Castle to Castle (8 page)

Oh yes, I admit it . . . "Suicide? . . . your suicide? . . . it's a bore . . . Commit suicide . . . but shut up! . . . you jackass! . . . it's monotonous!" I admit it . . . I blubber worse than anybody . . . my panic at the thought of being an outlaw . . . a shit-assed panicky conformist . . . that godawful fright freezes me! I hesitate . . . I start out strong, then I weaken . . . I get muddled . . . and I'm not telling the whole story . . . not by a long shot! . . .

When I think of all I missed . . . everything they had cooked up for me . . . ah, my dear, it makes me sad! . . . They came around and smashed my motorcycle . . . I was gone . . . instead of me . . .to take out their disappointment . . . the spokes! . . . and
bzing
. . . and
bzang
. . . frame . . . lamp . . . gas tank!
bzing!
. . . drunk on vengeance . . . kicks that would kill a mule . . . like it was my own skull . . . What I missed . . . as if I'd sold Algeria . . . and the Plaine Monceau . . . people never bother their heads about who did what . . . all they want is for the victim to be home . . . that's all! Just stay put! . . . To the lions! . . . if he's taken a powder . . . it's unbelievable . . . cheated out of the hunt, the kill . . . it drives them crazy! . . . the shouting, the hubbub on the rue Girardon! . . . on the rue Lepic! . . . ah, the bastard! the dirty crook! the skewer was ready for me! give it to his motorcycle, at least! a commando! forty pairs of clodhoppers . . . forty that weren't on the Meuse stopping the Teuton tanks! Ah no! My IHP motorbike, that's the infernal machine! . . . forty pairs of clodhoppers! . . . crushing, smashing it into bits . . . that's what would have happened to me if I'd stayed! square in the kisser!
bzing! bzang!
like to Louis Renault . . . Renault was the factory and fifty billions!. . . when the army does a cross-country with the green shits on its' heels, you can expect anything . . . seven million deserters full of booze, you know what to expect! the Apocalypse . . . the world upside-down . . . everybody telling lies . . . kicks in the neck and motorcycle! . . . vengeance on objects and legless cripples! . . . assaults on the dying . . . so it was just as well for me to clear out of Montmartre! . . . without drums or trumpets . . . of course there will be more house-cleaning . . . cutting people up in little pieces! any excuse will do! like fucking at the age of twenty . . . you're not particular . . . there are always heavenly excuses for murder! . . . but I'd like to be the audience myself . . . for a few minutes before I step down . . . "Just a minute, please, Mr. Executioner!" so's to watch the others first . . . wherever he says . . . Place de la Concorde . . . Champ de Mars . . . just to watch . . . I've paid for my place in the stands . . . seventy-five percent disability. I'm waiting! . . . they're getting the rolling mill ready? . . . okay . . . I, a son of the people, if ever there was one! eminently deserving of the job, I'm covered . . . Communist? . . . gracious, yes . . . a hundred times more than Bouchard, Thorez, Picasso . . . you won't find them doing their own housework . . . American? . . . more than Dulles! . . . accent and all! . . . do you realize whom you're talking to! . . . you pin-head! . . . I'll look at the winning mill . .. to see if it's
atomized
? . . . good! good! in line with the historic trend? splendid! . . . Imagine Mauriac reduced to foil . . . platitude, Girondin cries! . . . he'll go through like a postcard! . . . I'll encourage him . . . "Atta boy, Francois! Oil! Oil!" But then I calm down . . . My imagination is running away with me . . . Maybe I won't see a thing . . . too old! but all the same, when I look around me, I see signs of coming events! little appetizers . . . prostates, fibromas, tumors of the bronchial tubes . . . of the tongue . . . sweet little cases of myocarditis . . . pure joy! . . . Commies, bourgeois, housecleaners, the bugs will get them too! . . . the tiniest particle of a sub-atom, and out they go! . . . cancer of the throat? . . . they howl . . . they're not talking any more . . . furious on the rostrum, they leave it on their knees . . . next stop the boneyard! . . . a bunch of kids! . . . gangrenous wrecks! ah, martyrs? . . . Shit! . . . Ugh.

I content myself with little . . . I assure you . . . philosophical! . . . come around to Loukoum's door . . . no corset, no nylon will help him then! . . . or Achille either and his billions . . .
knock, knock
. . . no Resistance, please . . . ah, to make such a mess of my motorcycle . . . my little toy . . . my motorbike from Bezons . . . my consultations have always been free . . . not quite the same as Abbé Prime.

I've got an idea! . . . suppose they gave me the Nobel Prize? . . . It would help me fine with the gas bill, my taxes, my carrots . . . but those cocksuckers up there won't give it to me! or their King! . . . they give it to every conceivable nance . . . to the worst vaseline-asses on the planet . . . naturally! It's all lined up . . . you've only got to see Mauriac in tails, bowing like a hinge, delighted, ready and willing, on his little platform . . . nothing troubles him . . . not even his glottis . . . "Oh, how lovely and fat your Nobel Prize is!" . . . I was talking about it with somebody yesterday . . . he protested: "But come, come! Nimier has brought up your name! . . . Ingrate! . . . Haven't you read about it? A little pluck is all you need! . . . Write another
Journey!
" People arrange everything so easily . . . Maybe I have my own opinion . . . The
Journey
doesn't seem so terribly funny to me . . . Altaian didn't think it was funny either . . . or Daudet . . . and what they want of me now is something irresistibly comical . . . should I tell about the going over they gave Renault? Sure! Not bad . . . or the wrecking of my motorcycle? . . . pretty feeble . . . the great bonfire of my manuscripts? . . . a paltry incident . . . but maybe people will go for it! maybe it'll send them . . . ah, just supposing! okay, so I read the stuff over, my pretty near 150 pages . . . it's not right . . . it barely simmers . . . I'm handicapped by my respect for the law . . . I've come down with gravity . . . What do I look like with my gravity!

Another little story! . . . the head of the Editions Bérengères has been putting out "feelers" in my direction! yes, "feelers," as they say in the army . . . courting me, so to speak. . . wants me to desert to him, white elephants and all . . . oh oh! why not? . . . so I reread the stuff . . . my masterpieces! obviously he hates Achille . . . and it didn't begin yesterday . . . he's always hated him! a rancid hatred! what he wouldn't give to see him attached, bankrupted, sold out! . . . bag and baggage at the Flea Market! and his case reopened, his shady deals . . . justified on one ground or another . . . all reinvestigated . . . what ground? . . . blackmail most likely! . . . millions every month? So it seems . . . but still touchy . . . the kind of secret that's no secret to anybody! Gertrut is having a fine time! speculating! the look on Achille's face if I leave him! his mug! . . . Just let me say yes . . . sure . . . I'm going . . . me and my white elephants . . . My immortal works . . . to the Editions Bérengères! . . . but it shouldn't kill Achille right away! oh no! give him time to see his whole shack fold up! what a disaster! terrific! . . . my job is to open the breach . . . give his two thousand slaves a chance to escape! that'll be the time to trot out the records . . . the Law! . . . Won't that be the day! . . . Sensational! Sensational! Quite a guy Gertrut! Gertrut de Morny! . . . A bit of an anti-Semite, I suspect . . . couldn't it be on account of the Dreyfus case that they hate each other so? . . . maybe . . . they'll never tell me . . . they know so much about each other . . . you'd say they'd known each other a century . . . a thousand years of skulduggery! . . . Achille doesn't take me seriously any more . . . "You complain? . . . hell, there are plenty more! and they don't complain! you could have been shot? . . . couldn't you?" Gertrut is different, he knows how to handle me, he sympathizes . . . he reminds me of the risks I've run, the trouble I've been through . . . Your furniture . . . your manuscripts . . . the little money you had . . . they've ruined you . . ." he practically weeps . . . Brottin is the hardhearted type . . . here I haven't been shot, and I come around complaining! . . . outrageous! . . . his arms drop limp at his sides . . . if I could only tell him what I think! . . . that what I'd like best is to see them fight . . . skin each other alive . . . to the finish . . . puncture each other's carotids! . . . if I resist the temptation to tell him . . . it's for the dogs, for the birds . . . if I go easy on him . . . for ourselves, too . . . people always talk too much . . . for the noodles . . . the noodles come first! and the coal and the gas! . . . if I'd told him what I thought of him, I'd never have seen him again! . . .

"Recapture your humor, Céline . . . if only you'd write the way you talk! what a masterpiece! . . ."

"You're very land, Gertrut, but take a look at me! just take a look!"

I calm him down. "Look at the state I'm in . . . I can hardly hold a pen."

"No, no, Céline . . . you're full of vigor . . . the best age! . . . Take Cervantes! . . . I'm not telling you anything new."

"No, Gertrut . . . you're not telling me anything new! . . . the same age as Achille . . . eighty-one . . . Don Quixote! . . ."

That's the dodge all publishers pull when they want to stimulate their old nags . . . they tell you Cervantes was a stripling . . . at eighty-one!

"And disabled worse than you, Céline!"

He goes on and on! . . . a flood of tonic words! . . . he presses his proposition!

Why did Achille and Gertrut fall out? . . . in the first place? . . . nobody remembered . . . it went back too far . . . over a horse? . . . an actress? Nobody knew . . . now it's over publishing . . . in the old days there were witnesses . . . and duels! . . . nowadays people fight over shops! . . . which would have more authors in his cellar? the foibles of two old fruitcakes! . . . I haven't told you about their looks . . . an antique vision, not much features left, it's the Period that counts! . . . do they date from before the Ferris wheel? or after? . . . Gertrut de Morny wore a monocle . . . a sky-blue monocle! . . . had he gone in for buggery? It's possible . . . in addition to women . . . rich? . . . plenty . . . but Achille had a certain expression you could recognize him by . . . his smile . . . the terribly embarrassed smile of an old chair-woman caught in the act, with her hand in the collection box . . . with Gertrut it was his monocle . . . the faces he made to keep it from falling off . . . to keep his wrinkled pouches from cutting off his eyesight . . . Achille's embarrassed smile had been his main charm around 1900 . . . "the Irresistible," they called him . . . Watteau! . . . Fantin La-tour! . . . at the "Bazaar of Time" . . . on the bargain counter, all ancient articles look alike . . . monocles, grimaces, eyelids, wigs . . . smiles . . . old chair-women . . . old beaux . . .

But now it wasn't a question of ladies or the Dreyfus case! . . . this concerned me . . . his idea of appropriating my masterpieces . . . my immortal books that nobody reads any more (according to Achille) . . . they're so hell-bent on doing each other dirt they don't care what they say! . . . hell, they've got whole cellars full of Giants of the Pen! . . . much more breathtaking than me . . . alleged pederasts! alleged common-law criminals . . . alleged collaborators . . . alleged fellaghas° . . . alleged sadistic maniacs . . . alleged Muscovites! . . . geniuses galore! . . . baby geniuses! . . . doddering geniuses! . . . female geniuses! . . . just plain geniuses! . . . 

Let's get back to the facts of history . . . nobody'll ever convince me that Fred Bourdonnais, my first hustler, went out all alone in the moonlight on purpose to get himself bumped off on the Esplanade des Invalides . . . people were being murdered there every day! that's right! . , . and he knew it . . . that was the fashionable Esplanade . . . he had his little vices? . . . of course! . . . but that was carrying vice too far, all by himself at midnight on the Place des Invalides! . . . what happened was bound to happen! . . . the funny part of it was that once Bourdonnais had given up the ghost at midnight on the Place des Invalides, I was sold down the river . . . like a slave . . . the Marquise Fualdes inherited me! . . . inherited, no less! . . . bandit's booty! . . . and I was sold again! . . . again! once more! . . . twice more . . . me and my immortal masterpieces! . . . No misgivings marred their pleasure! Male or female, the hustlers didn't leave me a thing . . . "he's in prison, let him croak!" I ought to know a little something about that . . . even in public school and later beyond "the blue line of the Vosges" . . . poetry was my downfall! and still is! Worse and more of it! Ah, sacrificial victim? your ugly mug! . . . your blood! your furniture! . . . your lyre! . . . your books! . . . off to the dungeon! bastard! the whole works . . . we're waiting for you! . . .

Do you think Brottin, who's winking at me now . . . him or Gertrut? what the hell do I care? . . . or the Marquise? . . . ever pounded any sidewalks? Oh no, that's my job, the work is all for me . . . to think up something amusing, something . . . the pimps, male and female, who did their level best to let me croak . . . they didn't succeed . . . are still there, with their mouths wide open! waiting for a treat from me! . . . funnier! funnier! . . . demanding, stamping their feet!

Something funny? . . . that the day after the murder on the Esplanade des Invalides, I was collared! at the other end of Europe . . . and no punches pulled . . . for the count! . . . six years! . . . a melo-comic arrest! over the roofs! . . . cavalcade between the chimneys! . . . a whole commando unit of cops with revolvers drawn . . . Believe me, it was chilly on the roofs of Copenhagen, Denmark, December 22! . . . Go see for yourself . . . Tourists, take a look, nothing to fear . . .
Ved Stranden
20 (
tuve
in Danish) you'll find . . . past the Bokelund grocery store . . . across the street, lit up day and night, the
National Tidende
. . . the whole building . . . a newspaper . . . you couldn't get lost if you wanted to . . . well, anyway, at the end of December, the hunt for collaborators . . . the total house-cleaning frenzy was at its height . . . the Circus of Europe . . . like right now in Budapest . . . and here again tomorrow . . . like coitus, like lovemaking . . . the Great Purge is here today and someplace else tomorrow . . . it's a necessity! . . . what a windfall I was! . . . my carcass! . . . I really came in handy, me and Lili and Bébert . . . from roof to roof! hunted beasts do wonders to escape the butchers! here! . . . there! . . . everywhere . . . the hunt is a sport! . . . okay, let's suppose you're avid tourists! . . . you can hunt memories! . . . the hunt is up! I know, everything gets forgotten . . . hasn't Verdun been forgotten? . . . or pretty near . . . Ypres doesn't mean a thing any more . . . but a little episode like our climb on
Ved Stranden
, Lili, myself, and Bébert, the roofs, the drains . . . the bulls armed, aiming their wicked rods . . . hide-and-seek around the chimneys . . . Christmas 1945! . . . seems to me they ought to remember it a little . . . Copenhagen, Denmark,
Ved Stranden
. . . go take a look. I'd be surprised if people had forgotten all about it . . . but to tell the truth, it wasn't just the 
National Tidende
 that stirred up the pack . . . and how! . .
Berlingske!
. . .
Land og Folk!
. . .
Politiken
. . . their jackal press . . . the whole lot of them! . . . the whole organizations of Israelites I'd sold . . . in addition to the forts of Verdun! . . . and the estuary of the Seine! As long as I was there, as long as they had me available . . . I could pay for the King, for his
Dronin
and the anti-Commintern pact! for the Frikorps! (their. L.V.F.!°) . . . I was a gift from heaven! . . . I'd make up for it all! . . . Wipe out all the stains! . . . the blood on the keys! . . . anti-Macbeth! . . .

I'd be surprised if they didn't remember! have a look see . . .
Ved Stranden
tuve
. . . ground floor: Bokelund's grocery store . . .