Castle to Castle, page 6
While they meditate about whether to hand you over or not, you do a little thinking yourself . . . your problems . . . you're no bother to them at the bottom of your hole! . . . They're a gang of Tartuffes! ten times worse than ours! . . . Protestant Tartuffes, hats off! you can rot while they're meditating . . . they don't mind . . . they're Puritans! . . . they'd meditate for twenty years . . . until you've no body left . . . nothing but rotten skin . . . scabs . . . lichen . . . pellagra . . . and blind! . . . like all the prisons in the world, you'll say . . . I won't argue . . . the Renault case isn't unique . . . and once they've finished weighing the pros and cons . . . they come and get you in the end . . . crrreek, crrreek . . . in the middle of the night . . . the heavy door . . . four bruisers in overalls! Remove the object! Komm! You hear the pig-sticking! That "pip-cell" 11,12! I know what I'm talking about . . . The Tartuffe of the North is somebody! Molière's Tartuffe is a baby . . . Plenty of times I've heard Hjelp! Hjelp! Next day he's dead . . . you never see him again!
It happens in Fresnes? . . . naturally . . . everywhere! . . . Renault? Tomorrow Cocteau . . . tomorrow Armide . . . Abbé Fatso isn't, exempt! . . . or Dr. Clyster! . . . even Mauriac in his bikini, the "Express" as he calls himself . . . they'll catch up with him! they catch up with everybody, at midnight in the cage . , .
Hjelp! that means "help" . . . you've caught on! you arrive in Copenhagen . . . "Taxi!" . . . Hotel d'Angleterre? . . . Certainly not! Vesterfangsel! . . . don't back down! insist! that's where you want to go! you want to see it! not the Little Mermaid! You want to hear: Komm! Hjelp! . . . that's all! . . .
When I think of the people I hear talking politics, I can see them in the bus . . . a real bus! with real gratings, jam-packed with criminals like you! . . . not criminals à la Charlie Chaplin! honest to God criminals with handcuffs and straitjackets! guarded by a dozen tommy guns . . . what a show! . . . the passersby weave and waver, cling to the shopfronts . . . for fear this might happen to them . . . their consciences quake! scared shitless! . . . memories . . . it's a rare passerby that hasn't got a little abortion tucked away . . . a little theft . . . nothing to be ashamed of! the only thing to be ashamed of is poverty! the one and only! Take me, for instance, no car, a doctor on foot! what do I look like? . . . The advantage of a doctor, even if he's a prize dope, is that with a telephone call . . . he gets there . . . often there's no ambulance available . . . taxis? . . . you can never find one . . . even the most idiotic of doctors has his car! . . . even with my ghastly reputation . . . the old jailbird . . . if I had a car, people wouldn't think me so crummy, so old . . . cars. and more cars . . . what a laugh! . . . that one up there wasn't mine! nor any of these down here . . . I'm expecting Achille's . . . in case he wants to show me his horrible accounts . . . proving that I owe him enormous sums, so he says! homo deliquensis, as I've said . . . give him the whole bus to himself! and hell, why not? his whole Trust with him! . . . and Norbert trotting along behind! in handcuffs and corset! that's the way I see it!
When you got to Police Headquarters, you could wait at least five, six hours . . . for somebody to come and get you . . . five, six hours on your feet, each man in a vertical coffin, under lock and key . . . I can safely say that I've stood for hours and hours in the course of my life . . . on guard, cooling my heels, in war as in peace . . . but in those vertical boxes at the Copenhagen Politiigaard . . . I've never felt like such a creep . . . waiting to be questioned . . . by whom? about what? I had plenty of time to think it over . . . here we go! . . . they opened my box . . . they helped me up the stairs . . . they had to! . . . two cops . . . the effects of beriberi and also of waiting at the vertical . . . the office was on the fifth floor . . . the cops helped me ever so gently . . . never any brutality . . . I tried everything to shake off my dizziness . . . to keep from staggering . . . from crumpling . . . no use! . . . I fold up . . . that's my pellagra! . . . You can read in any medical treatise that it's easy to cure the scurvy . . . a few slices of lemon . . . your health, sir! . . . all the same I'm a wreck and always will be . . . they'll bury me this way . . . okay, okay! So I'm on my last legs, but that's no excuse for losing me in transit! I was telling you about the stairs . . . Here we are on the fifth floor . . . an amusing little sidelight on their Politiigaard . . . the way it's stacked . . . corridors and corridors so twisty . . . hairpins and corkscrews . . . that supposing you made a break . . . no matter when or where . . . you always end up in a court where the "bruisers" are waiting for you . . . special cops . . . you get a message that sends you to the hospital. . . so don't get any fancy ideas . . . for me it was out of the question . . . not with my hundred years . . . all the "treatises" in the world can't change it . . . what's done . . . is done . . . your Nordic prison is built with that in mind! Those guys who are sticking their necks out now in Budapest and Warsaw . . . some of them are going to end up in the house of numbers . . . it's in the cards . . . ask them in twenty years what they think about all this . . . the tourist, as I said, doesn't see a thing, he follows the guide . . . Hotel d'Angleterre, Nyehavn, the tattooed babies, the Big Tower . . . the Mermaid . . . he's satisfied, he goes back home, he talks a blue streak . . . He's seen . . . two, three horses with the trademark of the Carlsberg brewery, wearing their little summer hats! . . . that's what the tourist sees!
Back to my fifth floor! hoisted by cops on both sides . . .here we are! they sit me down . . . three Krimimlassistents are going to question me . . . by turns . . . oh, without the slightest brutality . . . But so invariably boring . . . "Do you admit handing over the plans of the Maginot Line to the Germans?" And myself just as invariably: No! and I signed! every bit as serious as they were! all this went on in English . . . that gives you an idea of the decline of our language . . . If it had been under Louis XIV or even Fallieres, they'd never have dared . . . "Do you admit? . . . Do you admit? . . ." My ass! no! non! signed . . . no comment! once I had said no and signed, they put my handcuffs back on and took me down to the bus . . . and off again . . . the whole city, from East to West!
It went on like that for months and then one day I couldn't move at all . . . the three Kriminalassistents came over to see me . . . in my hole . . . to ask me the same question all over again . . . and when I say a hole I mean a hole! go see for yourself, ten by ten, twenty feet deep . . . a well . . . just the thing for moss, beriberi and lichens! I who lived eighteen years in the Passage Choiseul, I know something about dismal abodes . . . but the Venstre takes the cake! a slight suspicion that I'd die there? definitely . . . no scandal, no brutality . . . "He couldn't take it!" Take Renault for instance . . . the way they went about it! Stupid to be in such a hurry! two years at the bottom of a well, they'd have had him! Nothing to worry about! . . . for me, five, six months . . . I'd kick off . . . I was supposed to! . . . seventy-five percent disability! . . . No soap! . . . I stuck it out! Lousy luck!
Now, ten years later, here in Meudon-Bellevue, nobody asks me anything . . . they tease me a bit . . . but not much . . . I don't worry my head about them either . . . other troubles . . . gas, electricity . . . coal! and carrots! The pirates who walked off with everything I had . . . sold it all in the Flea Market . . . they don't have to worry about hunger . . . or anything else . . . crime pays . . . Olympic champions for crust! arm-bands, ribbons . . . ten . . . twelve party cards! if they'd cut off my head with a penknife, they'd have been on the Arc de Triomphe! glory! and not "unknown"! . . . Oh no, in neon lights.
But maybe it's wrong of me to complain . . . I'm alive after all . . . and I lose an enemy or two every day . . . cancer, apoplexy, gluttony . . . it's a pleasure the number that pass on! . . . I'm not hard to please . . . a name! . . . another! . . . there are good things in life . . .
Oh yes, I was telling you about Thomine . . . Thomine, my cat, I forgot! senility is no excuse . . . I was telling you about my patients too . . . my last few . . . in consideration of my kindness, my patience, and because they're all very old and I refuse to be paid! oh, absolutely! . . . these few very very old people still come around . . .
My way of life dates from the Second Empire . . . a practitioner of the "liberal arts" . . . supposedly . . . Once I've paid my taxes and my dues to the Medical Association, paid for my license and a bit of heat, and my burial insurance . . . I'm cleaned out . . . that's the truth! . . . flat! . . . liberal arts . . . a good joke . . . I know what you're going to say: "Bleed your Achille! all he has to do is sell a few of your books! . . ." Hell! that's one thing he's careful not to do . . . all he can do is scream that I'm ruining him . . . talk about monumental advances . . . oh, hypocritical Achille! . . . what people! . . . he does everything in his power, two-timing, three-timing, apocalyptic maneuvers! . . . to prevent people from buying my books . . . he keeps me in his cellar, he buries me . . . there'll be a new edition in a thousand years . . . but here and now in Bellevue . . . I can croak . . .' "Ah yes, Céline! . . . he's in our cellar . . . he'll be out in a thousand years! . . ." In a thousand years nobody'll speak French! ah, jug-headed Achille! hell, it's like lace! . . . I saw lace dying out . . . with my own eyes . . . my mother in Père Lachaise hasn't even got her name on her grave . . . that's proof enough . . . I'll tell you about her . . . Marguerite Céline . . . on account of me, the shame of it . . . for fear people would spit on it . . .
Though I'd never claim to be a St. Vincent de Paul or an Axel Munthe, a lot of people say I make too much of animals . . . they're right . . . zwieback, bacon, hempseed, duckweed, hamburger . . . it all goes! . . . dogs, cats, titmice, sparrows, robins, hedgehogs . . . they eat us out of house and home! and the gulls from the Renault roofs . . . in the winter . . . from the factory down below . . . on the island . . . we're suckers, I have to admit! . . . especially as they all bring their friends . . . hedgehogs, robins, titmice . . . especially in the winter . . . from Upper Meudon . . . if it weren't for us, they'd have a pretty rough time in the winter . . . I say Upper Meudon . . . from further still! from Yveline! . . . we're at the end of the Forest of Yveline . . . the extreme tip . . . then comes the Bois de Boulogne, Billancourt . . .
All right, our animals are a drain . . . I admit it . . . in times like this we should watch our step . . . we do! we do! but then ten new birds turn up . . .
The scrawniest of my charges is spoiled compared to me . . . and I work harder . . . a lot harder! . . . and my protégé doesn't suspect it . . . brain work is invisible . . . I'm ending in total bankruptcy . . . it shames me . . . Last Sunday, for instance, a lady from Clichy, one of my earliest patients, a really distinguished lady, educated, intelligent, well-informed, came to see me . . . she'd crossed Paris from end to end in the Métro, on the bus . . . what courage! . . . I congratulate her . . . she isn't even out of breath! . . . she came to ask me a little advice . . . I've taken care of her whole family . . . in turn I ask her what's become of this one and that one, people I knew well . . . news about places too . . . Porte Pouchet, Square de Lorraine, rue Fanny . . . what they've done with Rouguet's? . . . she knows . . . she knows everything . . . some of them still remember me . . . they've grown old . . . They send me their kind regards, their best wishes . . . they all know what's happened to me . . . they think it's terribly unjust . . . throwing me in the clink . . . though if I'd stayed in Clichy they'd certainly have cut me to pieces! . . . Let's talk about something else . . . about hospitals . . . about the enormous Bichat Hospital . . . and the Town Hall . . . the officials . . . the Commies and the antis . . . about Naile who committed suicide . . . he was a Parisian like me . . . it's unusual in the Paris suburbs to find an official who isn't from the Basses-Alpes or from Hainaut . . . you don't feel at ease in the Paris suburbs unless you're from the Drôme or Finistère or Périgord . . . at the Town Hall for instance . . . "Where were you born?" Courbevoie, Seine . . . the lady frowns . . . you've put your foot in it . . .
Anyway, à propos of Naile, we start talking about Aufray, the former mayor . . . and then about Ichok . . . the phony doctor, who committed suicide, too . . . it's amazing . . . you never know what's going on . . . what's being hatched and finagled in the corridors of a town hall! triple-padded doors, offices "open day and night" . . . nobody ever there . . . nowadays it's not in the sacristies that daggers are sharpened . . . that prussic acid is sold! No, the mystery, the intrigue have moved . . . you'll find plenty in the Welfare offices . . . the biggest mystery to come my way in Clichy was the business with Roudiere, a clerk in the Hygiene office . . . We'll come back to it . . . This Monsieur Roudiere died . . . of cancer! yes, yes, but make no mistake! there was politics at the bottom of it! . . . I know, I saw him . . . he was blackjacked! . . . and how! . . . laid out cold . . . his ulcer bled for six months . . . poor bastard, I won't bring him back to life . . . there's no street named after him like so many other people . . . if he'd done the blackjacking, there'd be a rue Roudière . . . what a joke! Talking this way, about one thing and another . . . reminds me of the murder in the Maison Verte . . . the stiff that disappeared . . . nothing unusual, a murder in a bar, at the counter . . . the spice, the mystery . . . is that they never found the corpse! They saw it happen . . . they saw the guy fold! with two knives in his back . . . he was through! By the time they'd notified the cops to come see . . . and gone for a stretcher . . . the stiff had blown . . . naturally somebody must have given him a hand . . . They arrest everybody . . . the owner, the witness, the maid, the whole shebang! an hour later the bulls come back! dirty work at the crossroads! the corpse was there, back again . . . the same one! with three knives in his back! . . . that was going too far! . . . they go back to Headquarters, spread the alarm . . . but by the time they'd got back to the bar the corpse had blown again! absolutely! hide-and-seek! . . . in the end they gave up . . . From one memory to another . . . Maison Verte . . . Porte Pouchet . . . I got to talking about St Vincent de Paul . . .
"And how about St. Vincent de Paul?"
The famous old people's home . . . I've tended patients there too . . . sick inmates and nuns . . .
"How much does it cost now at St. Vincent de Paul?"
All old people worry about that . . . it's their obsession . . . the price of board at old people's homes . . . my mother and father collected the prospectuses of the Bonnaviat Foundation, the Garigari Foundation, the Petits Ménages at Euques-sur-Ourque . . . in my state, I must admit the place for me would be St. Vincent de Paul . . .
"You know how much they ask?"
"Oh, in the old days it wasn't expensive . . . in the old days . . . but now . . . now, Doctor . . . it's 1,200 francs a day! . . ."
"A day?"
"Yes, yes . . . a day!"
"You think so? You really think so, Madame?"
That really wraps it up! . . . 1,200 francs at St Vincent de Paul . . . might as well stay with Abbé Pierre . . . same racket . . . If you ask me, that takes the green banana . . . 1,200 francs a day . . . When I think of what Lili and I had to live on . . . a far cry from 1,200 smackers! . . . what things have come to . . . it takes a genius to keep alive . . . For Brottin, of course, 1,200 francs is a joke . . with his two thousand authors in the cellar, two thousand frantic workers! . . . his Titans of the Lavender Seriss, turning them out with a crank . . . mimeographs, plagiographs . . . and so on . . . they'll give him a pension of ten million . . . Achille's as good as the Bank of France! with his authors in the cellar. . . turn the crank! and bingo! round and round! . . . he and his publishing house, his whole clique and family . . . they've all got so much bread they can't even count it . . . in thirty-six banks! all in the cellar! authors and money! . . . just go take a look at the pyramids, the impressive exterior is nothing, it's what's underneath that counts! deep down in the crypts! there sits the mummy with his goldl and his two thousand author-slaves! and sniveling Loukoum! . . . his Loukoum! . . . his private castrator! the gluttonous monster! slug mouth, hungry for shit, never leaves a scrap! the shit's in a drawing room? good! hoopla! there he slithers! dinner is served! . . . floods of slime . . . he sucks it in, he oozes it out! gulp, gulp! . . . that's him all right!
Okay, but meanwhile my patient, my old friend, had struck me a hard blow! I was aghast . . . 1,200 francs at St. Vincent de Paul! our future, mine and Lili's, looked grim . . .
Oh, you'll say, what about gas? You complain about the gas bills? . . . just give yourself the gas! . . . chin up! . . . read your favorite newspaper . . . people who can't take it any more give themselves the gas! . . . Not so good! After thirty-five years of practice I can tell you a thing or two . . . they don't always make it . . . far from it! they get revived . . . .they don't die but they suffer plenty . . . on the way out, and on the way back . . . a thousand deaths, a thousand recoveries! and the smell! . . . the neighbors come running! . . . they wreck the joint! if they've stolen too much, fire's the answer! . . . they set fire to the curtains . . . a little more suffering for you . . . asphyxia and burns . . . to cap the climax . . . No, gas is bad business . . . the safest method, take it from me, I've been consulted a hundred times, is a hunting rifle in your mouth! stuck in deep! . . . and bang! . . . you blow your brains out . . . one drawback: the mess! . . . the furniture, the ceiling! brains and blood clots . . . take it from me, I've had ample experience of suicides . . . successful and unsuccessful . . . Prison might help you! that's another way of crossing out your existence! . . . Definitely! the dungeon that annihilates time! . . . suicide little by little . . . but under normal conditions everybody can't do time . . . in Bezons, Sartrouville, or Clichy, for instance . . . ah, and don't forget Siegmaringen! . . . there it was pretty urgent! . . . the lot of them with Article 75 on their ass! . . . urgent, I repeat! they all had good reason! the nabobs of the Castle just as much as the small fry in the attics! . . . a general test of the nerves! . . . the whole planet yapping and yelping . . . reviling them as monsters and worse! . . . one kind of torture wouldn't be enough . . . thousands and thousands . . . and then some . . . for centuries! . . . even my patients at the Fidelis who were practically dead, with the pus pouring out, eaten with mange, spitting up their pancreas and their bowels, asked me for a way to end like in a dream . . . Some dream! The politicos in the Castle, I can tell you, were the most intent . . . how to go about it? Did I know the best way? revolver? . . . cyanide? . . . hanging? . . . Laval, of course, had his own dodge . . . Laval was proud! he wouldn't deign to ask me . . . and look what happened to him . . . cyanide spoiled by moisture . . . he was so smart! how will de Gaulle end? and Mollet? . . . they don't know . . . they go on chewing the fat . . . as for me, I'll finish myself off in the garden . . . out there . . . plenty of room . . . or maybe the cellar would be better? . . . the cellar's a good place too . . . the cat goes down to have her kittens . . . regularly . . . Lili helps her, massages her . . . nobody will help me . . . They won't give Lili any trouble . . . all neat and orderly . . . The police will investigate . . . cause of suicide? . . . neurasthenia . . . I'll leave a letter for the Public Prosecutor and a small sum of money for Lili . . . when I go over the hill . . . Lili won't get much . . . but all the same, enough to live on for two, three years . . . after all the hurricanes, tornadoes, barbarian hordes, looters of every camp, "warrants" and handcuffs . . . if we still have a few cents left . . . it's a miracle! The whole world gone haywire . . . I'd like to have seen Achille in that mess! him and his gang, his pantless Pin-brain-Trust! ,
