Authors: Louis-ferdinand & Manheim Celine
Rigadoon (3 page)
I'd better relax, it's too much . . .
dingaling!
. . . another bell! The
Figaro!
my daily reading! just in time . . . my relaxation, the death notices . . . my meat! how long rich people manage to live, and how happily! . . . unbelievable! . . . in their châteaux, called to their maker! . . . 80 . . . 90 . . . 100! With every possible blessing . . . Grand Cross of everything! and Holy Sepulcher! . . . and those rip-roaring funerals . . . every kind of unction, Bishop, Prefect, Chamber of Commerce, and the Devil himself in his tilbury . . .
My
Figaro
, my relaxation! . . .
I don't subscribe for nothing . . . every day five columns of edifying deaths . . . Mind you, I've been looking for years . . . for news of a lousy collaborator buried in style . . . with honors and blessings . . . no dice! . . . those stiffs get buried without any holy water, without choirboys, in some stinking field . . . nameless . . . like pretty near happened to Poquelin . . . me, they've erased me . . . rubbed out our tombstones in Père-Lachaise, papa, mama, and me . . .
Dear
Figaro
, my yoyo! . . . not just the death notices! another good joke! . . . the news from the ex-colonies . . . how the new electors are planning to decapitate and roast the backward whites . . . oh, with the best of intentions, no thought of racism! nicely salted . . . no swastikas in Timbuktu! once and for all, the brown plague can't get off the ground outside of Germany! . . . Adolf is dead? another laugh! since Bismarck all chancellors, big, little, young, old, doddering, have been cracked . . . nuts, it's comical! the last one, the sly old wreck, has started a crusade! anti-goy pogroms for Europe! ten thousand massacres on every sidewalk! . . . every night! antiracist! . . . I won't live to see it, maybe you will . . . that's Germany, still chasing after the madman's dream . . .
Dingggaling!
somebody else at the door! . . . where's my head? . . . I'm talking to myself! . . . no! no! it's the phone! Again! I've nothing to say! . . . oh yes, I have! . . .
"Hello! Hello! no, monsieur, our goose is cooked! we're cosmic!"
"Cosmic?!"
"Yes, the whole lot of us! . . . I beseech you, let me finish my little tale!"
"What's the title, Maaaître? oh, the title?"
"For what paper?"
"La Source
. . . pro-Communo-pluto-Christian!"
"Excellent! . . . excellent!"
"Yes, but the title?"
"Blind-man's buff!"
"For the movies?"
"Of course!"
"What stars?"
"A whole raft!"
"Names, names, Maaître!"
"Impossible! stars, étoiles, the heavens! Delphi made gods, Rome never made anything but saints, but we, monsieur, the wonders of our age, turn out a hundred stars a week!"
So what? big, little, medium, midgets? . . . I'll see . . .
dinga-ling!
I hang up, that'll do! somebody else on the line . . . I won't answer.
Here it is Christmas! . . . I say to myself: now they'll leave me alone! that's all senior citizens think about unless they're completely off their rocker . . . about being left alone . . . Hurrah for Christmas . . . not very festive, you've nothing left to give, you're not getting any more visits . . . exempt! Hurrah for Christmas! . . . Not getting any more presents either! Hurrah some more for Christmas! No need to say thank you! Hurrah for Christmas!
Basta! somebody ringing! . . . once, twice, not the phone . . . at the gate! down below the garden, three times! . . . of course I could play deaf, I'm not a maid.
Bow-wow!
. . . the dogs start up! it's their job . . . four of them, the little bitch and three males . . . they like noise! . . . the bastard's still ringing! maybe a beggar? hell! they've taken enough, robbed me enough, they've hauled everything away, sold it at the Flea Market and the auction rooms! shit, I've given enough for a lifetime! I just wish they'd give it back! . . . some people get compensation for being looted, and plenty! I'm not one of them! . . . I'm the other kind that always owe! . . .
Grrr!
the stubborn bastard at the gate, he's rung at least ten times, it gives the mutts a kick . . . not so good, this Christmas! . . . oh yes, I forgot, it's raining blue blazes! . . . he must be soaked through, the lout . . . oh, that doesn't cramp his style . . . he's still ringing, but there's one drawback, the neighbors! suppose they start barking too . . . they've got a right! suppose they get sore at me . . . ten years! . . . twenty years! . . . Hell, that's bad! I'd better go! Get my ass down to the gate and chase that jerk away! loud and quick! . . . I don't see a thing . . . oh yes, now I see . . . a shape in the darkness . . . in the gray . . .
