Authors: Louis-ferdinand & Manheim Celine
Rigadoon (22 page)
"Have you seen this translation?"
"I had it, but not any more . . . I lost it with everything else . . . you know, on rue Girardon . . . when the purgers purged my apartment with three moving vans . . ."
"Have the Russians got it?"
"Of course! I checked up on the spot!"
"Where?"
"In Petrograd!"
"You?"
"Yes! . . . and I may add, at my own expense! something the world ought to know . . . in fact they still owe me money . . . rude and disloyal! . . . me who don't owe anybody a sou, neither Achille nor Hitler nor Nobel nor Stalin nor the Pope! in fact I'm starving absolutely at my own expense . . ."
"So now what?"
"I'll ask the Russians what's become of
Journey
. . . they're bound to have a copy . . . or two! . . . I know Russia's a big country, but I'm sure if they try . . . just a little . . ."
"My dear Céline, I must leave you now! dreadful hurry, they're waiting for me! my fifteen millionth invitation!"
I don't quite get it. . .
"High society, Céline!"
I wait till he's gone . . . then quick I grab a sheet of paper . . . a letter to Madame Triolet! . . . most courteously I take the liberty . . . I ask her if she's heard anything about her translation . . . since 1934 . . . and I wait . . . two weeks . . . two months . . . a year . . . nothing! . . . Madame Elsa is lying low . . . not the least discouraged . . . I try the Soviet Embassy, the Cultural Attaché . . . rue de Grenelle . . . a year goes by! nothing! never mind! I'll write to M. Gromyko! . . . I do him the honor . . . Monsieur le Ministre! . . . he's right on the spot . . . with an army of secretaries . . . one word, an order, and they'll find it! . . . no dice! . . . same as Elsa and the embassy . . . I think they must be embarrassed, no manners, no breeding! that big fat Russia, what a slob! . . . she loses everything you give her . . .
Two years since I laid eyes on Nimier . . .
"Hello! hello! . . ."
He doesn't let me get a word in . . .
he's
got something to say! to hell with
Journey
and Gromyko and Triolet and all that! . . . he wants to talk about his car, his brand-new beautiful car! . . . all
plastic!
. . . bought it just to come and see me in! one way of escaping from time, people, and space . . . buying new cars! . . . all right with me, it amuses him . . . forget it! I'd better get back to you! . . . remember? . . . I've been away a long time . . . my head . . . I'm sure it's the brick! . . . Mademoiselle Odile Pomaré . . . come to think of it, is she Mademoiselle or Madame! . . . better watch my step! . . . I won't ask her just yet . . .
No desire to make your ass bleed for me . . . stands to reason . . . already given you four books devoted to my misfortunes! . . . I could have a little consideration for you . . . haven't you suffered? . . . a damn sight more! a thousand times more! . . . but with more dignity, that's the difference! you don't exhibit it, not a sigh! . . . my crude calamities. . . enough!
There on that flatcar where they'd hoisted me . . . that open-air platform, I could have lamented my lungs out, nobody would have heard me . . . because of the noise . . . the axles and all the rattling junk, dynamos, searchlights, beams, tools . . . forgive me if I have to repeat myself . . . this is at least the tenth time we've entrained for some place or other across Germany . . . across plains, might as well call them steppes, through tunnels, soot ovens . . . and the return trip to the sea and back . . . I'd forgotten that! you're going to find me tedious . . . boring, this deluge! . . . I could invent, transpose . . . that's what they all did, the lot of them . . . in Old French it went over . . . Joinville, Villehardouin had it easy, they took full advantage, but our French today, so anemic, so strict and finicky, academized almost to death, they'd call me worse names than they do now . . . abject Pléiadic turd! . . . and I wouldn't sell at all . . . all right with me, I don't give a shit, it's the end . . . they've hunted me enough, robbed me, locked me up, plagiarized me . . . I'm old enough, I'm pulling in my oars, let the galley take care of itself! . . . good-bye! . . . easily said! if I don't row and hard, they'll flog me! . . . red, purple, and white . . . this lousy galley is leaking, leaking bad, but still afloat . . .
My verve is carrying me away . . . whoa there! back to the young lady! . . . I was listening to her with one ear . . . only one! . . . couldn't hear a thing with the other . . . Mademoiselle Odile Pomaré . . . I couldn't move either . . . unusual for me to lie still that way . . . helpless . . . not my style . . . but there I was really out for the count . . . not exactly unconscious, but really conked . . . the train . . . the one we're on . . . our flatcar . . . I'm wondering . . . maybe if I opened my eyes I could see where we are . . . but no use . . . my eyes hurt too much! they stayed shut, stuck, lead in my eyelids . . . I could feel them . . . enormous! . . . I'm all full of edema, not just my eyes . . . my mouth and ears, black, blue, and swollen . . . not surprising . . . anyway I'm listening to the young lady . . . I get it . . . I'm under the tarp, in a big fold, between her and Felipe the Italian and Lili and Bébert in his bag . . . up against an enormous searchlight . . .
Mademoiselle Odile? . . . I'm not so sure, maybe it's Madame . . . who cares? . . . Ph.D. in German? . . . not so sure of that either! . . . French instructor in Breslau? . . . hm! hm! . . . anyway she's telling her story . . . some story! . . . supposedly they told her to leave, said the Russians were at the gates and terrible things would happen! . . . okay! plausible! . . . but there was more to it! "take these forty-two children . . . don't leave without them!" . . . how many were left of those forty-two? twelve . . . thirteen . . . she thought . . . she didn't remember . . . this Mademoiselle Odile is coughing a good deal . . . and spitting . . . I'm not looking at her, I can't, all I can do to listen . . . tell you the truth she's getting on my nerves with her spiel about Breslau, those idiot children, etc. . . . my head's giving me trouble enough! and what about my locomotive . . . up there? think I've lost interest? . . . it's still sailing around in the clouds . . . from cloud to cloud, sort of . . . still upside down, belly up . . . puffing . . .
choo! choo! ha! ha!
laughing its head off . . . I can see why . . . this Mademoiselle Odile of Aix-en-Provence and Breslau on the road with her idiot kids . . . how many did I say? . . . fourteen or sixteen! . . . in a special reserved coach . . . what had she done with the rest of them? died of measles? . . . that's what she thought, that's what they told her at Chemnitz on the way through, the Red Cross doctor . . . measles or something else . . . quite a ways from Breslau to Oddort . . . a laugh when you stop to think of it! . . . if they'd got there on time they'd have all been wiped out . . . fried to a crisp! Odile too! she didn't know about that bonfire! . . . tuberculosis and all! the Chancellery in Berlin isn't the only place that ended in a furnace . . . a thousand other places east, west, and north! . . . don't listen to the propagandists . . . east, west, or north . . . they're demoniacally partial, lying alcoholic idiots . . . and temporary! they swear everything's just fine when it's the end, the last pestilential spasm . . . like right here for instance tomorrow, when that rocket comes from the east, west, or north, come and tell me . . . who's a Communist and who isn't . . . or anti . . . you'll be mashed and that's that! like it, holy cow, or not! that's what man has come to with all his vast ecumenic pluratomic progress, everybody in the arena, not a single voyeur in the stands! . . . Caesar so comfy in his loge will go off in neutrons like everybody else! . . . not even first or separate . . . no! no processions, no return tickets, no vestal virgins! . . . all in the same quarter of a second!
taraboom!
. . . and away she goes! Think I'm kidding around? . . . certainly not! I'm listening . . . very attentively . . .
choo! choo!
. . . my locomotive up there . . . in the clouds . . . and this Mademoiselle Pomaré right next to me . . . I can't help myself, wedged in like this between the enormous searchlight and God knows what . . . if I moved, the pain would be even worse . . . especially one ear . . . I beg your pardon, I'm getting sorry for myself, I'm only trying to tell you it . . . that brick! . . . hit me hard! . . . if I moved half an inch . . . I'd fall out! . . . onto the roadbed! . . . the crushed rock . . . I listen, she's left her kids in various places . . . this station . . . that station . . . and farms . . . whenever there was an alert . . . Mademoiselle Odile's telling her story . . . they've changed trains three times . . . how many kids has she got left? . . . about twelve, she thinks . . . sick? . . . of course! in addition to their natural state, microcephalic, drooling, spasmodic . . . so what's the urgent problem? . . . measles, she thinks, that's what she's been told . . . I'd like to see those children . . . not so easy! . . . they're scattered all over the train, under the tarps, this car that car . . . wonder where they come from . . . what language they speak . . . that's easy, none! . . . they just babble any old thing . . . all between four and ten years old . . . Mademoiselle Odile was a linguist, she knew Russian and Germanic, even the dialects . . . these kids didn't understand a word, she'd tried everything . . . these children . . . kind of mongoloid they looked . . . must have come from some asylum . . . evacuated in haste! oh, they hadn't told her a thing! . . . they'd simply handed the whole lot over to her as the train was pulling out, with two cases of powdered milk . . . and all aboard! . . . "you'll be met in Oddort! you're expected! bon voyage!" Oddort . . . I was going to tell her! . . . about the fireworks! . . . no! . . . too tired! . . . but this Odile there right beside to me was coughing worse and worse . . . Lili whispers to me . . . Odile's spitting blood . . . big help! . . . all the same it's funny! . . . I can't help laughing . . . I've got a right! I'm spitting blood too, there! . . . I've got a right, since that brick hit me! . . . I'm bleeding from my mouth and ear! . . . Odile interrupts my laughing . . .
"You too, Doctor? you too?"
I answer her, I've got an answer to everything . . . I even shout. . .
"Don't you see anything up there?"
She looks up . . .
"No, nothing! nothing, Doctor!"
We're not getting anywhere . . . oh yes! . . . something's happening! our train's moving . . . I think . . . very slowly . . . I can spit too, just like Odile . . . I sure can! . . . blood too, same as her! . . . mine comes from my ear . . . I think . . . anyway my mouth is full of it . . . anatomy, you see . . . the fine . . . less than a millimeter . . . finely perforated membrane between the tip of the otic bone and the liquid rim of the brain . . . if there's a passage, the blood filters through! naturally! . . . so what's the solution? . . . not to move . . . neither my body nor my eyes! . . . in the first place not to look at this Odile! . . . but why would I? . . . I ask you . . . my eyelids are like lead! . . . I got a brick in my skull . . . oh yes! . . . me, not somebody else! . . . not tubercular Odile or Lili or the Italian . . . something fishy about him . . . bricks he makes . . . I'll get to the bottom . . . find out why he brags about it all day long, glories in it . . . no glory in my ear . . . a split skull is no laughing matter . . . sure it is! . . . on account of that locomotive up there in the clouds and now there are seagulls all around it . . .
choo! choo!
I can even hear it . . . it's passing through a cloud . . . another . . . it'll come back! . . . this is all pretty silly . . . the main thing is to lie still . . . and for our train, our flatcars, to get ahead! . . . us and our searchlights! . . . ha, I feel like laughing again! . . . I stop myself, I don't want to offend anybody . . . what do I want to laugh about anyway? . . . curses, I've forgotten . . . little by little I'm beginning to understand Odile's story . . . all those little idiots must have come from an asylum . . . "hurry, hurry, all aboard! . . . the Russians are coming! . . . no questions, just get going!" . . . ah, Oddort! . . . a narrow squeak they'd had! . . . man, were they expected! . . . you can say what you like, they had it pretty well organized, liquid phosphorus, howitzers . . . Odile Pomaré didn't know . . . she'd missed her appointment. . .
The measles had broken out en route . . . how many kids had died? . . . Odile gave me a rough estimate . . . Odile was only interested in one thing, herself, her chest, her cough . . . measles? . . . maybe the kids had starved to death . . . three cases of milk from Breslau to here . . . not much! . . . I still hadn't seen any kids, not one . . . according to Odile they were sleeping under the tarps . . . somewhere, some other flatcar . . . the train was really moving, tell the truth it was going pretty fast . . . and no alerts, not a plane . . . a pleasure trip if it hadn't been so cold . . . where to, this pleasure trip? . . . we'd get there when the time came . . . or maybe we wouldn't . . . so comical! . . . especially having to keep myself from laughing! . . . my locomotive of the clouds was still passing over . . . at that moment! . . .
choo! choo!
. . . there it is! . . . upside down, with its twelve wheels in the air! . . . it disappears . . . I feel around for Lili . . . her hand . . . not a sight to miss! . . . I ask her: