Death on the Installment Plan (23 page)

We’d generally do twelve to fifteen of a morning, all kinds … Jewel setters, cutters, and polishers, chain makers, silversmiths, and even trades that have gone out of existence, like silver gilders and agate engravers.

They examine us some more … They put down their magnifying glasses to get a better look … to make sure we’re not bandits … murderers … escaped convicts … Once reassured, they became friendly, even sympathetic … Except they don’t need anybody … not for the moment. They couldn’t afford any overhead … They made their own calls … The whole family was in the business, all together, in their tiny niches … The seven stories on the court were honeycombed with their burrows, their workshops were like little caves carved out of the walls of what had once been fashionable houses … They’d stopped trying to keep up appearances … They lived on top of each other, wife, kids, grandmother, all working together … At the most they’d take on an apprentice for the Christmas rush …

My mother ran out of arguments and suggested as a last inducement that they take me on without pay … that really made them jump. They’d clam up tight and slam the door in our faces. They were suspicious of anybody who’d work for nothing. It looked shady as hell. We’d have to start all over again. My mother concentrated on inspiring confidence, but it didn’t seem to get us very far. She couldn’t very well represent me as an apprentice in stone setting or machining fine metal … It was too late for that … I’d never be handy with my fingers … The most I could expect to be was a blabbermouth, an outside salesman, a common ordinary “young man” … My career had been bungled in every way …

When we got home, my father wanted to know what what was what … We were always empty-handed and it drove him nuts. All evening he’d thrash around in the most terrible nightmares … You could have furnished a dozen loonybins with the contents of his dome …

My mother’s legs were all twisted from climbing stairs … She felt so funny she couldn’t stop … She kept limping around the table making the most terrible faces … She had drawing pains in her legs … she was racked with cramps …

We’d race off bright and early to other addresses all the same … rue Réamur, rue Greneta … the Bastille, rue des Jeûneurs … and especially the Place des Vosges … after several months of begging and stair climbing, of puffing and pestering for nothing, my mother began to wonder whether people couldn’t tell by the cut of my jib that I was nothing but an insubordinate little no-good … My father didn’t doubt it for a moment … He’d known it for years … His certainty was reinforced every time we came home empty-handed … dazed, panting, dog-tired, wet from running, drenched inside and out with sweat and rain …

“It’s harder to get that kid a job than to liquidate our whole stock … and I don’t have to tell you, Clémence, that wouldn’t be easy.”

He hadn’t been educated for nothing, he knew how to make comparisons, to draw inferences.

My last suit was already sagging in all directions, with great big bags at the knees, stairs are death on clothes. Luckily I was able to borrow an old hat from my father. We wore the same size. It wasn’t in very good shape, so I always held it in my hand. The part I wore out was the brim … People were awfully polite in those days… .

It was high time Uncle Édouard found me a decent address. We were really out of luck. We didn’t know what to do. And then one day the whole thing got straightened out … He came in at lunch time, beaming and burbling … He was absolutely positive. He’d gone to see this man, a master engraver. He was going to take me on. It was in the bag!

Gorloge was his name, he lived on the rue Elzévir, in an apartment on the sixth floor. He went in mostly for rings, brooches, embossed bracelets, and small repair jobs. He took anything that came his way. He struggled along from day to day. He didn’t expect much. He tried to give satisfaction regardless.

Édouard infected us with his confidence. We couldn’t wait to see him. We didn’t even finish our cheese. In two seconds flat my mother and I were out in the street … A short bus ride, the Boulevards, the rue Elzévir … Five flights … They were still at table when we rang the bell. They ate bread soup too, big bowls of it, and then noodles with cheese, and nuts for dessert. They’d been expecting us. My uncle had sung my praises. We had come at just the right moment … They didn’t gild the pill … They didn’t try to hide anything … They were having a hell of a time with their engraved ornaments … They made no bones about it … for twelve years there hadn’t been anything doing … They were still waiting for things to pick up … They were moving heaven and earth … but the resurrection didn’t come … The customers had other things in mind. Ruin was staring them in the face.

Even so, Monsieur Gorloge was holding out, he was putting up a fight … He still had hope … He dressed like Uncle Arthur … the happy artist, with a goatee, a flowing bow tie, long pointed shoes, and a baggy smock all covered with wine spots … He sat there at his ease. He was smoking, you couldn’t even see him behind the eddies of smoke … He fanned it away with his hand.

Madame Gorloge sat across the table from him on a low stool. Her tits were squashed against the workbench, she was round all over, magnificent bulges … Her curves overflowed from her apron … she was cracking nuts with her fists … a staggering blow from way up, enough to split the table wide open. The whole workshop shook … She was quite a number … a former model … I found that out later … The type appealed to me.

As for wages, the subject didn’t even come up. We didn’t want to be indiscreet. That would come later … I didn’t expect him to offer anything. But then he made up his mind after all, just as we were leaving. He said I could expect a regular wage … thirty-five francs a month … transportation included … And besides I had prospects … a sizable bonus if by my efforts I succeeded in reviving the engraver’s craft. He thought me a little young, but that didn’t matter because I had the sacred fire … because I’d grown up in the racket … because I’d been born in a shop! … It was a deal … all very heartwarming … one cheery remark after another …

We went home to the Passage full of enthusiasm … The rainbow at last. We finished our meal. We emptied the jam pots. Papa took three helpings of wine. He let a fine fart … like he’d almost stopped doing … We kissed Uncle Édouard … There was wind in our sails again after the awful famine.

The next day I went to the rue Elzévir bright and early to get my collection.

The way Monsieur Gorloge was lounging around when I came in, I thought he”d forgotten me … He was sitting at the wide-open window, looking at the rooftops. Between his knees he had a big bowl of coffee. He wasn’t doing a damn thing, that was plain. The view amused him … the thousands of courtyards in the Petit Marais … He had a dazed dreamy look … That can be mighty fascinating, it can’t be denied. The lovely lace-work of slate … the light playing over it … the intermingled colors … the way the gutters twist and twine. And the sparrows hopping about … And the wisps of smoke coiling over the deep chasms of shadow …

He motioned me to keep my trap shut and listen to things … to take in the scene … He didn”t like to be disturbed … He must have thought me rather uncouth. He gave me a sulky look.

All around the court, from top to bottom, at every window it was like a Punch and Judy show … heads popping out … bald ones, bushy ones, pale faces … squealing, griping, whistling … And then different noises … A watering can tips, falls, bounces down on the big cobblestones below … A pot of geraniums slips … and flops kerplunk on the concierge’s lodge. It breaks into smithereens. The concierge comes bounding out of her grotto … flinging her cries out into space. Help! … Bloody murder! … The whole house is in an uproar … Every pest in the place rushes to the window … They spew fire … they spit at each other … They challenge each other across the void … They’re all yelling at once … You can’t make out who’s in the right …

Monsieur Gorloge hangs out the window … He doesn’t want to miss one crumb … He’s crazy about these scenes … When things quiet down, he’s heartbroken … He heaves a sigh … and then another … He goes back to his bread and butter … He pours himself another bowl … he offers me some coffee too …

“Ferdinand,” he finally says, “I’d better tell you again that it’s not going to be any sinecure selling my merchandise … I’ve had ten salesmen already … They were good boys, nothing wrong with them! And plenty of grit! … Actually you’re the twelfth, because to tell you the truth, I’ve tried my hand at it too … Well, there you have it … Anyway, come back tomorrow. I’m not in form today … And … well no, hang around awhile … Monsieur Antoine will be coming in … Maybe I ought to introduce you … Oh well, you might as well be leaving at that … I’ll tell him I’ve hired you … Won’t he be surprised! He doesn’t like salesmen! He’s my first assistant … my foreman in fact … He’s a tough customer … no doubt about that. You’ll know that as soon as you lay eyes on him. But he’s very helpful … yes, yes, I can’t deny it … I want you to meet little Robert too, our apprentice … He’s a good kid. You’ll get along fine, I’m sure. He’ll give you the collection … It’s in the bottom of the closet … It’s unique, see what I mean? … It’s pretty heavy though … About thirty pounds … Nothing but models … Copper and lead … The earliest pieces date back to my father … He had some beautiful things! Unique! Unique! I remember seeing his Trocadéro! … All handcarved, mounted as a diadem. Can you imagine? It was worn twice … I still have the photograph. I’ll show it to you one of these days …”

Gorloge was sick of explaining … He was disgusted again, fed up … He made a last effort … He put his feet on the table … He let out a deep sigh … He was wearing embroidered slippers, I can still see them … with kittens running around on them …

“Well, Ferdinand, better go on home … Give your mother my best regards … On your way out would you tell the concierge to run over to the café at Number 26 and make a phone call for me … Tell her to call the Three Admirals Hotel and see if Antoine is sick … he’s plumb crazy … to find out if anything has happened to him … He hasn’t been in for two days now … She can yell up to me from the court … Tell her to look it up in the phone book … The Three Admirals … Tell her to send up some milk … The old lady isn’t feeling very well … Tell her to send up the paper … any old paper … Well, maybe the
Sports News
…”

It wasn’t next day, but the day after that I finally got to see the collection … Gorloge had understated … Thirty pounds! … It weighed at least twice that much … He had vaguely suggested certain “sales techniques” … but nothing very definite … He wasn’t really sold on any of them … I could do exactly as I pleased … He relied on my initiative … I expected horrors but I’ve got to admit I had a sinking feeling when I saw that mess close up … It was unbelievable … Never had I seen such a lot of such disgusting monstrosities all at once … A challenge … A pocket inferno …

Everything we opened was horrible … nothing but gargoyles and bottle imps … made out of lead, turned and tortured, fussed and finicked … it turned your stomach … The whole Symbolist orgy … Chunks of nightmare … A putty “Samothrace” … more “Victories” in the shape of little clocks … Necklaces made out of Medusas, coils of snakes … More chimeras … Hundreds of allegorical rings, one crappier than the next … My work was cut out for me … All those things were supposed to be put on fingers, on belts, or stuck in ties. Or hung on somebody’s ears … It was unbelievable! … Somebody was expected to buy them! Who? Great God, who? No form of dragon, demon, hobgoblin, or vampire was missing … A complete collection of nightmares … A whole world of sleepless nights … The manias of a whole insane asylum served up as trinkets … I was going from punk to horrible … Even in my grandmother’s store on the rue Mont-orgueil the most moth-eaten white elephants were things of beauty by comparison …

I’d never be able to make a living with such garbage. I was beginning to see the point about the ten saps before me. They must have been floored … These nightmares weren’t being sold anymore … Since the last of the Romantics people had tucked them away in terror … Maybe people were still passing them around in families … when somebody died … but taking plenty of precautions … It wouldn’t be safe to show such loony stuff to people who hadn’t been warned … They might feel offended. Even Gorloge was afraid to do it … in person, that is. He’d given up buffeting the tide of fashion … The heroism was for me! … I was the last salesman! … Nobody had stuck it out for more than three weeks …

He himself did nothing but prospect for small repair jobs … to keep the shop going until fashions should change … He had kept up a few connections in the trade … Friends from better days who wouldn’t have wanted to let him starve. They sent jobs his way … settings and patchwork … disgusting toil … but he never touched a finger to it himself … He passed it all on to our Antoine. Gorloge was an engraver … He wasn’t going to ruin his touch doing menial work … he wasn’t going to lose his standing and reputation for a few sous. No, sir. On that score he was adamant.

At nine o’clock sharp I climbed the stairs on the rue Elzévir, I didn’t wait for him to come down … I flung myself on Paris right away, armed with my zeal and my “few pounds” of samples … Seeing as I was the outside man, they gave me a good outing … I was used to it. From the Bastille to the Madeleine … Miles and miles … All the Boulevards … every single jewelry store, one by one … Not to mention the little side streets … There was no room in my heart for discouragement … To revive the customers’ taste for engraved articles I’d have cut the moon into little pieces. I’d have eaten my dragons. Pretty soon I myself was executing all their grimaces as I walked … Frantically conscientious, I’d wait my turn on the salesmen’s bench outside the buyers’ room.