Paris Noir (3 page)

Some of his clients – the oldest and wealthiest – seemed less and less affected by the burden of their years. They were rejuvenated‚ and old men beheld with astonishment those whom they believed to be their contemporaries become once again men in their prime.

It was discovered that Biber had in great secrecy made watches for them that were little concerned with telling the time: they ran backwards. The fate of the person whose name was engraved on the watchwork arbors became linked to that of the object. His life went into reverse‚ returning through the term of existence he’d already lived. He grew younger.

A brotherhood established itself among the beneficiaries of this marvellous secret. Many years passed.

And then one day Oswald Biber received a visit from his assembled clients. They entreated him‚ ‘Could you not make the mechanisms that rule our lives just mark time now‚ without regressing any further?’

‘Alas! That’s impossible. But consider yourselves lucky. You’d have been long dead if I hadn’t done this for you.’

‘But we don’t want to get any younger! We dread adolescence‚ oblivious youth‚ the dark night of early childhood‚ and the inescapable doom of returning to limbo. We can’t bear the haunting prospect of that inexorable date‚ the preordained date of our demise.’

‘There’s nothing to be done about it‚ nothing more I can do for you.’

‘But we’ve known you for so many years now‚ and why do you still look the same as ever? You seem to be ageless.’

‘Because the master I had in Venice in times long gone by‚ who did not to my great regret instil all of his knowledge in me‚ made for me this watch here.

‘The hands run alternatively clockwise and anticlockwise. I age and rejuvenesce every other day.’

Unconvinced‚ these aspirants to eternal life of the flesh went away and conferred. It was decided they would return to Biber the sorcerer after nightfall and compel him by whatever means necessary to do as they wanted.

They invaded his house but he wasn’t there. Every one of them had come‚ too‚ with the secret intention of stealing the watchmaker’s watch‚ the only one of its kind offering such comfort.

They fought savagely among themselves‚ and in their struggle the object that controlled all the others was shattered.

Their watches stopped immediately‚ and immediately these fine fellows died. Their corpses were discovered and solemnly execrated. They were piled up in a charnel house in a place where ‘the soil was so putrefying that a body decayed in nine days.’

At the time I almost regretted having mentioned this to Cyril. I’d already noticed his subtle turn of thought‚ appreciated the
soundness of some of his advice. The unanimous opinion of folk in the neighbourhood could be summed up in these words: Cyril knows things that others don’t. But I wasn’t aware that he was the holder of a secret – his own – and that to be reminded of it was so painful to him.

All I said was‚ ‘Are you at all familiar with a legend about time running backwards… Oswald Biber …’

He paled‚ began to tremble. In a broken voice‚ staring at me with a kind of terror‚ he said as if to himself‚ ‘So you too are in the know? It’s much more serious than I thought.’

For a moment there was infinite distress in his eyes‚ rising from the most distant past.

And then he recovered‚ and we spoke of other things.

Occupied Paris is on its guard. Inviolate deep down to its core‚ the City has grown tense‚ surly and scornful. It has reinforced its interior borders‚ as the bulkheads of an endangered ship are closed. You no longer see between the villages of Paris that self-confident and good-natured human traffic that existed just a few months ago. I sense a resurgence and reassertion‚ growing stronger every day‚ of the age-old differences that set apart Maubert and La Montagne‚ Mouffetard and Les Gobelins. To say nothing of crossing the bridges: left bank and right bank are not two different worlds any more‚ but two different planets. Often I feel the need to get snugly settled in a corner seat‚ quiet and alone‚ with the complicit smile of some boundary-mark‚ some stone‚ on the other side of the window‚ addressed to me alone. With the pleasure of seeing‚ on this stretch of wall‚ the poster that flutters in the drama of early morning calling for my attention. It knows that I’m responding.

I make this neighbourhood my own. But bowing to social conventions is now a thing of the past. I literally turn my back on one fellow‚ said to be likeable and of irreproachable behaviour‚ who offers me his plump paw. But I’ve no objection to being surrounded‚ like some precious stone embedded in rock‚ by a bunch of sweet-natured winos. There’s Gérard the painter‚ who has a trichological obsession. On the first of every month he gets his hair dressed like that of a musketeer. By the second week he looks like a Russian peasant. There’s Séverin the anarchist‚ who deserted for the sake of a girl. And there’s Théophile Trigou. In order to attend mass at St Séverin every morning without being seen‚ this Breton resorts to the same cunning as the rest of us do in pretending to be unaware of his harmless subterfuge. Théophile is a
first-rate Latinist‚ to which we owe some terrific evenings now and again. The four of us form ‘the Smart Gang’. That’s the name Pignolette gave us. She’s fond of us and so she looks after us.

Yesterday we descended on the Vieux-Chêne‚ run by the Captain. A genuine ex-merchant marine officer.

Sunset’s the best time to take a stroll down Mouffetard‚ the ancient Via Mons Cetardus. The buildings along it are only two or three stories high. Many are crowned with conical dovecotes. Nowhere in Paris is the connection‚ the obscure kinship‚ between houses very close to each other more perceptible to the pedestrian than in this street.

Close in age‚ not location. If one of them should show signs of decrepitude‚ if its face should sag‚ or it should lose a tooth‚ as it were‚ a bit of cornicing‚ within hours its sibling a hundred metres away‚ but designed according to the same plans and built by the same men‚ will also feel it’s on its last legs.

The houses vibrate in sympathy like the chords of a
viola d’amore
. Like cheddite charges giving each other the signal to explode simultaneously.

The Vieux-Chêne was the scene of bloody brawls between arch thugs. By turns a place of refuge‚ conspiracy‚ crime‚ it was frequently closed down by the police.

I was planning on a session of sweet silent thought‚ with a pipe to smoke and memories ready to be summoned.

It was not to be. Silence‚ like madness‚ is only comparative. We felt embarrassed‚ almost intimidated‚ my companions and I‚ by the absence of the usual screen that guaranteed our isolation: that cacophony of belching‚ gurgling‚ stomach- rumbling‚ incoherent ranting‚ singing‚ belly-aching‚ swearing‚ drunken snoring – all this was missing.

The local dossers and tramps were there as usual. But silent‚ anxious‚ watchful – fearfully so‚ it seemed – as they gazed at a spare lean man dressed in black‚ and disgustingly dirty.
Leaning forward with his elbows on the table‚ huge-eyed with pouches that sagged down his face‚ he sat staring at a newly lighted candle standing some distance in front of him.

The Captain signalled to us – shh – and went creeping out to bolt the door.

The minutes seeped away like wine from a barrel.

The dossers’ eyes went from the candle to the man‚ from the man to the candle. This carried on for a while‚ a very long while. When the candle had burned two-thirds of the way down‚ the flame lengthened‚ sputtered‚ turned blue and flickered drunkenly‚ like the delinquent dawn of a bad day. Then I knew who the man was. I’d encountered him before.

Just after the last war‚ I spent some of my childhood (the summer months‚ for several years in a row) at E‚ a small town in the Eure-et-Loir. I had some playmates‚ who were entranced by all the things the ‘big boys’ got up to‚ that’s to say‚ boys three or four years their senior. These ‘big boys’ affected to despise us. They never joined in our games‚ but they were happy to capture the admiring attention of an easily impressed gaggle of kids. The most conceited‚ big-mouthed show-off‚ and sometimes the meanest of these older boys‚ was called Honoré.

We hated him as much as we loved his father: Master Thibaudat‚ as he was known. This good-hearted fellow – I can still see his blue peaked cap‚ his Viking moustache‚ and the reflection on his face of his smithy’s furnace – repaired agricultural machinery. He was also captain of the town’s fire brigade. This was no small distinction. Every Sunday morning he’d gather together his helmeted and plumed subordinates for fire drill. He’d get them lined up in rows outside the town hall‚ and direct operations in his manly voice with a thick Beauce accent.

‘
Pompe à cul! Déboïautéi!

‘
Mettez-vous en rangs su l’trottouèr comm’ dimanche dargniéi!

‘
Hé là-bas: gare les fumelles … on va fout’un coup d’pompe …
’

[Drop the hose reel! Let it run!

Line up on the pavement like last Sunday!

Hey‚ watch out there‚ lasses … we’re going to give it burst …]

What a laugh!

The rest‚ I found out later.

For there was something else: Master Thibaudat was ‘
marcou
’. In other words‚ he’d inherited from his ancestors the secret‚ passed down from father to son‚ of mastering fire.

