Mercier and Camier (11 page)

That's it. It takes a little time to grasp more or less what happened. It's your sole excuse, the best in any case. Enough to tempt you joking apart to have another go, another go at getting up, dressing up (paramount), ingesting, excreting, undressing up, dossing down, and all the other things too tedious to enumerate, in the long run too tedious, requiring to be done and suffered. No danger of losing interest, under these conditions. You cultivate your memory till it's passable, a treasurebin, stroll in your crypt, unlit, return to the scenes, call back the old sounds (paramount), till you have the lot off pat and you all at a loss, head, nose, ears and the rest, what remains to snuff up, they all smell equally sweet, what old jingles to play back. Pretty beyond! And all that can still happen to you! Such things! Such adventures! You think you have done with it all and then one fine day, bang! full in the eye. Or in the arse, or in the balls, or in the cunt, no lack of targets, above all below the waist. And they talk of stiffs being bored!

It's wearing naturally, all-absorbing, no time left for putting a shine on the soul, but you can't have everything, the body in bits, the mind flayed alive and the archeus (in the stomach) as in the days of innocency, before the flop, yes, it's a fact, no time left for eternity.

But one black beast is hard to keep at bay, the waiting for the night that makes it all plain at last, for it is not every night possesses this property. This can drag on for months, the betwixt and between, the long
dull mawkish muddle of regrets, the dead and buried with the undying, you've been through it all a thousand times, the old joke that has ceased to amuse, the smile unsmilable smiled a thousand times. It's night, forenight, and there are no more sedatives. Fortunately it does not always last for ever, a few months do the trick as a rule, a few years, sudden ends have even been observed, in warm climates particularly. Nor is it of necessity unremitting, brief breaks for recreation are permitted, with the illusion of life they sometimes give, while they last, of time in motion, of a detail yet for the drain.

Then there are the pretty colours, expiring greens and yellows vaguely speaking, they pale to paler still but only the better to pierce you, will they ever die, yes, they will.

And to follow? That will be all, thank you. The bill.

Seen from outside it was a house like any other. Seen from inside too. And yet it emitted Camier. He still took the air in a small way, when the weather was fine. It was summer. Autumn would have suited better, late November, but there it is, it was summer. The sun was going down, the strings were tuning up, why God knows, before breaking into the old wail. Lightly attired Camier moved forward, his head resting on his breastbone. Every now and then he straightened up, with a sudden jerk instantaneously annulled, by way of looking to see where he was going. He had felt even worse, he was in one of his better days. He got many a knock from the other foot-passengers, but not deliberate, they would all have preferred not to touch him. He was off for a little turn, no more, a little turn, he would very soon feel tired, very tired. Then he would halt, open wide his little blue-red eyes and cast about him till he had his bearings. Comparison of his strength with that required to get him home often drove him to the nearest bar for more, and for a little courage, a little courage and confidence regarding the way back, of which often too he had only the haziest notion. He helped himself on by means of a stick with which he struck the ground at every step he took, not at every two, at every one.

A hand landed with a thump on his shoulder. Camier froze, shrunk, but did not raise his head. He had no objection, it was even better thus, simpler, but not to the point of his losing sight of the earth. He heard the
words, It's a small world. Fingers raised his chin. He saw a figure of towering stature, squalidly clad. No point in detailing him. He seemed well on in years. He stunk with the double stink of the old and the unwashed, that strongish smell. Camier inhaled it connoisseurishly.

Have you met my friend Mercier? said the man.

Camier looked in vain.

Behind you, said the man.

Camier turned. Mercier, apparently intent on a hatter's show-window, presented his profile.

Allow me, said the man. Mercier, Camier, Camier, Mercier.

They stood in the attitude of two blind men whom not unwillingness, but want of vision alone, prevents from growing acquainted.

I see you have met before, said the man. I knew it. Don't salute each other whatever you do.

I don't think I recognize you, sir, said Camier.

I am Watt, said Watt. As you say, I'm unrecognizable.

Watt? said Camier. The name means nothing to me.

I am not widely known, said Watt, true, but I shall be, one day. Not universally perhaps, my notoriety is not likely ever to penetrate to the denizens of Dublin's fair city, or of Cuq-Toulza.

Where did you make my acquaintance? said Camier. You must forgive my want of memory. I have not yet had time to unravel all.

In your moses basket, said Watt. You haven't changed.

Then you knew my mother, said Camier.

A saint, said Watt. She changed your diapers every two hours till you were pushing five. He turned to Mercier. Whereas yours, he said, I only saw inanimate.

I knew a poor man named Murphy, said Mercier, who had a look of you, only less battered of course. But he died ten years ago, in rather mysterious circumstances. They never found the body, can you imagine.

My dream, said Watt.

So he doesn't know you either? said Camier.

Come now, my children, said Watt, be on speaking terms again. Don't mind me. I'm discretion itself. The wild horse's despair.

Gentlemen, said Camier, allow me to leave you.

Were I not without desires, said Mercier, I would buy me one of those hats, to wear on my head.

Come have one on me, said Watt. He added, Chaps, with a smile devoid of malice, almost tender.

Really—, said Camier.

That fawn billycock on the block, said Mercier.

Watt took hold of Mercier's right arm, then, after a brief scuffle, of Camier's left, and drew them along.

Jesus off again, said Camier.

Mercier espied, in the far distance, the chains of his childhood, the same that had served him as playmates. Watt admonished him:

If you picked up your feet you'd make better progress. We're not going to have your teeth out today.

They advanced into the sunset (you can't deny yourself everything), burning up the sky higher than the highest roofs.

A pity Dumas the Elder cannot see us, said Watt.

Or one of the Evangelists, said Camier.

A different class, Mercier and Camier, for all their faults.

My strength is limited, said Camier, if yours is not.

We're nearly home, said Watt.

A police constable barred their way.

This is a sidewalk, he said, not a circus ring.

What is that to you? said Camier.

Fuck along with you now, said Mercier, and no nonsense.

Easy! Easy! said Watt. He stooped towards the constable. Inspector, he said, have a heart, they are a little—he tapped his forehead—but they wouldn't hurt a fly. The long hank takes himself for John the Baptist, of whom you have certainly heard, and Runty on my right daren't sit on his glass arse. As for me I am resigned to the utilities I was stuck with at birth, one of which consists in promenading these gentlemen, weather permitting. Given all this we can hardly be expected to form up in Indian file, as propriety requires.

Go and promenade in the country, said the constable.

We have tried, said Watt, time and time again. But they see red at the mere sight of green. Is that not curious? Whereas the shop-windows, concrete, cement, asphalt, neon, pickpockets, dogberries and kips, all this calms them down and sows in them the seeds of a night's refreshing sleep.

You don't own the sidewalk, said the constable.

Look out! cried Watt. See how their agitation grows! God grant they don't prove too much for me! He let go their arms and encircled their waists, hugging them against him. Forward my hearties, he said. They reeled off in a tangle of legs. The constable cursed them on their way.

What do you take us for? said Camier. Let me go.

But we're doing fine, said Watt. We smell of putrefaction one and all. Did you see his snout? He was dying for a snite. That's why he let us go.

They collapsed pell-mell in a bar. Mercier and Camier strained towards the counter, but Watt sat them down at a table and called for three doubles at the top of his voice.

Don't say you never put foot in this joint before, said Watt, I can well believe you. Order grappa and you're ejected.

The whiskey came.

I too have sought, said Watt, all on my own, only I thought I knew what. Can you beat that one? He raised his hands and passed them over his face, then slowly down his shoulders and front till they met again on his knees. Incredible but true, he said.

Disjointed members stirred in the grey air.

One shall be born, said Watt, one is born of us, who having nothing will wish for nothing, except to be left the nothing he hath.

Mercier and Camier paid scant heed to these sayings. They were beginning to look at each other again, with something of the old look.

I all but gave myself up, said Camier.

Did you return to the scene? said Mercier.

Watt rubbed his hands.

You do me good, he said, you really do me good. You almost comfort me.

Then I said to myself—, said Camier.

May you feel one day, said Watt, what now I feel. That won't prevent your having lived in vain, but it will, how shall I say—?

Then I said to myself, said Camier, that you might have had the same idea.

So you didn't, said Mercier.

A bit of warmth for the old cockles, said Watt, that's it, a touch of warmth for the poor old cockles.

I was afraid I might run into you, said Camier.

Watt banged the table, whereon an impressive silence fell. This was doubtless what he had in view, for into it he cast, in a voice crackling with vehemence:

Bugger life!

Indignant murmurs were heard. The manager approached, or perhaps even the proprietor. He was dressed with care. Some purists might have preferred, with his pearl-grey trousers, black shoes to the tan he wore. But after all he was on his own premises. By way of buttonhole he had chosen a tulip bud.

Out, he said.

Whence? said Camier. Hence?

Out to hell out of here, said the manager. It must have been the manager. But how different from Mr. Gast!

He has just lost his unique child, said Camier, unique of its kind.

Bigeminal, said Mercier.

His grief boils over, said Camier, could anything be more natural?

His wife is at her last, said Mercier.

We dare not let him out of our sight, said Camier.

One more small double, said Mercier, if we can prevail on him to swallow it he's saved.

None more dearly than he, said Camier, loves life, the humble daily round, the innocent pleasures and very pains themselves that permit us to supply the deficiencies of the Redemption. Make this clear to these good gentlemen. A cry of revolt has escaped him. His loss is so recent. Tomorrow, before his porridge, he will redden at the recollection.

He will wipe his lips, said Mercier, slip his napkin back into its ring, clasp his hands and ejaculate, Blessed be the dead that die!

Had he broken a glass, said Camier, we would be the first to reprove him. But such is not the case.

Overlook this little incident, said Mercier, it will not occur again. Will it, daddy?

Pass the sponge, said Camier, according to Saint Matthew.

And give us the same, said Mercier, your whiskey likes us.

Buy what did you say? said the manager, his cupidity aroused. Geminal, said Camier.

Yes, said Mercier, everything double but the arse. We bury him day after tomorrow. Don't we, daddy?

It's the organizer made a balls of it, said Camier.

The organizer? said the manager.

Each egg has its little life and soul of the party, said Camier. Did you not know that? Sometimes he nods. Could you blame him?

Calm him down, said the manager. Don't try me too far.

He withdrew. He had been firm without harshness, human and yet dignified. He had not lost face before his customers, butchers for the most part, whom the blood of the lamb had made rather intolerant.

The second round came. The change from the first still lay on the table. Help yourself, my good man, said Camier.

The manager moved from group to group. Gradually the saloon revived.

How can one say such things? said Camier.

To think them is a crime in itself, said Mercier.

Towards man, said Camier.

And beast, said Mercier.

God alone would agree with him, said Camier.

That lot, said Mercier.

Watt seemed asleep. He had not touched his second glass.

Perhaps a sip of water, said Camier.

Let him be, said Mercier.

Mercier rose and went to the window. He introduced his head between
the curtain and the glass, which enabled him, as he had foreseen, to observe the heaven. Its colours were not quite spent. He remarked at the same time, as he had not suspected, that from it a fine and no doubt gentle rain was dropping. The glass was not wet. He returned to his seat.

You know what often comes back to me? said Camier.

It's raining, said Mercier.

The goat, said Camier.

Mercier was looking perplexedly at Watt.

Day was breaking, said Camier, drizzly day.

Where have I seen this johnny before? said Mercier. He drew back his chair, crouched down and peered up at the face dim under the lee of the hat.

Old Madden too—, said Camier.

Suddenly Watt seized Camier's stick, wrenched it clear, raised it aloft and slammed it down in a passion of rage on the next table where a man with side-whiskers was sitting quietly reading his newspaper and smoking his pipe, before a foaming pint. What had to happen did, the glass top flew into smithers, the stick broke in two, the pint overturned and the man with side-whiskers intact fell over backwards, still sitting on the chair, the pipe in his mouth and the latest news in his hand. The piece of stick remaining in his Watt now hurled at the counter where it brought down a number of bottles and glasses. Watt waited for all the clatter and clash to subside, then bawled: