Camier criticized this simile.
Like rats, said Mercier.
Even if we had the umbrella, said Camier, we could not use it, for it is broken.
What fresh extravagance is this? said Mercier.
We broke it yesterday, said Camier. Your idea.
Mercier took his head between his hands. Little by little the scene came back to him. Proudly he drew himself up, to his full height.
Come, he said, regrets are vain.
We’ll wear the raincoat turn and turn about, said Camier.
We’ll be in the train, said Mercier, speeding south.
Through the streaming panes, said Camier, we try to number the cows, shivering pitiably in the scant shelter of the hedges. Rooks take wing, all dripping and bedraggled. But gradually the day lifts and we arrive in the brilliant sunlight of a glorious winter’s afternoon. It seems like Monaco.
I don’t seem to have eaten for forty-eight hours, said Mercier. And yet I am not hungry.
One must eat, said Camier. He went on to compare the stomach with the bladder.
Apropos, said Mercier, how is your cyst?
Dormant, said Camier, but under the surface mischief is brewing.
What will you do then? said Mercier.
I dread to think, said Camier.
I could just manage a cream puff, said Mercier.
Wait here, said Camier.
No no! cried Mercier. Don’t leave me! Don’t let us leave each other!
Camier left the archway and began to cross the street. Mercier called him back and an altercation ensued, too foolish to be recorded, so foolish was it.
Another would take umbrage, said Camier. Not I, all things considered. For I say to myself, The hour is grave and Mercier … well … He advanced towards Mercier who promptly recoiled. I was only going to embrace you, said Camier. I’ll do it some other time, when you’re less yourself, if I think of it.
He went out into the rain and disappeared. Alone in the archway Mercier began pacing to and fro, deep in bitter thought. It was their first separation since the morning of the day before. Raising suddenly his eyes, as from a vision no longer to be borne, he saw two children, a little boy and a little girl, standing gazing at him. They wore little black oilskins with hoods, identical, and the boy had a little satchel on his back. They held each other by the hand.
Papa! they said, with one voice or nearly.
Good evening, my children, said Mercier, get along with you now.
But they did not get along with them, no, but stood their ground, their little clasped hands lightly swinging back and forth. Finally the little girl drew hers away and advanced towards him they had addressed as papa. She stretched out her little arms towards him, as if to invite a kiss, or at least a caress. The little boy followed suit, with visible misgiving. Mercier raised his foot and dashed it against the pavement. Be off with you! he cried. He bore down on them, wildly gesturing and his face contorted. The children backed away to the sidewalk and there stood still again. Fuck off out of here! screamed Mercier. He flew at them in a fury and they took to their heels. But soon they halted and looked back. What they saw then must have impressed them strongly, for they ran on and bolted down the first sidestreet. As for the unfortunate Mercier, satisfied after a few minutes of fuming tenterhooks that the danger was past, he returned dripping to the archway and resumed his reflections, if not at the point where they had been interrupted, at least at one nearby.
Mercier’s reflections were peculiar in this, that the same swell and surge swept through them all and cast the mind away, no matter where it embarked, on the same rocks invariably. They were perhaps not so much reflections as a dark torrent of brooding where past and future merged in a single flood and closed, over a present for ever absent. Ah well.
Here, said Camier, I hope you haven’t been fretting.
Mercier extracted the cake from its paper wrapping and placed it on the palm of his hand. He bent forward and down till his nose was almost touching it and the eyes not far behind. He darted towards Camier, while still in this position, a sidelong look full of mistrust.
A cream horn, said Camier, the best I could find.
Mercier, still bent double, moved forward to the verge of the archway, where the light was better, and examined the cake again.
It’s full of cream, said Camier.
Mercier slowly clenched his fist and the cake gushed between his fingers. The staring eyes filled with tears. Camier advanced to get a better view. The tears flowed, overflowed, all down the furrowed cheeks and vanished in the beard. The face remained unmoved. The eyes, still streaming and no doubt blinded, seemed intent on some object stirring on the ground.
If you didn’t want it, said Camier, you had better given it to a dog, or to a child.
I’m in tears, said Mercier, don’t intrude.
When the flow stopped Camier said:
Let me offer you our handkerchief.
There are days, said Mercier, one is born every minute. Then the world is full of shitty little Merciers. It’s hell. Oh but to cease!
Enough, said Camier. You look like a capital S. Ninety if a day.
Would I were, said Mercier. He wiped his hand on the seat of his trousers. He said, I’ll start crawling any minute.
I’m off, said Camier.
Leaving me to my fate, said Mercier. I knew it.
You know my little ways, said Camier.
No, said Mercier, but I was counting on your affection to help me serve my time.
I can help you, said Camier, I can’t resurrect you.
Take me by the hand, said Mercier, and lead me far away from here. I’ll trot along at your side like a little puppy dog, or a tiny tot. And the day will come—.
A terrible screech of brakes rent the air, followed by a scream and a resounding crash. Mercier and Camier made a rush (after a moment’s hesitation) for the open street and were rewarded by the vision, soon hidden by a concourse of gapers, of a big fat woman writhing feebly on the ground. The disorder of her dress revealed an amazing mass of billowing underclothes, originally white in colour. Her lifeblood, streaming from one or more wounds, had already reached the gutter.
Ah, said Mercier, that’s what I needed, I feel a new man already.
He was in fact transfigured.
Let this be a lesson to us, said Camier.
Meaning? said Mercier.
Never to despair, said Camier, or lose our faith in life.
Ah, said Mercier with relief, I was afraid you meant something else.
As they went their way an ambulance passed, speeding towards the scene of the mishap.
I beg your pardon? said Camier.
A crying shame, said Mercier.
I don’t follow you, said Camier.
A six cylinder, said Mercier.
And what of it? said Camier.
And they talk about the petrol shortage, said Mercier.
There are perhaps more victims than one, said Camier.
It might be an infant child, said Mercier, for all they care.
The rain was falling gently, as from the fine rose of a watering pot. Mercier advanced with upturned face. Now and then he wiped it, with his free hand. He had not had a wash for some time.
Summary of two preceding chapters
I
Outset.
Meeting of Mercier and Camier.
Saint Ruth Square.
The beech.
The rain.
The shelter.
The dogs.
Distress of Camier.
The ranger.
The bicycle.
Words with the ranger.
Mercier and Camier confer.
Results of this conference.
Bright too late.
The bell.
Mercier and Camier set out.
II
The town at twilight.
Mercier and Camier on the way to the canal.
Vision of the canal.
The b
icycle.
First bar.
Mercier and Camier confer.
Results of this conference.
Mercier and Camier on the way to Helen’s.
Doubts as to the way.
The umbrella.
The man in the frockcoat.
The rain.
Camier hears singing.
Mercier and Camier run.
The umbrella.
The downpour.
Distress of Mercier.
At Helen’s.
The cockatoo.
The Kidderminster.
The second day.
The rain.
Disappearance of sack, bicycle and umbrella.
The archway.
Mercier and Camier confer.
Results of this conference.
Departure of Camier.
Distress of Mercier.
Mercier and the children.
Return of Camier.
The cream horn.
Distress of Mercier.
The fat woman.
Mercier and Camier depart.
Rain on Mercier’s face.
III
I trust an only child, I was born at P—. My parents came from Q—. It was from them I received, together with the treponema pallidum, the huge nose whose remains you have before you. They were severe with me, but just. For the least peccadillo my father beat me till I bled, with his solid razor-strop. But he never failed to notify my mother that she might dress my wounds, with tincture of iodine or permanganate of potash. Here lies no doubt the explanation of my unconfiding character and general surliness. Unfitted for the pursuit of knowledge I was taken away from school at the age of thirteen and placed with farmers nearby. Heaven, as they put it, having denied them offspring of their own, they fell back on me with very natural virulence. And when my parents perished, in a providential railway smash, they adopted me with all the forms and observances required by the law. But no less feeble of body than of mind I was for them a constant source of disappointment. To follow the plough, ply the scythe, flounder in the mangel-wurzels, and so on, were labours so far beyond my strength that I literally collapsed whenever forced to undertake them. Even as shepherd, cowherd, goatherd, pigherd, it was in vain I strained every nerve, I could never give satisfaction. For the animals strayed, unnoticed by me, into the neighbouring properties and there ate their bellyful of vegetables, fruit and flowers. I pass over in silence the combats between rutting males, when I fled in terror to take shelter in the nearest outhouse. Add to this that the flock or herd, because of my inability to count beyond ten, seldom came home at full muster, and with this too I was deservedly reproached. The only branches in which I may boast of having, if not excelled, at least succeeded, were the slaughter of little lambs, calves, kids and porklings and the emasculation of little bullocks, rams, billy goats and piglets, on condition of course they were still unspoiled, all innocence and trustingness. It was therefore to these specialities I confined myself, from the age of fifteen. I have still at home some charming little—well, comparatively little—ram’s testes dating from that happy time. In the fowl-yard too I was a terror of accuracy and elegance. I had a way of smothering geese that was the admiration and envy of all. Oh I know you are listening with only half an ear, and that half unwilling, but that is nothing to me. For my life is behind me and my only pleasure left to summon up, out loud, the good old days happily gone for ever. At the age of twenty, or possibly nineteen, having been awkward enough to fecundate a milkmaid, I ran away, under cover of night, for I was closely watched. I improved this occasion by setting light to the barns, granaries and stables. But the flames were scarcely under way when they were doused by a downfall none could have foreseen, so starry was the sky at the moment of ignition. That was fifty years ago, feels like five hundred. He brandished his stick and brought it down with a thump on the seat which emitted instantaneously a cloud of fine ephemeral dust. Five hundred! he bellowed.
The train slowed down. Mercier and Camier exchanged a look. The train stopped.
Woe is us, said Mercier, we’re in the slow and easy.
The train moved on.
We might have alit, said Mercier, now it’s too late.
Next stop, said the old man, you alight with me.
This puts a fresh complexion on it, said Mercier.
Butcher’s boy, said the old man, poulterer’s boy, knacker’s boy, undertaker’s man, sexton, one corpse on top of another, there’s my life for you. Gab was my salvation, every day a little more, a little better. The truth is I had that too in my bleeding blood, my father having sprung, with what alacrity you may imagine, from the loins of a parish priest, it was common knowledge. I infested the outlying whoreshops and saloons. Comrades, I said, having never learnt to write, comrades, Homer tells us, Iliad Book 3, lines 85 and following, in what consists happiness here below, that is to say happiness. Oh I gave it to them! Potopompos scroton evohe! Like that, hot and strong! Picked up at nightschool—he burst into a wild raucous laugh—free nightschool for glimmer-thirsty wrecks. Potopompos scroton evohe, the soft cock and buckets of the hard. Step out of here, I said, with a stout heart and your bollocks in your boots and come again tomorrow, tell the missus to go chase apes in hell. There were delicate moments. Then up I’d get, covered with blood and my rags in ribbons, and at ‘em again. Brats the offscourings of fornication and God Almighty a cheap scent in a jakes. I cleaned myself up and crashed their weddings, funerals, balls, wakes and christenings. They made me welcome, another ten years and I’d be popular. I let them have it on the lot, hymen, vaseline, the evil day from dawn to dark. Till I came in for the farm, or better still the farms, for there were two. The creatures bless their hearts, they loved me to the end. A good job for me they did, for my snout was starting to crumble. People love you less when your snout starts to crumble.
The train slowed down. Mercier and Camier drew in their legs to let him pass. The train stopped.
Not alighting? said the old man. You’re right, only the damned alight here.
He wore gaiters, a yellow block-hat and a rusty frock-coat reaching down to his knees. He lowered himself stiffly to the platform, turned, slammed the door and raised towards them his hideous face.
The train moved on.
Adieu adieu, cried Mr. Madden, they loved me to the end, they loved—.
Mercier, whose back was to the engine, saw him as he stood there, dead to the passengers hastening towards the exit, bow down his head till it lay on his hands at rest on the knob of his stick.
With what relief the eyes from this clutter to the empty sky, with what relief back again.
A fresh complexion, said Mercier, a totally fresh complexion.
Camier wiped the pane with the cuff of his sleeve caught between the palm and four crooked fingers.
It’s the end, said Mercier, that just about—. He paused for thought. That just about finishes me, he said.
Visibility nil, said Camier.
You remain strangely calm, said Mercier. Am I right in thinking you took advantage of my condition to substitute this hearse for the express we agreed on?
Camier mumbled something about burnt bridges and indecent haste.
I knew it, said Mercier. I’ve been shamefully abused. I’d throw myself out of the window if I wasn’t afraid I might sprain my ankle.
I’ll explain everything, said Camier.
You’ll explain nothing, said Mercier. You took advantage of my weakness to cod me I was getting on an express when in fact—. His face fell apart. More readily than Mercier’s few faces fell apart. Words fail me, he said, to disguise what I feel.
But your weakness it was precisely, said Camier, that prompted this little subterfuge.
Explain yourself, said Mercier.
Seeing the state you were in, said Camier, it was imperative to go, and yet at the same time stay.
You are cheap, said Mercier.
We’ll get down at the next stop, said Camier, and consider how to procee
d. If we see fit to go on we’ll go on. We’ll have lost two hours. What are two hours?
I wouldn’t like to say, said Mercier.
If on the other hand, said Camier, we see fitter to return to town—.
To town! cried Mercier.
To town, said Camier, to town we shall return.
But we have just come from town, said Mercier, and now you speak of returning there.
When we left town, said Camier, it was necessary to leave town. So we very properly left it. But we are not children and necessity has her whims. If having elected to drive us forth she now elects to drive us back shall we balk? I trust not.
The only necessity I know, said Mercier, is to get away from that hell as fast and as far as possible.
That remains to be seen, said Camier. Never trust the wind that swells your sails, it is always obsolete.
Mercier controlled himself.
A third and last possibility, said Camier, since none are to be neglected, is that we form the heroic resolution to stay where we are. In which case I have all we need.
A village just one long street, everything lined up in a row, dwellings, shops, bars, the two stations, railway and petrol, the two churches, graveyard and so on. A strait.
Take the raincoat, said Camier.
Pah I won’t melt, said Mercier.
They entered an inn.
Wrong address, said the man. This is Messrs. Clappe and Sons, Wholesale Fruit and Vegetable Suppliers.
And what leads you to suppose, said Camier, that we have not business with father Clappe or one of his waste products?
They regained the street.
Is this an inn, said Camier, or is it the fish market?
This time the man made way, all of a flutter.
Come in, gentlemen, he said, step right in. It’s not the Savoy, but it’s … how shall I say? He took their measure with a quick furtive look. How shall I say? he said.
Say it, said Camier, and put us out of our pain.
It’s … snug, said the man, there is no other word. Patrick! he cried. But there was another word, for he added, in a tone of tentative complicity, whatever that sounds like, It’s … gemütlich.
He takes us for globe-trotters, said Mercier.