Thibaudat had the ability to extinguish a blazing hayrick‚ to isolate a burning barn‚ the strategic genius to contain a forest fire. But more importantly‚ he was a healer. Mild burns disappeared at once; the rest never withstood him more than a few hours. In very serious cases‚ he would be sent to the hospital. There he would pass his hands over the agonized patient who would be screaming and in danger of suffocating. At the same time he would recite in an undertone set phrases known only to himself. The pain would cease immediately. And flesh and skin would regenerate with a speed that astounded numerous doctors. From Maintenon to Chartres‚ and even as far afield as Mans‚ Thibaudat is still remembered by many people.

The day came when Master Thibaudat sensed that his powers were failing. He feared that he no longer had the vital energy he needed to be able to do his job. His only son‚ Honoré‚ was a now grown man: for his eighteenth birthday he’d been given a new bicycle and a pair of long trousers. His third pair.

Under solemn oath to hold his tongue‚ Honoré was initiated into the family secret and in turn became ‘
marcou
’.

Honoré got more and more above himself. He’d stuck with the same bunch of friends because‚ being better dressed than they were‚ and with plenty of money in his pocket‚ he more easily cut a dash at the country dances‚ especially at a time when the day-labourers‚ not satisfied with the sluts they were fobbed off with in the bordellos – ‘Good enough for peasants! Incapable of screwing without the rest of the gang in tow‚ and drunk as skunks!’ – were happily treating themselves to young housemaids‚ getting them pregnant or giving them a dose of the clap‚ without a by-your-leave or thank-you and no time to call mother.

Honoré at least had some style and manners. And the means to compensate his partners for the loss of half-a-day’s
pay. And to find modest sheets to lie between‚ under a feather counterpane that with two kicks and a pelvic thrust was soon sent flying in the direction of the ceramic-edged chamber-pot with the blue enamel lid.

‘Now‚ what was it your father told you‚ Honoré? What do you have to say to draw the heat? Is it a prayer or a spell? Go on‚ tell me‚ Honoré …’

Forgetting his oath‚ Honoré spilled the beans on several occasions. He’d already exercised the power passed on to him‚ on some not very serious injuries. The patients had been cured: less rapidly‚ however‚ than if they’d been treated by the father. But allowances had to be made. Honoré would eventually get the hang of it.

The hat shop in Rambouillet had prospered. In the workshop‚ twenty women in front of twenty sewing machines turned out twenty snoods of woven straw‚ dreadful things for imprisoning chignons. Two girls from the area round E found themselves working side by side. One of them boasted of her experience – and enjoyment – of the seductive charms of the handsome Honoré. Her neighbour‚ stung to jealousy‚ claimed to be equally knowledgeable on this subject. There was no way they could start tearing each other’s hair out. But the girls were obdurate. At a loss for insults‚ vying to have the last word‚ they hurled at each other those phrases that were not to be uttered‚ the phrases unwisely divulged by Honoré. And once let loose‚ those words were soon all over town.

The child that had fallen on to the fire in the hearth was brought before Honoré‚ who with the laying-on of his hands began to murmur. A quarter of an hour later the child was dead.

Then the rumours gained substance. And people grabbed their pitchforks‚ their flails and some their guns. The ‘
marcou
’ had become ‘
malahou
’‚ in other words‚ forsworn‚ a traitor to his word‚ a traitor to everyone.

It required the energetic protection of the police to allow Honoré to get on his bike and reach the very distant station of Gazeran‚ where the Paris train stopped.

Old Thibaudat died shortly afterwards – broken-hearted‚ so they say. Banished from that region for ever‚ Honoré got on the wrong side of the law. He spent his military service doing time with one of the Africa Disciplinary Battalions.

The extinguished wick was still smoking‚ through distraction – amazement‚ perhaps.

The dossers began to talk among themselves‚ suspecting one another of being the one that had blown out the candle without anyone noticing. The man in black seemed at once crushed and relieved. I don’t know why I was so cruel.

‘Honoré Thibaudat?’

His lined face became even more gaunt. The same terrified bewilderment‚ the same overwhelming distress I’d witnessed in Cyril. But this lasted much longer. With great difficulty he formed the words‚ ‘What … what do want?’

‘Nothing. Are you the son of the fireman at E? We used to know each other.’

‘So … so what? What do you want of me?’

‘Nothing‚ I tell you‚ nothing at all. Let me buy you a drink.’