up‚ congregate‚ come together‚ comfort each other. Yes‚ comfort each other: people are bored the whole time‚ and they’re scared‚ scared of loneliness and boredom. And they all carry around in their heart of hearts their own pet little arch-fear: fear of death‚ no matter how devil- may-care they might appear to be. They’d do anything to avoid thinking about it. Don’t forget‚ it’s with that fear all temples and churches were built. So in cities like this‚ where forty different races mingle together‚ everyone can always find something to say to each other.

  ‘But this is something you need to know: when you find a place that suits you‚ where you decide to go back to often‚ to meet your pals there‚ if you want to feel at home and not discover some snag at the wrong moment‚ sit yourself in a corner‚ write letters‚ read‚ try and eat there‚ and watch what goes on for a whole day. At least twice during the day‚ and three times if the place is open at night‚ there’s that moment of “temporal void”. It happens every day‚ at the very same hour‚ at the very same minute‚ but it varies from place to place. People are talking‚ letting their hair down‚ having a drink together‚ and all of a sudden‚ the moment of silence: everyone turns stock still‚ with their glasses in the air‚ their eyes fixed. Immediately afterwards the hubbub resumes. But that moment when nothing’s happening – it can last five‚ ten minutes. And during that time‚ outside and everywhere else‚ for other people life goes on‚ faster‚ much faster‚ like an avalanche. If you’re prepared for it‚ and take advantage of that moment not to be fazed and to have your say‚ you’re certain to be heard‚ and if necessary even obeyed. Try it. You’ll see.’

  It’s absolutely true. At Les Grilles Pataillot‚ on Rue Frédéric- Sauton‚ the first ‘temporal void’ is at 12.36. I happened to be there three weeks ago. There was Jean the mattress-maker‚ a very simple decent sort of fellow‚ and among some dozen regulars two young housewives everyone knew‚ Jeannine and Thérèse. They’re great friends and usually do their shopping together. The ‘vacant moment’ came. And during that pause Jean‚ looking at the two woman and voicing what was passing through his mind – normally not a great deal – said‚ ‘Oh‚ look! Coquette and Cocodette.’ That was all. Just a couple of words. Anyone could have said any other words. But the moment of their utterance invested those words with such weight‚ such resonance‚ they prospered. From that day on‚ throughout the entire neighbourhood‚ they were no longer Jeannine and Thérèse‚ seen together doing their shopping‚ but Coquette and Cocodette.

  No one will shake my conviction that those leaders of men‚ who are in the nature of carbuncles‚ of semi-conscious abscesses‚ who draw feverish crowds to them like noxious humours‚ have an innate knowledge of arrested time. They play with those vacant moments as though at a game of chequers. A fraction of suspended‚ frozen time‚ of inert time‚ jammed like a wedge into the most wonderfully oiled cogs of the most lucid of minds: and the whole mechanism is brought crashing to the ground‚ prepared to accept any authority‚ to endorse the most monstrous aberrations‚ especially collective ones.

  You have to have been present‚ as I have‚ at one of the Licht- Dom ceremonies to understand the Nazi phenomenon‚ to experience its sterile grandeur and to appreciate its real danger‚ which will not cease with the defeat of the Wehrmacht.

  Cyril is devoting himself to developing his ‘receptive’ faculties. He now claims to be capable of distinguishing‚ more or less at a distance‚ a true Nazi from an ordinary German soldier. It’s mostly in the metro that he indulges in this little game. He picks out a Jerry with his back to him. He tries to get close. Puts out all his feelers. Makes his assessment. Then all he has to do is check. Those who were members of the Party or belonged to the Hilter Youth before 1939 wear a black-and-purple badge. Apparently he’s never wrong.

  What I’ve been doing until now is not ‘adventurous’ enough for my taste. There is a danger‚ of course – it’s all about not getting caught – but it’s just the work of a clandestine bureaucrat. So I no longer take any notice of strict instructions that preclude me from any other activity apart from my official missions.

  I distribute false papers as freely as handbills to anyone who asks. I hide escapees‚ parachutists. I’ve arranged for Austrian deserters to slip into the southern zone. Now I’m taking really big risks. But my luck never fails: my City’s taking care of me.

  However‚ I did go a little too far in giving my address to Oscar Heisserer. He’s a guy from my regiment. We recognized each other in the street. He’s Alsatian: another five hundred metres and he’d have been German. He speaks French without an accent‚ but his mother tongue is the language of Goethe. I recall that he was not very keen on the phoney war. Once he was taken prisoner‚ he immediately became very friendly with the Jerries. A little more perhaps that was appropriate. His comrades – for whom he acted as an interpreter and ‘right-hand man’ – didn’t like him‚ and among themselves referred to him as a turncoat. Freed as a German national‚ he doesn’t fancy putting on a German uniform and being sent off to the Russian front. I made up a set of papers for him in the name of Lagarde. Census certificate‚ work permit‚ the lot. Yet I know he’s very impressed by the German ‘order’‚ very influenced – perhaps since before the war – by Nazi propaganda. He’s exactly the type to be wary of. I’ve been insanely reckless. But he’s tortured by doubt and I like to play on that.

  Zoltan the Mastermind

  I also have ‘my’ cops. These guys are pure gold. The most valuable‚ and he’s also a really decent bloke‚ is Jean Lecardeur. This enormously fat man has been out of uniform for at least fifteen years. He acts as an inspector at Les Halles‚ where he has the power to allocate ‘medals’ – the licences for authorized porters. He lives at Ste-Geneviève-des-Bois‚ near Brétigny‚ and every morning he brings me my liaison agents’ reports‚ as some of them actually work on the base there. Lecardeur takes care of my ‘babies’‚ as he calls them‚ providing them with fruit‚ vegetables and sometimes meat.

  The other day he told me he had a problem on his hands. He’s got mixed up with a stateless person‚ a Hungarian called Zoltan‚ who has once and for all signed his own separate peace with whoever’s fighting‚ Axis or non Axis‚ and has little desire to go and swell the ranks of Admiral Horthy’s troops.

  His long and eventful wanderings through central Europe had reac
hed their logical conclusion when in 1938 Zoltan settled in Paris‚ where he intended to lead a quiet life free of surprises. Twenty years of adventures and mixed fortunes had furnished his mind with enough memories to fill the three or four hours of blissful daydreaming Zoltan allowed himself every day‚ regardless of how convenient this might be.

  Employed in a circus in his native Budapest at the age of twelve‚ Zoltan Hazai became successively an apprentice pastry-cook in Belgrade‚ the proprietor of a disreputable eating-place in Saloniki‚ a docker at Tulcea on the Danube.

  He embarked on a Russian vessel and for two years stacked crates on the wharves of Odessa. After that‚ he travelled through Poland‚ northern Germany‚ and was in France when the phoney war broke out. He fell under the suspicion of the police authorities – no one quite knows why – and it was only thanks to the confusion following the German attack that he didn’t enjoy the hospitality of our own concentration camps (which‚ since the flight of the Spanish Republicans‚ will never be any credit to our country – far from it).

  Since the Occupation‚ the situation has changed. Zoltan keeps to himself‚ lies low‚ plays dumb. But a man has to live. Being of very muscular build‚ he finds work now and then at Les Halles.

  Which is how he came to be taken under the wing of Jean Lecardeur‚ whose duty was to hand over this ‘maverick’ to the Police Aliens’ Department‚ that’s to say‚ the Germans.

  ‘He speaks German‚ Russian‚ all the languages of the East. We should give him some false papers. He could be useful to us.’

  Yes‚ but I can’t pass him off as a Parisian when he still speaks so haltingly. In France he’s mixed almost exclusively with Jews‚ Poles and Gypsies. Besides‚ his physique won’t allow him to pass unnoticed. We’ve found him a job as a labourer with a timber merchant‚ at Clamart. And it’s turned out well. According to Lecardeur‚ the Hungarian feels the need to get rid of so much physical energy that‚ in addition to his job‚ he seeks out and cheerfully performs the most arduous tasks. I went to see him twice. I was pleasantly surprised by his evident intelligence‚ his knowledge of men‚ his patient indulgence towards those of a pig-headed or fanatical disposition. To enable him to improve his French‚ I lent him the series of novels by Panant Istrati: Kyra Kyralina‚ Uncle Anghel … He devours them and in just a few days has already made astounding progress.

  The Old Man Who Appears After Midnight

  It was raining outside. All day long a persistent drizzle imbued garments‚ faces‚ even the walls with a kind of chilly dampness that seemed to seep from within. We’d met up‚ all the artist crowd‚ at the Quatre-Fesses.

  Feeling dejected and chilled‚ we’d unadventurously ordered for ourselves‚ each man for himself‚ some pretty poor quality drinks: thin red or acid white wine.

  When Olga‚ a brunette with her hair cut very short‚ pudding-basin style‚ had reassured herself that none of us was in any mood to misbehave‚ she said‚ ‘All right. This evening‚ drinks are on the house.’ Thereupon she opened a litre of punch and immediately set it on the stove to warm up.

  The atmosphere soon improved. We all had something to say about the rain and we started chatting. During the course of the evening Gérard gave Olga one of his canvases.

  I gave her friend Suzy some engravings I happened to have with me. And Paquito – a new recruit – offered to go and fetch coal from the bunker at the back of the yard the following morning. Olga and her companion were so touched by these demonstrations of generous goodwill that the glasses of punch were succeeded with a pretty good Beaujolais‚ accompanied by a rustled-up snack.

  Outside the rain grew bolder. Now less furtive‚ it drummed down fiercely‚ and occasionally a vicious gust would drive it horizontally against the windowpanes. Olga asked us to help her lower the shutter and bolt the door‚ so we’d be more cosy. Who could possibly be expected to turn up at such a late hour in weather like this?

  It was then that she appeared in the doorway‚ breathless from running‚ dripping wet‚ with her hat in her hand. Very beautiful. Really very beautiful. She gave the impression of having fallen with the rain‚ and as she wiped her face‚ of swallowing childish tears.

  Her name was Elisabeth. She stayed‚ not in too much hurry to leave‚ waiting for the rain to stop. She stared at all of us in turn. She was probably surprised that‚ having asked her name‚ none of us felt the need to pose any further questions.

  It was for fear of being disappointed‚ of finding out she was stupid or not at all virginal. We were satisfied with her just as she was. Her wet hair and pale face lent her the charms of a water-sprite.

  Olga had taken off her shabby coat and hung it to dry by the stove.

  The rain intensified‚ we could hear it pelting on the asphalt and roofs. We’d turned off the light that could be seen from outside. Huddled in the semi-darkness‚ squeezed up next to each other‚ we were about to take it in turn to recite in hushed tones one of the poems that haunt our memories.

  At that moment brakes screeched outside the door. There were two sharp knocks on the iron shutter‚ then two more with a greater interval between them. ‘It’s Edmond‚’ said Olga. ‘I’ll go and let him in.’

  She went down the corridor.

  ‘It’s no joke getting in here!’

  My chum Edmond and his inseparable companion Bucaille jigged about‚ shaking themselves dry. Naturally they ordered drinks – all round‚ would you believe it!

  We really liked Edmond and Bucaille. Nevertheless‚ they’d broken the incipient spell and we were disappointed. I was certainly annoyed with them.

  True to form‚ after cracking a few coarse jokes‚ though not too obscene on account of Elisabeth being there‚ these two cronies got out their notebooks and pencils‚ and started settling some business between themselves. Within two minutes they were shouting and hurling abuse at each other as though about to come to blows.

  Edmond had put down in front of him a pile of old books that had been saved from pulping. The boys and I started to look through them. The argument between the two rag- pickers went on interminably. It’s all beyond me‚ but I think I understood that one of them was accusing the other of having sold him some copper more dearly than the going rate. They ended up shouting figures at each other. ‘A hundred and eighty!’ ‘Two hundred and five!’ Then from behind the stove‚ behind the rest of us‚ a shrill quavering voice said very calmly‚ ‘A hundred and eighty-eight! It’s dropped six francs since the day before yesterday!’

  I had plenty of time to notice that the Old Man’s hair and beard were unruffled and completely dry as if he were immune to the weather‚ or had emerged from some underground tunnel whose outlet nobody knew of.

  He asked for some warm milk and gazed at us good- humouredly.

  ‘So‚ my friends.’

  He pointed to Elisabeth.

  ‘Who’s this young lady?’

  ‘A friend‚’ said Gérard.

  ‘Elisabeth‚’ said the water-sprite with a smile.

  The Old Man Who Appears After Midnight stroked his beard with that familiar slow gesture.

  ‘Elisabeth … mmmmm … yes … pretty.’

  The rain drummed its fingernails on the lintel outside.

  ‘Where does the young lady live?’ asked Edmond.

  ‘Rue d’Ulm‚ beyond the Pantheon‚ with my aunt.’

  ‘I’ve got the van. No point in getting your feet wet. At five o’clock I’ll give you a lift. Until then‚ you might as well relax …’

  Edmond‚ Bucaille and Paquito started a game of cards.

  Olga and Suzy dozed in each other’s arms.

  Gérard found a sheet of canson drawing paper and began to sketch a portrait of the girl.

  As usual I offered round my packet of cigarettes. The Old Man thanked me with a meaningful smile‚ a smile that said‚ ‘You don’t seriously expect me to smoke?’

  Yet he drinks milk and‚ on other occasions‚ wine. So why not?

&nbs
p; There’s no way of getting him to talk. I know he never answers direct questions‚ especially about himself. But that’s no reason to be so timid and unenterprising. I’ve known fear before now – but not fearfulness. With the Old Man‚ that’s how I was‚ tongue-tied and pathetic‚ and I felt the total absence of radiance‚ projections of warmth or any other emanation that might have issued from him. I was intimidated by a moving stone. The Old Man could read me like a book‚ and he smiled. He doesn’t know how to chuckle‚ he can’t possibly know. It was he who broke the ice.

  ‘What became of that Pole you brought along to Rue de Bièvre one day. You seemed very anxious about him.’

  I notice he addresses me as ‘vous’. I had the impression he normally used the familiar ‘tu’ with everyone. His question throws me into confusion. The number of times I’ve thought about that moment when I felt death lurking‚ taking stock‚ as though quite at home. I try to respond. ‘But that was during the daytime. You weren’t there. How could you …?’

  To silence me‚ a wave of his hand‚ and the same meaningful smile‚ which this time said more or less‚ ‘You don’t seriously expect me not to know something?’

  I yield to his authority. ‘The lad survived. He’s not in France any more. He’s keeping himself in training somewhere else‚ until he can get back to work.’ And I made a noise‚ ‘Bzzz … bzzz …’‚ pointing at the ceiling.

  The Old Man looks at me intently. ‘No news of Keep-on- Dancin’?’

  ‘No. Because I don’t want to hear any. I know he’s alive and that’s enough for me. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know which of the two would have been better off not spending so much time with the other. But you were bound to meet.’

  These words were spoken in a tone of voice that removed any suggestion of slight or offence that might have been detected in them. They mostly conveyed a strange regret. Could the ‘powers’ of our old after-midnight visitor be so restricted?