s dull as cement; leaves no dew can bring to glisten again. No moon will
ever silver their listless plight. The seasons are come to a stagnant stop,
the trees blench and wither, the wagons roll in the mica ruts with slithering
harp-like thuds. In the hollow of the white-tipped hills, lurid and boneless
Dijon slumbers. No man alive and walking through the night except the
restless spirits moving southward towards the sapphire grids. Yet I am up and
about, a walking ghost, a white man terrorized by the cold sanity of this
slaughter house geometry. Who am I? What am I doing here? I fall between the
cold walls of human malevolence, a white figure fluttering, sinking down
through the cold lake, a mountain of skulls above me. I settle down to the
cold latitudes, the chalk steps washed with indigo. The earth in its dark
corridors knows my step, feels a foot abroad, a wing stirring, a gasp and a
shudder. I hear the learning chaffed and chuzzled, the figures mounting
upward, bat-slime dripping aloft and clanging with pasteboard golden wings; I
hear the trains collide, the chains rattle, the locomotive chugging,
snorting, sniffing, steaming and pissing. All things come to me through the
clear fog with the odor of repetition, with yellow hangovers and gadzooks and
whettikins. In the dead center, far below Dijon, far below the hyperborean
regions, stands God Ajax, his shoulders strapped to the mill wheel, the
olives crunching, the green marsh water alive with croaking frogs.
The fog and snow, the cold latitude, the heavy learning, the blue coffee,
the unbuttered bread, the soup and lentils, the heavy pork-packer beans, the
stale cheese, the soggy chow, the lousy wine has put the whole penitentiary
into a state of constipation. And just when everyone has become shit-tight
the toilet pipes freeze. The shit piles up like ant-hills; one has to move
down from the little pedestals and leave it on the floor. It lies there
stiff and frozen, waiting for the thaw. On Thursdays the hunchback comes
with his little wheelbarrow, shovels the cold, stiff turds with a broom and
pan, and trundles off dragging his withered leg. The corridors are littered
with toilet paper; it sticks to your feet like fly-paper. When the weather
moderates the odor gets ripe; you can smell it in Winchester forty miles
away. Standing over that ripe dung in the morning, with a toothbrush, the
stench is so powerful that it makes your head spin. We stand around in red
flannel shirts, waiting to spit down the hole; it is like an aria from one
of Verdi's operas -- an anvil chorus with pulleys and syringes. In the night,
when I am taken short, I rush down to the private toilet of M. le Censeur,
just off the driveway. My stool is always full of blood. His toilet doesn't
flush either but at least there is the pleasure of sitting down. I leave my
little bundle for him as a token of esteem.
Towards the end of the meal each evening the veilleur de nuit drops in
for his bit of cheer. This is the only human being in the whole institution
with whom I feel a kinship. He is a nobody. He carries a lantern and a bunch
of keys. He makes the rounds through the night, stiff as an automaton. About
the time the stale cheese is being passed around, in he pops for his glass of
wine. He stands there, with paw outstretched, his hair stiff and wiry, like a
mastiff's, his cheeks ruddy, his moustache gleaming with snow. He mumbles a
word or two and Quasimodo brings him the bottle. Then, with feet solidly
planted, he throws back his head and down it goes, slowly in one long
draught. To me it's like he's pouring rubies down his gullet. Something about
this gesture which seizes me by the hair. It's almost as if he were drinking
down the dregs of human sympathy, as if all the love and compassion in the
world could be tossed off like that, in one gulp -- as if that were all that
could be squeezed together day after day. A little less than a rabbit they
have made him. In the scheme of things he's not worth the brine to pickle a
herring. He's just a piece of live manure. And he knows it. When he looks
around after his drink and smiles at us, the world seems to be falling to
pieces. It's a smile thrown across an abyss. The whole stinking civilized
world lies like a quagmire at the bottom of the pit, and over it, like a
mirage, hovers this wavering smile.
It was the same smile which greeted me at night when I returned from my
rambles. I remember one such night when, standing at the door waiting for the
old fellow to finish his rounds, I had such a sense of well-being that I
could have waited thus forever. I had to wait perhaps half an hour before he
opened the door. I looked about me calmly and leisurely, drank everything in,
the dead tree in front of the school with its twisted rope branches, the
houses across the street which had changed color during the night, which
curved now more noticeably, the sound of a train rolling through the Siberian
wastes, the railings painted by Utrillo, the sky, the deep wagon-ruts.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, two lovers appeared; every few yards they stopped
and embraced, and when I could no longer follow them with my eyes I followed
the sound of their steps, heard the abrupt stop, and then the slow,
meandering gait. I could feel the sag and slump of their bodies when they
leaned against a rail, heard their shoes creak as the muscles tightened for
the embrace. Through the town they wandered, through the crooked streets,
towards the glassy canal where the water lay black as coal. There was
something phenomenal about it. In all Dijon not two like them.
Meanwhile the old fellow was making the rounds; I could hear the jingle of
his keys; the crunching of his boots, the steady, automatic tread. Finally I
heard him coming through the driveway to open the big door, a monstrous,
arched portal without a moat in front of it. I heard him fumbling at
the lock, his hands stiff, his mind numbed. As the door swung open I
saw over his head a brilliant constellation crowning the chapel. Every door
was locked, every cell bolted. The books were closed. The night hung close,
dagger-pointed, drunk as a maniac. There it was, the infinitude of emptiness.
Over the chapel, like a bishop's mitre, hung the constellation, every night,
during the winter months, it hung there low over the chapel. Low and bright,
a handful of dagger points, a dazzle of pure emptiness. The old fellow
followed me to the turn of the drive. The door closed silently. As I bade him
good night I caught that desperate, hopeless smile again, like a meteoric
flash over the rim of a lost world. And again I saw him standing in the
refectory, his head thrown back and the rubies pouring down his gullet. The
whole Mediterranean seemed to be buried inside him -- the orange groves, the
cypress trees, the winged statues, the wooden temples, the blue sea, the
stiff masks, the mystic numbers, the mythological birds, the sapphire skies,
the eaglets, the sunny coves, the blind bards, the bearded heroes. Gone all
that. Sunk beneath the avalanche from the North. Buried, dead forever. A
memory. A wild hope.
For just a moment I linger at the carriageway. The shroud, the pall, the
unspeakable, clutching emptiness of it all. Then I walk quickly along the
gravel path near the wall, past the arches and columns, the iron staircases,
from one quadrangle to the other. Everything is locked tight. Locked for the
winter. I find the arcade leading to the dormitory. A sickish light spills
down over the stairs from the grimy, frosted windows. Everywhere the paint
is peeling off. The stones are hollowed out, the bannister creaks; a damp
sweat oozes from the flagging and forms a pale, fuzzy aura pierced by the
feeble red light at the head of the stairs. I mount the last flight, the
turret, in a sweat and terror. In pitch darkness I grope my way through the
deserted corridor, every room empty, locked, moulding away. My hand slides
along the wall seeking the keyhole. A panic comes over me as I grasp the
door-knob. Always a hand at my collar ready to yank me back. Once inside the
room I bolt the door. It's a miracle which I perform each night, the miracle
of getting inside without being strangled, without being struck down by an
axe. I can hear the rats scurrying through the corridor, gnawing away over my
head between the thick rafters. The light glares like burning sulphur and
there is the sweet, sickish stench of a room which is never ventilated. In
the corner stands the coal-box, just as I left it. The fire is out. A silence
so intense that it sounds like Niagara Falls in my ears.
Alone, with a tremendous empty longing and dread. The whole room for my
thoughts. Nothing but myself and what I think, what I fear. Could think the
most fantastic thoughts, could dance, spit, grimace, curse, wail -- nobody
would ever know, nobody would ever hear. The thought of such absolute
privacy is enough to drive me mad. It's like a clean birth. Everything cut
away. Separate, naked, alone. Bliss and agony simultaneously. Time on your
hands. Each second weighing on you like a mountain. You drown in it.
Deserts, seas, lakes, oceans. Time beating away like a meat-axe.
Nothingness. The world. The me and the not-me. Oomaharamooma.
Everything has to have a name. Everything has to be learned, tested,
experienced. Faites comme chez. vous, cheri.
The silence descends in volcanic chutes. Yonder, in the barren hills,
rolling onward towards the great metallurgical regions, the locomotives are
pulling their merchant products. Over steel and iron beds they roll, the
ground sown with slag and cinders and purple ore. In the baggage car, kelps,
fishplate, rolled iron, sleepers, wire rods, plates and sheets, laminated
articles, hot rolled hoops, splints and mortar carriages, and Zores ore. The
wheels U-80 millimetres or over. Pass splendid specimens of Anglo-Norman
architecture, pass pedestrians and pederasts, open hearth furnaces, basic
Bessemer mills, dynamos and transformers, pig iron castings and steel
ingots. The public at large, pedestrians and pederasts, gold-fish and
spun-glass palm trees, donkeys sobbing, all circulating freely through
quincuncial alleys. At the Place du Bresil a lavender eye.
Going back in a flash over the women I've known. It's like a chain which I've
forged out of my own misery. Each one bound to the other. A fear of living
separate, of staying born. The door of the womb always on the latch. Dread
and longing. Deep in the blood the pull of Paradise. The beyond. Always the
beyond. It must have all started with the navel. They cut the umbilical cord,
give you a slap on the ass, and presto! you're out in the world, adrift, a
ship without a rudder. You look at the stars and then you look at your navel.
You grow eyes everywhere -- in the armpits, between your lips, in the roots
of your hair, on the soles of your feet. What is distant becomes near, what
is near becomes distant. Inner-outer, a constant flux, a shedding of skins, a
turning inside out. You drift around like that for years and years, until you
find yourself in the dead center, and there you slowly rot, slowly crumble to
pieces, get dispersed again. Only your name remains.
* * *
It was spring before I managed to escape from the penitentiary, and then
only by a stroke of fortune. A telegram from Carl informed me one day that
there was a vacancy "upstairs;" he said he would send me the fare back if I
decided to accept. I telegraphed back at once and as soon as the dough
arrived I beat it to the station. Not a word to M. le Proviseur or anyone.
French leave, as they say.
I went immediately to the hotel at 1 bis, where Carl was staying. He
came to the door stark naked. It was his night off and there was a cunt in
the bed as usual. "Don't mind her," he says, "she's asleep. If you need a lay
you can take her on. She's not bad." He pulls the covers back to show me what
she looks like. However, I wasn't thinking about a lay right away. I was too
excited. I was like a man who has just escaped from jail. I just wanted to
see and hear things. Coming from the station it was like a long dream. I felt
as though I had been away for years.
It was not until I had sat down and taken a good look at the room that I
realized I was back again in Paris. It was Carl's room and no mistake about
it. Like a squirrel-cage and shit-house combined. There was hardly room on
the table for the portable machine he used. It was always like that, whether
he had a cunt with him or not. Always a dictionary lying open on a gilt-edged
volume of Faust, always a tobacco pouch, a beret, a bottle of vin
rouge, letters, manuscripts, old newspapers, water colors, teapot, dirty
socks, toothpicks, Kruschen Salts, condoms, etc. In the bidet were
orange peels and the remnants of a ham sandwich.
"There's some food in the closet," he said. "Help yourself! I was just
going to give myself an injection."
I found the sandwich he was talking about and a piece of cheese that he had
nibbled at beside it. While he sat on the edge of the bed, dosing himself
with his argyrol, I put away the sandwich and cheese with the aid of a
little wine.
"I liked that letter you sent me about Goethe," he said, wiping his prick
with a dirty pair of drawers.
"I'll show you the answer to it in a minute -- I'm putting it in my book. The
trouble with you is that you're not a German. You have to be German to
understand Goethe. Shit, I'm not going to explain it to you now. I've put it
all in the book ... By the way, I've got a new cunt now -- not this one --
this one's a half-wit. At least, I had her until a few days ago. I'm not sure
now whether she'll come back or not. She was living here with me all the time
you were away. The other day her parents came and took her away. They said
she was only fifteen. Can you beat that? They scared the shit out of me
too...."
I began to laugh. It was like Carl to get himself into a mess like that.
"What are you laughing for?" he said. "I may go to prison for it. Luckily, I
didn't knock her up. And that's funny, too, because she never took care of
herself properly. But do you know what saved me? So I think, at least. It
was Faust. Yeah! Her old man happened to see it lying on the table.
He asked me if I understood German. One thing led to another and before I
knew it he was looking through my books. Fortunately I happened to have the
Shakespeare open too. That impressed him like hell. He said I was evidently
a very serious guy."
"What about the girl -- what did she have to say?"
"She was frightened to death. You see, she had a little watch with her when
she came; in the excitement we couldn't find the watch, and her mother
insisted that the watch be found or she'd call the police. You see how
things are here. I turned the whole place upside down -- but I couldn't find
the god-damned watch. The mother was furious. I liked her too, in spite of
everything. She was even better-looking than the daughter. Here -- I'll show
you a letter I started to write her. I'm in love with her..."
"With the mother?"
"Sure. Why not? If I had seen the mother first I'd never have looked at the
daughter. How did I know she was only fifteen? You don't ask a cunt how old
she is before you lay her. do you?"
"Joe, there's something funny about this. You're not shitting me, are you?"
"Am I shitting you? Here -- look at this!" And he shows me the water colors
the girl had made -- cute little things -- a knife and a loaf of bread, the
table and teapot, everything running uphill. "She was in love with me," he
said. "She was just like a child. I had to tell her when to brush her teeth
and how to put her hat on. Here -- look at the lollypops! I used to buy her a
few lollypops every day -- she liked them."
"Well, what did she do when her parents came to take her away? Didn't she
put up a row?"
"She cried a little, that's all. What could she do? She's under
age.... I had to promise never to see her again, never to write her either.
That's what I'm waiting to see now -- whether she'll stay away or not. She was
a virgin when she came here. The thing is, how long will she be able to go
without a lay? She couldn't get enough of it when she was here. She almost
wore me out."
By this time the one in bed had come to and was rubbing her eyes. She
looked pretty young to me, too. Not bad looking, but dumb as hell. Wanted to
know right away what we were talking about.
"She lives here in the hotel," said Carl. "On the third floor. Do you want
to go to her room? I'll fix it up for you."
I didn't know whether I wanted to or not, but when I saw Carl mushing it up
with her again I decided I did want to. I asked her first if she was too
tired. Useless question. A whore is never too tired to open her legs. Some of
them can fall asleep while you diddle them. Anyway, it was decided we would
go down to her room. Like that I wouldn't have to pay the patron for
the night.
In the morning I rented a room overlooking the little park down below where
the sandwich-board men always came to eat their lunch. At noon I called for
Carl to have breakfast with him. He and Van Norden had developed a new habit
in my absence -- they went to the Coupole for breakfast every day. "Why the
Coupole?" I asked. "Why the Coupole?" says Carl. "Because the Coupole serves
porridge at all hours and porridge makes you shit." -- "I see," said I.
So it's just like it used to be again. The three of us walking back and forth
to work. Petty dissensions, petty rivalries. Van Norden still belly-aching
about his cunts and about washing the dirt out of his belly. Only now he's
found a new diversion. He's found that it's less annoying to masturbate. I
was amazed when he broke the news to me. I didn't think it possible for a guy
like that to find any pleasure in jerking himself off. I was still more
amazed when he explained to me how he goes about it. He had "invented" a new
stunt, so he put it. "You take an apple," he says, "and you bore out the
core. Then you rub some cold cream on the inside so as it doesn't melt too
fast. Try it some time! It'll drive you crazy at first. Anyway, it's cheap
and you don't have to waste much time."
"By the way," he says, switching the subject, "that friend of yours,
Fillmore, he's in the hospital. I think he's nuts. Anyway, that's what his
girl told me. He took on a French girl, you know, while you were away. They
used to fight like hell. She's a big, healthy bitch -- wild like. I wouldn't
mind giving her a tumble, but I'm afraid she'd claw the eyes out of me. He
was always going around with his face and hands scratched up. She looks
bunged up too once in a while -- or she used to. You know how these French
cunts are -- when they love they lose their minds."
Evidently things had happened while I was away. I was sorry to hear about
Fillmore. He had been damned good to me. When I left Van Norden I jumped a
bus and went straight to the hospital.
They hadn't decided yet whether he was completely off his base or not, I
suppose, for I found him upstairs in a private room, enjoying all the
liberties of the regular patients. He had just come from the bath when I
arrived. When he caught sight of me he burst into tears. "It's all over," he
says immediately. "They say I'm crazy -- and I may have syphilis too. They say
I have delusions of grandeur." He fell over onto the bed and wept quietly.
After he had wept a while he lifted his head up and smiled -- just like a
bird coming out of a snooze. "Why do they put me in such an expensive room?"
he said. "Why don't they put me in the ward -- or in the bughouse? I can't
afford to pay for this. I'm down to my last five hundred dollars."
"That's why they're keeping you here," I said. "They'll transfer you quickly
enough when your money runs out. Don't worry."
My words must have impressed him, for I had no sooner finished than he
handed me his watch and chain, his wallet, his fraternity pin, etc. "Hold on
to them," he said. "These bastards'll rob me of everything I've got." And
then suddenly he began to laugh, one of those weird, mirthless laughs which
makes you believe a guy's goofy whether he is or not. "I know you'll think
I'm crazy," he said, "but I want to atone for what I did. I want to get
married. You see, I didn't know I had the clap. I gave her the clap and then
I knocked her up. I told the doctor I don't care what happens to me, but I
want him to let me get married first. He keeps telling me to wait until I
get better -- but I know I'm never going to get better. This is the end."
I couldn't help laughing myself, hearing him talk that way. I couldn't
understand what had come over him. Anyway, I had to promise him to see the
girl and explain things to her. He wanted me to stick by her, comfort her.
Said he could trust me, etc. I said yes to everything in order to soothe
him. He didn't seem exactly nuts to me -- just caved-in like. Typical
Anglo-Saxon crisis. An eruption of morals. I was rather curious to see the
girl, to get the lowdown on the whole thing.
The next day I looked her up. She was living in the Latin Quarter. As soon as
she realized who I was she became exceedingly cordial. Ginette she called
herself. Rather big, raw-boned, healthy, peasant type with a front tooth
half-eaten away. Full of vitality and a kind of crazy fire in her eyes. The
first thing she did was to weep. Then, seeing that I was an old friend of her
Jo-Jo -- that was how she called him -- she ran downstairs and brought back a
couple of bottles of white wine. I was to stay and have dinner with her --
she insisted on it. As she drank she became by turns gay and maudlin. I
didn't have to ask her any questions -- she went on like a self-winding
machine. The thing that worried her principally was -- would he get his job
back when he was released from the hospital? She said her parents were well
off, but they were displeased with her. They didn't approve of her wild ways.
They didn't approve of him particularly -- he had no manners, and he was an
American. She begged me to assure her that he would get his job back, which I
did without hesitancy. And then she begged me to know if she could believe
what he said -- that he was going to marry her. Because now, with a child
under her belt, and a dose of clap besides, she was in no position to strike
a match -- with a Frenchman anyway. That was clear, wasn't it? Of course, I
assured her. It was all clear as hell to me -- except how in Christ's name
Fillmore had ever fallen for her. However, one thing at a time. It was my
duty now to comfort her, and so I just filled her up with a lot of baloney,
told her everything would turn out all right and that I would stand godfather
to the child, etc. Then suddenly it struck me as strange that she should have
the child at all -- especially as it was likely to be born blind. I told her
that as tactfully as I could. "It doesn't make any difference," she said. "I
want a child by him."
"Even if it's blind?" I asked.
"Mon Dieu, ne dites pas ca!" she groaned. "Ne dites pas ca!"
Just the same, I felt it was my duty to say it. She got hysterical and began
to weep like a walrus, poured out more wine. In a few moments she was
laughing boisterously. She was laughing to think how they used to fight when
they got in bed. "He liked me to fight with him," she said. "He was a brute."
As we sat down to eat a friend of hers walked in -- a little tart who lived
at the end of the hall. Ginette immediately sent me down to get some more
wine. When I came back they had evidently had a good talk. Her friend,
Yvette, worked in the police department. A sort of stool pigeon, as far as I
could gather. At least that was what she was trying to make me believe. It
was fairly obvious that she was just a little whore. But she had an obsession
about the police and their doings. Throughout the meal they were urging me to
accompany them to a bal musette. They wanted to have a gay time -- it
was so lonely for Ginette with Jo-Jo in the hospital. I told them I had to
work, but that on my night off I'd come back and take them out. I made it
clear too that I had no dough to spend on them. Ginette, who was really
thunderstruck to hear this, pretended that that didn't matter in the least.
In fact, just to show what a good sport she was, she insisted on driving me
to work in a cab. She was doing it because I was a friend of Jo-Jo's. And
therefore I was a friend of hers. "And also," thought I to myself, "if
anything goes wrong with your Jo-Jo you'll come to me on the double-quick.
Then you'll see what a friend I can be!" I was as nice as pie to her. In
fact, when we got out of the cab in front of the office, I permitted them to
persuade me into having a final Pernod together. Yvette wanted to know if she
couldn't call for me after work. She had a lot of things to tell me in
confidence, she said. But I managed to refuse without hurting her feelings.
Unfortunately I did unbend sufficiently to give her my address.
Unfortunately, I say. As a matter of fact, I'm rather glad of it when
I think back on it. Because the very next day things began to happen. The
very next day, before I had even gotten out of bed, the two of them called
on me. Jo-Jo had been removed from the hospital -- they had incarcerated him
in a little chateau in the country, just a few miles out of Paris. The
chateau, they called it. A polite way of saying "the bughouse." They
wanted me to get dressed immediately and go with them. They were in a panic.
Perhaps I might have gone alone -- but I just couldn't make up my mind to go
with these two. I asked them to wait for me downstairs while I got dressed,
thinking that it would give me time to invent some excuse for not going.
But they wouldn't leave the room. They sat there and watched me wash and
dress, just as if it were an everyday affair. In the midst of it, Carl
popped in. I gave him the situation briefly, in English, and then we hatched
up an excuse that I had some important work to do. However, to smooth things
over, we got some wine in and we began to amuse them by showing them a book
of dirty drawings. Yvette had already lost all desire to go to the
chateau. She and Carl were getting along famously. When it came time to go
Carl decided to accompany them to the chateau. He thought it would be funny
to see Fillmore walking around with a lot of nuts. He wanted to see what it
was like in the nuthouse. So off they went, somewhat pickled, and in the
best of humor.
All the time that Fillmore was at the chateau I never once went to see him.
It wasn't necessary, because Ginette visited him regularly and gave me all
the news. They had hopes of bringing him around in a few months, so she
said. They thought it was alcoholic poisoning -- nothing more. Of course, he
had a dose -- but that wasn't difficult to remedy. So far as they could see,
he didn't have syphilis. That was something. So, to begin with, they used
the stomach pump on him. They cleaned his system out thoroughly. He was so
weak for a while that he couldn't get out of bed. He was depressed, too. He
said he didn't want to be cured -- he wanted to die. And he kept repeating
this nonsense so insistently that finally they grew alarmed. I suppose it
wouldn't have been a very good recommendation if he had committed suicide.
Anyway, they began to give him mental treatment. And in between times they
pulled out his teeth, more and more of them, until he didn't have a tooth
left in his head. He was supposed to feel fine after that, yet strangely he
didn't. He became more despondent than ever. And then his hair began to fall
out. Finally he developed a paranoid streak -- began to accuse them of all
sorts of things, demanded to know by what right he was being detained, what
he had done to warrant being locked up, etc. After a terrible fit of
despondency he would suddenly become energetic and threaten to blow up the
place if they didn't release him. And to make it worse, as far as Ginette
was concerned, he had gotten all over his notion of marrying her. He told
her straight up and down that he had no intention of marrying her, and that
if she was crazy enough to go and have a child then she could support it
herself.
The doctors interpreted all this as a good sign. They said he was coming
round. Ginette, of course, thought he was crazier than ever, but she was
praying for him to be released so that she could take him to the country
where it would be quiet and peaceful and where he would come to his right
senses. Meanwhile her parents had come to Paris on a visit and had even gone
so far as to visit the future son-in-law at the chateau. In their canny way
they had probably figured it out that it would be better for their daughter
to have a crazy husband than no husband at all. The father thought he could
find something for Fillmore to do on the farm. He said that Fillmore wasn't
such a bad chap at all. When he learned from Ginette that Fillmore's parents
had money he became even more indulgent, more understanding.
The thing was working itself out nicely all around. Ginette returned to the
provinces for a while with her parents. Yvette was coming regularly to the
hotel to see Carl. She thought he was the editor of the paper. And little by
little she became more confidential. When she got good and tight one day,
she informed us that Ginette had never been anything but a whore, that
Ginette was a blood-sucker, that Ginette never had been pregnant and was not
pregnant now. About the other accusations we hadn't much doubt, Carl and I,
but about not being pregnant, that we weren't so sure of.
"How did she get such a big stomach, then?" asked Carl.
Yvette laughed. "Maybe she uses a bicycle pump," she said. "No, seriously,"
she added, "the stomach comes from drink. She drinks like a fish, Ginette.
When she comes back from the country, you will see, she will be blown up
still more. Her father is a drunkard. Ginette is a drunkard. Maybe she had
the clap, yes -- but she is not pregnant."
"But why does she want to marry him? Is she really in love with him?"
"Love? Pfoboh! She has no heart, Ginette. She wants someone to look
after her. No Frenchman would ever marry her -- she has a police record. No,
she wants him because he's too stupid to find out about her. Her parents
don't want her any more -- she's a disgrace to them. But if she can get
married to a rich American, then everything will be all right.... You think
maybe she loves him a little, eh? You don't know her. When they were living
together at the hotel, she had men coming to her room while he was at work.
She said he didn't give her enough spending money. He was stingy. That fur
she wore -- she told him her parents had given it to her, didn't she?
Innocent fool! Why, I've seen her bring a man back to the hotel right while
he was there. She brought the man to the floor below. I saw it with my own
eyes. And what a man! An old derelict! He couldn't get an erection!"
If Fillmore, when he was released from the chateau, had returned to Paris,
perhaps I might have tipped him off about his Ginette. While he was still
under observation I didn't think it well to upset him by poisoning his mind
with Yvette's slanders. As things turned out, he went directly from the
chateau to the home of Ginette's parents. There, despite himself, he was
inveigled into making public his engagement. The banns were published in the
local papers and a reception was given to the friends of the family. Fillmore
took advantage of the situation to indulge in all sorts of escapades. Though
he knew quite well what he was doing he pretended to be still a little daffy.
He would borrow his father-in-law's car, for example, and tear about the
countryside all by himself; if he saw a town that he liked he would plank
himself down and have a good time until Ginette came searching for him.
Sometimes the father-in-law and he would go off together -- on a fishing
trip, presumably -- and nothing would be heard of them for days. He became
exasperatingly capricious and exacting. I suppose he figured he might as well
get what he could out of it.
When he returned to Paris with Ginette he had a complete new wardrobe and a
pocketful of dough. He looked cheerful and healthy, and had a fine coat of
tan. He looked sound as a berry to me. But as soon as we had gotten away
from Ginette he opened up. His job was gone and his money had all run out.
In a month or so they were to be married. Meanwhile the parents were
supplying the dough. "Once they've got me properly in their clutches," he
said, "I'll be nothing but a slave to them. The father thinks he's going to
open up a stationery store for me. Ginette will handle the customers, take
in the money, etc., while I sit in the back of the store and write -- or
something. Can you picture me sitting in the back of a stationery store
for the rest of my life? Ginette thinks it's an excellent idea. She likes to
handle money. I'd rather go back to the chateau than submit to such a
scheme."
For the time being, of course, he was pretending that everything was
hunky-dory. I tried to persuade him to go back to America but he wouldn't
hear of that. He said he wasn't going to be driven out of France by a lot of
ignorant peasants. He had an idea that he would slip out of sight for a
while and then take up quarters in some outlying section of the city where
he'd not be likely to stumble upon her. But we soon decided that that was
impossible: you can't hide away in France as you can in America.
"You could go to Belgium for a while," I suggested. "But what'll I do for
money?" he said promptly. "You can't get a job in these god-damned
countries."
"Why don't you marry her and get a divorce, then?" I asked.
"And meanwhile she'll be dropping a kid. Who's going to take care of the
kid, eh?"
"How do you know she's going to have a kid?" I said, determined now that the
moment had come to spill the beans.
"How do I know?" he said. He didn't quite seem to know what I was
insinuating.
I gave him an inkling of what Yvette had said. He listened to me in complete
bewilderment. Finally he interrupted me. "It's no use going on with that," he
said. "I know she's going to have a kid, all right. I've felt it kicking
around inside. Yvette's a dirty little slut. You see, I didn't want to tell
you, but up until the time I went to the hospital I was shelling out for
Yvette too. Then when the crash came I couldn't do any more for her. I
figured out that I had done enough for the both of them.... I made up my mind
to look after myself first. That made Yvette sore. She told Ginette that she
was going to get even with me.... No, I wish it were true, what she said.
Then I could get out of this thing more easily. Now I'm in a trap. I've
promised to marry her and I'll have to go through with it. After that I don't
know what'll happen to me. They've got me by the balls now."
Since he had taken a room in the same hotel with me I was obliged to see them
frequently, whether I wanted to or not. Almost every evening I had dinner
with them, preceded, of course, by a few Pernods. All through the meal they
quarrelled noisily. It was embarrassing because I had sometimes to take one
side and sometimes the other. One Sunday afternoon, for example, after we had
had lunch together, we repaired to a cafe on the corner of the Boulevard
Edgar-Quinet. Things had gone unusually well this time. We were sitting
inside at a little table, one alongside the other, our backs to a mirror.
