The Krull House

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Do you realize the gravity of what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’ve told you the truth. I’ve never been a good liar.’

  ‘Why didn’t you inform the police?’

  ‘Because the police hate us, like the whole neighbourhood, like my classmates at university, like everyone …’

  The chief inspector glanced at his colleague, who shrugged.

  ‘For any little thing, a minute’s delay in closing the shop, they fine us.’

  ‘Do you have anything else to add?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Would you recognize the man who killed Sidonie?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And you haven’t told anyone what you saw?’

  Joseph hesitated. Aunt Maria, who had gone closer to the door, made a move as if she were going to prompt her son.

  ‘No, no one.’

  Then a much longer silence than the others. The two inspectors were standing by the window, conferring in low voices.

  ‘We can’t make any decision for the moment. It’s up to the examining magistrate and he’s in the country. In the meantime, we ask you not to go too far from this house. The house itself will be kept under surveillance.’

  The door to the landing opened.

  ‘Take us back to the lounge.’

  Again, the three men’s footsteps on the stairs. Hans and his aunt waited until they were below before they, too, went down. In the corridor, they ran into Joseph as he was coming out of the lounge.

  ‘They’re asking for you, Hans!’ he said.

  The inspector in the alpaca jacket was playing with the trinkets on the shelves, trinkets that were as banal as could be, the kind of objects you win in raffles, but which took on an exotic character in his podgy fingers.

  The two men really were looking at the house as if they had never seen anything like it, as if everything – people and things – was questionable.

  ‘Are you Hans Krull, from Emden?’

  ‘Yes, inspector.’

  ‘Give me your passport … Thank you! I’m taking it with me.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You entered France without a visa, and I’m obliged to pass your papers on to the Sûreté. Until they make a decision, I forbid you to leave town.’

  ‘All right, inspector.’

  ‘Call Madame Krull.’

  Having been listening behind the door, she came in immediately.

  ‘As for you,’ the chief inspector declared bad-temperedly, ‘I advise you to be more cautious and to avoid incidents like the one this morning.’

  ‘But, inspector, it was that woman who—’

  ‘I’m asking you to avoid incidents. If the woman causes trouble when she’s drunk, then simply refuse to serve her alcohol.’

  Looking for the way out, he opened the wrong door and walked into the kitchen, where Anna had spread a dress pattern on the table and Liesbeth was sitting opposite, talking to her in a low voice.

  The chief inspector looked as if he was thinking:

  ‘Strange house!’

  Joseph had gone back up to his room. The two men walked through the shop. Aunt Maria followed them, trying in vain to say something in mitigation.

  The chief inspector paused for a moment by the zinc end of the counter and flicked at the tin spout on a bottle.

  ‘If you don’t want trouble, don’t run a bar.’

  As a result, when they had gone, Maria Krull looked at her own house with new eyes, searching for defects. Even the kitchen, for some reason, had offended the officers! Even the smell! Even the lounge!

  She almost looked at herself in the mirror to figure out what it was about her that might explain their rude manner.

  ‘What did they say?’ Anna asked, pins between her lips.

  ‘Nothing. Don’t worry. Where’s your father?’

  ‘In the workshop.’

  ‘Has he asked any questions?’

  She took the opportunity to poke the stove. There were a lot of things to do, but not right away. The important thing was to calm down first. Joseph, upstairs, needed calm, too. As for Hans, it was clear that he didn’t need an immediate explanation either.

  Suddenly, the house seemed cold, almost lifeless, as if a fearsome wind had swept through it. Every nook and cranny, every familiar object had become unrecognizable.

  What was so special about it? Why did it arouse such aggressive feelings in people?

  Before anything else, the normal atmosphere needed time to re-establish itself, the family members needed time to feel as if they were living their own lives again.

  ‘Aren’t you practising the piano, Liesbeth?’

  Deliberately, she was saying it deliberately! At least if there was music, like the other days … But should they? Would people consider it an act of defiance or, on the contrary, a proof of innocence?

  ‘Do you think so, Mother?’

  Aunt Maria looked at Hans. Hans said:

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course.’

  It was especially urgent to keep busy, not to get under each other’s feet, or look at each other with doom-laden eyes. Joseph had said what he had to say. Perhaps he had been right. They would have to wait to know what the consequences were.

  And not look out at the quayside! Not bother with it!

  ‘Would you like me to help you?’ Maria Krull asked her daughter. ‘Go and fetch my glasses. You’re going to measure it all wrong again.’

  The notes of the piano echoed as usual. Hans took the newspaper, planning to go out in the yard and read in the sun. But as he was putting his chair down by the door, Cornelius’ assistant came to him and announced:

  ‘The boss wants to see you.’

  That gave him a shock. It was hard to imagine the silent Cornelius summoning someone to his workshop.

  And yet that was the case! He was in his place, on his low chair with the sawn-off legs, a half-finished basket in front of him. The assistant resumed his place, too, as if it had been agreed since time immemorial that he was never in the way. And the fact that he was a hunchback, the fact that Uncle Cornelius looked like Saint Joseph, the silence of the workshop, the cool air, the sun-filled doorway gave the scene a strange solemnity.

  ‘Hans, you have to leave here,’ Uncle Cornelius said as the young man sat down on the chair he had adopted during his frequent visits.

  ‘Leave? Why?’

  ‘You have to leave.’

  What happened now was that Hans, so brazen with everyone else, became, in the presence of this impassive old man, a little boy thrashing about awkwardly.

  ‘Where can I go? If I return to Emden, what will I tell my father?’

  Why did he instinctively sense that he was wrong to have said that? Without batting an eyelid, Cornelius slipped his hand into the pocket of his blue smock, took out an old postcard and handed it to his nephew. It was written in German and dated from fifteen years earlier. Below the text was stuck a cutting from an Emden newspaper about the tragic death of Peter Krull.

  Cornelius didn’t even look at his nephew to see what his reaction was. Only the assistant, like an archangel tasked with carrying out the Lord’s wishes, had his eyes fixed on the young man.

  Hans made an effort to smile.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I confess everything. I didn’t know where to go. I was being pursued because of my political opinions. I might have been sent to a concentration camp. Since you didn’t know me, I told you about my father. I lied …’

  ‘You have to leave,’ the old man, still working, repeated with a stubbornness that made him even more similar to a Gothic saint.

  ‘But Uncle Cornelius …’

  For the first time in a long while, Hans was at a loss, and a little blood rushed to his cheeks. He saw now in his uncle something of his father, something indefinable, a kind of stubborn calm, a patient obstinacy which had led the other Krull to his over-complicated suicide.

  When Hans was little, his father would say to him in the same tone:

&
nbsp; ‘Eat your spinach!’

  He never raised his voice. He didn’t threaten, didn’t lose his temper. He would repeat the sentence three times if necessary and he always ended up being obeyed.

  Had anyone ever known what he thought? Did anyone know now what there was behind Cornelius’ forehead the colour of yellowed ivory?

  The card he had shown him was from Bisschoff the doll-maker, who lived in Emden right next to the Krulls’ old house, the first one, the little cobbler’s shop. So Cornelius had known for fifteen years!

  And he hadn’t said a word! He hadn’t told anyone. He hadn’t seen fit to inform his family, who didn’t know his brother, that the man had killed himself.

  He hadn’t said anything to Hans when he had arrived …

  What else did he know that he didn’t say? What did he think about all day long, in his workshop, sitting beside his hunchbacked archangel?

  What had he grasped of the drama that was being played out in the rest of the house, the drama of which everyone thought he was ignorant?

  ‘You have to leave.’

  ‘I can’t leave immediately. The police have my passport.’

  ‘You have to leave.’

  ‘I don’t have any money. Listen, uncle …’

  Hans was clinging to the house. He didn’t want to leave! He was panicking, looking for arguments, determined to sway this impassive man. He was losing all self-respect, deliberately forgetting that the hunchback could hear everything.

  ‘If you throw me out, I’ll be escorted to the German border. I’ll go to prison. I didn’t tell you, but I’m wanted by the police.’

  It wasn’t true. He was making up his arguments as he went along.

  ‘You wouldn’t like your brother’s son to be sent to prison for theft. Listen, uncle—’

  ‘You have to leave.’

  ‘But when? I keep telling you, they won’t let me go, the inspector took my passport … I lied to you, it’s true. But what else did I do to you?’

  ‘You have to!’

  Other people’s logic and pity as other people understood it were irrelevant. Cornelius had his own logic, a logic as mysterious as Hans’ father’s. And not only his logic! What kind of man was he to be able to live all his life in this workshop, even more removed from the world than a cloister, almost a stranger to his own family, who barely dared speak to him?

  ‘I have something serious to confess, uncle. If you throw me out, you’ll make Liesbeth very unhappy.’

  There was no reply. Hans didn’t care. He wanted to stay. It wasn’t yet time for him to go. The drama wasn’t over. He needed to be there to the end …

  Like in Düsseldorf … It was one of the stories he had told. He had been staying with a female cousin who owned a perfume shop. She had a husband who worked for the railways and wore a dark-blue uniform. There was also a violinist who played in a local Konditorei and dropped in every day at the same time …

  Hans loved the atmosphere of the shop, painted in pink and blue pastel tones. He revelled in the feminine atmosphere of the back room, where a bright-eyed manicurist operated.

  Not that he had ever had his way with her. She was in love with a police constable who was often on duty at the corner of the street and with whom she went dancing on Sundays.

  Hans was happy. He acted as a go-between for his cousin, an insipid blonde, and the violinist. He would carry notes from one to the other. He would stir both of them up. It was winter, with a lot of snow.

  The violinist had come to visit several times, always in the afternoon, and Hans would smile, seeing him climb furtively to the apartment.

  Then, one night, his cousin had woken with a start to find her husband cutting her hair. She hadn’t understood. For a moment, she had thought he had gone mad, because he was usually a quiet man.

  ‘Don’t move!’ he had ordered, pointing to a revolver on the bedside table.

  He had cut off all her hair.

  ‘The face your lover will make when he sees you like that! Now take off your nightdress … Take off your nightdress!’

  He must have said it rather as Uncle Cornelius kept repeating:

  ‘You have to leave!’

  Then:

  ‘Now go downstairs … Open the door … Open the door, I tell you! … Good! Now go to him … Go on, get out!’

  He had thrown her out, stark naked, with a shaved head, on a December night.

  Then he had come to Hans, who was sleeping on the floor above, in a former maid’s room.

  ‘Get up!’

  He had given him two slaps, without anger, only contempt.

  ‘Now get out of here!’

  ‘Listen, uncle. Liesbeth and I love each other …’

  Cornelius didn’t react, continued weaving the immaculate wicker.

  ‘If I leave, she’ll be unhappy, her life will be ruined …’

  He didn’t care. He would go all the way. He didn’t want to leave the house!

  ‘I’m going to tell you everything. Liesbeth and I are lovers. We even …’

  He would have sworn his uncle already knew. Did that mean he knew everything?

  ‘Leave.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Leave.’

  ‘At least give me until tomorrow. I have to go to the police station to demand my passport. You’ll agree to that, won’t you? Tomorrow, I promise …’

  He was nothing but a boy, a little boy looking abashed. He had lost any prestige he had had.

  ‘I promise you that tomorrow …’ he repeated, not too sure what he was saying.

  He stood up. He hadn’t yet been able to meet the old man’s eyes. He walked backwards to the door, giving the assistant a look full of hatred.

  In the corridor, he shook himself, as if to break free of his stupor. Then, as he approached the door to the kitchen, he forced himself to whistle and only went in once he had completely resumed his nonchalant manner.

  11.

  Even though everyone was on the alert, even though they had been watching out for the slightest incident for some days now and had even been keeping an eye on one another, the event passed almost unnoticed. At any rate, nobody at the time anticipated the consequences.

  The shop bell had rung. Maria Krull, who was in the kitchen, had glanced through the curtain, put the scissors down on the table and gone into the shop. Anna, who had been working with her, had glimpsed a customer, a bargee’s wife with a child on her arm and others clinging to her skirts, and hadn’t taken any notice.

  ‘What do you want, Louise?’ Maria Krull sighed, going behind the counter.

  She was regaining the tone she had always had from before all these dramas, a sad, mournful tone. She seemed to be saying as she looked at her customer:

  ‘You poor thing! In bad health again! And your kids not much better …’

  Which was true. The woman she called Louise was the wife of the bargee from that morning, the man with the damp moustache and arrogant look who had flung his Pernod across the shop.

  He gave her a child every year. There must be about ten of them still alive, and they all had the same hangdog look, the same stunned resignation.

  As for the woman, she had one shoulder higher than the other, because of the youngest, whom she was perpetually carrying on her arm.

  ‘Is it true he came in here and made a fuss?’ she said first, because it was expected.

  ‘You know how he is. He was already drunk.’

  Aunt Maria knew most of the bargees and their families. Some had their post addressed to her house, and there was always a glass box full of letters hanging near the counter. She knew where they went and what they were carrying. She also knew when they would be paid.

  ‘Give me five kilos of flour.’

  Maria Krull didn’t hesitate. She weighed the white flour in a large paper bag, then went to the drawer and took out the thick notebook with the elastic band in which she kept her accounts.

  ‘I’d also like five kilos of beans and five kilos of
split peas.’

  Maria frowned. Nevertheless, she weighed the items and even, in accordance with custom, gave each of the children a sweet.

  ‘Are you paying?’

  ‘No! We’ll be back next week to unload.’

  With the purple pencil, Aunt Maria noted down the flour, the beans and the split peas at the bottom of a long column.

  ‘I’ll also have ten cans of sardines.’

  That was what caused all the trouble. Maria Krull automatically did what she would have done any other day. She looked up in surprise and said quite curtly:

  ‘I don’t have any more, my girl!’

  She was fine with extending credit to Louise for flour and starchy foods, but not for luxury commodities she didn’t eat herself!

  ‘I can see some there on the shelf.’

  ‘Those are just for display.’

  ‘You’re only saying that because you don’t want to serve me, aren’t you?’

  Louise wasn’t spiteful, but she was stupid, and she was completely under her husband’s thumb. Even now, she obeyed. She took a paper from her purse and said:

  ‘I have a list he gave me: candles, starch, three cans of petrol, some—’

  ‘Go and tell your man that if he wants provisions, he can start by paying me what he owes me.’

  Louise stood motionless for a while in the middle of the shop, looking at Maria Krull as if waiting for something. Then she headed for the door, muttering:

  ‘He’ll beat me again!’

  Through the window, Aunt Maria watched her drag herself across the central reservation. Muttering under her breath, she closed the notebook and put it back in the drawer.

  A few moments later, Anna and her mother were again bent over the dress pattern. Liesbeth was still playing the piano. Hans was nowhere to be seen: he must have gone back up to his room.

  Over by the barges, there was a group of men on the quayside, as usual when several boats were moored in close proximity. On board a big motor barge, they were taking advantage of the canal being shut down to do the washing.

  Louise walked up to them with her children. Her husband, who was one of the group, yelled at her:

  ‘Well? What about the provisions?’