Bark Tree

  Ernestine disappears, gone with the wind.

  Then they all three start talking at once, very fast, and avidly:

  “Your name is Marcel, huh? You have a son called Théo? You do live in Obonne?” Etienne doesn’t know how to answer so many indiscreet questions.

  “It’s very serious, it’s very serious,” declares Mme. Cloche, who’s managed to get the cross-examination into her hands. “If it’s true that you’re called Marcel, and that you’ve got a son called Théo, and that you live in Obonne, well, I’ve got summing very serious to tell you.”

  “Tell me, then. My name is Etienne Marcel, I have got a son called Théo; or rather, he’s my wife’s son, his real name is Nautilus, but he’s always called Marcel. And I do live in Obonne.”

  “Do you know a Meussieu Narcense? A musician, zaround thirty, dark-haired and fattish, not very tall ...”

  Etienne thinks; no, he doesn’t know him.

  “You really sure?” insists Ma Coche. “A dark-haired guy, with a scar in the middle of his forehead.”

  Oh no, really that’s incredible! That’s the fellow who was behind him, earlier on, in the restaurant; the one Le Grand was referring to when he said: “You’ll know him one day soon perhaps;” and he, Etienne, had thought he was pulling his leg.

  “Well”—long silence; Mme. Cloche looks all around her,—“that man, tonight, he’s going to hang your son.”

  Etienne bursts into long laughter. The Belhôtels and old Cloche, shocked, cry:

  “It’s the honest truth, it’s very serious, it’s horrible, it’s abominable.”

  Etienne, who’s beginning to get worried, calms down; Mme. Cloche tells all.

  “It’s like this, Meussieu, this is how I heard about it. I’ve got a brother who’s a concierge, in the Boulevard of the Unknown Officer. It’s a big apartment house, but there’s only one tenant.”

  “Goodness me.”

  “Oh, that’s another story. This tenant, sname’s Meussieu Narcense. Thother day, must be a week ago, praps longer, I goan to see my brother, sname’s Saturnin; we’re chatting of this and that and he happens to say: ‘Yknow, there’s this person called Théo, he’s writing to my tenant to tell him to stop writing to this person called Alberte, that’ll be Théo’s wife’—sfarz I remember, that’s what he said. After he saw he’d gotten it wrong. And that Alberte, she was Théo’s mom. On account of after, some more letters came from Théo, see what I mean? The first one next, he told Meussieu Narcense that he’d polluted the gate of his stepfather’s house, must say it seemed a strange sort of story to us, and after that he insulted Meussieu Narcense’s deceased grandmother, when he’d only just come back from her funeral—the grandmother’s, that is. The second one he wrote, that was when it dawned on us that he was the son of this Madame Alberte; he said that the other guy wanted to murder him. After that, he wrote to Meussieu Narcense that he’d got cold feet. And smorning, I’m at my brother Saturnin’s; there was a letter from Théo where he was telling him: ‘Bring the rope to hang me tonight at midnight in the place they call Les Mygales, in Obonne wood.’ And it was signed Théo Marcel. So it just happened to occur to me ‘at that was your name and that it wasn’t often that people’s last names were called Marcel and that you must live on this rail line. So I thought I’d warn you. If you hadn’t come here, I’d of gone and seen you and told you. And even without all that to-do; my brother’d of gone and stopped it; seeing as we know them like the back of your hand anyway, Les Mygales and Obonne and the woods and places round. Me and my late husband, we often used to go for walks there, a whole gang with Saturnin and Dominique, that’s this one.”

  This tale completely staggers Etienne. At first, he considers asking Mme. Cloche how it happens that her brother reads his tenant’s letters; then he decides it’s pointless to start the discussion at that point. Apart from that, what does it all mean? The things that emerge most clearly are that Théo wants to get himself hung by the guy with the scar and that this guy has written to Alberte. Etienne finds it difficult to understand what could have been going on. The trio watch him cogitating.

  He asks Mme. Cloche to repeat her story; she doesn’t wait to be asked twice and starts all over again. So Théo has been writing to Narcense, since that is the name of the man with the scar, to tell him to stop writing to Alberte, that Alberte tore up his letters, and that it would be preferable for him to write directly to him. Even that isn’t very clear. Next, he writes that he has polluted the gate of the house. Etienne has never noticed that. And he insults Narcense’s deceased grandmother. None of it makes any sense at all. Next, he claims that the other man wants to murder him and that he’s got cold feet. And finally, he makes a date for him to hang him. But it’s absolutely idiotic.

  Mme. Cloche has come to the end of her second narration; she’s quite prepared to start all over again. But old Taupe’s just woken up. “Nestine! Nestine!” he bleats; seeing that no one answers, he finishes his bottle. “Deevning, Meussieu,” he says to Etienne. He sings:

  “But the best of all dreams is the sweet dream of love,

  That you dream by the sea,

  As the stars appear above.”

  Ernestine comes back with the sparkling wine; as soon as she’s within reach, old Taupe is patting her buttocks. He warbles:

  “Then a magical voice

  Is heard from the waves as they part...”

  It’s become impossible to carry on a serious conversation.

  “... ‘Tis the voice of the heart.”

  Etienne stands up.

  “What about the sparkling.” exclaims Belhôtel, “surely you’re going to have some sparkling?”

  “No time,” says Etienne. “And keep all this to yourselves. Do you promise me?”

  “We promise,” swears the trio.

  “I’ll deal with it myself.”

  “You’ll let us know what happens?”

  Etienne promises to come back. Ah! he was forgetting something.

  “Here, Meussieu Belhôtel, I’ve got a little present for you.”

  And he hands him the potato peeler; he wonders for a moment whether he won’t give Mme. Cloche the cutter-of-boiled-eggs-in-thin-slices; no, the first contraption has exhausted his generosity.

  “Adieu!” he calls.

  As he goes out, a cloud of dust half chokes him. He hears the frail voice of the old man singing: “On the Shores of the Riviera ...” A freight train goes by, infinitely long.

  The thought of seeing Pierre again makes Etienne feel lighthearted.

  In the hut, the trio contemplates with dismay the potato peeler that Meussieu Marcel has just given it. Unembarrassed, Ernestine pulls her stocking up over her thigh; she is wearing pink garters which have a little black lock and a glass key to add spice to them. They make old Taupe’s eyes all red.

  The dust accumulates; the flies multiply; two Arabs have come in silently and are sitting near the door. They are dreaming. The number of beans decreases. The spud peeler is lying on a table, riveted, by uncomprehending looks, to the zinc.

  —oooooo—oooooo—

  When they left the eatery, Pierre took Narcense in his car for a little drive in the Chevreuse valley. Paris was pouring thousands of cars into the country. The roads were impassable. At Jouy, they let the week-end wave pass them by, Narcense had said he was free until about 10 o’clock; ever since lunch, he hadn’t let go of a small suitcase, whose contents singularly intrigued his companion.

  “Well, Le Grand, that man you were observing—what became of him?”

  “He became someone.”

  “And before that?”

  “Before that, he was a flat entity.”

  “Really?” said Narcense gently.

  Pierre was silent for a moment, then went on:

  “He was with me in the restaurant just now,” said Pierre. “He thought there was something of note to notice—if I may say so—in that unspeakable place. I didn’t notice anything, but I saw you. I told him that the two of
you were soon going to make each other’s acquaintance.”

  “Prophet?”

  “Agitator—that is, mixer; all I’d have to do would be to introduce you.”

  “If I’m willing,” said Narcense gently.

  Pierre was silent for a moment, and then went on:

  “He wasn’t satisfied with my remark. He left abruptly, disappointed. Yes, I’d disappointed him. He wanted a simple marvel, and I’d given him a complicated one.”

  “Thanks,” said Narcense gently.

  “When he’s met you, he’ll realize that I’d noticed the only thing of note: your meeting. I forgot to tell you, he has a historical name, like me; he’s called Etienne Marcel. He lives in Obonne, he’s married, a father, and works in the Audit Bank.”

  Narcense: “How far can I trust you?”

  Pierre laughs: “As far as my cynicism goes.”

  Narcense: “Very obscure. Are you capable of abstinence?”

  Pierre: “Very obscure.”

  Narcense: “Of not interfering—if I ask you not to?”

  Then Pierre: ‘Yes.”

  Then Narcense: “Your ex-flat man, I’m going to kill his son tonight; or rather, I’m going to cause him to commit suicide.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s quite clear, I think: I’m going to cause young Théo Marcel to commit suicide.”

  “You’re going to make his son commit suicide?”

  “Do you want to stop me?”

  “Not at all, not at all. But why this suicide?”

  “Why? He insulted my grandmother.”

  If Pierre has wasted his time with Etienne today, Narcense is more than recompensing him. A hundred times, a thousand times. Even so, he still can’t believe it:

  “You’re joking!”

  “Joking! Joking!”

  Narcense starts swearing under his breath; he has an abundant repertory; he swears for a good five minutes, and then goes on:

  “I’ve lived in such an abundance of dead people in the last week or so. If you only knew. First of all, there was my friend Potice, who got run over outside the Gare du Nord. By a bus, it would seem. You must have seen it in the papers. His brains were spattered all over the road, so they said. Potice’s brains. Can you imagine it? And my grandmother, they hadn’t yet shut her up when I got there. She was in her bed, with that absurd chin strap. She was eighty-seven. She looked as if she was made of wood; a Breton nutcracker, like they sell in Saint-Malo. It was very simple. During the funeral, a grotesque event occurred: my uncle’s dog fell into the hole that had been dug for the coffin. My uncle burst out laughing, but, the next day, when I went out into the yard, I saw the dog hanging with the washing. He was ridiculous and pathetic—and dead, of course.”

  “Hanging a dog!”

  “Yes, isn’t that odd? I might tell you that my uncle is rich, extremely ferocious, and very thick in the head. They’re all like that in my family; another uncle, no less rich, ferocious and thick, gives me a luxury apartment rent-free, but apart from that lets me rot.”

  “Don’t you think,” said Pierre, “that it would be preferable to hang him, rather than Marcel’s son?”

  “That remains to be seen,” replied Narcense. “You understand, I need two stones to kill two birds.”

  “But the kid—do you stick to your story that he’s committing suicide because he insulted your grandmother?”

  “Ah, shurrup!” said Narcense rudely.

  And he started, swearing under his breath again.

  “At 11 o’clock,” he went on, “I get off at Blagny. I walk as far as the place they call Les Mygales, in Obonne wood. The kid will be there at midnight.”

  “Are you sure he’ll be there?” asks Pierre.

  “Yes, absolutely sure. At five, or ten, or a quarter past twelve, either the kid will have hanged himself or I’ll have hanged him. With that rope.”

  He indicates, with his chin, the suitcase he has left in the car.

  Pierre looks at him with skepticism and admiration. He’s quite prepared to play this game with Narcense; he doesn’t for a moment believe in the reality of the project.

  “I can drive you to somewhere near the place you mentioned, if you like, I’ll wait for you. That’ll make things much easier for you.”

  This suggestion pleases Narcense, who adores going for drives in cars.

  “That’s nice of you, Le Grand,” he says gently. “Thank you.”

  “That’s all right, that’s all right.”

  They fall silent. It’s nearly 7 o’clock. In the calm little square, a few rare natives go from time to time. The car sleeps peacefully near the sidewalk. They can hear the road living, in the distance.

  “To come back to the conversation we had the other day,” says Pierre, “I can imagine you prefer special cases to general cases, the particular to the universal. An affective preference, not a reasoned statement, I think.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I prefer what exists to what doesn’t exist.”

  “I’ll introduce you to my brother, he’ll interest you.”

  “Really—and why?”

  “He’s a Cantorian,” replied Pierre.

  —oooooo—oooooo—

  Saturnin picks up a big hunting knife which had come to him from his grandfather, puts it in his pocket and says: “I’m ready now.” He kisses his wife, who says: “Your false beard’s tickling me.” He says : “Don’t worry. If the father’s there, I shall leave it to him; if he isn’t, I’ll deal with the whole thing.” She says: “Whatever you do, don’t catch cold, the nights are quite chilly.” Saturnin is dressed accordingly. He adjusts his false beard. Let’s go. He arrives just in time to catch the 9:31. Not many people at this late hour. He is the only passenger in his third-class compartment. He looks through the tiny window at the neighboring compartments; no one. The train stops at every station and is desperately slow; Saturnin cleans his nails with his hunting knife. Then he takes a bit of pencil out of his pocket and, in a little notebook jots down: “Cut out the fifth part.” He draws a line; underneath it: “Put this as an epigraph: Descartes, why is it that, in cafés, cardplayers so often call the waiter by this name?”{10} He sucks his pencil for a moment, crosses out what he’s just written and underneath it: “Why is it that, in cafés, cardplayers so often call the waiter Descartes?” He replaces so often by always, and closes his notebook.

