The next day:
“The Etruscans are continually putting out false news. They are now even going so far as to talk of their ‘victory’ at Malaparte.
“French newspapers must daily insist on the systematic falsification of the truth being practiced by the Etruscans. If we allow lies to be spread without denying them, there is some chance of their being believed.”
“They’re liars, that bunch,” said the sailor.
“Don’t talk to me about that,” agreed the barkeeper, without making his thought any more explicit.
“Well, give me a picon and water, but don’t dilute it, eh, I only like it straight.”
And they drank their aperitifs, with triumphant hearts.
—oooooo—oooooo—
“Huh, there goes Bébé Toutout,” said the sailor.
“Call him, then,” suggested Hippolyte, and a few seconds later, the dwarf came in.
“Well, friends,” he exclaimed heartily, “are you going to stand me a drink?”
“What would you like?”
“A nice rum. Tomorrow, it’ll be on me.”
“Well, Bébé, what news do you have for us?”
“Pff, pff. Lousy weather, eh, lousy weather.”
“That’s true enough,” conceded the sailor, “talk of lousy weather, it’s lousy weather all right, that’s true enough.”
“And the boss, how’s he getting on?” asked Hippolyte.
“He wrote this morning again.”
“What’s he say?”
The dwarf knocked down his rum and winked.
“Another.”
“Good old Bébé! Tell us.”
He produced a bloodstained piece of butcher’s wrapping paper.
“This is a copy of a card to the brat.”
“Read it to us.”
“Ahem, ahem, Modane, December the 15th.”
“He’s in Modane, then?”
“Obviously. I’ll go on. My dear Théo. I haven’t written to you for a long time, but your mother must have given you my news. I think of you both with much affection and hope to see you again soon, because this war can’t last long.”
“Ah, you see what he says.”
“He duh know anything about it.”
“Even so, he muss know more about it than you do behind your counter. He’s better placed than you are to know about it, even so.”
“That’s true enough.”
“If he says the war’s not going ter last long, that means it’s not goingter last long. Dun it?’
“Ah well, all the better.”
“What a walloping we’re going to give them, the Coches.”
“Hang on. Let me read it. Ahem. Can’t last long. We haven’t seen any action, here. A few planes came and bombed us, but didn’t do much damage.”
“Ha, ha, ha! their bombs don’t go off. They already said that in the paper.”
“All they can do is make macaroni.”
“Ha ha ha!”
“And even then, French noodles are far better.”
“That’s true enough.”
“I haven’t finished,” said the dwarf.
“Well, go on, then.”
“So I’ll see you soon, then, my dear Théo. Love your mother and work hard. Your father: Etienne.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, but...”
“You want another rum, eh?”
“I believe I do.”
“He’s a bad one, this Bébé Toutout.”
“A nice rum. I’ve got a letter for the lady in my pocket.”
“Oh! you haven’t! read it to us.”
The rum was poured.
“Ahem, ahem, Modane, December the 15th. My beloved Alberte. I’m in a filthy hole here. We get terribly bored and I don’t know what stops me leaving. But where’d I go? I’m caught, and you ought to see what sort of a mousetrap it is, and what a horrible bit of cheese they offered us. It’s not possible to run away now. It’s extremely cold. It’s snowing hard; we are badly billetted, badly heated and badly dressed. The hospital is packed full of patients. About twenty die every day. We bury them in great style. This is our chief occupation. The enemy planes come and bomb us every day, too. Yesterday they blew up the powder magazine. Two hundred and fifty dead. We spent the day picking up the pieces, more or less on all sides. And it was so cold! We don’t do anything except bury the dead and get bombed. It can go on like this for a long time. That’s another very stupid thing. What am I doing here? It’s absurd. If it could last less than four years ...”
“And then what does he say?”
“If I could only see you again, Alberte, if I could only see you again and once more feel your nipples getting hard ...”
A very cold, very icy drizzle had started falling. The roofs were shining, the road was gradually turning into a slimy cesspool, and the darkness was dripping down with the rain onto the silent estate. The dwarf went on with his reading, his nose glued to the paper because he was shortsighted and it was pretty dark. Sitting astride his chair, his head in his hands, the sailor was listening without saying a word, and Hippolyte, behind his counter, was still drying the same glass.
“We were bombed again just now,” the dwarf went on. “A few more dead. That’ll keep us occupied for a bit. It’s starting to snow. Ah! if I could see you again, Alberte, if I could see you again.”
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough for you?”
The rain was carefully cleaning the bistro windows. The mud was encroaching on the pavements. Through the silence, they heard a train coming into the station. The 4:37; it was an hour and a half late. Then Yves le Toltec raised his head.
“You want me to tell you something? Eh? Well, what’s got to happen, the civilians have got to hold out, that’s my way of thinking.”
—oooooo—oooooo—
Having put away five rums and six aperitifs, the dwarf was beginning to have had as much as he could carry. He was even forgetting that it was time to go for his shoup. Théo became impatient and went to fetch him. He found the café full of smoke, and stinking, and six or seven men bawling and arguing, perfectly satisfied with both themselves and the world. The dwarf was hiccupping and warbling a patriotic song, in the course of which “truss them” purported to rhyme with Etruscans, and France with lance.
In spite of his protests, Théo extracted him from the midst of the slobbery laughs of the jubilant assembly. He carried him under his arm, because the dwarf would have been quite incapable of avoiding the puddles and mud-patches. The gate squeaked, and then shut again. The steaming shoup was waiting on the table. Alberte was waiting, too.
Théo went in without wiping his feet and deposited Bébé Toutout on a chair. The homunculus was wild-eyed, and stammered some incoherent words. He made a show of picking up a spoon. But five rums and six aperitifs are a lot, even for a dwarf. He dropped his spoon in his plate, nastily splashing the beautiful clean tablecloth, hurriedly tumbled down from his chair, reeled into the kitchen and there, on the floor, puked. After the first few spurts, Théo led him into the bathroom. Very ill, the midget. Once his stomach was empty, he threw himself on to his bed and there fell fast asleep, snoring into his vomit-splashed beard.
When he went back into the dining room, Théo found his mother in tears. He tried to make excuses for the dwarf. That’s something that can happen to everyone, to get drunk.
“Oh, I’ve had enough, enough of that animal, enough of this house, enough of this suburb. Wasting away here, that’s fine. But alone. I want to be alone. Take the beast away, step on him, throw him away. I don’t ever want to see the hideous little man again. Take him away, take him away.”
“…”
“Waiting here for news, waiting alone in this hole, that’s fine. But to have to put up with the presence of that frightful creature. No, I can’t go on. I want to be alone, Théo. Take the hideous creature away. No. Don’t take him away. Let him stay here. I’ll go away.”
??
?…”
“I’m frightened, here.”
“…”
“I’ll go and live in Paris. With Mme. Pigeonnier. I saw her yesterday. She offered me a room in her new apartment. Yes, I’ll go there. And you can stay here, with the animal.”
“…”
“No, it isn’t absurd. It’s just like that. I want to. To want something, for once. Just once. To get away from this mud, this swamp. Not to hear that gate squeak any more. That more than anything. For it not to squeak any more. Oh! For it to be over!”
“…”
“Your father won’t say anything. He’ll think I’m right. You can be sure of that. He’ll think I’m right. And that other thing, you can hear him snoring, snoring, snoring. It’s horrible! Why did he come here, that vampire? Oh! to get away! To get away!”
“…”
“When’ll I go? But I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“...”
“At once. Yes, at once. That snoring, that’s too much. I’ll go at once.”
“...”