Ginette must have been passionate or something for she had suddenly gotten
into a sentimental mood and was fondling him and kissing him in front of
everybody, as the French do so naturally. They had just come out of a long
embrace when Fillmore said something about her parents which she interpreted
as an insult. Immediately her cheeks flushed with anger. We tried to mollify
her by telling her that she had misunderstood the remark and then, under his
breath, Fillmore said something to me in English -- something about giving
her a little soft soap. That was enough to set her completely off the handle.
She said we were making fun of her. I said something sharp to her which
angered her still more and then Fillmore tried to put in a word. "You're too
quicktempered," he said, and he tried to pat her on the cheek. But she,
thinking that he had raised his hand to slap her face, she gave him a sound
crack in the jaw with that big peasant hand of hers. For a moment he was
stunned. He hadn't expected a wallop like that, and it stung. I saw his face
go white and the next moment he raised himself from the bench and with the
palm of his hand he gave her such a crack that she almost fell off her seat.
"There! that'll teach you how to behave!" he said -- in his broken French.
For a moment there was a dead silence. Then, like a storm breaking, she
picked up the cognac glass in front of her and hurled it at him with all her
might. It smashed against the mirror behind us. Fillmore had already grabbed
her by the arm, but with her free hand she grabbed the coffee glass and
smashed it on the floor. She was squirming around like a maniac. It was all
we could do to hold her down. Meanwhile, of course, the patron had
come running in and ordered us to beat it. "Loafers!" he called us. "Yes,
loafers; That's it!" screamed Ginette. "Dirty foreigners! Thugs! Gangsters!
Striking a pregnant woman!" We were getting black looks all around. A poor
Frenchwoman with two American toughs. Gangsters. I was wondering how the hell
we'd ever get out of the place without a fight. Fillmore, by this time, was
as silent as a clam. Ginette was bolting it through the door, leaving us to
face the music. As she sailed out she turned back with fist upraised and
shouted; "I'll pay you back for this, you brute! You'll see! No foreigner can
treat a decent Frenchwoman like that! Ah, no! Not like that!"
Hearing this the patron, who had now been paid for his drinks and his
broken glasses, felt it incumbent to show his gallantry toward a splendid
representative of French motherhood such as Ginette, and so, without more
ado, he spat at our feet and shoved us out of the door. "Shit on you, you
dirty loafers!" he said, or some such pleasantry.
Once in the street and nobody throwing things after us, I began to see the
funny side of it. It would be an excellent idea, I thought to myself, if
the whole thing were properly aired in court. The whole thing! With
Yvette's little stories as a side dish. After all, the French have a sense
of humor. Perhaps the judge, when he heard Fillmore's side of the story,
would absolve him from marriage.
Meanwhile, Ginette was standing across the street brandishing her fist and
yelling at the top of her lungs. People were stopping to listen in, to take
sides, as they do in street brawls. Fillmore didn't know what to do --
whether to walk away from her, or to go over to her and try to pacify her.
He was standing in the middle of the street with his arms outstretched,
trying to get a word in edgewise. And Ginette still yelling: "Gangster!
Brute! Tu verras, salaud!" and other complimentary things. Finally
Fillmore made a move towards her and she, probably thinking that he was
going to give her another good cuff, took it on a trot down the street.
Fillmore came back to where I was standing and said: "Come on, let's follow
her quietly." We started off with a thin crowd of stragglers behind us.
Every once in a while she turned back towards us and brandished her fist.
We made no attempt to catch up with her, just followed her leisurely down
the street to see what she would do. Finally she slowed up her pace and we
crossed over to the other side of the street. She was quiet now. We kept
walking behind her, getting closer and closer. There were only about a dozen
people behind us now -- the others had lost interest. When we got near the
corner she suddenly stopped and waited for us to approach. "Let me do the
talking," said Fillmore, "I know how to handle her."
The tears were streaming down her face as we came up to her. Myself, I
didn't know what to expect of her. I was somewhat surprised therefore when
Fillmore walked up to her and said in an aggrieved voice: "Was that a nice
thing to do? Why did you act that way?" Whereupon she threw her arms around
his neck and began to weep like a child, calling him her little this and her
little that. Then she turned to me imploringly. "You saw how he struck me,"
she said. "Is that the way to behave towards a woman?" I was on the point of
saying yes when Fillmore took her by the arm and started leading her off.
"No more of that," he said. "If you start again I'll crack you right here in
the street."
I thought it was going to start up all over again. She had f