Clouds Over Paris, page 8
Out along the river…
A sultry summer afternoon, no wind whatsoever. Elongated, disembodied clouds, like bright white smears of mucus, stretching, spinning out, indiscernibly. The blue of the sky in between seems dull, robbed of its sheen, like faded satin. The branch of the river seems stationary, the marbled pattern of spilt petroleum, which completely covers it, motionless. A strip of dry, trampled meadow between the road along the river and the water itself gently drops away, before terminating in a steep paved embankment. Anglers crouch there, bottoms resting on their heels, the soles of their feet firmly attached to the precipitous stone. From the riverside path, all one can see are the yellow fishing rods swaying back and forth, their ends twitching, before they freeze. A man – accablé! – sits motionless, crushed by bold glaring light, midstream in a shallow boat, which has been hitched to two poles, small, dark and scrawny, with his knees pulled up. On the other bank, the long river island is covered in a jungle of tall scrubby meadows with dank, grim shadows beneath. Sunken barge, half overturned. Silvery-grey wood, concrete? A breath of wind seems to brush past occasionally, the odd tree starting to breathe in the silvery air [blank], but it does not make it across the water. Some protruding branches are completely stripped bare. Beyond, lifeless factory chimneys, tiled roofs and, slowly rising up under its heavy mantle of round grey trees in the parks, Mont Valérien, covered by low straggling barrack buildings. On its flank, smothered by tree-tops and stone walls, or perhaps further back, in the woods, under the oppressive shadow of cloud, the occasional dry crack of cannon fire. And the ubiquitous aeroplane, invisibly hunting around, boring away like an angry, flat-headed wasp.
The city nearby has emptied human shapes onto the strip of meadow by the river; they lie shrunken, hardly breathing, their stomachs flat, in thin anaemic sleep. Girls beside bicycles on their sides, their skinny hips sticking up abruptly, while their head and shoulders are blurred by the grass. A little man laid out as stiff as a poker, his flat straw hat over his face. A child, upper body propped up on a skinny arm, her head almost nothing but drab light-brown hair, dead straight, collapsing onto her shoulders. The little dirty face, dark nostrils, the eyes half-concealed by hair. [blank] She wears a checked smock, a broad pinafore dress, drawn in at the waist by a length of material which has been wound round and round. The sleeping young man has made a workmanlike job of blocking himself off from the outside world, his slender hands tucked behind his neck, bare ankles delicately crossed. The once decent black jacket is too short, with holes under the arms, the cracked toes of his shallow yellow shoes gleaming like old ivory.
A motorboat, its bow protruding, the single great bow wave washing right up the embankment. The stiff fluttering flag, in the still air, exerts a peculiar effect. The angler clutches hold of the pole, his boat writhing. Sailors at the controls, one with a casual hand on the steering wheel, officers in the stern, white jackets, hands tucked into their fronts; one glances at his watch.
Courtyard of the Hôtel Sully Rue Saint-Honoré
The vaulted interior of the gateway is a mass of stuccoed coffering. No porter’s lodge, an enclosed damp wall on either side, a collection of dustbins. The vault sends you, speechless, straight in among all the heavy surmounted windows in the courtyard. The skinny black cat with sleek wavy fur wearing a tight collar with a bell. It presses its stomach to the ground if you reach for it, stretching out with its head thrown back, the tail continuing to trace slow, absent-minded circles. Rough cobbles; how the cannon must have roared. Golden-green moss grows in the pointing, with grass towards the ground and pale-green weeds in the damp corners. An unbalanced draw well, strangely austere for an enormously wealthy hôtel, squeezed to one side of the barren cobbles, a rusty wheel above a low cylinder of stone. In front of the doorway to the corps de logis, a terrace of two shallow steps juts out, extending across the whole width of the courtyard. Half-submerged guard stones the colour of bone form a thin row in front. The two sphinxes, mounted on low plinths parallel to the main building, appear to have been made from the same stone. Painfully, with almost no necks, they raise their heads to the vertical. A Fury’s long cascading hair and enormous sagging breasts awkwardly disguise the transition into the lion’s body. They are gaunt, jaded, their ribs protruding. The tail with its impressive tuft lies neatly placed across the rump, continuing along the belly. Their backs are never scorched by the sun: the square well of the courtyard is dark and cramped; the bluey-purple sky, shot through with gold, seems impossibly high. Only the lucarnes with the heavy flattened curve of their pediments and the steep slate mansard roofs are still streaked with light, but it lies strangely transmuted upon them, like fine golden lichen. The bonnets on the dormer windows protrude out of the façade like battlements, only broken up by the cornicing and the lead-grey gutters. [blank] Half a geranium cluster, a couple of tiny red coloured tiles, quite close to and warm [blank]. They are only visible if one looks directly at them, like a minor star at daybreak. The roof with its thousands of slate tiles, each reacting differently to the light. Some are rough, dull, absorbing it; others gleam like glass. Brownish ones, purple. – The windows all have the same segmented pediment, featuring a woman’s head and a set of antlers of sorts. Heavy garlands of fruit beneath. No shutters. Everywhere only that blackish stone. Some windows smeared with a milky blue; others half-veiled by blinds made from matting. Above the compressed, choked central doorway, two long, narrow niches, which extend over two floors. In them are statues, endeavouring to reach the top while also keeping their massive limbs within the confined space. A stocky old man, his robes hitched up, a club jammed under his arm. Gnarled, bald head. A youth, bunches of grapes in both hands, one pressed to his neck, the other against his hip. The communs* have identical niches in the same place, into which enormous female figures have been confined. One can only see their massive thighs and breasts, the elbows poking out of the façade. To the right, on the ground floor, garages have been erected behind rough gates encrusted with yellowy-brown paint, into which a round hole has been cut to serve as a window. Next to it is the concierge’s door. A wicker stool, like one from a church, with a ball of wool on it. The rustle of a newspaper, the sizzle of a frying pan. The smell does not carry.
Blackout
The sparse lamps, with their long black card sleeves, cast [blank] at the carrefours, dull flashes being picked up by panes of glass, gold lettering on shops, the golden animal heads on the boucheries, cafés. Most of the shops behind heavy lead-grey curtains of sheet metal. The blackout cloth on the café’s revolving door, too short, in constant motion, light swashing out. On the empty terrace, in the first row of tables, a sleeping clochard, his bags on the chairs alongside. His head is sunk forward, into the gaping neck of his coat. The purr of dynamos, the lights on approaching bicycles sweeping from one side of the street to the other, long winking beams which, when they pass under a streetlight, become small, myopic, wall-eyed. Strings of tiny blue lights bar the way, denoting torn-up cobblestones. Running aground into banks of sand. A squaddie, running late, scurries along the middle of the street, a jangle of metal always coming a fraction of a second after the thud of his boot. The silence of those dodging him. The cat in the gutter, like a patch of the darkest damp: it recoils, padding across the street. The face of someone which does not light up when they brush past, revealing only a bluish sheen, followed by the muted white of two large eyeballs: a negro. The tall, arched gates, panelled and studded, are closed. But the narrow door cut into them is unlocked, yielding when one pushes against it, noiselessly, into the deep black of the gateway. It does not quite reach the ground; one must lift one’s legs over the remaining strip of gate, like in bulkheads on a ship. Out of one, the slippered feet of a concierge emerge, the [blank] Out of another, one after the other, come three male figures [blank] Lean, in loose-fitting black suits, they appear to be carrying heavy bags.
The gardens leading up to the Terrasse at Saint-Germain
The steep, short break in the undulating woodland of the Seine valley. A lush overgrown ridge. The river has pushed itself away, with a flat strip of alluvial soil. Orchards, for the most part neglected, narrow vineyards (one cannot see any grapes), kitchen gardens. Pale green lettuces, the jungle of beanstalks, cabbages in short rows, kohlrabi tubers, heavy nodding poppy heads. Some swamped by thick weeds, the shape of the plants blurred, the only indication individual cabbages which have bolted. Untended since the year before, the gardens hold their ground spontaneously against the jungle of weeds, through self-seeding. Slumped scarecrows, bags stuffed with straw. Large yellowy-blue squashes balancing gingerly on the dry topsoil. Other plots completely consumed by dense forests of shrubs; clematis woven into a solid mass. In certain places, it is still flowering with thousands of yellow-white dots and stars; in others, with its feathery seed heads, it forms a grey cloud, spanning the space between the trees in soft [blank], weaving up towards the top. Elsewhere it is dead woody strands which shackle the trunks, pulling them down. Alders form the bulk. One can make out a solitary old cherry tree with its dull leaves, already brown in places. The unshakeably pure, clearly defined shape of the sycamore. The overripe reddish-blue clusters of elderberries. Huge stinging nettles and burdocks mingle from below, the hairs on their uppermost leaves tinged red.
Towards the octagon at the northern end of the Terrasse the ground is less steep, approaching from some way away and reaching higher up. In tall thin grass stand hundreds of stunted fruit trees. The soil here must be particularly poor. Swallows dart overhead, flying low, criss-crossing with frenzied little cries. In one tree one comes across – the mouth puckering, athirst, with sharpness – colonies of little reddish-green apples. – Overcast sky, south-west wind, localized rain; afternoon. Clouds coming across from the Marly aqueduct.
The fierce, yet short-winded attempt by the vegetation on the river plain to surge up towards the elongated Terrasse, tying itself in knots.
Boulevard Montmartre
In the west, at street level, the sky still glows (one cannot look at it), slowly cooling via yellow, green, purple. Long, solid, green rays through the tops of the plane trees. Alpenglow on some of the roofs along one side of the street. A delicate pink, of which soon only a purplish-white fluorescence remains. Up on the last, the highest of the narrow balconies, are women in peignoirs; gaunt, hollow cheeks. Two stand with their arms around each other’s waists. It soon gets dark. The sky turns lilac, greyish-blue. The scattered clouds, ablaze a moment ago, are nothing but blotches, expanses of dark brown. Looking between the motionless walls of plane trees, one can see a section of recessed balcony on one façade, painted a reddish brown. Lifeless illuminated letters. Men in shirtsleeves lounge in the windows. A café – red and blue neon lights – being swept out by the garçon, his apron hanging down almost to the ground. Another, unfashionably déserté, with heavy imitation wood panelling and a coffered ceiling; four laid tables, only one with a customer. – – Music, of varying richness – excited twittering behind fabric, glass – trumpet blasts blaring out onto the street. German marches, “Das kann doch einen Seemann nicht erschüttern”.† All-female dance bands mostly, the first violinist nubile, slim, with horn-rimmed spectacles and a high forehead.
Only the back row of tables on the café terrace is occupied. Bourgeois couples in silence, looking in opposite directions. Only a few passers-by; their eyes follow them for a time. Man in a beret, grey side-whiskers, Légion d’honneur rosette. Bière Koenigshofen, Tiger beer. Single ladies, unsettled parce que “l’entrée au café est interdite aux dames seules”. One can see their outline against the light from inside: the strong, agile chin, the little straw hat which has slipped forward, askew. Summer furs, good for fluffing up.
The flow of people outside continues to swell, often backing up outside the entrance to the café, in the narrow inlet between the tables. Especially if the band is playing. Clochards with slanting shoulders, open mouths, forearms buried in endless bags. One scratches his beard, deep in thought. The waiter comes slowly over, without looking at him, closer; the clochard straightens his sack and puts out to sea once more. “Professeurs” with broad slouching hats, thick bamboo walking sticks, oversized gaiters and wrinkled faces lemon yellow or the colour of parchment. Garde mobile in pairs, well-fed coppery faces, thumbs in their shoulder straps, sauntering along, in lively conversation. An imbecile with watery eyes and cropped, fuzzy hair, his buttoned-up green coat seemingly his only item of clothing. A tall negro gentleman in a snappy blue suit, pale felt shoes, carrying a heavy walking stick.
