Down and Out in Paris and London (7 page)

with/their bad luck far better than one can imagine Eng-

lishmen of the same class doing. There are exceptions, of

course. Boris told me of an exiled Russian duke whom he

had once met, who frequented expensive restaurants. The

duke would find out if there was a Russian officer among

the waiters, and, after he had dined, call him in a friendly

way to his table.

‘Ah,’ the duke would say, ‘so you are an old soldier, like

myself? These are bad days, eh? Well, well, the Russian sol-

dier fears nothing. And what was your regiment?’

‘The so-and-so, sir,’ the waiter would answer.

‘A very gallant regiment! I inspected them in 1912. By

the way, I have unfortunately left my notecase at home. A

Russian officer will, I know, oblige me with three hundred

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1

francs.’

If the waiter had three hundred francs he would hand it

over, and, of course, never see it again. The duke made quite

a lot in this way. Probably the waiters did not mind being

swindled. A duke is a duke, even in exile.

It was through one of these Russian refugees that Boris

heard of something which seemed to promise money. Two

days after we had pawned the overcoats, Boris said to me

rather mysteriously:

‘Tell me, MON AMI, have you any political opinions?’

‘No,’I said.

‘Neither have I. Of course, one is always a patriot; but

still—Did not Moses say something about spoiling the

Egyptians? As an Englishman you will have read the Bible.

What I mean is, would you object to earning money from

Communists?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, it appears that there is a Russian secret society in

Paris who might do something for us. They are Commu-

nists; in fact they are agents for the Bolsheviks. They act as

a friendly society, get in touch with exiled Russians, and try

to get them to turn Bolshevik. My friend has joined their so-

ciety, and he thinks they would help us if we went to them.’

‘But what can they do for us? In any case they won’t help

me, as I’m not a Russian.’

‘That is just the point. It seems that they are correspon-

dents for a Moscow paper, and they want some articles on

English politics. If we got to them at once they may com-

mission you to write the articles.’

Down and Out in Paris and London

‘Me? But I don’t know anything about politics.’

‘MERDE! Neither do they. Who DOES know anything

about politics? It’s easy. All you have to do is to copy it out of

the English papers. Isn’t there a Paris DAILY MAIL? Copy

it from that.’

‘But the DAILY MAIL is a Conservative paper. They

loathe the Communists.’

‘Well, say the opposite of what the DAILY MAIL says,

then you can’t be wrong. We mustn’t throw this chance

away, MON AMI. It might mean hundreds of francs.’

I did not like the idea, for the Paris police are very hard

on Communists, especially if they are foreigners, and I was

already under suspicion. Some months before, a detective

had seen me come out of the office of a Communist weekly

paper, and I had had a great deal of trouble with the police.

If they caught me going to this secret society, it might mean

deportation. However, the chance seemed too good to be

missed. That afternoon Boris’s friend, another waiter, came

to take us to the rendezvous. I cannot remember the name

of the street—it was a shabby street running south from the

Seine bank, somewhere near the Chamber of Deputies. Bo-

ris’s friend insisted on great caution. We loitered casually

down the street, marked the doorway we were to enter—it

was a laundry— and then strolled back again, keeping an

eye on all the windows and cafes. If the place were known as

a haunt of Communists it was probably watched, and we in-

tended to go home if we saw anyone at all like a detective. I

was frightened, but Boris enjoyed these conspiratorial pro-

ceedings, and quite forgot that he was about to trade with

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the slayers of his parents.

When we were certain that the coast was clear we dived

quickly into the doorway. In the laundry was a Frenchwom-

an ironing clothes, who told us that ‘the Russian gentlemen’

lived up a staircase across the courtyard. We went up sev-

eral flights of dark stairs and emerged on to a landing. A

strong, surly-looking young man, with hair growing low on

his head, was standing at the top of the stairs. As I came up

he looked at me suspiciously, barred the way with his arm

and said something in Russian.

‘MOT D’ORDRE!’ he said sharply when I did not an-

swer.

I stopped, startled. I had not expected passwords.

‘MOT D’ORDRE!’ repeated the Russian.

Boris’s friend, who was walking behind, now came for-

ward and said something in Russian, either the password or

an explanation. At this, the surly young man seemed sat-

isfied, and led us into a small, shabby room with frosted

windows. It was like a very poverty-stricken office, with

propaganda posters in Russian lettering and a huge, crude

picture of Lenin tacked on the walls. At the table sat an

unshaven Russian in shirt sleeves, addressing newspaper

wrappers from a pile in front of him. As I came in he spoke

to me in French, with a bad accent.

‘This is very careless!’ he exclaimed fussily. ‘Why have

you come here without a parcel of washing?’

‘Washing?’

‘Everybody who comes here brings washing. It looks as

though they were going to the laundry downstairs. Bring a

Down and Out in Paris and London

good, large bundle next time. We don’t want the police on

our tracks.’

This was even more conspiratorial than I had expected.

Boris sat down in the only vacant chair, and there was a

great deal of talking in Russian. Only the unshaven man

talked; the surly one leaned against the wall with his eyes

on me, as though he still suspected me. It was queer, stand-

ing in the little secret room with its revolutionary posters,

listening to a conversation of which I did not understand

a word. The Russians talked quickly and eagerly, with

smiles and shrugs of the shoulders. I wondered what it was

all about. They would be calling each other ‘little father’,

I thought, and ‘little dove’, and ‘Ivan Alexandrovitch’, like

the characters in Russian novels. And the talk would be of

revolutions. The unshaven man would be saying firmly, ‘We

never argue. Controversy is a bourgeois pastime. Deeds are

our arguments.’ Then I gathered that it was not this exact-

ly. Twenty francs was being demanded, for an entrance fee

apparently, and Boris was promising to pay it (we had just

seventeen francs in the world). Finally Boris produced our

precious store of money and paid five francs on account.

