Authors: Louis-ferdinand & Manheim Celine
Rigadoon (20 page)
"Don't move, I've got it!"
"Why would I move? but you, are you in pain?"
Ah, I don't want to talk about my head! . . . an adapter, that's what I needed! . . . and right away! . . . all full of memories! grotesque memories . . . in snatches! . . . you can't have grandiose melodies without counterpoint!
Terrible pain from temple to temple! . . . it never stops! forgive me! . . . I won't complain . . . my shirt was clinging to my back . . . right! I didn't mean to talk about it . . . such dramatics! this "me me" chronicle! . . . Europe's falling to pieces? my shirt! the ridge of my back! me!
wheeng! wheee! wheee!
sirens still blowing somewhere . . . I'm imitating the music . . . too bad I have no talent! . . .
wheeesh!
listen! . . . I need another ear, the one I have left is no use at all . . . maybe at the piano, groping . . . from key to key . . . later in Copenhagen up there, two years in the clink, I had time . . . I composed grandiose melodies for myself, still in memory of Hanover, symphonies so to speak, and hummed them to myself . . . like this, inside my mouth . . .
boom!
. . .
wham!
. . . wheee! I was all alone, I wasn't bothering anybody . . . the guards were used to it . . . my time in the clink, two years, Pavilion K, Vesterfangsel . . . seeing I was in Denmark they had to put me someplace . . .
Here now, up above where I'm writing, I hear phonograph records through the floors, movements of symphonies, I think, I don't ask . . . I listen, I keep quiet . . . I don't want to hum like up there in solitary in the Vesterfangsel . . . it's ballet dancers, I think, not tongues of flame like in Hanover . . . so they tell me, I don't know them . . . I know their studio . . . I've gone up two three times . . . at night . . . I'm not the society type, what I don't know I don't know . . . still as down at heel and scrupulous as ever . . . he holds his tongue . . . I hold my tongue . . . your high-born man doesn't hesitate, he barges right in! . . . nothing can stop him! . . . proclaims his opinion! judges! . . . and to hell with what you think! the highborn man doesn't know how to do anything . . . but high-born he is, thunderbolt, omnipotent! . . . and that's that! . . . whisper so nobody can hear you! . . . one peep and you're through!
Up there anyway, where I was telling you, it was three . . . maybe four notes . . . on that platform of shards and plaster . . . the remains of the real one, in Hanover-North . . . there, I can tell you, we had nothing left . . . our last rags and knapsacks had disappeared in the smashup! the cave-in! seven hand trucks under the torrents of bricks, two three house fronts and forged-iron balconies! . . . ah, moonlight! you'll never see such settings and tragedies in the movies! . . . much less on the stage! . . . they tell us that Hollywood is dead! . . . they can say that again! how can the movies deliver after what's happened for real! . . . which is why I personally can't even look at a photograph! . . . to translate is to betray! right! to reproduce, to photograph, is to putrefy! instantly! . . . anything that existed makes you sick to look at! . . . therefore transpose! . . . poetically if you can! but who tries? . . . nobody! . . . look at Goncourt! . . . that was the end! . . . "they ceased to transpose" . . . what were the crusades for? . . . the crusaders transposed themselves! . . . now they get themselves ejected from their sixteenth floor in Passy by air-conditioned super-jet direct to Golgotha . . . seven minutes . . . get their pictures taken on the Mount of Olives . . . Monsieur as Joseph . . . Madame as Mary . . . the children? angels naturally . . . home again for cocktails . . . now that every man and his wife has a motor on his ass and can go wherever he likes, without legs, without a head, he's nothing but a balloon, a half portion of air . . . he won't even pass away, he's done it already . . .
Oh, you say to yourself: this old fool, what a bore he is! . . . all right, I admit it, I'm talking too much . . . back to my three notes . . . quick! I'm not putting on . . . but you see . . . I need them for my Hanover panorama! . . . before that brick hit me and scrambled my brains, I hadn't a care in life . . . I let my head buzz any way it liked, without order or pretention . . . I let it trumpet any old way, I didn't bother about the music . . . but now, like it or not, I've got to! . . . I'd even call it a melody . . . can you imagine? untrained, untalented, forced to bumble snatches of melody . . . but something else! my canes! . . . lost them both in that fool explosion . . . when everything fell down on us, well anyway, the house front . . . I think, I'm not sure . . .
"Felipe, my good friend! . . . Felipe!"
I tell him about it . . . he'll find my canes! I'm sure he will . . . because we've got to keep on going . . . on the other track . . . the last one they've got at this Hanover-North . . . they tell me a certain train will be passing through . . . we'll see! . . . no lack of passengers! . . . people like us and soldiers . . . Krauts and Hungarians, I think . . . not talking very loud, whispering . . . they're looking around same as us . . . far . . . near . . . the little fires . . . what's left of the houses . . . the colors . . . we all look like Pierrots, all covered with flour in the bright moonlight . . . Felipe brings me my two canes, they weren't far away . . . good! . . . good! . . . but my grandiose melody? . . . just what I need in these ruins . . . this ocean of fire, this fiery surf from end to end of Hanover . . . I can hear the tune in my head . . . pretty sure the tune is right . . . but the notes? . . . the exact notes? hell, mere reminiscences . . . I admit it . . . but what of it? . . . comforting music after the tornado . . .