It gets darker and darker and the worm of people begins to sprawl more and more. The scraping, clattering of thousands of shoes, sandals, soldiers’ hooves. The number of soldiers now increasing by the minute. Whole bunches around the non-coms, stumbling on, faltering; stragglers’ eyes are caught by the girls, before they come lumbering up behind. Into a bar, and then the next minute spat back out onto the street: there was nothing going on. Loners, small and mean; older territorials, long breeches flapping down over lace-up boots with domed, distended toecaps. A bayonet dangling somewhere by a skinny behind, shoulders sloping sharply. A moustache the width of your thumb, a gold tooth; beneath the tan an anaemic, measly face. They stand for hours by shop windows, their arms behind their backs, before shambling across the street towards a girl. There’s a very casual approach to saluting; the night swallows up the silver braid, and one can hardly raise one’s arm in the throng. The officers don’t set much store by it, either; they seem in a hurry, irritated by the delay, and, blinking, try to turn round but briefly. A little lieutenant, with scrubbed, chubby cheeks, races past several times, for completely no reason, brushing the terrace like a lawnmower. A conscript, pale, slight, with horn-rimmed spectacles, is the first to take a seat at the front row of tables; uneasy on his chair, he twists his neck, then gets up, without having had a drink. OT men,‡ speaking in a dreadful mush of dialects, and always at the tops of their voices. Narrow-brimmed Tyrolean hats, breeches, leather coats.
And, along with the soldiers, a real mass of girls. Always the same type, repeated a hundredfold: the non-professionals. Small, stocky, bareheaded, the glossy, dark black hair that should be left to grow scraped right back, one frisette across the shoulders, another across the forehead, always the same shape. Bare legs, high-heeled sandals, clacking wooden soles. A suit jacket hanging across the shoulders, a twirling little handbag. In twos, fours, laughing with their heads together, whispering. Très sportives. They are onto the squaddies in a flash, and know various bits of German: no gud – no expensive – leesten – gud bye etc. Their conversation draws uninhibited looks from any of their fellow countrymen strolling by. They lock step with the squaddies, hooking their arms through theirs, or wrapping them around them. Two girls, one of them wearing a thin coat of fake panther skin. First, they negotiate with two stolid, senior flak lance corporals in a doorway, then they tramp past on their own, then back again with two slouching little infantrymen. Opposite are the real “poules”, a significant minority group. In their big hats, high heels, furs weighing on their shoulders, they look like tall stately caravels among the common fishing smacks. Complete disregard for the other prevails between the two groups. But the classic [blank] the way they imperceptibly slow down, showing their figures to advantage, look behind them, then come back, is somehow wasted. It is rare to see one who has managed to draw a little squaddie, like a schoolboy, to one side, coaxing him with slow, deliberate words. He shakes his head, counting out with his fingers. Domestic trade seems to be entirely out of the question; one can see a hunger in the flâneurs’ eyes, but their faces remain switched off, unassuaged. – Wreaths of straw come slowly floating across, newsgirls with their dry lifeless blond hair. They have taken off their caps, studying them with affection, abandoned. Unhurriedly leading from the hip, as if the flow bore them in its midst when, in actual fact, each wave avoids them. Even German civilians survive being swallowed up, going under, bobbing along like blown-up pigs’ bladders. Yesterday’s overindulgences, still not fully digested, in no way dampen the restless, greedy and yet dismissive looks on their faces: taking it all in, not missing a thing, but never attracting attention; not getting caught where it doesn’t pay to or where they aren’t allowed. There aren’t any good seats left here; that tart’s legs are too thin; the café opposite looks like a swizz. The waiter straightens a table, the girl takes her handbag from a neighbouring chair – but of the Allemand one can only see the folds of his neck. An insincere sweet-and-sour smile hoisted across the lips or the blatant jutting chin of a criminal. Some strut along with a ponderous rocking motion, others are hunched: they seem keen to sneak away in their mackintoshes, self-effacing, as if they did not exist. – An attractive, almost provocatively dressed boy stands motionless by one of the tables, earnestly trying to catch the punters’ eyes. Silken jet-black hair, a great whorl at the back of his head, his fringe coming down almost to his eyebrows. On being asked by the waiter why he is not in bed: “Mais, j’ai douze ans, je porte une cravate.” And the old woman with the great green woollen shawl who stands for hours, as if turned to stone, in the dark shadows beside the newspaper kiosk, her bare arms folded across her chest. The kiosk itself has become a dazzling beacon of light; it streams from the window, from underneath, moulding the forehead of the woman who runs it into thick bulges. – Now one can discern solid middle-class couples, gens très bien, who have eaten together in the restaurant, [one word illegible] saying goodbye to each other. Trim ladies in immaculate tailored suits, hair swept up from the neck, a tightly furled umbrella hanging from their arm.