“And you, you’ll be able to manage on your own, my little Théo. I’ll give you some money every week and you’ll get by. Won’t you, my little Théo? I’m going. And don’t let that dwarf try and find me. He’s your friend, isn’t he? Let him stay with you! Look after him! Take care of him. Protect him from the rigors of life, of winter. Winter is life; isn’t it, Théo? You can hear how he’s snoring, your dwarf. And you can hear the rain, the rain that never stops. I’m going somewhere else. Yes, to Mme. Pigeonnier’s. She’s a charming woman. You don’t know her, Théo. You can’t possibly judge her. She’s genuine, nice, kind. Yes, I will go to her. And you’ll stay here with your friend, the dwarf. Promise me you will, Théo! Do you promise?”
“…”
“What a life, Théo, you can’t imagine it. You don’t know anything. You don’t understand this war. You don’t understand your father. Stay here, Théo, in this house. And go to school every day. Work hard. Learn Greek, Latin, maths, history, physics, gym and chemistry. Learn everything properly, Théo. But I—I must go.”
“…”
“Now. Now. Now.”
For the last time, the gate squeaked. Théo, at the gate, kissed his mother with all due respect and affection. They felt the very cold, very icy rain falling on their heads. Alberte disappeared, on her way to the station. And Bébé was snoring on his bed, overcome by alcohol. Then Théo was alone, really alone, and there was an imaginary woman in front of him, who was wearing nothing but black stockings (they’re terrific, black stockings). Alone, what did he do? He was tired of being alone. Alcohol and masturbation reigned in the half-house, whose inferior plaster was turning to mud.
And as she went down the steps at the Gare du Nord, the steps down to the metro, she met a man who was conspicuous for a scar on his forehead.
—oooooo—oooooo—
Saturnin, who had been in the other war, was raised (raise the flag) to the rank of captain; this was the occasion of a glorious orgy. Around 2 in the morning, Saturnin went back to his room; as he didn’t have the slightest desire to go to bed, he started to write a few pages which he intended to add to the work he had been preparing for nearly a year:
Could be that some readers, ordinary privates or corporals, have read as far as this, being desirous of educating themselves and eager to understand. Let them tremble, then! For I am t-a-l-k-i-n-g to them: Let them be burned, and then reborn from their ashes! Let them be torn to pieces, and then reborn from their remains! Let them rot, and then be reborn from their putrefaction! Let them be hammered, laminated, stunned, morselated, calcined, fulminated, and then be reborn from their bites! Let them be desperate, and then be reborn from their despair. Let them be shit on, and then reborn from their scatological state! Let them be pissed on, and then reborn from their humiliation! Let them be convulsed, soaked, breeched, plucked, embossed, booted, clogged up, cut up, smashed up, and then let them be reborn from their discomfiture!
But who? How the hell should I know and how the hell should they know themselves!
Gentle, gentle reader, whether you are a private or a corporal, pock-marked or floury-bottomed, I won’t pretend any longer—I’m boozed, boozed as a coot, disgustingly boozed. But there’s no denying that I preserve my dignity. Yes, I preserve my dignity.
There’s sure to be some people who’ll tell me: you can’t be a real man, because you’re not puking. To anybody that says that, I’ll say: Who d’you think you are, you scum of the earth? —just take a look at yourself. Looks to me as if you’re taking me for someone else. Thanks to these striking, convincing, ineluctable arguments, I shall go on looking like a dignified, powerful, Saturnin sort of guy. Not to mention that, joking apart, it helps my great work on its way. Doesn’t it? Look at the number at the bottom of the page in the middle and compare it with the number on the last page, well, there’s not much left to read, is there? Some people will be as pleased as anything. I can just imagine them, the idle, lazy wretches, the ones that are rubbing their hands because it’ll soon be finished. You needn’t be so pleased, my little men. You’ll regret it! You can take it from me. But there’s other people who’re saying: Already! Already finished! no, really, when I think about them I asperge my gullet with the peppermint tea of pride, I massage my skull with the lotion of vanity, I rub my ribs with the Eau de Cologne of self-respect and I polish my toes with the brush of nitwittedness. When I imagine that there’s some people who’ll go on reading it, who are going on reading it. No, really. Come, my children, let me press you to my heart. You want to go on? Do, then! Go on! Forward! Forward! Forward! Courage!
I certainly am drunk. I might even say that alcohol has made me more obfuscated than the darkest night. But don’t think you’ve got me cornered. Anyone who got that into his head would be orbipercussing his ass with the middle finger of mediocrity. Which would be a great lack of elegance on his part. Tch, tch! However that may be, dear Meussieu corporal or private, kindly accept my heartfelt sympathy and believe me, I remain, yours very truly: Signed: Saturnin on active service, Captain Belhôtel.
—oooooo—oooooo—
Over toward Modane, it was snowing so hard and so fast, shells were falling so abundantly, there were so many enemies all around and all about, that the people who were really seriously disguised, I mean the ones with stars on their sleeves and grand crosses on their pectoral muscles, decided to get out of it with their arms and luggage. It was a magnificent retreat. No really, ever since the one from Russia and the one from Charleroi, there had never been a more magnificent one. It was ghastly. The winter was especially terrible, because winter is always decent in periods of gunfire, it does its job well. So some soldiers died because it was cold. There were illnesses, infections, epidemics. Some soldiers died because they were ill. There were also the guns, the machine guns, the shells, the gases. Some soldiers died because they were killed. Ah! it was a magnificent retreat. One of those magnificent retreats that the papers, they say they’re strategic, practicly a victry. And every day the guys that had stars on their chests and grand crosses sulle maniche, they esspected an unesspected victry on account of the prayers they were sending up to the good Lord and the Virgin Mary and Joan of Arc. But the victry never came, on account of all those myths, they aren’t worth two cents. And the Etruscans were occupying towns and villages all over the place. Etienne dragged his kit bag and his miserable boots over roads white with snow, roads ploughed up by shells, roads where the gases that kill people lingered as if they were coming out of fumaroles, you even always had to sleep more than six-foot-three above the ground.
Narcense was a deserter. Bébé Toutout didn’t leave it at that. But we won’t dwell on this too much. Every day some airplanes made a little trip around the town and sowed a few bombs. Things were collapsing among the civilians, but it must be admitted that they were also enjoying themselves no end. They didn’t live in the cellars, because of the gases, because the Etruscans only had heavy gases. So
there were great goings-on on the roofs. The night clubs had established themselves up there, under the stars. People danced on the snow. It was so lovely to dance in the cold. And it was dangerous, what was more, as you risked getting pneumonia, bronchitis, tuberculosis and influenza. But what wouldn’t people have risked? It was a glorious winter, a glorious winter that killed people off at every turn. And Chrissmas, what a glorious Chrissmas it was. So many couples made love that night that the whole town seemed to be caterwauling. And the snow fell, impassive and cold (even so, we wouldn’t want it to be hot), white (even so, we wouldn’t want it to be black), impeccable and terrible on the despairing towns where the women eagerly got their bellies filled by the last men still there.
Etienne hadn’t got a kit bag any more, nor a rifle, what was the use of it? He hadn’t got any boots any more, that was the most annoying thing. He hadn’t got a scarf any more. Ah, shit, he’ll catch a cold! His regiment (odd sort of possessive pronoun) finally got to Epinal, in little pieces. It wasn’t snowing there, but it was freezing. And this war that was supposed to have lasted two or three months. And those idiots of Etruscans who couldn’t get around to winning. It was lamentable, it was enough to make you put your eyes out with your thumbs.
At about the same period, that’s to say, when it was still snowing, the G.M.P. heard there was a deserter in town. An anonymous denunciation. Bébé Toutout hadn’t wanted to leave it at that. A deserter? That was interesting. They sent some gendarmes to investigate the matter from a little closer. It was true. The man lodging with the Pigeonnier woman was an absentee. They went and picked him up one day when the women were out shopping. They brought him before the officers who’d baptized themselves judges: So you’re a deserter? they ask him, and he answered: Yes. And then the brass hats frowned. Seeing that he doesn’t want the enemy to kill him, right! we’ll be the ones to kill him. In short, they condemned the fellow to death and they stuck him against a wall and they inserted twelve bullets in his skin, in the name of patriotism. That’s how Narcense died.