‘Good heavens!’
‘I’m not exaggerating. He’d already assassinated a member of his family in the past. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.’
‘Why take me into your confidence?’
‘I have my reasons. As I was saying‚ the poor sick fellow had been lurking round Square de l’Archevêché every evening for several days. He’d picked out a little boy to whom he’d been offering lollipops: he was just waiting for an opportunity to lure him to a building site. And despite the disconcerting lucidity he displayed as he made his confession‚ he couldn’t help himself. This compulsion‚ this obligation to do evil‚ absurd evil‚ came from somewhere. I’d no trouble discovering the source of it. My “subject” was under the influence of a foreigner‚ supposedly a doctor‚ who was giving him lessons in German and‚ so he claimed‚ “psychology”. This “professor” gave me the impression of being very suspect. Under the pretext of “practising” pychoanalytic experiments‚ he’d taken such control over his student’s mind‚ so dominated him‚ that committing a crime through an intermediary was just a game to him. I succeeded in subduing my potential executioner‚ not as you might think with reasonable words but using methods the practice of which constitutes what I call my “profession”. Then I tried to meet the professor. I was not mistaken. That diabolical creature – and I know what I’m talking about – exuded a will to evil‚ a delight in evil‚ that was evident a mile off. If I could have rendered him incapable of causing harm‚ I assure you‚ I’d have had no scruples.’
‘Even in eliminating him?’
‘Perhaps not‚ for he’s the kind of person who’s even more dangerous dead than alive.’
‘Please explain yourself.’
‘Allow me to do no such thing. In short‚ I had great difficulty in gaining the necessary ascendancy over my sick young man. In the end I went to his parents and impressed on them the need to get him away from Paris. Which is what happened. He’s much better now. But I keep an eye on him from a distance.’
‘And the second case?’
‘That’s less dramatic. An ordinary decent woman‚ wife and mother‚ had for several years been acting as a medium for a group of old bats who used to meet not far from here in a caretaker’s lodge‚ for table-turning sessions from five to seven. You know the type.
‘Her name was Madame Hache‚ and she was a seamstress. Of feeble constitution‚ extremely impressionable. One day outside in the street she witnesses a serious accident: a crash between a car and a lorry. The sight of two bloodied corpses is too much for Madame Hache. She faints and doesn’t regain consciousness. She’s taken to hospital. There‚ in a semi- comatose state‚ in the presence of a flabbergasted intern‚ she starts delivering a seemingly coherent speech but in some foreign language. Yet certain sounds were familiar to the intern. Not surprisingly: it was ancient Greek! What happened next we don’t know. Because from that day on‚ Madame Hache would fall into a trance more or less at the drop of a hat‚ and start raving: once in Latin‚ getting all her declensions right; mostly in Greek; occasionally in dialects about which learned professors from the School of Oriental Languages are not in agreement. For this case has become known‚ and medical experts have taken an interest in it. Especially psychiatrists. They call this phenomenon “xenoglossia”. On several occasions Madame Hache’s utterances have been tape-recorded. After regaining consciousness‚ she’s never been prepared to accept it was her own voice that was played back to her. But these experiences were debilitating‚ and it was her parish priest who asked me to take her in hand. I restored her to a state of health and equilibrium that were as good as lost to her. Don’t ask me what I think – or don’t think – about all this‚ and let’s get back to your doll: tell Doctor Garret that if he telephones home he should give strict instructions that no one‚ absolutely no one‚ is to touch that object.’
I did as he asked.
Garret said‚ ‘What if I told them to burn that piece of wood?’
Father Mathias gave a start.
‘That would inevitably spell the child’s doom. Take my word for it‚ and don’t do anything untoward. Now‚ good luck‚ and do come back to see me.’
‘Thank you!’
‘Just what you shouldn’t say!’
We telephoned from La Bourse. The child’s condition had deteriorated. Very high fever with nightmares the previous night. The inflammation was worse. Mrs Garret begged us to ‘do something’.
It was a dull dawn in Cherbourg. A fine‚ freezing-cold‚ biting rain greeted us. We weren’t prepared for such miserable weather. At once shivering with cold and boiling with impatience‚ we dived into a bar where we waited for the tourist office to open. There was no bus to Carteret until the afternoon‚ and then it was a six-mile walk inland to where Father Bruhat lived. We hired a taxi.