Believe it or not, but after that night in Hanover I wondered if I had the notes I wanted or . . . were they too high? or too low? . . .
"But the man is gaga, it said so in
Paris-Match!
dribbling, drooping! he was shitting in his pants!"
I'm letting you interrupt me . . . but the truth remains the truth . . . through myriad adventures, amusing and much less amusing moments, I kept wondering if I had my musical setting . . . oh, I have no great pretentions . . . three four notes . . . pleasure notes, so to speak . . . that'll do! . . .
I finally made up my mind . . . I went upstairs . . . where the young ladies are, the ballet dancers . . . at eleven o'clock at night . . . I was positive, I'd heard it! . . . enough of it anyway . . . three . . . four notes . . . nobody up there at eleven o'clock at night . . . I knew what I wanted . . . symphonies! . . . I thumb through the records . . . a big pile! . . . believe it or not, I find it in half a second . . . the one I need . . . yes! . . . no! . . . yes! now for a keyboard! at the other end of the studio . . . thinking about it so long, maybe . . . I poke around on the keys . . . I've got it! . . . pretty near right . . . yes! yes! . . . where's the A on the keyboard? . . . I've got it! . . . the tune! . . . a miracle! twenty years you've been racking your brains, and damned if you haven't got it! . . . stupid and unmusical as you are! . . . I go back down, I've got my four notes . . . G-sharp! G! A-sharp! . . . B! Got to remember them. I should have had them there in Hanover.
There on the roadbed . . . I guess I was sick . . . fainted like a sissy . . . must have, because Felipe woke me up . . . it was getting light. . .
"Has the train passed?"
I ask him.
"No . . . no . . . not yet!"
That's a good thing . . . I says to myself: Lili, I've found you, you're here! . . . so's Bébert! . . . oh, but the sirens, wheee! . . . as many as in Berlin . . . you'd think they were finished around here, they've wrecked the whole place! well, pretty near . . .
wheee!
. . . from one end of the moonlight to the other . . . and
wham!
. . . and
boom!
. . .
bombs! smash!
. . . but what was there left to smash? . . . hey, where's Felipe? . . .
At last! the train! . . . I can hear you saying: all he does is take trains . . . anyway, here it is! . . . seems it's the last train from Hanover to Hamburg . . . if you call it a train . . . a coke engine hitched to ten, maybe fifteen open-work cars . . . cars? not exactly . . . no walls, no doors . . . more like platforms . . . the worst of it is that they're all full . . . war materiel, mostly . . . I think . . . enormous searchlights under tarps . . . nobody stops the passengers from climbing on . . . they've just got to squeeze in . . . it's the last train on the line . . . then they're going to rip up the rails for strategic reasons . . . that's what they're saying . . . they seem to know . . . rumors aren't always wrong, that's what's so frightening, that shred of truth . . . but even if it wasn't sure they were going to discontinue the Hanover-Hamburg, even if it was only probable, we couldn't take the chance . . . heave-ho! . . . not so easy, but we make it! . . . we're wedged between an enormous spool of cable and some other huge object, a dynamo, I think . . . pretty tight squeeze, but not too uncomfortable . . . Lili, Bébert in his musette bag, Felipe, and myself . . . we've only got each other to keep us warm, nothing to put on, lost it all in the hostilities and under the brick slide . . . well, pretty near . . . our knapsacks and duffel coats . . . buried in bricks . . . I think, I'm not sure . . . I won't claim we were naked, no! . . . but that's what it felt like in the rain and wind . . . besides, it was coming on winter and we hadn't had anything to eat since the smashup . . . I think all our stuff was buried under the bricks, I'm not sure . . . I'm not saying we were stark naked, no! . . . but nothing to eat, not a thing, no coffee, no bread . . . the other people on the other cars haven't anything either, I can see the positions they're in, they've climbed on, hoisted themselves like us, not a peep out of them, they're only trying to keep warm like us, but in clusters of ten or fifteen . . . men and women . . . in between spools of barbed wire, steel girders, and more searchlights . . . all this equipment for Hamburg? at the tail end, it looks like, they've even got pieces of railroad cars . . . quarters, halves . . . that we're toting along with a regiment of searchlights . . . no skin off my ass! . . . to the repair yard! . . . why not? . . . I promise Lili: "this is going to be fun!" . . . "think so?" . . . she's not so sure . . . she asks me . . . "are you feeling all right?" . . . the fact is, I'm feeling remarkably chipper . . . in spite of my stinking headache . . . my nose and mouth are bleeding too . . . not much, drop by drop . . . must be blood, it's trickling down my back and between my legs . . . I don't want to say anything, but there in that street, in the fracas, I took a clout between the medulla and maybe the mastoid . . . I've got a lump, feels like a warm moist ball, hair, mud, and something else . . . but as long as I can stand up more or less . . . and we've found a place . . . not the first time! . . . wedged between tarps and dynamos . . . the main thing is to keep from falling