At this the surly man looked less suspicious, and sat

down on the edge of the table. The unshaven one began

to question me in French, making notes on a slip of paper.

Was I a Communist? he asked. By sympathy, I answered; I

had never joined any organization. Did I understand the

political situation in England? Oh, of course, of course. I

mentioned the names of various Ministers, and made some

contemptuous remarks about the Labour Party. And what

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about LE SPORT? Could I do articles on LE SPORT? (Foot-

ball and Socialism have some mysterious connexion on the

Continent.) Oh, of course, again. Both men nodded gravely.

The unshaven one said:

‘EVIDEMMENT, you have a thorough knowledge of

conditions in England. Could you undertake to write a se-

ries of articles for a Moscow weekly paper? We will give you

the particulars.’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then, comrade, you will hear from us by the first post

tomorrow. Or possibly the second post. Our rate of pay is

a hundred and fifty francs an article. Remember to bring a

parcel of washing next time you come. AU REVOIR, com-

rade.’

We went downstairs, looked carefully out of the laun-

dry to see if there was anyone in the street, and slipped out.

Boris was wild with joy. In a sort of sacrificial ecstasy he

rushed into the nearest tobacconist’s and spent fifty cen-

times on a cigar. He came out thumping his stick on the

pavement and beaming.

‘At last! At last! Now, MON AMI, out fortune really is

made. You took them in finely. Did you hear him call you

comrade? A hundred and fifty francs an article—NOM DE

DIEU, what luck!’

Next morning when I heard the postman I rushed down

to the BISTRO for my letter; to my disappointment, it had

not come. I stayed at home for the second post; still no let-

ter. When three days had gone by and I had not heard from

the secret society, we gave up hope, deciding that they must

Down and Out in Paris and London

have found somebody else to do their articles.

Ten days later we made another visit to the office of the

secret society, taking care to bring a parcel that looked like

washing. And the secret society had vanished! The wom-

an in the laundry knew nothing—she simply said that ‘CES

MESSIEURS’ had left some days ago, after trouble about the

rent. What fools we looked, standing there with our parcel!

But it was a consolation that we had paid only five francs

instead of twenty.

And that was the last we ever heard of the secret society.

Who or what they really were, nobody knew. Personally I

do not think they had anything to do with the Communist

Party; I think they were simply swindlers, who preyed upon

Russian refugees by extracting entrance fees to an imagi-

nary society. It was quite safe, and no doubt they are still

doing it in some other city. They were clever fellows, and

played their part admirably. Their office looked exactly as a

secret Communist office should look, and as for that touch

about bringing a parcel of washing, it was genius.

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IX

For three more days we continued traipsing about look-

ing for work, coming home for diminishing meals of

soup and bread in my bedroom. There were now two gleams

of hope. In the first place, Boris had heard of a possible job

at the Hotel X, near the Place de la Concorde, and in the

second, the PATRON of the new restaurant in the rue du

Commerce had at last come back. We went down in the af-

ternoon and saw him. On the way Boris talked of the vast

fortunes we should make if we got this job, and on the im-

portance of making a good impression on the PATRON.

‘Appearance—appearance is everything, MON AMI.

Give me a new suit and I will borrow a thousand francs by

dinner-time. What a pity I did not buy a collar when we had

money. I turned my collar inside out this morning; but what

is the use, one side is as dirty as the other. Do you think I

look hungry, MON AMI?’

‘You look pale.’

‘Curse it, what can one do on bread and potatoes? It is fa-

tal to look hungry. It makes people want to kick you. Wait.’

He stopped at a jeweller’s window and smacked his

cheeks sharply to bring the blood into them. Then, before

the flush had faded, we hurried into the restaurant and in-

troduced ourselves to the PATRON.

The PATRON was a short, fattish, very dignified man

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with wavy grey hair, dressed in a smart, double-breasted

flannel suit and smelling of scent. Boris told me that he too

was an ex-colonel of the Russian Army. His wife was there

too, a horrid, fat Frenchwoman with a dead-white face and

scarlet lips, reminding me of cold veal and tomatoes. The

PATRON greeted Boris genially, and they talked together

in Russian for a few minutes. I stood in the background,

preparing to tell some big lies about my experience as a

dish-washer.

Then the PATRON came over towards me. I shuffled un-

easily, trying to look servile. Boris had rubbed it into me

that a PLONGEUR is a slave’s slave, and I expected the PA-

TRON. to treat me like dirt. To my astonishment, he seized

me warmly by the hand.

‘So you are an Englishman!’ he exclaimed. ‘But how

charming! I need not ask, then, whether you are a golfer?’

‘MAIS CERTAINEMENT,’ I said, seeing that this was

expected of me.

‘All my life I have wanted to play golf. Will you, my dear

MONSIEUR, be so kind as to show me a few of the princi-

pal strokes?’

Apparently this was the Russian way of doing busi-

ness. The PATRON listened attentively while I explained

the difference between a driver and an iron, and then sud-

denly informed me that it was all ENTENDU; Boris was to

be MAITRE D’HOTEL when the restaurant opened, and

I PLONGEUR, with a chance of rising to lavatory atten-