Quiet Days in Clichy, Page 2

  She laid the money on the night table beside her without looking at it and, bending over, she kissed my brow. “You’re a brick,” she said. She remained bent over me, looking into my eyes with mute, strangled gratitude, then kissed me on the mouth, not passionately, but slowly, lingeringly, as if to convey the affection which she couldn’t put into words and which she was too delicate to convey by offering her body.

  “I can’t say anything now,” she said, falling back on the pillow. “Je suis émue, c’est tout.” Then, after a brief pause, she added: “It’s strange how one’s own people are never as good to one as a stranger. You Americans are very kind, very gentle. We have much to learn from you.”

  It was such an old song to me, I almost felt ashamed of myself for having posed once again as the generous American. I explained to her that it was just an accident, my having so much money in my pocket. To this she replied that it was all the more wonderful, my gesture. “A Frenchman would hide it away,” she said. “He would never give it to the first girl he met just because she was in need of help. He wouldn’t believe her in the first place. ‘Je connais la chanson,’ he would say.”

  I said nothing more. It was true and it wasn’t true. It takes all sorts to make a world and, though up to that time I had never met a generous Frenchman, I believed that they existed. If I had told her how ungenerous my own friends had been, my countrymen, she would never have believed me. And if I had added that it was not generosity which had prompted me, but self-pity, myself giving to myself (because nobody could be as generous to me as I myself), she would probably have thought me slightly cracked.

  I snuggled up to her and buried my head in her bosom. I slid my head down and licked her navel. Then farther down, kissing the thick clump of hair. She drew my head up slowly and, pulling me on top of her, buried her tongue in my mouth. My cock stiffened instantly; it slid into her just as naturally as an engine going into a switch. I had one of those long, lingering hard-ons which drive a woman mad. I jibbed her about at will, now over, now under her, then sidewise, then drawing it out slowly, tantalizingly, massaging the lips of the vulva with the bristling tip of my cock. Finally I pulled it out altogether and twirled it around her breasts. She looked at it in astonishment. “Did you come?” she asked. “No,” I said. “We’re going to try something else now,” and I dragged her out of the bed and placed her in position for a proper, thorough back-scuttling. She reached up under her crotch and put it in for me, wiggling her ass around invitingly as she did so. Gripping her firmly around the waist, I shot it into her guts. “Oh, oh, that’s marvelous, that’s wonderful,” she grunted, rolling her ass with a frenzied swing. I pulled it out again to give it an airing, rubbing it playfully against her buttocks. “No, no,” she begged, “don’t do that. Stick it in, stick it all the way in . . . I can’t wait.” Again she reached under and placed it for me, bending her back still more now, and pushing upward as if to trap the chandelier. I could feel it coming again, from the middle of my spine; I bent my knees slightly and pushed it in another notch or two. Then bango! it burst like a sky rocket.

  It was well into the dinner hour when we parted down the street in front of a urinal. I hadn’t made any definite appointment with her, nor had I inquired what her address might be. It was tacitly understood that the place to find her was at the café. Just as we were taking leave it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t even asked her what her name was. I called her back and asked her—not for her full name but for her first name. “N-Y-S,” she said, spelling it out. “Like the city, Nice.” I walked off, saying it over and over to myself. I had never heard of a girl being called by that name before. It sounded like the name of a precious stone.

  When I reached the Place Clichy I realized that I was ravenously hungry. I stood in front of a fish restaurant on the Avenue de Clichy, studying the menu which was posted outside. I felt like having clams, lobsters, oysters, snails, a broiled bluefish, a tomato omelette, some tender asparagus tips, a savory cheese, a loaf of bread, a bottle of chilled wine, some figs and nuts. I felt in my pocket, as I always do before entering a restaurant, and found a tiny sou. “Shit,” I said to myself, “she might at least have spared me a few francs.”

  I set out at a quick pace to see if there was anything in the larder at home. It was a good half hour’s walk to where we lived in Clichy, beyond the gates. Carl would already have had his dinner, but perhaps there would be a crust of bread and a little wine still standing on the table. I walked faster and faster, my hunger increasing with each step I took.

  When I burst into the kitchen I saw at a glance that he hadn’t eaten. I searched everywhere but couldn’t find a crumb. Nor were there any empty bottles about, which I could cash. I became frantic. I rushed out, determined to ask for credit at the little restaurant near the Place Clichy, where I often ate. Just outside the restaurant I lost my nerve and turned away. I now took to strolling about aimlessly, hoping that by some miracle I would bump into someone I knew. I knocked about for an hour or so, until I grew so exhausted that I decided to return home and go to bed. On the way I thought of a friend, a Russian, who lived near the outer boulevard. It was ages since I had seen him last. How could I walk in on him, like that, and ask for a hand-out? Then a brilliant thought hit me: I would go home, fetch the records, and hand them to him as a little gift. In that way it would be easier, after a few preliminaries, to suggest a sandwich or a piece of cake. I quickened my pace, though dog-tired and lame in the shanks.

  When I got back to the house I saw that it was near midnight. That completely crushed me. It was useless to do any further foraging; I would go to bed and hope for something to turn up in the morning. As I was undressing I got another idea, this time not such a brilliant one, but still. . . I went to the sink and opened the little closet where the garbage can stood. I removed the cover and looked inside. There were a few bones and a hard crust of bread lying at the bottom. I fished out the dry crust, carefully scraped off the contaminated parts so as to waste as little as possible, and soaked it under the faucet. Then I bit into it slowly, extracting the utmost from each crumb. As I gulped it down a smile spread over my face, a broader and broader one. Tomorrow, I thought to myself, I shall go back to the shop and offer the books at half price, or a third, or a fourth. Ditto for the records. Ought to fetch ten francs, at least. Would have a good hearty breakfast, and then . . . Well, after that anything might happen. We’d see . . . I smiled some more, as if to a well-fed stomach. I was beginning to feel in excellent humor. That Nys, she must have had a corking meal. Probably with her lover. I hadn’t the vaguest doubt but that she had a lover. Her great problem, her dilemma no doubt, had been how to feed him properly, how to buy him the clothes and other little things he craved. Well, it had been a royal fuck, even though I had fucked myself into the bargain. I could see her raising the napkin to her full ripe lips to wipe away the sauce from the tender chicken she had ordered. I wondered how her taste ran in wines. If we could only go to the Touraine country! But that would need a lot of jack. I’d never have that much money. Never. Just the same, no harm dreaming about it. I drank another glass of water. Putting the glass back, I espied a piece of Roquefort in a corner of the cupboard. If only there was just another crust of bread! To make sure I had overlooked nothing, I opened the garbage can again. A few bones lying in a scum of mildewed fat stared up at me.

  I wanted another piece of bread, and I wanted it bad. Maybe I could borrow a hunk from a neighboring tenant. I opened the hall door and tiptoed out. There was a silence as of the grave. I put my ear to one of the doors and listened. A child coughed faintly. No use. Even if someone was awake it wasn’t done. Not in France. Who ever heard of a Frenchman knocking at his neighbor’s door in the dead of night to ask for a crust of bread? “Shit!” I muttered to myself, “to think of all the bread we’ve thrown into the garbage can!” I bit into the Roquefort grimly. It was old and sour; it crumbled to bits, like a piece of plaster that had been soaked in urine. That bitch, Nys! If on
ly I knew her address I would go and beg a few francs of her. I must have been out of my mind not to hold out a little change. To give money to a whore is like throwing it down the sewer. Her great need! An extra chemise, most likely, or a pair of sheer silk hose glimpsed in passing a shop window.

  I worked myself into a fine fury. All because there wasn’t an extra crust of bread in the house. Idiotic! Thoroughly idiotic! In my delirium I began to dwell on malted milk shakes, and how, in America, there was always an extra glassful waiting for you in the shaker. That extra glassful was tantalizing. In America there was always more than you needed, not less. As I peeled my things off I felt my ribs. They stuck out like the sides of an accordion. That plump little bitch, Nys—she certainly was not dying of malnutrition. Once again, shit!—and to bed.

  I had scarcely pulled the covers over me when I began laughing again. This time it was terrifying. I got to laughing so hysterically that I couldn’t stop. It was like a thousand Roman candles going off at once. No matter what I thought of, and I tried to think of sad and even terrible things, the laughter continued. Because of a little crust of bread! That was the phrase which repeated itself intermittently, and which threw me into renewed fits of laughter.

  I was only in bed about an hour when I heard Carl opening the door. He went straight to his room and closed his door. I was sorely tempted to ask him to go out and buy me a sandwich and a bottle of wine. Then I had a better idea. I would get up early, while he was still sound asleep and rifle his pockets. As I was tossing about, I heard him open the door of his room and go to the bathroom. He was giggling and whispering—to some floozy, most likely, whom he had picked up on the way home.

  As he came out of the bathroom I called to him.

  “So you’re awake?” he said jubilantly. “What’s the matter, are you sick?”

  I explained that I was hungry, ravenously hungry. Had he any change on him?

  “I’m cleaned out,” he said. He said it cheerfully, as though it were nothing of importance.

  “Haven’t you got a franc at least?” I demanded.

  “Don’t worry about francs,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed with the air of a man who is about to confide a piece of important news. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about now. I brought a girl home with me—a waif. She can’t be more than fourteen. I just gave her a lay. Did you hear me? I hope I didn’t knock her up. She’s a virgin.”

  “You mean she was,” I put in.

  “Listen, Joey,” he said, lowering his voice to make it sound more convincing, “we’ve got to do something for her. She has no place to stay . . . she ran away from home. I found her walking about in a trance, half-starved, and a little demented, I thought at first. Don’t worry, she’s O.K. Not very bright, but a good sort. Probably from a good family. She’s just a child . . . you’ll see. Maybe I’ll marry her when she comes of age. Anyway there’s no money. I spent my last cent buying her a meal. Too bad you had to go without dinner. You should have been with us. We had oysters, lobster, shrimps—and a wonderful wine. A Chablis, year . . .”

  “Fuck the year!” I shouted. “Don’t tell me about what you ate. I’m as empty as an ash can. Now we’ve got three mouths to feed and no money, not a sou.”

  “Take it easy, Joey,” he said smilingly, “you know I always keep a few francs in my pocket for an emergency.” He dove into his pocket and pulled out the change. It amounted to three francs sixty altogether. “That’ll get you a breakfast,” he said. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

  At that moment the girl stuck her head through the doorway. Carl jumped up and brought her to the bed. “Colette,” he said, as I put out my hand to greet her. “What do you think of her?”

  Before I had time to answer, the girl turned to him and, almost as if frightened, asked what language we were speaking.

  “Don’t you know English when you hear it?” said Carl, giving me a glance which said I told you she wasn’t very bright.

  Blushing with confusion, the girl explained quickly that it sounded at first like German, or perhaps Belgian.

  “There is no Belgian!” snorted Carl. Then to me: “She’s a little idiot. But look at those breasts! Pretty ripe for fourteen, what? She swears she’s seventeen, but I don’t believe her.”

  Colette stood there listening to the strange language, unable even yet to grasp the fact that Carl could speak anything but French. Finally she demanded to know if he really was French. It seemed quite important to her.

  “Sure I’m French,” said Carl blithely. “Can’t you tell by my speech? Do I talk like a Boche? Want to see my passport?”

  “Better not show her that,” I said, remembering that he carried a Czech passport.

  “Would you like to come in and look at the sheets?” he said, putting an arm around Colette’s waist. “We’ll have to throw them away, I guess. I can’t take them to the laundry; they’d suspect me of having committed a crime.”

  “Get her to wash them,” I said jocularly. “There’s a lot she can do around here if she wants to keep house for us.”

  “So you do want her to stay? You know it’s illegal, don’t you? We can go to jail for this.”

  “Better get her a pair of pajamas, or a nightgown,” I said, “because if she’s going to walk around at night in that crazy shift of yours I may forget myself and rape her.”

  He looked at Colette and burst out laughing.

  “What is it?” she exclaimed. “Are you making fun of me? Why doesn’t your friend talk French?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “From now on we’re talking French and nothing but French. D’accord?”

  A childish grin spread over her face. She bent down and gave me a kiss on both cheeks. As she did so her boobies fell out and brushed my face. The little shift fell open all the way down, revealing an exquisitely full young body.

  “Jesus, take her away and keep her locked up in your room,” I said. “I won’t be responsible for what happens if she’s going to prowl around in that get-up while you’re out.”

  Carl packed her off to his room and sat down again on the edge of the bed. “We’ve got a problem on our hands, Joey,” he began, “and you’ve got to help me. I don’t care what you do with her when my back is turned. I’m not jealous, you know that. But you mustn’t let her fall into the hands of the police. If they catch her they’ll send her away—and they’ll probably send us away too. The thing is, what to tell the concierge? I can’t lock her up like a dog. Maybe I’ll say she’s a cousin of mine, here on a visit. Nights, when I go to work, take her to the movies. Or take her for a walk. She’s easy to please. Teach her geography or something—she doesn’t know a thing. It’ll be good for you, Joey. You’ll improve your French . . . And don’t knock her up, if you can help it. I can’t think about money for abortions now. Besides, I don’t know anymore where my Hungarian doctor lives.”

  I listened to him in silence. Carl had a genius for getting involved in difficult situations. The trouble was, or perhaps it was a virtue, that he was incapable of saying No. Most people say No immediately, out of a blind preservative instinct. Carl alway said Yes, Sure, Certainly. He would compromise himself for life on the impulse of a moment, knowing deep down, I suppose, that the same preservative instinct which made others say No would become operative at the crucial moment. With all his warm, generous impulses, his instinctive kindliness and tenderness, he was also the most elusive fellow I have ever known. Nobody, no power on earth could pin him down, once he made up his mind to free himself. He was as slippery as an eel, cunning, ingenious, absolutely reckless. He flirted with danger, not out of courage, but because it gave him an opportunity to sharpen his wits, to practice jujitsu. When drunk he became imprudent and audacious. On a dare he would walk into a police station and shout Merde! at the top of his lungs. If he were apprehended he would apologize, saying that he must have been temporarily out of his mind. And he would get away with it! Usually he did these little tricks so fast that, before the astonished gua
rdians of the peace could come to their senses, he would be a block or two away, perhaps sitting on a terrace, sipping a beer and looking as innocent as a lamb.

  In a pinch Carl always hocked his typewriter. In the beginning he could get as much as four hundred francs on it, which was no mean sum then. He took extremely good care of his machine because he was frequently obliged to borrow on it. I retain a most vivid image of him dusting and oiling the thing each time he sat down to write, and of carefully putting the cover over it when he had finished writing. I noticed too that he was secretly relieved whenever he put it in hock: it meant that he could declare a holiday without having a guilty conscience. But when he had spent the money, and had only time on his hands, he would become irritable; it was at such times, he swore, that he always got his most brilliant ideas. If the ideas became really burning and obsessive, he would buy himself a little notebook and go off somewhere to write it out in longhand, using the most handsome Parker pen I have ever seen. He would never admit to me that he was making notes on the sly, not until long afterwards. No, he would come home looking sour and disgruntled, saying that he had been obliged to piss the day away. If I suggested that he go to the newspaper office, where he worked nights, and use one of their machines, he would invent a good reason why such a procedure was impossible.

  I mention this business of the machine and his never having it when he needed it, because it was one of his ways of making things difficult for himself. It was an artistic device which, despite all evidences to the contrary, always worked out advantageously for him. If he had not been deprived of the machine at periodic intervals he would have run dry and, through sheer despondency, remained barren far beyond the normal curve. His ability to remain under water, so to speak, was extraordinary. Most people, observing him under these submerged conditions, usually gave him up as lost. But he was never really in danger of going under for good; if he gave that illusion it was only because he had a more than usual need of sympathy and attention. When he emerged, and began narrating his under-water experiences, it was like a revelation. It proved, for one thing, that he had been very much alive all the while. And not only alive, but extremely observant. As if he had swum about like a fish in a bowl; as if he had seen everything through a magnifying glass.