‘You’re looking for Monsieur Bruhat? Look‚ that’s him over there.’
The road climbed a little. Next to a hedge‚ a man was securing two empty barrels onto a cart. His horse looked thin and weary. As soon as he saw us‚ the man remained motionless until we came up to him. He was chewing his cherry-wood pipe. Very clear‚ penetrating eyes. Weathered complexion.
‘Monsieur Bruhat?’
‘That’s me. What can I do for you?’
‘We’ve come from Paris to see you.’
He looked wary and vexed. ‘Ah! you’ve come from Paris at this time of day? What’s it about then?’
‘A matter of… of witchcraft‚ of black magic.’
‘Oh‚ but you mustn’t talk about that here‚ lads. There’s a place for everything. Indeed!’
We walked down the hill without speaking.
A west country man for sure‚ but not from here: he doesn’t have the Cotentin accent.
He stopped in front of a modest-looking house. He patted the old horse and carefully covered its steaming back with two sacks.
‘Come in‚ this way.’
An unmade bed. Above it a plaster crucifix with a faded twig of blessed palm. A few very old books. In the back room an indescribable clutter of all kinds of junk piled up in a corner or hanging from the walls. Bits of wooden beams from burned-out houses. Fragments of fuselage from crashed aeroplanes. A very old ship’s figurehead: a mermaid‚ spit in two. And two miniature ships in bottles.
‘You’ll have a glass of cider‚ won’t you?’
He invited us to sit down and placed an enormous jug of sweet cider on the table and a litre of brandy.
‘So‚ what’s the story?’
Well‚ he didn’t miss a word of it. His clear gaze‚ direct and unwavering‚ guided my thoughts. When I’d finished‚ he said‚ ‘Good‚ very good. But have you brought some of the hairs with you?’
I couldn’t help looking to left and right to see if someone else was present: his voice had completely changed‚ the peasant accent was gone. It was the priest speaking. I repeated his question to Garret.
He was dismayed. ‘No‚ I haven’t‚ as you well know. I should have thought of it.’
‘It’s not the end of the world‚’ said the priest. ‘I’m going to harness Basil’s horse and take you to Carteret. There are some Canadian tourists sailing for Jersey this evening in their motor launch. From St Helier the doctor will surely find some fast way of reaching the English coast. He must bring me back very quickly a lock of hair belonging to the sick little girl‚ which should be cut off at the very last moment‚ and about half of the doll’s hair. Above all‚ don’t pull out any of the implanted hair. Cut it mid-length. And handle the object with the utmost care. I’ll also need a map of the area round B. You‚’ he said to me‚ ‘go back to Cherbourg‚ from where you can call B to get news of the child and let them know the doctor’s arriving. I’ll try and call you at your hotel this evening.’
Damn the Normandy railways! Wretched stopping trains! It was much more complicated calling from a phone box in Cherbourg than from Paris: I had to call London‚ then Liverpool‚ before fi
nally getting put through to the hospital in B. Fortunately Mrs Garret happened to be there. The little girl’s condition was unchanged. Still running a high temperature‚ the inflammation just as bad. Very weak and debilitated‚ the child was drowsy. Bruhat‚ as promised‚ rang me that evening. I learned that the Canadians had raised no objection to taking Garret in their boat.
Garret was back by midday two days later. That was a considerable achievement: in Jersey‚ he’d gone to the airport where the pilot of a private plane was only too happy to fly him straight to Liverpool. Even the weather‚ which contrary to all forecasts had cleared‚ was in their favour.
Return trip by train Liverpool-London and Paris- Cherbourg. From London to Paris‚ a British Airways flight.
Garret was bearing two precious envelopes: the locks of hair – those of the child‚ those of the doll. Furthermore‚ he had obtained a map of England‚ a 1:10000 scale military map of the part of Wales where B is located‚ and a survey map of the town on which the hospital and his own house were clearly marked.
Father Bruhat examined the documents carefully‚ felt the hair.
I noticed that after having touched the doll’s hair‚ he moistened his fingers with some liquid – water‚ probably – poured from a little bottle‚ before touching the lock of hair taken from the child.
He poured three enormous brandies‚ filling the glasses to the brim.
‘Now go away and leave me‚’ he said to us. ‘I’ll be busy for two days solid. I’m battening down the hatches. Tomorrow and the day after‚ find out how the child’s doing‚ put it in writing for me and drop it through the letter-box in an envelope. Don’t knock. I have my part to play now. Good-bye. Till Thursday evening if all goes well. If not‚ Friday.’
Twenty-four hours later the child was no longer in pain‚ her temperature was back to normal‚ the inflammation decreasing with astonishing speed.
After two days all signs of illness were gone: the child was cured‚ quite amazed to find herself in hospital‚ unaware of the seriousness of the harm she’d escaped.
It was evening. We’d just brought the good news. We were pacing backwards and forwards‚ indifferent to the gaze of mystified neighbours.
At last‚ a clunking sound of the door being unlocked‚ and then it was flung open.
Father Bruhat came towards us. Hunched‚ drawn‚ exhausted‚ in a pitiful state. But his eyes gleamed with contentment.
‘Well‚ now! You’ve certainly put me through the mill‚’ he said in a voice striving to sound cheerful. ‘This problem of yours has aged me a good ten years‚ but I’m indebted to you for the greatest satisfaction of my life.’
Like the Parisian parish priest and Father Mathias‚ he declined with indignation and nervous apprehension our offers of ‘compensation’.
‘What should I do with the doll now?’ asked Garret.
‘Whatever you like. It’s permanently neutralized‚ you can take my word for it. As for the little girl‚ she won’t have any recollection of this distressing experience. She’s also safe from quite a number of illnesses.
‘By the way‚ when you get back home‚ send me a photo of her. I’ll think of her from time to time‚ it will be good for her well-being‚ and give me great pleasure.’
Chapter XVI
‘Why do you not seize the Absolute?’
‘Why does it not come to me?’
The Gnostics
March 1954
While adhering to the truth as closely as possible‚ all I have done in the course of the preceding chapters is to record a series of events of various kinds‚ which are more or less perplexing and classified by myself as belonging to the category of phenomena that should occasion much more serious reflection and verification than idle fancy and acceptance.
No one will ever know what manifold difficulties I’ve had to overcome in order to bring to a conclusion this first part of my chronicle. In certain dreams you feel leaden‚ numb‚ paralysed‚ incapable of moving even though frightful and ferocious enemies are closing in on you. A constraint‚ curb‚ impediment of this order were a constant obstacle to the‚ oh‚ so very long and arduous composition of this work. And yet with every one of these stories the fact of having committed it to writing relieved me of a genuine millstone. My only regret is not to have completely unburdened myself. I’m still sadly short of reaching that target.
The tumult has never subsided. Actually‚ it never will. But I don’t yet know the day when I’ll be free not to be so closely involved in it. I can’t allow myself to set out here equations whose constituent parts already exist‚ which will be resolved at some time in the future‚ and whose results I need to validate. For a length of time that remains uncertain‚ I’m in the same predicament as the maniac incapable of finding a piece of string in his path without picking it up and tying a knot in it. But whatever the space given to the narrator throughout this chronicle‚ I’m well aware this isn’t about my own life but the thrilling‚ rich and generous life of my City.
These scruples compel me to remain silent about some astounding things that I wasn’t in fact the only one to witness‚ and whose protagonists I don’t wish to identify. In the circumstances‚ it would be sheer dishonesty to change or modify names‚ dates and places.
I should like one day‚ as some anonymous pedestrian revisiting the scenes of these memories‚ to follow on the heels of an attentive reader – there are some – and to relish his delight when‚ with this book in his pocket‚ he finds himself in the presence of one of the characters described‚ mentioned or referred to earlier on‚ who do exist‚ large as life‚ and wittingly or not perpetuate their legend. I’d like people to investigate‚ to verify. You need to be an extremely well-informed reader to identify all the ‘keys’ scattered throughout these pages. Many readers may find among them the key to their own front door.
In any case‚ what you need to know is this: in certain areas of Paris‚ the supernatural is part of everyday life. Local people accept this and have some involvement with it. I rely on two easily verifiable examples that hundreds of people will confirm.
Henri the Breton‚ a decent and good-hearted old soak‚ was a porter at the Wholesale Fish Market. Those who knew him – they are many – still meet up at his headquarters: Pagès‚ the coal-merchant-cum-bistrot on Rue du Haut-Pavé. One evening in July 1950‚ Henri borrows a hundred francs from Pagès‚ supposedly to bet on the horses. By ten o’clock he’s at the Vieux-Chêne‚ already fairly tipsy. When he was drunk‚ easy- going Henri developed fixed ideas and tended to raise his voice.
‘No rowdiness from you‚’ the Captain told him.
‘No danger of that‚ Captain‚ I’m a Breton‚ an’ I’m a Christian‚ an’ I’m a gen’leman‚’ says Henri‚ with an unfortunate gesture sending an empty glass flying. He insisted on paying for damage on the spot.
Along comes Honoré Thibaudaut‚ as though by chance of course‚ the man with a blasted reputation‚ the burns man‚ the blabber. Thinner and more pasty-faced than ever‚ constricted rather than dressed in black‚ with eyes that couldn’t be more sunken.
Henri says something to him. The other refuses to reply. Henri loses his temper. ‘Anyway‚ I don’t like you‚ you carry a whiff of damnation about you. Where I come from‚ the parish priest wouldn’t have looked very kindly on you.’
Once uttered‚ those words ‘parish priest’ release a flood of distant memories in Henri the one-time choirboy. He pictures himself serving at mass in Kirity-Penmarc’h. He makes huge signs of the cross in the pipe smoke. In a rush of emotion‚ he berates the other with these terrible words:
‘Damnation! There’s a whiff of damnation about you‚ with that whey-faced expression of yours‚ like a cat shitting on hot bricks! You sold out‚ you sold out to the devil! You’re dead‚ dead‚ deader than all the dead put together! And you don’t even deserve to be pitied! Bugger off! You stink! The cemetery’s the place for stiffs!’
This was verging on insan
ity. Henri started declaiming melodramatically‚ ‘De profundis clamavi‚ Domine‚ Domine …’
Thibaudaut’s sallow complexion had turned ashen. ‘Stop it! Stop it! What are you doing?’ He was jigging about in terror.
His persecutor went on‚ ‘Fiant aures tuae intendentes in vocem …’
Thibaudaut fled. The Captain threatened to get angry if the Breton didn’t leave straightway. Henri complied.
‘I can’t help it‚’ he said‚ hiccupping‚ ‘I can’t stand people who stink. Of anything but fish.’
Henri must have had something to eat and sobered up a bit.
At four o’clock in the morning there was a sudden storm. A single flash of lightning lit up the tower of St Jacques (in the middle of a garden square planted with big trees).
Henri was found close by‚ beside the railings round the square‚ struck down by the lightning‚ with his hands clenched on his trolley‚ his face blue.
André Gantot was a butcher in the south-east suburbs of Paris. Three times a week‚ he would drive in on his scooter to Les Halles‚ where he would buy his meat supplies. He was in the habit of eating at Raymond’s restaurant‚ on the corner of Rue de Pontoise and Quai de la Tournelle‚ in a house that only two hundred years ago was still part of the Meat Market (the cattle port was right opposite).
Gantot was a pretty unpleasant character. Thick-set and dull-witted‚ a big-mouth and a braggart‚ he annoyed everyone with his infelicitous remarks. On the morning of April 1st‚ 1947‚ news phoned through to Les Halles took two hours to cross the Seine: André Gantot‚ who’d left Raymond’s very late the night before‚ had had a fatal accident driving home that night. His scooter had skidded. Hit a tree. He was killed instantly.
His fellow traders at Les Halles immediately organized a collection and bought a huge wreath there and then that was placed in front of the stall where he usually made his purchases.
On the stroke of midday‚ stupefaction: looking fresh as a daisy and very pleased with himself‚ André Gantot turned up to enjoy the effects of what he considered a good joke. All he encountered were stony faces. No one failed to convey to him the general disapproval. Sheepishly‚ he thought he’d get away with just buying everyone a drink.
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