On this particular morning, Jupiter’s habits are upset; so are those of the lawyer and his family. Everyone is restless, and dressed in black. Forsaken, Jupiter goes to sleep in the hall. A person with a small suitcase in his hand comes in; woof woof, says the poodle intelligently; the lawyer, who has lost his collar stud, comes down in his shirt-sleeves. Good morning, good morning, he seems to be saying; Jupiter shows his approval with his tail and gets a smack on the thigh for his pains. Then another meussieu arrives, a very tall, very fat one. The greetings start all over again; Jupiter wants to take part in the palaver, but the tall-and-fat person treads on his toe nails. Owch, owch, says Jupiter, and goes and hides under a chair. The meussieus talk with restraint and compunction, like the day of the little boy’s first communion. Eulalie brings some coffee. Maybe there’s a chance of a lump of sugar. Jupiter sits up and begs, but he realizes from the uninterested looks of the meussieus that he’s put his foot in it. This isn’t the moment for playing the fool. He goes over to the door to get some air; so far and no farther, because Caesar, the Butcher’s dog, is watching for him out of the corner of his eye.
The meussieus start walking. He follows at their soles. Caesar is close behind. They get to a house that Jupiter knows well; it belongs to an old lady who’s generous with her sugar. The old lady isn’t there; there’s a meussieu dressed up as a widow, it’s true, but that’s not the same thing. The meussieu in petticoats starts singing, accompanied by two little boys dressed up as girls whom Jupiter recognizes only too well as being the bullies who, last Sunday, tied a corned beef tin onto his stump of a tail. Then they take a great big packing case out into the street; he goes and has a sniff to see what it is; it smells of the old lady. A kick in the ribs teaches him to respect the dead.
With the big packing case being towed in front, and the crowd following behind, the ensemble makes it way toward a garden surrounded by walls and planted with huge great stones sticking up at right angles. Jupiter runs up and down and is amazed that his master, who’s usually in such a hurry, doesn’t try and get in front of the big box; he’s walking slowly, leading the way, with the young man with the suitcase and the tall, fat meussieu.
At the entrance to the garden, Jupiter’s heart misses a beat; he’s just noticed Caesar waiting for him, with an ominous look. So it’s advisable not to stray too far from the blackened bipeds.
Everyone has come to a standstill around a hole. In the middle of the gathering, the man-woman mutters a menacing song; the bullies wave steaming teapots. Two professional drunks lower the box into the bottom of the hole. Then the guests toss in drops of water. Jupiter is losing interest, and he wanders off and goes scrounging from grave to grave; but, just behind that of Madame Pain, that most worthy lady who kept her idiot daughter in seclusion for fifteen years, he finds himself muzzle-to-ass with Caesar. This encounter gives him wings; he gallops, he flees, he decamps; he jumps onto a mound of loose soil, near his master; the soil is loose, as we said, it crumbles, and Jupiter tumbles, in a cloud of humus and compost, onto the grandmother’s coffin. Some people burst out laughing; other exclaim: How shocking! and a few murmur: Putrefaction! The lawyer let out a kind of strident shout, his personal roar of laughter, and then recovered his dignity. But he wasn’t going to forgive Jupiter.
That evening, the young man said to the poodle, as he handed him a lump of sugar:
“Will they put a chin strap on you when they bury you?”
“Woof woof,” says the other, who hasn’t understood a word. The next day Jupiter is hanging at the end of a rope, because he has assailed the dignity of the dead and of the living.
—oooooo—oooooo—
1. I am only now answering the very extraordinary post card you sent me three days ago, as I have only just gotten back from my grandmother’s funeral. So far as I can gather, you claim to be the son of a certain person to whom I had the presumption to write. This person, it would appear, has torn up my letters, and you, it would appear, have stuck them together again? If I am not mistaken, you must be the schoolboy of perverse appearance and with decayed teeth whom I saw, some ten days ago in the little café by the river, near Obonne castle. I realized, from your narrow forehead, that you were of limited intelligence, and, from the rings around your eyes, that you were addicted to self-abuse. I now see that you combine with these deficiencies the efficiency of the informer and the pretension of the spy.
I herewith send you, young Théo, the kick in the ass that your filthy initiative deserves, and I remain, of your mother, the respectful admirer.
NARCENSE.
2. Monsieur,
You polluted the gate of my stepfather’s house. I therefore demand satisfaction.
THÉO.
P.S. I hope your filthy grandmother’s funeral was amusing.
TH.
3. I see it’s not possible to conceal anything from you, not even the hygienic practices of my deceased grandmother. I might add that your hope was fulfilled; a grotesque incident marred the orderly procedure of this ceremony; a dog belonging to one of my uncles went up to the grave, slipped, and fell on to the coffin, yelping pathetically. Several people laughed; my uncle was of their number. I might add that the latter, considering that on the one hand his dog had fulfilled all his obligations on this earth, and on the other that it was human to spare him a rheumaticky old age, hanged him from the cord on which the clothes are put to dry. For a quarter of an hour, Jupiter, the faithful white poodle, swung between a pair of pants and a napkin.
I’m wondering whether it wouldn’t also be human to apply a similar treatment to you; you would thus be spared a furunculous and degraded youth. Think it over. I would put the rope around your neck with loving care—a rope of tested strength; I wouldn’t need to have two shots at it. You would find it an easy death, and I would have the satisfaction of having rid Obonne of a perfect little swine.
I suppose you are on vacation at the moment and don’t really know what to do with your time. I won’t give you any advice on this subject, as I prefer not to waste mine in writing at any greater length to the most sour-faced, cross-eyed chicken it has ever been my hard luck to encounter.
Be so good as to give your esteemed mother my most humble respects.
NARCENSE.
4. Monsieur,
On this day of national rejoicing my mother has been crying for hours because I told her you wanted to murder me. It’s shameful to make my poor mother suffer so, Monsieur.
Her son,
THÉO.
P.S. Bet you anything you get cold feet.
P.P.S. Not especially funny, your dog.
P.P.P.S. See how tactful I am, this time my envelope is sealed (like my mother’s panties).
TH.
5. I am convinced that your removal from the number of the living becomes daily more essential. The dog Jupiter’s fate seems to me to be the one best suited to you. You can be quite sure that I won’t “get cold feet.”
I take your jokes about your mother as they should be taken. Tell her that because of my great love for her I forgive her for having begotten such a splenetic bit of vermin as you.
NARCENSE.
6. Got cold feet yet?
THÉO.
P.S. In one of your idiotic letters, you said I was addicted to self-abuse. What about you.
7. Monsieur,
On any day and at any time you choose, I’ll be in Obonne forest, in the place they call Les Mygales. I’ll bring the rope.
NARCENSE.
—oooooo—oooooo—
The stalls put up for the Fourteenth of July modified Etienne’s oscillations to some extent. He couldn’t avoid the one where the man was peeling potatoes; every day, he stopped and listened for three seconds, without being able to see, on account of the crowd, and then made his escape. Farther on, he had to escape the snares of stylography and the pitfalls of perfumery; finally, avoiding these various temptations, he was able to throw himself into the gloomy stairway that led him to a cruel and automa
tic gate that had no hesitation in mercilessly crushing whosoever transgressed the severe commandments applicable to the subterranean traveler. The stairway had forty-seven steps; that of Obonne station had the same number. Etienne had just made this discovery and, comparing it with that of the little ducks and that of the place where they sold French fries, he concluded that the world is big and fearsome, full of mysteries and even, as you might say, enigmas. It seemed unfair that so simple an established fact as that of the equivalence of the number of steps in these two stairways should have been hidden from him for so long. Then he stopped blaming the universe for it.
It’s not its fault, but mine. All I had to do was turn my head to the right instead of turning it to the left, to take one more step, and I discovered things I passed every day and didn’t see. I used not to turn my head; I did turn it. But why did I turn it? It started with the little ducks, those little ducks which even Théo had seen. The same day, if I remember rightly, the cat was killed. Then I saw the place where they sell French fries, then I nearly got run over. Yes, that’s how it started. All of a sudden, things changed, from one day to the next.
The potato peeler wasn’t doing very well, for a change. The crowd was thinner than usual, so that Etienne, coming out of his bank, was finally able to see the gadget and how it was supposed to be used. And in any case, it wasn’t the only marvel they sold at that stall; the avidity of those of a practical turn of mind was also tempted by a mayonnaise whisk with a little funnel which let the oil through drop by drop; an instrument for cutting hard-boiled eggs in thin slices; another for making shelled-shaped butter pats; and finally, a horribly complicated sort of brace and bit whose application the demonstrator didn’t deign to explain and which was no doubt nothing but an improved-model corkscrew, At least, that was what Etienne thought.
Having followed the demonstration with some attention, he made the acquisition of a potato peeler; just as he was walking away, he found he couldn’t resist the charms of the cutter-of-hard-boiled-eggs-in-thin-slices, and bought it. Then, when he had gone three paces, parcel in hand, he began to get a bit worried about this new new departure; for he suddenly realized that the last thing these objects were destined for was the improvement of his household facilities; anything but—because he’d somehow got the idea that he ought to give the potato peeler to the fellow who sold the French fries, whereas the cutter-of-hard-boiled-eggs-in-thin-slices he intended to keep for himself.
This revelation disconcerted him.
And thus he arrived at his habitual eatery; it was semi-deserted, because it was Saturday. It was horribly hot inside. Etienne sat down and ordered, and while he was waiting for the rancid gudgeon fished out of the bottom of a carburetor, a gudgeon which affected the name of sardine, he undid his parcel and contemplated his acquisitions. Yes, there was no doubt about it, the one had to go to Blagny, and the other had to remain in the bottom of a drawer. The waitress brought the oily gudgeon, reputed to have been fished off the coast of Brittany. Etienne did his parcel up again and fearlessly absorbed the oleaginous chow which he was being sold as hors d’oeuvres—at a reasonable price, though, it was true. Then, with a piece of livid putty, he wiped his plate; he ate the putty; he raised his head and saw, sitting opposite him, a fair-haired young man who was watching him closely. He had a feeling he knew the fellow; the feeling became a certainty; he did know this fair-haired, crooked-mouthed, prematurely balding young man. Where on earth had he met him? The name of Ploute occurred to him; yes, that was it, Meussieu and Madame Ploute ... The young man interrupted this research:
“I have a feeling, Meussieu, that I’ve met you somewhere.”
“That’s just what I was saying to myself.”
“Wateha going to have next?” asked the waitress.
“I’ll have tripe,” said Etienne, “—gras-double.”
“How ghastly,” thought Pierre, and he ordered: “Steak and French fries.” And, turning to Etienne:
“Now I remember. My taxi nearly ran you over, about two weeks ago, outside the Gare du Nord, and after that we went to Obonne together.”
“Ah yes, ah yes,” exclaimed Etienne, happy to meet an involuntary actor in his transformation. Why actor? He doesn’t know; and he is equally ignorant of the fact that Pierre has also been watching him closely and vigilantly and, this very day, has seen him attain tridimensional reality. Naturally, Pierre keeps this to himself. He introduces himself:
“Pierre Le Grand.”
And thinks he’s going to suffocate when the waitress insinuates a plateful of gras-double under Etienne’s nose, because he only knows the little bistros where you have foie gras. He is served the most terrifying bit of leather that ever haunted the nightmares of a hypochondriac cobbler; it has a few charcoal nails with it. It takes him some moments to realize that this ensemble is entitled steak and French fries, especially as it smells of pigs’ intestines. He asks:
“Do you come here often?”
“Yes, every day.”
“Do you think it’s a good place?”
“It isn’t too bad; the thing is, it’s my sort of price.”
Ah yes, he hadn’t thought of that. Even so, what muck!
“And Meussieu and Madame Ploute—how are they?” asked Etienne.
“Fine, thank you,” replies Pierre, who has no recollection of his creation.
“Do you still go to Obonne from time to time?”
“My goodness—not since last time.”
“Ha, ha,” says Etienne.
Pierre, who has given up his attack on the charcoal, orders a yogurt; Etienne orders a banana and jam.
“They’re very ingenious, these gadgets, aren’t they,” says Pierre, innocently.
“Oh yes. Very ingenious. They’re very useful,” replies Etienne, his voice full of restraint.
“They’re very amusing, these little inventions. There are always some very interesting ones at the annual Lépine exhibition.”
“I’ve never been to it.”
There’s this, and that, and then this, Pierre tells him. Etienne listens in amazement. Here’s someone else who can see things; he would never pass some little ducks for three years without noticing them. This very restaurant, he’s been coming to it for three years now, and perhaps he hasn’t seen what he ought to see in it. And he, Le Grand, perhaps has seen it—he’s sure to have seen it.
“At the last exhibition,” continues Pierre, getting quite worked up, “there were some blotting-paper gloves for accountants and men of letters ...”
“Have you noticed anything here?” interrupts Etienne.
“Have I noticed ...?”
“Yes, have you noticed anything here, in this restaurant?”
And he leans over and stares at him. He’s waiting.
Pierre looks around him. He doesn’t notice a thing. Nothing. He feels he ought to notice something, that everything depends on what he notices. A long half minute goes by.
“You don’t notice anything, then?” Etienne asks again, anxiously.
Pierre stiffens, goes tense. Those eyes staring at him. He must look petrified himself. If I don’t notice anything ... at least ten silent seconds have passed.
“Then you don’t see anything?” questions Etienne, whose distress is becoming despair. He clutches at the tablecloth and looks as if he’s going to scream.
One more second, and Pierre leans over to Etienne’s ear.
—oooooo—oooooo—
Ernestine, her hair falling over her nose, applies a lethargic dishcloth to the tables, this way and that. Bread crumbs and bits of fried potato fall on to the floor; wine stains radiate. The table thus cleaned, Ernestine goes on to the next. Now and then she stops, blows at her hair and wipes her forehead. It’s horribly hot, in spite of the draft. The corrugated-iron hut gently cooks all its contents. Bluebottles buzz; a few advance on Ernestine, who scatters them with her elbow. Only one table is occupied, by a small group of workers from the chemicals factory. At the other end, M. Belhô
tel is taking a cork out of a bottle with a slipknot; when he’s finished, he sits down by himself at a table and pricks up his ears. Of the five sitting there, he knows two by name and two only by sight; with a vague and absent-minded air, he carefully examines the fifth.
Near the French fries pan, Mme. Belhôtel and Mme. Cloche are playing belote, but their hearts aren’t in it. While they’re waiting, they doze. They are slowly emptying a bottle of Cointreau. The cards are getting sticky. A fly, stuck to the bottom of a glass, ties to free itself from the viscous substance that is Mme. Cloche’s stomachal joy; it’s just about to succeed when it’s squashed by a finger in mourning; it’s Mme. Belhôtel, killing time.
A little breeze has risen and, periodically, wrapped in the odor of sour candy, a cloud of dust enters the hut and goes and sprinkles itself over the tables as far as the fifth row. There are fifteen, with gangway down the middle. Ernestine ignores the dust and goes and starts to string the beans. Old Taupe comes in, staggering, and orders a liter of white wine, just for himself; When Ernestine brings it, old Taupe indulges in some bold and unambiguous pawing which makes him jump for joy and chortle. He used to live modestly on an income derived from some Russian investments; he now lives in a sort of shack behind the chemicals factory. Poverty and filth seem to have made him immutable. For this living, he picks rags and sells junk. The five workmen get up and go. Old Taupe, who has got through half his bottle, has fallen asleep and is snoring. An express train goes by and makes the badly fixed corrugated-iron sheets rattle. One of the women claims ten points, without much conviction. Dominique Belhôtel yawns. A cloud of dust reaches the seventh row; behind it, Etienne comes in.
It takes them some moments to realize the situation; when it is realized, the attack is launched. Etienne is surrounded.
“We are very glad to see you,” declares Belhôtel solemnly; the two women nod assent. “Ernestine! just run over to High Street and buy a bottle of that sparkling wine at 6.85.”