"Get the hell out of here! thug! quick! swine!" and I bark with the dogs!
"bow-wow!"
. . . and I growl! . . .
"grrr!"
ready to bite! . . . all four of us together . . . quite a racket! "
grrr!
" I bet they can hear us all the way to Auteuil! . . . Merry Christmas! via the Seine, the echo! what a celebration! but does it drive that boor away? Not at all! He shouts at me, he fastens onto the bell . . .
"Monsieur Céline, I've got to see you!"
"Monsieur, impossible at night! Go away! Never come back! I'll tell the dogs to tear you limb from limb!"
The bastard insists!
"I've written you twenty times! I've mentioned you in a hundred articles! dear author, you've never answered! I've called you everything, Céline! Scoundrel! . . . pornographer! . . . double agent . . . triple . . . bought and paid for! You've never answered!"
"I never read anything, brother of darkness, never! I'm not tempted!
Bow-wow! Grrr!
"
"Well, you're going to listen to me now! I'll outhowl your dogs! I beg forgiveness! Oh, forgive me! You do forgive me? Mercy! Mercy! Christmas!"
He kneels down . . . splash! right in the sludge . . .
"grrr! grrr!"
what worries me is the scandal! People aren't deaf . . . not even at night . . .
"I, the Reverend Father Talloire of the Order of the Most-Holy Empire! beg your forgiveness! Just for that I've come . . . I've deeply offended you! on Christmas, Céline!"
He beats his breast, I can hear the neighbors . . . they're shouting, protesting! I don't look.
"To the lions, you holy asshole!
Bow-wow
,
grrr!
"
That doesn't faze him! No! he defies me . . . he gets up off his knees . . . he talks back!
"To the lions yourself! . . . you damn pervert! . . . that's where you belong!"
He takes the path, I wish he'd fall and crack his skull! shooting his mouth off like that in the rain, that blackshirt has given me my death! I know it! not that I'm soft, but I know what it does to me . . . I never go out at night, I know the risks . . . One more word about Christmas! . . . him or anybody else! That magus! with his cassock under his cassock! let him go back where he came from . . . like he'd never been here . . .
I lie down, Lili goes back up to her room on the second floor . . . I'm giving you these intimate details to help you . . . I hope . . . understand what follows . . . I'm thinking about that priest, the nerve I . . . I sent him packing, sure, he deserved it, a hundred times! a thousand times! if he'd been a rabbi, an Anabaptist, a Protestant pastor, a Greek Orthodox, I'd have done the same, all soldiers of the Christ child, same difference absolutely! they can't fool me with their little squabbles, their arguments, they all come straight from the Bible, in complete agreement that we're nothing but a lot of whites, meat for mongrelization, all set to be turned black and yellow, then slaves, then soldier boys, then stiffs . . . I'm not telling you anything new . . . the Bible . . . the world's most widely read book . . . more obscene, more racist, more sadistic than twenty centuries of lion's dens, Byzantiums, and Petiots° ! . . . racism, massacres, genocides, butcheries of the vanquished that make our worst atrocities look pink and blue, like thrillers for kindergartens . . . next to the Bible everything . . . Racine, Sophocles, or what have you . . . is candy bars . . . a little more vanilla, a little less, that's all . . . I wouldn't be in harness any more . . . believe me . . . if I wasn't bugged by debts, I'd be taking it easy . . . I'm old enough to retire . . . and so I will . . . all I want. . . is short walks, very short, with canes and smoked glasses . . . so nobody'll notice me . . .
enough we have suffered
. . . hell! that settles it! . . . especially with a bastard like Ben Achille, who publishes twenty novels a day . . . plus his
Compact Review°
. . . and his bulletin
Your Ferule
. . .
monthly for flagellants and cunt lappers°
. . . I'll go tell him I'm resigning! that's my decision! . . .
I lie down and wait . . . not long! I'm shaking my bed! . . . A shiver! . . . another! . . . I'm still lucid . . . I say to myself: here I go! . . . that lousy rotten priest has given me my death! . . . I knew it when I was listening to him! . . . I didn't want to go! . . . I was getting delirious, I knew that too, an attack! . . . delirium passes the time . . . but it's ticklish when anybody's around . . . you can say things you'll regret . . . seeing I'd been dragging this malaria around with me for forty years, since the Cameroons, naturally I wasn't surprised . . . this priest business in the rain, drenched to the skin, in the north wind, listening to his blarney, what would you expect? . . . if that were the end of it! . . . oh no! not at all! something else in the corner . . . at the door . . . I'm positive, somebody sitting there . . . I won't put on the light . . . or move . . . maybe it's just the fever! . . . the other guy talked about Christmas too . . . maybe just an idea, plus the fever . . . an intruder? . . . anything is possible . . . that damn blackskirt was here, wasn't he? . . . maybe he's come back . . . you never can tell . . . anyway there's somebody over in that corner . . . I won't go . . . I'm trembling, I'm sweating . . . somebody? . . . something? . . . trouble enough! . . . but my mind's still working . . . I think it over . . . yes, I'd better . . . that somebody sitting there, he's greenish . . . a light like a firefly . . . I was right to wait. . . these apparitions don't last . . . I can almost see him now . . . an officer . . . something to tell me? let him! . . . I wait . . . he doesn't speak, he doesn't move . . . sitting there . . . greenish . . .
"What? . . . what?"
I ask him . . . I'm trembling! . . . Oh! he scares me! . . . dammit, it's him! . . . I know him . . . I know him! over there, greenish . . . glittering . . . sort of . . .
"Vaudremer!"
I summon him . . . no answer . . . what's he here for? for Christmas? . . . like the priest . . . did he come through the gate? . . . slip through? . . . the dogs didn't bark . . . weird! . . . this Vaudremer . . . major in the medical corps when I knew him . . . where was it? . . . you can imagine . . . my memory in the fever I was in, sweating, shaking the whole bed with my convulsions . . . I had a right not to remember . . . and he wasn't helping me any . . . I raise my voice . . . I strain myself . . .
"Vaudremer! . . . semi-luminous Vaudremer! answer me! . . . what do you want? . . . are you there? . . . yes? . . . no? . . . A ghost? from where? . . ."
He doesn't budge . . . I can't see his face . . . but it's him! . . . we used to consult out there . . . chief medical officer, that's what he was . . . Christ, the hell they gave him in the barracks . . . nasty state of mind . . . all those families complaining . . . they were cold, they were hungry, thirsty, Southwestern Aeronautics, the whole personnel, crammed into Adrian barracks! workers, foremen, engineers, medical orderlies . . . disgraceful! . . . for their money we doctors were criminals, enemies of the people, reactionaries, responsible for everything, the stukas, the fifth column, the food trust . . . our fault if all the poor bastards were dying of starvation and epidemics . . . and our so-called medicines were plain poison . . . look at the latrines, so full ( three children drowned ) you couldn't get near them . . . our so-called medicine had brought on a brown flood of shit and piss . . . pretty soon the whole camp would be submerged in general diarrhea . . . brought on by our so-called medicine . . . the Boches in Saint-Jean d'Angély had their tactics all set, their tanks were in position to drive us into the shit. . . if we tried to escape we'd all die . . . under at least three feet of excrement . . .
What's become of all those people, I wonder . . . anyway, we got away, Lili, Bébert, and me, thanks to our ambulance . . . ours? no! it belonged to the city of Sartrouville, I'd driven it all the way . . . an odyssey they don't mention any more in the annals of the Seine-la-Rochelle epic! . . . rough going, too! . . . not just me and Lili, we also had a grandmother and two infants on board, I had to drop them on the main square in La Rochelle . . . fairy tales, you'll say . . . not at all! . . . I can prove it . . . I still remember the kid's . . . the younger one's . . . name: Stéfani! . . . she must be married by now, kids of her own . . . then she was four weeks old, at the most . . . the local commandant, a French general, wanted us to take the boat to London, bus, grandmother, kids, and all . . . I admit I was tempted . . . my luck would have taken a different turn . . . what a hero I'd be now! what monuments and streets would bear my name!
"No, General! I refuse! with due respect and a thousand regrets, General! duty first! these infants and their highly alcoholic grandmother are the property of Sartrouville! so's the bus! . . . I've got to take them back to Sartrouville!"