The Man Who Walked through Walls

by Marcel Ayme

  In Paris, in London, in Shanghai, in Bamako, in Bâton-Rouge, in Vancouver, in New York, in Breslau, in Warsaw, in Rome, in Pondicherry, in Sydney, in Barcelona and in every other spot on the globe, Sabine held her breath and watched the gorilla’s movements. Lady Burbury had just made her entrance into a friend’s salon and, coming to greet her, the mistress of the house saw Lady Burbury recoil, her nose wrinkled up and eyes horrified, until she backed right into the lap of an old colonel. In Napier (New Zealand), Ernestine, the lastborn of the sixty thousand, dug her nails very deeply into the hands of a young bank clerk who wondered what he ought to think of her. Sabine could have reabsorbed Louise Mégnin into one of her numerous bodies, the thought did cross her mind, but she felt she had no right to refuse this ordeal.

  The gorilla raped Louise Mégnin several times. In the intervals, he would take up his plug of tobacco, then he would lay it back on the chair. On the other side of the partition, the old man’s litanies went on while he feebly threw his clogs at his young companion, trying to knock him out, and the boy burst into fits of idiot laughter at every attempt. Night had almost fallen. In the semi-darkness, the gorilla’s movements stirred dense wafts of filth, of rotten food, of animal stink and pus, most powerfully from his bestial hair and his clothes. At last, having picked up his plug for good, he put a twenty-sous coin on the table, like a man who knows how to live well, and growled as he left: “I will be back.”

  That night, not one of the sixty-five thousand sisters was able to sleep and their tears flowed as if they would never end. Now they understood that the pleasures of love described in Mrs Smithson’s novels were sugar-coated deceptions and that, outside the sacred bonds of marriage, the finest man in the world can only give what he has—ultimately, no more (the sisters thought) than what the gorilla had given. Having quarrelled with their lovers, who were exasperated with their tears and expressions of horror, several thousand of them broke off their relationships and sought out honourable occupations. Some were taken on in factories or as housemaids, others were employed in hospitals or asylums. In the Marquesas Islands, twelve sisters moved into leper colonies to look after the afflicted. Alas, you must not imagine that this tendency applied to the majority. Quite the opposite, for new multiplications of sinning seductresses came to compensate, and more than compensate, for the glorious defectors. And in the midst of this burst of repentance, some ladies were tempted and went back to their wicked pleasures.

  Luckily, the gorilla continued to make frequent visits to Louise Mégnin. Since he always remained as ugly and as brutal, and since he continued to stink as powerfully, his lust proved wonderfully edifying. Each time he came to the shack, a great shudder of revulsion would pass through the seductresses and there were even a thousand or two each time who would turn to the dignity of labour and good works, finished with fickleness and with bad habits. In fact, looking at the statistics alone, Sabine was making no real progress in the journey along the path of virtue, but the number of her lovers was stabilising around the sixty-seven thousand mark, and that in itself was progress.

  One morning, the gorilla arrived at Louise Mégnin’s place with a large canvas sack containing eight tins of pâté de foie gras, six of salmon, three goats’ cheeses, three Camemberts, six boiled eggs, a handful of cornichons, a jar of potted pork, a saucisson, four kilos of fresh bread, twelve bottles of red wine, one of rum and also a phonograph dating from 1912 that took engraved cylinders, of which there were three—namely, in the gorilla’s order of preference: Song of the Golden Wheat, a bawdy monologue and the duet between Charlotte and Werther. So the gorilla came in with this sack over his shoulder, shut himself up in the hut with Louise Mégnin and didn’t re-emerge until five o’clock in the afternoon two days later. Of the horrors perpetrated during those two days of intimacy, it is better we say nothing. What should be noted is that, over the same period, twenty thousand seductresses came to their senses and abandoned their lovers to devote themselves to thankless tasks and helping the needy. It is true too that nine thousand of these (almost half their number) went back to sinful ways. But the net outcome was positive. From this point on, the gains were almost constant, despite relapses and setbacks. Since these innumerable bodies were animated by a single soul, you might be surprised that the effect was not more prompt. But the habits of a lifetime, even and especially the most common, the most anodyne and apparently insignificant, are like bonds between the soul and its flesh. Sabine herself demonstrates this clearly. Those of her sisters leading disorderly lives—one lover today, another tomorrow and every day repacking their bags—were the first to mend their ways. Most of the others held on to their vices thanks to aperitifs at a regular hour, a comfortable apartment, a serviette ring in the restaurant, a smile from their concierge, a Siamese cat, a greyhound, a weekly blow-dry and set, a radio, a dressmaker, a deep armchair, bridge partners, and in the end by the regular presence of a man, by means of opinions exchanged with him about the weather, neckties, the cinema, death, love, tobacco and cricked necks. Nevertheless, even these defences seemed to tumble one after another. Every week, the gorilla came to see Louise for two or three days at a time and got disgustingly drunk and was monstrous in his gusto, his stink and his festering. Thousands and thousands of seductresses were beating their breasts, hurling themselves into purity and good works, then dropping back into the old ruts, hauling themselves out once more, pausing, deliberating, feeling their way, stumbling, losing heart and regaining it and, most of them, ultimately shutting their mouths and setting their noses to the grindstone in lives of chastity, of work and abnegation.

  Breathless and wondering, the angels peered over heaven’s railings to watch this glorious struggle and, when they saw the gorilla go to see Louise Mégnin, they could not resist intoning a joyful hymn. God himself came to look down that way from time to time. But he was far from sharing the angels’ enthusiasm, which made him smile and he sometimes rebuked them (with paternal mildness): “Come, come,” God would say. “So what? Well I never! This is a soul like any other. What you see there is exactly what happens to every poor soul for whom I haven’t gone to the trouble of providing sixty-seven thousand bodies. I agree that in this case the struggle is rather spectacular, but that’s because I made it so.”

  At Rue de l’Abreuvoir, Sabine was leading an anxious, withdrawn existence, keeping watch on her soul’s progress and noting the figures in her housekeeping diary. When the number of her reformed sisters reached forty thousand, her face grew more serene, although she remained vigilant. Often, in the evening, in the dining room, a smile would sheath her in light and clarity and, more than ever, it seemed to Antoine Lemurier that she was speaking with angels. One Sunday morning she was shaking a rug at the window while nearby Lemurier was pondering a difficult crossword clue when Theorem went by in the street below.

  “Look,” said Lemurier, “there goes the madman. It’s a long time since we saw him.”

  “You mustn’t say he’s mad,” Sabine protested gently. “Monsieur Theorem is such a great painter!”

  Theorem went on his way at a flâneur’s leisurely pace, his route taking him down Rue des Saules and as far as the flea market, beyond Porte de Clignancourt. Ignoring the second-hand bargains, he walked on wherever his feet took him and ended up heading right into the slums, whose inhabitants watched him go by with the pariah’s discreet hostility towards well-dressed strangers, scenting a seeker of picturesque poverty. Theorem hastened his step and, reaching the last of the shacks, found himself almost face to face with Louise Mégnin, who was carrying a watering can. Her feet were bare inside her clogs and she was wearing a thin black dress, much patched and darned. Wordlessly, he took her watering can and followed her into her poor hovel. The old man next door having dragged himself as far as the flea market to pick up a second-hand plate, the cabin was quiet. Theorem held Sabine’s hands before him and neither of them could find the words to ask the other’s forgiveness for the wrong they believed they had done them. As he was g
oing to kneel at her feet, she would have him stand, but herself fell to her knees, and tears sprang to the eyes of both.

  It was then that the gorilla made his entry. He was carrying over his shoulder an enormous sack of edibles, for he was coming to live with Louise for a week. Without a word, he set down his sack, without a word took the lovers by their throats—one neck in each hand—lifted them, shook them like sauce bottles, then strangled them. They died simultaneously, face-to-face, eyes locked on each other. Then, planting each on a chair, the gorilla sat down at the table with them, tore open a tin of liver pâté and gulped a bottle of red. He spent the day like this, drinking and eating and turning up the phonograph to listen to Song of the Golden Wheat. Come evening, he bundled the two bodies together and stuffed them into his great sack. Leaving the cabin with his load on his shoulder, he felt a sort of quiver in the upper area of his chest, like something relenting, and he took the trouble to reopen the sack in order to push inside a geranium bloom, picked from the window of a slum caravan. He went down to the Seine by the grand avenues and arrived at around eleven in the evening. The whole adventure had ended up lending him a little imagination. Once he had thrown the two corpses into the river at Quai de la Mégisserie, the gorilla found that life had become as boring and irritating as a book. Straight away, he thought of ending it, but instead of throwing himself into the water, he had the delicacy to go and cut his throat under an archway on Rue des Lavandières-Sainte-Opportune.

  The very same second that Louise Mégnin was dying, strangled, her sixty-seven thousand and something sisters were likewise breathing their last, smiling contentedly and raising their hands to their necks. Some, such as Lady Burbury and Mrs Smithson, repose in vaulted tombs, others lie under simple earthen mounds that time will soon efface. Sabine is buried in Montmartre in the little Saint-Vincent cemetery and her friends go to see her there from time to time. They are sure that she is in heaven and that when the Last Judgement comes, she will enjoy rising again in all her sixty-seven thousand bodies.

  TICKETS ON TIME

  Extracts from the diary of Jules Flegmon

  10th February

  A ridiculous rumour is going round the neighbourhood about new restrictions. In order better to anticipate shortages and to guarantee improved productivity in the working portion of the population, the authorities are going to put unproductive consumers to death; unproductive meaning: older people, retirees, those with private income, the unemployed and other superfluous mouths. Deep down, I think this measure is quite fair. Just met my neighbour Roquenton in front of my building, a feisty septuagenarian who last year married a young lady of twenty-four. He was choking with indignation: “What does age matter, he exclaimed, if I make my pretty poppet happy!” In more high-minded terms, I advised him to accept with joyful pride the sacrifice of his person for the good of our community.

  12th February

  There’s no smoke without fire. Lunched today with my old friend Maleffroi, a councillor at the main city hall. I gave him a careful grilling, having loosened his tongue with a bottle of Arbois. Of course, they’re not talking about killing off all non-contributors. These will simply have their time cut back. Maleffroi explained to me that they will have a right to a certain number of days of life per month, according to their degree of uselessness. It seems that time cards have already been printed. I found this idea as poetic as it is felicitous. I believe I recall saying some truly elegant things on the subject. No doubt somewhat affected by the wine, Maleffroi looked back at me amiably, his eyes filled with benevolence.

  13th February

  This is infamous! Abuse of justice! Vile murder! The decree has just been published in the newspapers and there it appears that those “consumers whose maintenance is offset by no real contribution” include artists and writers! I could understand, at a pinch, if the measure were to apply to painters, sculptors, to musicians. But to writers! This exposes an inconsistency, an aberration, that will remain the crowning shame of our era. For, you see, writers’ utility goes without saying, my own above all, I may say in all modesty. Yet, I shall have the right to only two weeks of life per month.

  16th February

  With the decree coming into effect on the 1st of March and registration required by the 18th, those consigned to a partial existence by their social status are scrabbling to find a job that will class them in the category of full-time living. But, with diabolical foresight, the authorities have forbidden all change of personnel until the 25th of February.

  I thought of calling my friend Maleffroi to ask him to fix me a job as a porter or museum guard in the next forty-eight hours. I am too late. He has just assigned the last desk job in his department.

  “But you know, why on earth did you wait till today to ask me for a position?”

  “How was I meant to guess that it would affect me? When we had lunch together, you didn’t say—”

  “I beg your pardon. I specified—couldn’t have been clearer—that the measure would apply to all non-contributors.”

  17th February

  Of course my concierge already considers me only half-alive, a ghost, a shadow hardly poking out of the underworld, for this morning she neglected to bring my post up. I went down and gave her a serious piece of my mind. “It is,” I said, “only the better to fatten idlers like you that our best men are sacrificing their lives.” And, basically, it is quite true. The more I think about it, the more this law seems unjust and iniquitous.

  Bumped into Roquenton and his young wife just now. It was pitiful to see the poor old fellow. All in all, he will have a right to only six days alive per month, but the worst of it is that, due to her youth, Madame Roquenton is to have two weeks. This discrepancy has thrown her old husband into a mad panic. The young lady seems to be accepting her fate more philosophically.

  In the course of the day, I met several people unaffected by the decree. I find their incomprehension and their ingratitude concerning those being sacrificed profoundly disgraceful. Not only does this iniquitous measure seem to them the most natural thing in the world, they even appear to be pleased about it. We shall never sufficiently punish the human ego.

  18th February

  Spent three hours queuing at Montmartre town hall to collect my time card. There we were, divided into two lines, about two thousand unhappy people sacrificed to feed the working masses. And this was only the first batch. I thought about half of us were old folk. There were pretty young women but their faces were listless with misery and they seemed to be sighing: I’m not ready to die yet. Ladies of the night were numerous. The decree has hit them hard, reducing their living quotient to seven days per month. In front of me, one of these girls was lamenting being condemned to her streetwalker’s condition for ever. In seven days, she claimed, men haven’t the time to get attached. That doesn’t seem so hard to me. Among those waiting I recognised, with some emotion, my Montmartre comrades, the writers and artists Céline, Gen Paul, Daragnès, Fauchois, Soupault, Tintin, d’Esparbès and others. Céline was having a black day. He said it was another Jewish plot, but I’m sure that his bad mood was leading him astray on that particular point. Indeed, according to the terms of the decree, regardless of age, sex or employment, Jews are allotted half a day of life per month. In general, the crowd was irritable and rebellious. The many policemen deployed to keep order treated us with a good deal of contempt, clearly considering us the scum of society. Several times, as we grew frustrated at the long wait, they would calm our impatience with blows and kicks. I absorbed the humiliation with mute dignity, but kept staring pointedly at a police sergeant, mentally roaring my cry of revolt. Now it is we who are the wretched of the earth.

  At last I was given my time card. The adjoined tickets, each one worth twenty-four hours of life, are a very mild blue, the colour of periwinkles, such a pale blue that tears came to my eyes.

  24th February

  About a week ago I wrote to the relevant department asking that my personal case be reconsid
ered. I have received a supplement of twenty-four hours’ life per month. That’s always how it is.

  5th March

  For the last two weeks I have been leading a feverish existence, which has forced me to neglect my diary. In order to miss out on nothing in this brief moment of life, I have as good as stopped sleeping at night. In the last four days I’ve got through more reams of paper than I would in three normal weeks and yet my style retains equal brilliance, my thought equal depth. I give myself to pleasure with the same fervour. I should like all pretty women to be mine, but that’s impossible. Always trying to make the most of each hour that goes by, and perhaps also in a spirit of revenge, every day I eat two copious meals, furnished by the black market. For lunch—ate three dozen oysters, two poached eggs, a quarter of roast goose, a fillet steak, vegetables, salad, various cheeses, a chocolate dessert, a grapefruit and three mandarins. As I sipped my coffee, and although the thought of my sad destiny had not left me for a moment, I felt a certain degree of contentment.

  Shall I become a perfect Grecian Stoic? As I left the restaurant, I came upon the Roquentons. The good man was living his last day in the month of March today. This evening, at midnight, his sixth ticket used up, he will be swallowed into non-being, where he will remain for twenty-five days.

  7th March

  Paid a visit to young Madame Roquenton, temporarily widowed as of midnight. She greeted me with a grace that her sadness rendered all the more delightful. We spoke of this and that, and of course about her husband. She told me how he had vanished into oblivion. They had both been in bed. At a minute to midnight, Roquenton was holding his wife’s hand and giving her some last words of advice. On the stroke of midnight, she felt her companion’s hand melt away inside her own. All that remained beside her was an empty pair of pyjamas and a set of false teeth on the bolster. This description moved us both deeply. Since Lucette Roquenton was weeping, I held her close to comfort her.