  The train is passing through various badly lit suburbs. Saturnin tries to make out the landscapes by the light of the street lamps which are as feeble as they are rare. The number of lights increases; the train stops. Blagny. That’s where my swine of a brother lives, thinks Saturnin; but he has hardly thought this when he sees on the platform Mme. Cloche, his sister. Forgetting his false beard, he pulls his head back in again so as not to be seen, and flies into a rage. That old bitch Sidonie, what’s it got to do with her? She doesn’t really mean to go to Les Mygales, does she?

  Saturnin tries to guess what his sister’s going to do—to stop her doing it, if need be. The stations go by. He can’t think of anything. Blangy. The next station is Obonne. Saturnin idly looks out of the window. The train starts off again. At this moment, Saturnin catches sight of an old woman making for the exit. This time he’s disarmed. Why is she getting off here? Has she got off at the wrong station? He doesn’t know what to think. Did she intend to walk from Blangy to Les Mygales?? Most unlikely. And yet ... Mme. Cloche has got her brother worried.

  The train finally arrives at Obonne. A few passengers get out. Narcense isn’t there. He wasn’t at Blangy, either. Saturnin is sure of that. Hell. Could it really be a joke, as his wife believes? 11 o’clock; he reckons he has time to indulge in a pick-me-up, as he calls it to himself. But all the cafés are already closed. Too bad; he starts walking down the road leading to the forest, a road he knows well, because he’s been there several times to picnic with the family. He advances into the night with a sure step. He is fairly soon brought to a halt by a light that’s trying to penetra
te a dirty window. No doubt about it, it’s a bistro, and it’s still open. Saturnin presses on the handle, pushes, and, giving rise to a carillon, enters. Two sleeping men wake up with a start; a bald, four-footed bastard barks in such a high key that he goes out of tune. One of the two men orders him to shut up; the other character, who seems to have emerged from a deep sleep of alcoholic origin, starts making various vehement asseverations: “Tsonly in Brittany ch’ou’ll find real sailors! Yep, tsonly in Brittany ch’ou’ll find real sailors!”

  “Shurrup!” says the boss. “Well, beardie, watcha want?”

  “A rum please, boss,” says Saturnin.

  “M’names Yves le Toltec,” shouts the sailor.

  “Tsmore than mine is,” replies Saturnin politely.

  “Ha, ha! that’s a good one!” chortles the boss, “I shall copy it.”

  “Hey, that’s some beard you’ve got,” retorts the sailor, who has no idea how lucid he is.

  Saturnin is embarrassed, and swigs down his rum.

  “Another one,” he orders, “and the round’s on me.”

  “Oak, eh!” replies the boss (He learned this expression from the sailor.)

  Yves le Toltec is drinking hard liquor; he tosses off his glass with decision, wipes his mouf, and starts holding forf:

  “Four times I’ve been shipwrecked, yes M’sieu, four times. Best of the lot was the Clytemnestra one, off Singapore. It was bedlam! All the passengers mowing all the others down, trying to get into the boats. The captain, he had his revolver in his hand, and bang! he picked off the men trying to get into the lifeboats before the women. Yes, M’sieu, he shot them, bang!”

  Saturnin listens. The boss yawns.

  “Here, I’m closing. It’s 20 to 12, and I close at a quarter to.”

  “Twenty to! Oh! shit!” says Saturnin; he leaves a five franc note on the counter and hurries off as fast as his legs will carry him.

  “Hm, that’s odd, too,” says the sailor.

  “Yes, there’s some odd customers hanging around these parts at the moment. Looks fishy to me. Tslike the guy came here a month ago. Summing’s going on.”