Chapter 4
The Corsican’s Judgment
Sub-Prefect Antoine Marchini stands dramatically framed, as intended, on the threshold of the lesser of the two ceremonial doors. He’s been alerted via the pale gray telephone to the broad outlines of the scandal going on in the Reception Department of the Préfecture de Police.
He takes in the scene with a keen Napoleonic scan. He is of Corsican origin and intensely aware of it, even though he possesses only fragmented memories of his native island. His stern features seem cast in gray gun-metal and his bearing is imperial. They compensate, perhaps over-compensate, for his small stature and the shortcomings of his sub-prefectoral uniform, which looks like something fished out of an ashcan, threadbare and moth-eaten. The braid is bedraggled. The trimmings are frayed. One of the tarnished brass buttons is missing. Another button dangles from a single thread.
Pretending budgetary restrictions (actually out of pure anti-Corsican prejudice, Sub-Prefect Marchini is convinced) Prefect d’Aubier de Hautecloque has long refused to grant him a new uniform worthy of his echelon. Sub-Prefect Marchini, a true Corsican in this, has a hair-trigger sense of honor and refuses to come to terms with humiliation by having his unworthy uniform mended and the brass buttons sewed back on. Sub-Prefect Marchini detests Prefect d’Aubier de Hautecloque with frigid burning hatred, a true Corsican in this too.
The woman functionary with the iron-gray bun euphemistically whispers the details of the scandal to him, pointing at Maggie sobbing in a corner of the room and at Louis, or rather at the pillar behind which Louis is hiding.
Just as she points at the upset stepladder with more euphemistic details concerning Henri, the stepladder starts smoking. The room is filled with the sacred scent of balsam, santal, myrrh, frankincense, stacte, onycha and galbanum.
And now, lo!, the stepladder commences burning with a fire that burns but does not consume.
The functionaries are dazzled by the intrusion of color in their space, chromatic agony for them. With the exception of a young and ignorant newly appointed Grade A5 functionary, they all step back in awe, aware that this is the dreaded Final Warning for one of them. A5 shields his eyes against the unbearable red and moves toward three sand-filled buckets in a corner.
“Imbécile!” the middle-echelon female functionary hisses. “Do not attempt to extinguish that fire!”
The fire vanishes unassisted. It leaves a gagging stench of brimstone. Henri’s mossy teeth chatter with fright.
Sub-Prefect Antoine Marchini takes instant command of the situation. He understands that the long but patiently awaited moment to topple his enemy has come. A Corsican proverb has it that vengeance is a dish more delectable cold than hot. The Burning Ladder proves that The Eye of the Supreme Echelon has witnessed the scandal. That Eye is now focused upon him. Although the privilege of judging and exiting the mistakenly Materialized lies beyond his area of competence, Sub-Prefect Antoine Marchini is strongly tempted to earn good points by short-circuiting the chain of command, undoing the latest and most outrageous blunder of his superior, Prefect d’Aubier de Hautecloque.
Not superior for long. Not prefect for long. Sub-Prefect Marchini imagines himself promoted into that supreme white uniform, dazzling his hierarchical inferiors with it. Above all, he imagines himself promoted into more memories of his past life, the most precious reward of that new echelon.
Another Corsican proverb has it that the extent of authority is in inverse ratio to the expenditure of energy necessary to assert it. Literally: “Facing his enemy, the man with a rotten stick shouts, the man with a long keen knife smiles.” Tight-lipped and impassive, the Sub-Prefect jerks his chin an imperious centimeter in the direction of a spectacled functionary and then again at the Arrivals visible or hidden behind their pillars.
The designated functionary is small and fat. Iron-framed bottle-thick glasses magnify his colorless eyes. With his pepper-and-salt short stiff prickly hair and snout-like nose he looks extraordinarily like a giant hedgehog (which is actually his nickname among his colleagues: “Hérisson”). He pulls on gloves and trots stiffly toward the Arrivals. A female functionary is prepared to take down the information in shorthand as he goes from ankle to ankle.
Hedgehog kneels before Seymour, delicately lifts his ankle, peers at the tag and drones out:
“Seymour Stein, 1925-1980. Sojourn in France: November 5, 1951 to November 2, 1952. As winner of First Prize in a Martel cognac raffle (two unforgettable weeks in Paris, all expenses paid), issued a two-week visa, then a two-year temporary resident carte de séjour. Legal Activities: 1. Four months as English instructor at the Fry-Fitz Academy of Modern Languages. Discharged. 2. Three months as English instructor for the OECD. Discharged. Illegal Activities (none sanctioned at the time): 1. Failure to report to the Tax Department income deriving from private English lessons. 2. Contact-man for a criminal abortionist …”
All of the functionaries shrug at the first offense and look scandalized at the second. Sub-Prefect Marchini interrupts the sing-song recital.
“Enough. A preposterous error has obviously been committed. Clearly, this individual is no Good American. In no way does he merit Paris. Can there be any doubt that he deserves instant exit?” Sub-Prefect Marchini scowls and ponders the matter.
Seymour feels faint hearing that. He sinks down to the floor in a uterine posture, hugging his jack-knifed knees, head bent forward. That close to it, he can’t help seeing the big white tag attached to his ankle like an ID tag on a morgue inmate. The tag is shaped like a tombstone as well. On it is his name and the date of his birth, bad enough, that first and fundamental mistake. But also, worse, in terrible confirmation of the giant hedgehog’s droning voice, the date of his death. He hadn’t fucked up the Great Plunge Out after all.
Seymour’s brain, a high-strung neurotic organ back in had-been time, can’t cope with the tremendous input of inconceivable information. Broca’s Area is swamped and he’s speechless. Now Wernicke’s Area and he’s deaf. His motor cortex is overwhelmed and he can’t command a single muscle. Overtaxed neurons threaten to pop by the billion. Protecting his brain from overload, safety-switches are tripped. He blacks out.
When consciousness returns a few seconds later, Seymour’s first thought is: so it’s true, all the mumbling hocus-pocus obscurantist opium-of-the-people pre-scientific mentality stuff he’d mocked in his wise-guy New York days. The Bible Belt is humiliatingly right. Gimme that old-time religion, if it’s good enough for grandpa it’s good enough for me. It’s no bull-shit. There’s something after, after all.
You’ll get pie in the sky when you die by and by.
It’s no lie.
Except that it’s not in the sky you’ll be getting your pie but in Paris, first stop the Préfecture de Police in the capital’s First arrondissement.
Get it, that is, if you’re American and Good, he understands. He’s American all right but even by the loosest definition of the word, he hadn’t been Good, he knows, oh does he know that! Not just his association with the shady doctor, but hundreds of other things, like the way he’d acted to that girl way back in time here in Paris, the great love of his life for six months, what was her name again? What did she look like?
Seymour Stein’s longing for void has weakened. His brain and heart are flooded with nostalgic yearning to see the nameless and faceless short-time love of his life again. But that was back in 1951. It’s 1980 now. If she’s still alive she’d be in her mid-fifties. Anyhow, he won’t be seeing her at any age. Napoleon had just said he’d be exited on the spot. Exited where? Where, oh where, and why again, my God? Oh God, in whom I’m now forced to believe, tell me, tell me, why again?
Seymour blacks out a second time. When he emerges, he realizes that the blackness is a preview of what he’s going to be exited to and he blacks out for the third time.
Sub-Prefect Marchini emerges from reflection. “Next!” he commands.
Hedgehog trots over to Helen. She passively abandons her a
nkle to him. He drones out:
“HELEN RICCHI NEE FORD, 1927-1988.
Two-year carte de séjour issued January 7, 1951 in view of studies in French Literature at the Sorbonne. In July of that same year returned to the United States of America and married. Returned with husband to France in September of that same year. Husband disappeared on third day of arrival and was never found. Cleared of initial suspicion. Issued two-year temporary resident carte de séjour November 23, 1951. Remained in Paris until April 3, 1953. Legal activities: unsuccessful search for husband. No evidence of illegal activities.”
The Sub-Prefect decrees: “Pending the inquiry this individual will remain. Next!”
Hérisson kneels before Max Pilsudski and reaches for his right ankle and the tag somewhere beneath the hair. Max pulls his foot back and growls:
“Hey, you queer, take your fucking paws off of me or I’ll kick your teeth down your fucking throat.”
“What does he say?” the functionary asks Seymour, in French, of course.
Seymour has recovered a little from all those shocks. Maybe the word “exit” has some other meaning.
“He would prefer that you not touch him,” he replies in fluent French. (“Il préférerait que vous ne le touchiez pas.”)
Seymour is surprised at his perfect mastery of the subjunctive, a stumbling-block during his long-ago sojourn in France despite Marie-Claude’s patient explanations. Of course, Marie-Claude was her name. Great trusting brown eyes. Ponytail. Fragrance of cold-cream. Palm-tickling nuzzle of an aroused breast, O my darling. My aging ex-darling. Fifty-five years old now. With that thought, Seymour shakes free of her.
He advises Max not to make trouble. He isn’t in a position of force here, he adds. So Max abandons his shaggy ankle to the functionary’s pudgy hand. He doesn’t understand what’s going on.
Little more than a second is necessary for Hedgehog to transmit what’s inscribed on the tag.
“Max Pilsudski, 1950-2000,” the kneeling functionary chants. He abandons Max’s ankle and stands up.
Seymour nearly blacks out again. The year Two Thousand! Marie-Claude would be seventy-five by now. He feels like weeping and is almost reconciled to his first interpretation of “exit” as black nothing and nowhere.
“Continue with the further information!” orders Sub-Prefect Marchini with brows like thunder-clouds.
“There is no further information, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet,” replies Hedgehog, standing at attention.
“What do you mean, no further information?”
“A perfect blank, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet.”
“Worse and worse!” exclaims Sub-Prefect Marchini, thinking: “Better and better!”
No information. That means – inconceivable precious blunder on the part of Prefect d’Aubier de Hautecloque! – that this hirsute individual has never set foot in France. Since 1803, the Préfecture de Police possesses dossiers on all aliens who have stepped, however briefly, on French soil (dossiers even on migratory birds who have impinged on France’s aerial space, say some). The Good Americans have, by definition, all dwelt in Paris at one time or another and administrative documents necessarily exist attesting to that sojourn. The celebrated adage, “Good Americans go to Paris when they die” is wrongly put. It should read, “Good Americans return to Paris when they die.”
The materialization of a voided allegedly Good American (American perhaps, but there’s nothing that looks good about this orangutan) who had never set foot in Paris is the most glaring of blunders. Could it not set a judicial/administrative precedent, opening the door to millions of deceased Americans? There are, God knows, quite enough foreigners in France as things stand, the Sub-Prefect reflects.
“An error of monumental proportions has obviously been committed with this individual. Surely this individual deserves instant exit.” Sub-Prefect Marchini ponders for a minute. Again he postpones decision and commands: “Next!”
Hedgehog peers down at Louis’ right ankle, then at his left ankle, then at his wrists. Before he can investigate elsewhere, he sees the tag on the floor where Maggie dropped it in her haste. He drones:
“LOUIS FORSTER, 1877-1927. Diplomatic visa 1899-1901. Marine guard at American Embassy, Paris. No evidence of illegal activities.”
“With the exception of the activity recently indulged in here,” says Sub-Prefect Marchini sarcastically. “His status as a Marine only aggravates his case. In no way does this individual deserve Paris. An error has obviously been committed. Can there be any doubt that this individual too deserves instant exit? Next!”
Hedgehog trots over to Maggie. Her body still earthquaking, she offers no resistance to the pudgy rubbered hand at her exquisite ankle. He drones:
“MARGARET WILLIAMS, 1912-1994 Sojourn in France: April 5, 1937 to July 30, 1938. Issued two-year Temporary Resident carte de séjour. Legal or semi-legal activities: Cabaret Fan and Bubble Dancer. Illegal activities: modeling for indecent postcards. Sanctioned by a nominal fine, suspended sentence. In addition, arrested and/or fined over a period of thirteen months for: 1. Indecent exposure, bathing nude in the fountain of the Boulevard Saint Michel at midday, causing public disturbance verging on riot. 2. Nocturnal disturbance of the peace (tapage nocturne) aggravated by rebellion to Officers of the Peace in the exercise of their function. 3. The lighting of a cigar from the Eternal Flame of the Unknown Soldier at the Arc de Triomphe. 4. Shop-lifting in a Rue de Rivoli jewelry shop (charges later withdrawn following interview with shop owner). 5. Shop-lifting in …”
“Enough!” commands the Sub-Prefect. How had they been able to inscribe all that (and more to come) on one side of a tag?
“With your permission, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet, one last thing concerning this individual. She was expelled from France on July 30, 1938.”
“I should hope so,” says the Sub-Prefect. He draws close to Maggie, stares down at her and assumes an attitude of profound and prolonged reflection.
Clearly the fate of four of the Five hangs in the balance.
Max is still completely confused. He doesn’t know what’s going on in this nut-house. The Yid’s right. This can’t be Las Vegas, can’t be the States even, not with that foreign jabbering. It has to be Paris, France, like he said. “Hey,” Max booms, “What the fuck am I doing in Paris, France anyhow? What happened to Rickie? And where’s Bess? I wanna put through a call to Las Vegas to Bess.”
Max moves shakily toward the gilt Empire table with the three phones, one of them awesomely gigantic. Before he can reach it, two rubber-gloved male functionaries easily overcome him. Normally he could have disposed of them in two seconds flat, one hand tied behind his back. He’s keenly aware of this and starts weeping at his diminished state as they drag him back alongside Seymour. The functionaries upbraid him for making a scandal. “Pas de scandale!” says one. “Oui, surtout, pas de scandale!” says the other. Max collapses to a sitting position and weeps like a little boy.
Seymour, standing now, places his hand consolingly on Max’s shoulder. Max stops sobbing although the tears keep dripping down his face. His eyes, inches from Seymour’s right ankle, focus wetly on Seymour’s tag. Wiping his eyes with a shaggy forearm, he stares again at the tag, lets out a great cry and jerks back as though Seymour’s hand were red hot. He scrambles to his feet, bellowing:
“Jesus, you’re dead. You goddam Jew corpse, you keep away from me!”
Stung to the quick and the dead by the double insult, Seymour invites Max to look at his own tag. Max’s death-date had been chanted out, but in French. “Deux Mille” didn’t mean anything to Max. The nearest to it was the name of an old-time Hollywood producer, Cecil B. DeMille, no connection. But written black on white, the figures 2000 coming after 1950 do mean something. Max remembers the giant tree and the splintering windshield.
Max starts howling, inhumanly. It’s terrible when a hairy man, built like a Mack truck and who says “fuck” every third word, breaks down like that.
His
howls fail to rouse Sub-Prefect Marchini out of his deep reflection.
Helen is standing quietly in her corner, eyes shut. She’s a little sorry she hasn’t been chosen to exit with the others. Dying, even a second time, doesn’t really bother her. She doesn’t want to return to Paris. She’d just walk up and down in it again, from dawn to dusk, searching for one face among millions of faces as she’d done for two years back then.
Now she hears Max’s howl of terror and instinctively moves toward it. She places her hand on his heaving shoulder and looks down at his ankle. “Max,” she says. His name is Max. The other is Seymour. The tags come as a shock but at least they make communication easy, like the badges people wear at conventions.
“B-Bess. R-Rickie. B-Bess. R-Rickie.” He goes on blubbering the names.
Helen gets out of him that Bess is (was) Max’s wife. Rickie is (was) the dachshund pup he’d bought for her birthday. They had no children. He’d been sitting nice and quiet alongside him when the truck went into the skid.
“I wanna phone Bess, tell her what happened to me and ask about Rickie and they won’t let me, they won’t let me phone Bess.”
Helen’s hand soothes his head now. “Max, I don’t think you’ll be able to get through to Bess anyhow. If you did, it might be bad for her heart.”
“I don’t wanna stay here. I wanna fly back to Las Vegas. I could do that, couldn’t I, huh? Be close to Beth. And find out if Rickie’s okay.”
“Maybe it’s possible, Max, but I don’t really know. I’m new here myself.” Her hand goes on comforting him.
At that moment, Maggie looks past Sub-Prefect Marchini standing before her in meditation. She catches sight of herself again in the tarnished full-length mirror, draped in towels like swaddling clothes.
But this time she shrinks back from her image in terror.