Authors: Raymond Queneau
Old Taupe went on:
“The more you want, the more you find yourself in the shit.”
He sometimes affected a vulgar mode of speech.
“The only way to be happy is to keep yourself to yourself.”
“You and your moralizing,” someone shouted at him, “you’re a damn bore. Go and preach all that in church.”
“That’s the sort of stuff the priests try and sell us,” added another.
“Not at all!”
Old Taupe faced them.
“The priests want a lot of things; they want paradise. That’s all! to be happy for all eternity! No, but really, any fool can see what you have to go through for that!”
A few workmen laughed, but one returned to the charge:
“All the same, if we believe your crap about the rich being so miserable and the poor being so happy, we’d let ourselves be exploited without ever saying a word.”
This was a point of view that old Taupe refused to envisage. He emptied his glass and was getting ready to start perorating again when a couple of middle-class types appeared at the door. The customers looked at them in silence, which silence was broken by Belhôtel’s voice recognizing the presence of Meussieu Marcel. He started by using exclamatorily the adverb the corresponding adjective of which would be good, then uttered the syllables that composed the name of the person he had recognized.
Etienne came in, followed by Pierre; Belhôtel held out his hand to him and wished him a good day. He would have liked to ask him some precise questions, but in front of so many people, he didn’t dare. Etienne and Pierre sat down. Dominique hadn’t seen Mme. Cloche since the previous Saturday. He still didn’t know the sequel to the strange business of the hanging. Meussieu Marcel didn’t seem much inclined to talk about it.
The conversations at the other tables started up again. Old Taupe, happy to have a high-class audience, addressed his remarks to the two newcomers, telling them that in the old days he used to have a little money, which he had had the good fortune (that was how he put it) to lose, and that he’d never been so happy as he was now. They were young, young and rich; what troubles were in store for them they’d see later on.
He
didn’t want anything; nothing could touch him. Etienne laughed at having wealth ascribed to him. As for Pierre, he listened without sympathy to old Taupe’s moralizing. However, when he heard, from Belhôtel, that the moralist was a junk dealer, he immediately foresaw some discovery, because junk excavation was one of his hobbies, and wanted to go looting then and there. The old boy cackled: wouldn’t be anything that’d interest him, but Pierre insisted so much that he agreed to take him to his shack. Etienne wasn’t interested, but went with them.
They walked along the factory wall parallel to the railroad line, and then at right angles to it. The path they took was a blind alley; the Northern Company repair shops, built on a mound like a bogus plateau, cut it short. They turned left; between the factory and the workshops there was a triangular stretch of wasteland that a series of planks forming a fence made into a trapezoid. Old Taupe lived behind these planks.
Two rows of barbed wire capped the fence; a triple lock secured the gate. They entered the lair. With his first glance, Pierre realized that there was in fact nothing to discover among the rusty old nails, the solitary mattress springs, the dirty, stinking rags and the broken chairs. There was junk strewn everywhere outside Taupe’s house, in his house, it was piled up. Pierre was terrified, and didn’t dare go in; so much filth appalled him.
—oooooo—oooooo—
And what if they’d only been there since the day before or even for an hour or only a few minutes? But I was sure of the opposite at once I was right but I hadn’t imagined that I might be wrong and that the hut might only have been built for several days or several hours for the first I’ve got Théo’s evidence and for the other it’s obvious. What’s Le Grand going to discover? Is he thinking about discoveries? What a smell. Now I’m stuck with this place with that hut with that factory and now perhaps with this old man trotting along in front of us he’s half drunk of course and he says he’s happy what does that mean? he’s happy because he isn’t anything because he doesn’t want anything because he doesn’t desire anything. Why doesn’t he die? If he killed himself he would want something yes that’s true this is a cul-de-sac ah yes the workshops of the Northern Company railroad you see them from the train and those old German trucks Narcense wanted to kill himself he’s unhappy why yes that’s true he must be desperate a bit mad he didn’t stay he wants to die because he’s unhappy in fact if happiness consists in not being anything but that old man he must be afraid of dying what can Le Grand be thinking of at this moment? What is he seeing? It’s a fortified castle this junk shop three locks yes there are three locks and there’s barbed wire along the fence what can the old man be afraid of he protects his happiness with barbed wire if he shut himself up in a safe it would be better when I was a child and the whole world was turning against me I built myself a place where nothing could get at me you could only get into it through mysterious tunnels it was defended on all sides and I could live there indefinitely all by myself this old man’s the same but he makes a sermon out of it so his padlocks and bolts and barbed wire don’t go with all the rest if nothing could get at him he wouldn’t need all that Le Grand looks very disappointed with all this old muck am I happy was I happy I didn’t exist so I couldn’t have been when you come down to it how stupid and yet when I think back to my childhood how very unhappy I was and later it was habit I think of far more interesting things it’s this old man who’s got the wrong idea doesn’t it stink in there Le Grand looks highly embarrassed he must think it stinks he’s not wrong what did he think he was going to find here what curiosity! and the old boy giggling in there sitting on his bed that’s the sort of thing that must be called a pallet-bed sitting on his pallet-bed I think he’s pulling our legs why is that door there it can’t lead anywhere he hasn’t dug a cellar in the embankment it looks odd that blue-painted door it wasn’t there originally it must be for sale that door Le Grand is asking him whether its for sale no it isn’t for sale that’s interesting Le Grand is interested why doesn’t he want to sell his door now he’s getting angry don’t let’s press the point obviously he hasn’t dug a cellar in the embankment a sort of lair a real hole for his happiness this old man’s ideal is a fetus that door has some sort of value in his eyes perhaps it’s connected with some incident in his life perhaps it revealed happiness to him Le Grand is catching my eye yes of course let’s go that door behind it there is only boarding so long good-by yes it isn’t happiness I’m concerned with but existence.
“What value can that door ever have for him?” asks Etienne.
“I doubt whether it has any value,” replies Pierre. “Maybe the old dotard has hidden some money behind it. Classic type of old miser.”
“There’s something very odd about that door. Even so,” says Etienne.
Ideal, a fetus, totally uninteresting,
CHIPS
.
—oooooo—oooooo—
“Hey, Hippolyte! come navva look,” exclaimed the sailor. Hippolyte came running.
“Stavva look at that”—and the sailor pointed at a stylish sports car that was carefully negotiating a fearsome gully.
“That’s the guy from that half-finished dump,” observed Yves le Toltec. “He’s not worried,” observed Hippolyte Azur. “Must cost a mint, a car like that,” observed the sailor. “He’s stopped at his house,” observed the innkeeper. “Zgetting out bime self.”
“Yuther one doesn’t want to get out.”
“They’re being polite to each other.”
“Must be asking him to come to dinner.”
“How come an ordinary bank clerk like him can know a guy that’s so loaded?”
“Could be a relative.”
“They don’t look much alike.”
“What can they be cooking up between them?”
“Here, now he’s turning around.”
“His wife must’ve called him.”
“Here, now she’s rushing out.”
“Oh, look, seems like she’s crying.”
“Aha, aha, summing xtraordinary must be up.”
“Zgiving him a piece of paper.”
“Ztaking it.”
“Zcrying.”
“Zreading it.”
“Zrereading it.”
“She’s leaning against the gate.”
“Za good-looking piece, eh?”
“Maybe the loaded one wants to taker away from him.”
“Ha ha ha ha!”
“Ztalking to his wife.”
“Zpointing to the rich one.”
“The rich one’s saying hello to her.”
“Ja see how gracefully he lifted his ass off the seat?”
“Ha ha ha!”
“That’s a laugh, he’s showing him the letter.”
“Other one’s reading it.”
“Must be pals.”
“What is it, that car?”
“It’s a Bugatti.”
“Oh go on, not with a hood like that.”
“I suppose you know more about it an I do?”
“And how! You’d hardly’ve learned much about cars on your laundry boat.”
“Tabout you? Not on your bicycle.”
“I certainly know more about them than a Swiss admiral.”
“You mean me, I’m a Swiss admiral?”
“Yaren’t even an admiral.”
“Just say that again, that I’m a Swiss admiral.”
“I’ll say it again if I want to.”
“Just see that you don’t want to.”
“Oh, but they’re going to fight,” exclaimed Alberte.
“Not a chance,” said Pierre, “words are enough for them.”
“Go in, Alberte,” said Etienne.
“They’re grabbing hold of each other,” said Pierre.
“They are actually starting to fight.”
“They must be evenly matched.”
“They both look formidable.”
“They’re on the ground.”
“They’re banging each other’s head.”
“They’re twisting each other’s arms.”
“They’re biting each other’s eyes.”
“They’re loosening each other’s teeth.”
“They’re warming each other’s ears.”
“They’re crushing each other’s toes.”
“They’re making each other’s nose bleed.”
“They’re butting each other’s tibias.”
“They’re blacking each other’s eyelids.”
“They’re hitting each other’s stomach.”
“They’re pulling each other’s hair out.”
“They’re breaking each other’s back.”
“They’re tearing at each other’s cheeks.”
“They’re putting out each other’s joints.”
“They’re squeezing each other’s larynx.”
“They’re shattering each other’s shoulder blades.”
“They’re crowning each other’s knees.”
“They’re flattening each other’s genitals.”
“They’re dislocating each other’s articulations.”
“They’re straining each other’s muscles.”
“They’re epilating each other’s eyebrows.”
“They’re pulverizing each other’s chin.”
“They’re luxating each other’s testicles.”
“They’re unscrewing each other’s penis.”
“They’re malaxating each other’s ribs.”
“They’re gnawing each other’s intestines.”
“They’re pounding each other’s liver.”
“They’re bloodying each other’s face.”
“They’re flaying each other.”
“They’re mutilating each other.”
“They’re triturating each other.”
“Frightful combat!”
“Horrible conjuncture!”
“The timid postman does not dare separate them.”
“Meussieu Cocotiers dog is barking at them.”
“Mme. Sélénium, at her door, is trembling with fear.”
“The trees are shivering.”
“The birds have stopped singing.”
“The sky is becoming overcast.”
“The sun is becoming obscured.”
“Nature refuses to contemplate this atrocious haggis any longer.”
“Let us go in,” said Etienne, “to our half-house, and discuss the fate of Théo, once more a fugitive. Alberte advises me to find Narcense, and Le Grand argues against it. What shall I do?”
“It was bound to end like that, in a fight,” said the postman.
“I have always thought that sailor a most undesirable individual,” said Meussieu Cocotier.
“Personally, exhibitions of that sort quite take my appetite away,” said Mme. Sélénium.
“Well, is it a Bugatti?” asked Hippolyte.
“He says that, and he’s quietly strangling his opponent,” observed the postman.
“No, it isn’t a Bugatti,” admitted Yves le Toltec, “but you owe me at least a quarter of a liter to celebrate your victory.”
“Cock-a-doodle-doo, cock-a-doodle-doo,” bawled Meussieu and Madame Exossé’s cock.
In its youth, this animal had fallen on its head; ever since, it had crowed at sundown, even when there was the extra hour for summertime; it was roasted, the following year, and its flesh delighted the omnivorous palate of its stupid owners.
—oooooo—oooooo—
The Belhôtel’s son, whose first name was Clovis, like his deceased grandfather, the one that had died of apoplexy on hearing of the declaration of war in 1914, the Belhôtel’s son, as he was saying, had, for nearly twenty-four hours, been keeping a secret. He had spoken of it neither to his father, nor to his mother, nor to Ernestine, nor to his pals, nor even to his little girl friend Ivoine, who was twelve years old and blonde. Serious and thoughtful, Clovis considered that his secret deserved better than to be shouted from the rooftops; one person, and one only, was, in his estimation, worthy of sharing it with him, and while he was waiting for that person on the road he was throwing stones at a condensed milk can.
Hector (Totor) and Dagobert (Bébert) came by:
“Hey, Cloclo, coming up to the repair yard with us? We’re going to throw stones at the switches.”
“No, I’m waiting for my aunt,” replies Clovis.
“Oh well, if you’re going to be with your family, then so long,” says Totor.
“You know, that Saponaire, the one who snitched on us the other day, we tied his cat’s tail up to his bell, the other night. Dick thought that one up.”
“And then,” added Totor, “Dick, he slopped a great big pail of water all over Polyte’s mother’s feet.”
“That’ll teach the old bitch,” Clovis commented.
“Well, so long.”
A few paces farther on, Dagobert turned around: