Castle to Castle (4 page)

Frankly, just between you and me, I'm ending up even worse than I started . . . Yes, my beginnings weren't so hot . . . I was born, I repeat, in Courbevoie, Seine . . . I'm repeating it for the thousandth time . . . after a great many round trips I'm ending very badly . . . old age, you'll say . . . yes, old age, that's a fact . . . at sixty-three and then some, it's hard to break in again . . . to build up a new practice . . . no matter where . . . I forgot to tell you . . . I'm a doctor . . . A medical practice, confidentially, between you and me, isn't just a question of knowing your job and doing it properly . . . what really counts . . . more than anything else . . . is personal charm . . . personal charm after sixty? . . . there might still be a future for you in the wax works, or as an antique vase in a museum . . . a few old fogies in search of enigmas might still take an interest . . . but the ladies? Your dapper graybeard, painted, perfumed, and lacquered? Doctor or not, practice or no practice, the old scarecrow will stick in people's craw . . . If he's loaded? . . . well, maybe . . . hmm, hmm. . . . he'll be barely tolerated . . . but a white-haired pauper? . . . take him away. Just listen to the ladies, on any street corner, in any shop . . . talking about some young colleague . . . "Oh, Madame, oh, Madame, that doctor, what eyes . . . he understood my case at a glance . . . and those drops he prescribed . . . noon and night . . . those miraculous drops . . . why, that young doctor's a wonder . . ." Then wait and see what they have to say about you: "Crabby, toothless, ignorant, hunchbacked, always hawking and spitting . . ." you're cooked . . . the ladies' chit-chat rules the country . . . the men bat out laws, the ladies attend to the serious business: public opinion . . . or a medical practice is made by the ladies 
. . . you haven't got them behind you? . . . go drown yourself . . . the ladies in your neighborhood are feebleminded, they're blithering idiots? . . . perfect! The stupider, the more bigoted, the more chronically asinine they are, the better they rule! . . . you can put your shingle away, and all the rest . . . The rest? Everything was stolen from me in Montmartre . . . everything . . . on the rue Girardon . . . I repeat . . . I can't repeat it enough . . . people pretend not to hear . . . the exact things they need to hear . . . though I've said it plainly enough . . . the works! . . . Somebody, liberators, avengers, broke into my place and carried everything off to the Flea Market . . . they sold it all . . . I'm not exaggerating, I've got proof, witnesses, names . . . all my books and instruments, my furniture, my manuscripts . . . the whole shebang . . . I didn't find one thing . . . not a handkerchief, not a chair . . . they'd sold even the walls . . . the apartment, everything . . . put it in all their pockets . . . and there you have it . . . Oh, I know what you think . . . it's only natural . . . I can hear you . . . that such things can never happen to you, that you've taken your precautions . . . that you're as good a Communist as any millionaire, as good a Poujadist as Poujade, as Russian as the dressing, more American than Buffalo . . . hand in glove with everything that counts, Lodge, Cell, Sacristy, the Law! . . . the champion new-style Vrenchman
°
. . . the historical trend runs straight through your asshole . . . honorary brother? . . . certainly! . . . executioner's helper? we'll see . . . guillotine licker? . . . Oh, well!

Meanwhile I haven't even got a "Pachon"° . . . I borrowed one to get rid of the pests, there's nothing like it . . . you sit them down, you take their blood pressure . . . They eat too much, drink too much, and smoke too much, so it's unusual when they don't run a maximum of 220 . . . or 230 . . . to them life is a tire . . . the only thing that worries them is their maximum . . . a blowout . . . death! . . . 250! . . . all of a sudden they're not so droll and sceptical anymore . . . you tell them about their 230 . . . and you never see them again! That
 look they give you as they leave . . . what hatred! . . . You're a murderer, a sadist! "Good-bye, good-bye!"

°See glossary

Okay . . . at any rate I take care of them with my Pachon . . . they'd come to get a laugh out of my poverty . . . 220! . . . 230! I never see them again . . . all in all, without going into details, I'd be glad not to practice anymore . . . but I've got to survive . . . it's hell . . . until the retirement age! Or maybe . . . but there's no "maybe" about the need to economize! on everything! and right away! first the heat! . . . never more than forty degrees all last winter. Of course we're used to it . . . we've had our training all right . . . Norse training. We stuck it out up there for four winters . . . nearly five . . . at twenty below . . . in a wrecked stable . . . without heat, absolutely without heat, pigs would have died of the cold . . . take it from me! . . . we're trained! . . . the thatch blew away . . . the snow and the wind danced in that place! . . . Five years, five months of ice! . . . Lili sick, she'd been operated . . . and don't take it into your head that that icebox was free . . . not at all! . . . make no mistake . . . I paid for everything . . . I've got the bills, signed by my lawyer . . . certified by the Consulate . . . which explains why I'm so flat . . . it wasn't only the pirates of Montmartre . . . there were the pirates of the Baltic, too . . . the pirates of Montmartre wanted to bleed me till my guts ran down the rue Lepic . . . the Baltic pirates thought they'd get me with scurvy . . . so I'd leave my bones in their "Venstre" prison . . . it was touch and go . . . two years in a pit . . . seven by ten . . . then they thought of the cold . . . the blizzards of the Great Belt . . . we stuck it out! for five years! Paid for, I repeat! my savings, you can imagine . . . all my royalties . . . blown away by the blizzards . . . plus the court seizures . . . some joke! Oh, I'd kind of foreseen it all . . . a faint suspicion! . . . my suit, my one and only, dates from '34. That was my hunch! I'm not the Poujade type, I don't discover catastrophes twenty-five years later, when it's all over, dead and buried! . . . just for a laugh I'll tell you about my premonition of '34 . . . that we were headed for times that would be rough on coquetry . . . I had a tailor on the Avenue de l'Opéra . . . "Make me a suit, but take care, something really long-wearing . . . Poincaré, supergabardine . . . The Poincaré model!"

Poincaré had just launched the style, that tunic of his, a really special cut . . . I got my money's worth . . . I still have that suit . . . absolutely indestructible . . . as you can see . . . it survived Germany . . . the Germany of 1944 . . . the bombings, and what bombings! . . . and four years . . . when they were making goulash out of people . . . fires, tanks, bombs, and myriad tons of wreckage! It's faded a little, that's all! and after that all the prisons . . . and the five years on the Baltic . . . and to begin with, I'd forgotten, the clandestine life in Bezons-la-Rochelle . . . and the shipwreck at Gibraltar! I already had it . . . Nowadays they boast about "nylon" suits, "Grevin" outfits, atomic kimonos . . . I want to be shown . . . mine is right here, worn, I admit, worn to the weft . , . fourteen years of hard knocks . . . we're worn to the weft ourselves.

I don't try to look picturesque, it's not my way, I don't dress to attract attention . . . painter style . . . Van Dyck, Rembrandt . . . Vlaminck . . . not for me . . . inconspicuous, undistinguished . . . I'm a doctor . . . white smock, imitation nylon . . . neat and proper . . . indoors I look perfectly all right . . . but outside it's not so good with my Poincaré outfit . . . I could buy a new suit . . . of course . . . by scrimping a little more . . . on everything else . . . I hesitate . . . I'm just like my mother . . . thrifty, thrifty! but still I have certain weaknesses . . . My mother died of a heart attack, on a bench, and of hunger too, of privation, I was in prison, in the Vesterfangsel in Denmark . . . I wasn't here when she died, I was in the death house, Section K . . . I was there for eighteen months . . . Nobody's as deaf as the people who refuse to listen . . . don't be afraid of laying it on too thick.

I'll tell you about my mother. In spite of her heart ailment, her exhaustion and hunger and everything else, she died convinced that it was only a bad moment, but that with courage and frugality we'd see the end, that everything would be the same as before, that a sou would be a sou again and a quarter 
of a pound of butter would be back at twenty-four centimes . . . I'm pre-1914, I admit . . . wild spending horrifies me . . . when I look at the prices, the price of a suit, for instance! . . . I know it's not for me . . . I say, only a President, a "Commissar," a Picasso, a Gallimard can afford to buy clothes! . . . the price of a "Commissar suit" would give me enough calories to subsist, to work, to look at the Seine, to visit two, three museums, to pay the telephone bill, for say at least a year . . . only crazy people buy clothes nowadays . . . potatoes, carrots, sure . . . noodles, carrots . . . I'm not complaining, we've seen worse . . . a lot worse . . . and paid for it . . . don't forget it! . . . all my royalties, the whole
Journey
! . . . and not only my furniture and my manuscripts . . . everything's been taken from me by main force! . . . not only in Montmartre and Saint-Malo! . . . south . . . north . . . east . . . west . . . pirates everywhere! . . . Côte d'Azur or Scandinavia! . . . the same breed . . . No use trying to tell them apart . . . All they want is to put Article 75
º
on your ass, the master permit to skin you alive, to steal everything you've got, and sell you for stew meat.

Back to my trifling affairs . . . I was talking about menus . . . As far as I'm concerned, the less I eat, the better off I am . . . okay . . . but with Lili it's different . . . she has to eat . . . it gets me down . . . her line of work on our diet! . . . true, we have certain luxuries: the dogs . . . our dogs . . . they bark! . . . somebody at the gate? . . . some pest or murderer? . . . You loose the pack!
Arf!
Grrr!
He's gone. . .

"But," you may ask, "where do you live, proud Artaban?" 

"In Bellevue, Monsieur . . . half way up the hill, parish of Bellevue . . . You get the lay of the land? . . . the Seine valley . . . just above that factory on the island . . . I was born nearby . . . I'm repeating myself . . . You can never repeat too much for the stubborn . . . Courbevoie, Seine, Rampe du Pont . . . Some people can't stand the idea that there should be people from Courbevoie . . . my age, too, I repeat my age . . . 1894! . . . I'm repetitious? . . . doddering and repetitious? It's my right . . . People who date from the last century have a right to repeat themselves . . . and hell, why not! . . . to complain . . . to think that everything is lousy and screwed-up . . . among other things, I don't mind saying, all that gluttonous, thirsty rabble that never stop talking about the Bastille and the Place du Tertre . . . All those people are from God knows where! . . . from Périgord! The Balkans! Corsica! . . . not from here! . . . You saw the great skedaddle as well as I did . . . and where did they run to, the devil take the hindmost? . . . by the millions they ran back home! And the army with them . . . back to their holes in the ground and their feed bags . . . My foster mother in Puteaux, on the Sentier des Bergerès . . . but maybe I shouldn't talk about her? 

. . . Let it go!

Let's get back to Bellevue . . . to our Spartan diet . . . I wouldn't mind for myself . . . my trouble is my head . . . the less I eat, the better . . . true, I teeter . . . people might say: the man's drunk . . . they do . . . My advice to you . . . Get people to think you're a drunken no-good lush . . . slightly cracked . . . with a bit of the jailbird thrown in . . . You're despised? . . . You get used to it . . . Anyway, I'm getting on, the less I eat, the better off I am . . . but Lili isn't old, she has her dancing lessons to give . . . they don't bring in very much! . . . no heat . . . she does the best she can . . . so do I . . . well, let's not burst into tears, but it's no go . . . To be perfectly frank and honest about it . . . we have a much harder life than the poorest workman down below at Dreyfus's . . . "When I think of what they've got . . . social security! Yes, Madame! insurance, vacations . . . a whole month of vacation . . . Maybe I should picket Dreyfus's? . . . tell them I'm mistreated? That I don't even get a sweepers wages? they wouldn't understand . . . a sweeper at Dreyfus's! social security, vacation, insurance! If I were from Dreyfus's rock-pile,° I'd be respected . . . but Gaston's rock-pile,° they'd only laugh! . . . I've only got one privilege . . . because I crusaded for the Vrench, I'm entitled to posters all over the walls, calling me the king of traitors, accusing me of cutting Jews in little pieces, of selling the Maginot Line, Indochina, and Sicily . . . Oh, I have no illusions . . . they don't believe a word of their horror stories, but one thing is sure . . . they'll hound me to my dying day . . . I'll always be the whipping-boy of the left-wing racists! the raw material of propaganda . . .