off this shelf! . . . a hell of a setup, this bric-a-brac flatcar . . . and cold! . . . it's September . . . if we fall off this shelf nobody'll come and pick us up . . . I mean by rail . . . if the tracks are still there! such a hurry, they tell me, to do away with this line! . . . hee! hee! . . . I tell Lili it's funny . . . she doesn't think so . . . she never sulks, but right now she's sulking . . . since that brickfall, I think . . . me, it's the exact opposite! . . . ever since that brick hit me, except for this lousy headache, I've been wanting to laugh! . . . at everything . . . for instance this platform we're on . . . and the cool of the morning . . . cool? . . . understatement . . . it's just plain cold . . . but I can't complain! . . . "Lili, I've got a fever! . . . how about you? . . . and you, Felipe?" something's jiggling, I don't know who's doing it, but it's one of us . . . in my case it's malaria plus everything else . . . later . . . a little later I'll go into the clinical aspect . . . but . . . say . . . this car is moving! . . . definitely! . . . I said to myself . . . we'd pulled out and we hadn't even noticed . . . we were rolling along . . . charming landscape! . . . well, kind of hazy . . . poetic, let's say . . . the people behind us . . . on the other flatcars . . . must be joggling too . . . I get a glimpse of them . . . here and there . . . between the tarps and searchlights, they seem to be all huddled up like us and not very happy . . . they're dressed pretty much like us . . . I think . . . but there must be some more under the tarps, that can't be all war materiel . . . hiding in the hardware! . . . on the lam from something or other . . . people that don't want to be seen . . . here we are, joggling along on these flatcars with a whole raft of invisibles . . . coexistence is the word nowadays . . . okay, we're coexisting! . . . the main thing is we're rolling! even with these stowaways, we'll get to Hamburg, unless the train blows up . . . it's the things you don't see that matter in life, what you see is all masquerade, blah-blah, theater! . . . it's what's going on inside your prostate that's interesting, that millionth gamete that decides he's sick of it all and isn't going to take any more orders, no, he's going into business for himself, to hell with the ladies and cock robin! he's going to proliferate . . . quick! this minute! for his own benefit! and you can croak! you'll never see that millionth lowdown cancerous anarchist gamete! . . . you won't even know he existed! . . . oh oh! now I'm proliferating, losing sight of you . . . curses! . . . off my rocker? . . . never mind, I warned you! . . . my head! . . . my head's acting up . . . no! it can count me out! . . . I'm bringing you back to our rolling platform . . . this enormous contraption and all these people wedged between the dynamos . . . here we are again! . . . nothing to complain about, we're getting ahead . . . there's definitely somebody under those tarps . . . I'm positive! . . . time will tell! . . . Henry IV? . . . Romanov? . . . Louis XV? they lived well . . . and shitless . . . assassins in every doorway . . . every street corner . . . those things, as you know, concern the Fates, not us! . . . to sum up: that brick hasn't improved my health . . . I admit it! but not depressed . . . not in the least! . . . actually I'm kind of gay . . . a special kind of whimsy . . . those thatched huts, for instance . . . on both sides of the landscape . . . seems to me they're acting kind of theatrical . . . tableau effect, leaning over, undulating . . . especially the chimneys . . . it's a kind of vision, a style . . . oh, I know my head has something to do with it! . . . that brick . . . I ask Lili . . . no! . . . she doesn't see anything undulating . . . I won't say any more about it! . . . talking about smoke, we're doing all right . . . soot, the usual cloud, we're not far from the engine . . . but nothing like those tunnels! the innards of the Harz! here it's flat country . . . plains . . . and another thing: no alerts! . . . we hear a few squadrons high up . . . but nothing coming our way, they're not interested in our string of flatcars . . . same old story . . . I guess we're not worth a bomb . . . come to think of it, we hadn't been worth a bomb quite a few times . . . which hadn't prevented me from getting mine, but indirect . . . a brick! . . . according to Felipe . . . one thing for sure, my mouth was full of blood, fresh, not clotted . . . where was it coming from? . . . this slow trickle . . . the inner ear? . . . I was thinking, I'm still thinking . . . and at the same time this gaiety . . . so sudden . . . not much to be gay about, except that we were rolling in the direction of Hamburg . . . and points north . . . and up there there might be some way to . . . if you've got your idea, your idée fixe, you're sitting pretty, other people do your thinking for you, they think of everything, knock themselves out doing this, doing that . . . it's gruesome to think what slaves they are, motorists, casuists, alcoholics, plurisexuals, bulimics, coprophagists, super-production perverts! . . . which didn't prevent me, clever as I am, from picking a winner that's still giving me trouble with my beezer, and today, twenty years later, I'm still wondering how it could have happened . . .