Mercier and Camier

  Ah, said the man, rubbing his hands, physiognomies—pronouncing as was his right the g—have no secrets for me. It’s not every day that I have the honour … He hesitated. That I have the honour, he said. Patrick!

  Speaking for myself, said Mercier, I am happy to meet you at last, you have been haunting me this long time.

  Ah, said the man.

  Yes sir, said Mercier. You appear to me most often on a threshold, or at a window. Behind you torrents of light and joy which should normally annihilate your features, but do not. You smile. Presumably you do not see me, across the alley from where you stand and plunged in deepest shadow. I too smile—and pass on. Do you see me, in my dreams, Mr. Gall?

  Let me relieve you, said the man.

  In any case it is a happiness to meet you again, said Mercier, in such happier circumstances.

  Relieve us of what? said Camier.

  Why, said the man, of your coats, your hats, how shall I say? Patrick! But will you look at us, said Camier. Do we appear to be hatted? Are we wearing gloves, without our knowledge? Come sir!

  A porter for our trunks, said Mercier, what are you waiting for? Patrick! cried the man.

  Vengeance! cried Mercier, taking a step forward.

  It was fair day. The saloon was crowded with farmers, cattle-dealers and the like. The beasts proper were far on their way already, straggling along the miry backland roads, to the cries of the herds. Some would come at night to their familiar byres, others to others they knew not of. Bringing up the rear, behind the sodden ewes, a train of clattering carts. The herds held their pricks through the stuff of their pockets.

  Mercier propped his elbows on the bar. Camier, on the contrary, leaned his back against it.

  They guzzle with their hats on, he said.

  Where is he now? said Mercier.

  By the door, said Camier, observing us without appearing to do so. Can one see his teeth? said Mercier.

  His mouth is hidden behind his hand, said Camier.

  I do not ask if his mouth is hidden, said Mercier, I ask if one can see his teeth.

  One cannot see his teeth from here, said Camier, owing to the hand that hides them.

  What are we doing here? said Mercier.

  First eat, said Camier. Barman, what are your titbits today?

  The barman rattled off a list.

  Mine will be a button-fish salad, said Camier, with Dutch dressing.

  Not on today, said the barman.

  Then make it a hopper sandwich, said Camier.

  Just finished the last, said the barman. He had heard it was better to humour them.

  You keep a civil tongue in your head, said Mercier. He turned to Camier. What kind of a kip is this? he said. What kind of a trip is this?

  At this point the journey of Mercier and Camier seemed likely indeed to founder. That it did not was doubtless due to Camier, mirror of magnanimity and ingenuity.

  Mercier, he said, leave it to me.

  Do something for God’s sake, said Mercier, do something? Why must I always be the one to lead the way?

  Call your employer, said Camier.

  The barman seemed reluctant.

  Call him, my good fellow, said Mercier, call him when you’re told. Make the little sound he can tell from every other and would not fail to hear even in a howling gale. Or the little beck that is lost on all but him and would bring him running though the heavens were to fall.

  But he whom Mercier had called Mr. Gall was already by their side.

  Have I the honour of addressing the proprietor? said Camier.

  I am the manager, said the manager, since he was the manager.

  It appears there is no more hopper, said Mercier. You have a curious way of managing, for a manager. What have you done with your teeth? Is this what you call gemütlich?

  The manager wore the air of one in thought. He had no taste for trouble. The extremities of his drooping grey moustache seemed bent on meeting. The barman watched him closely. Mercier was struck by the scant grey strands, fine as a babe’s, trained forward with pitiable coquetry from the back of the head across the crown. Mr. Gall had never appeared to him thus, but always erect and smiling and radiant.

  Ah well, said Mercier, no more about it, such shortage is understandable, after all.

  Would you have a room by any chance, said Camier, where my friend might take a moment’s rest? He is dropping with fatigue. He leaned towards the manager and whispered in his ear.

  His mother? said the manager.

  My mother is it? said Mercier. She died perpetrating me, the slut. Rather than meet my eye. What’s all this? he said to Camier. Have you no respect for my family?

  I could manage a room, said the manager, but of course—.

  A moment’s rest, said Camier, he is out on his feet.

  Come on, nightmare pal, said Mercier, you can’t refuse me that.

  Of course at the full day rate, said the manager.

  On an upper floor as far as possible, said Mercier, where I can throw myself out of the window without misgiving, should occasion arise.

  You’ll stick by him? said the manager.

  To the last, said Camier.

  Patrick! cried the manager. Where’s Patrick? he said to the barman. Out sick, said the barman.

  What do you mean out sick? said the manager. I saw him last night. I even thought I saw him just now.

  Out sick, said the barman. No hope they say. Sinking fast.

  How aggravating, said the manager. What’s the matter with him?

  I do not know, said the barman.

  And why was I not informed? said the manager.

  We must have thought you knew, said the barman.

  And who says it’s serious? said the manager.

  It’s a rumour going the rounds, said the barman.

  And where is he? said the manager. At home or—.

  A pox on your Patrick! cried Mercier. Do you want to finish me?

  Show the gentlemen up, said the manager. Take their order and hurry back.

  Six? said the barman.

  Or seven, said the manager. As the gentlemen prefer.

  He watched them go. He poured himself a glass and tossed it off.

  Ah Mr. Graves, he said, good day, what are you taking?

  Nice pair, said Mr. Graves.

  Oh that’s nothing, said the manager, I’m used to it.

  And where might I ask did you get used to it? said Mr. Graves in his incipient pastoral patriarch’s thick bass. Not among us, I vow.

  Where I got used to it? said the manager. He closed his eyes the better to see what was still in spite of all a little dear to him. Among my masters, he said.

  I’m happy to hear you say so, said Mr. Graves. I wish you good day.

  The manager capped this.

  His weary gaze strayed over the saloon where the honourable yokels were making to depart. Mr. Graves had given the signal, they would not be slow to follow an example of such moment.

  The barman reported back.

  Mr. Gast did not at once reply, intent on the scene as it faded and gave way, before his open eyes, to a little grey medieval square where silent shapes, muffled up to the eyes, passed slowly with laboured tread in the deep snow.

  They took both, said the barman.

  Mr. Gast turned towards him.

  They ordered a bottle of malt, said the barman.

  Have they settled? said Mr. Gast.

  Yes, said the barman.

  Nothing else matters, said Mr. Gast.

  I don’t like the look of them at all, said the barman. Particular the long hank with the beard. The little fat one I wouldn’t mind so much.

  You keep out of it, said Mr. Gast.

  He went and stood by the door to take civil leave of his customers whose departure, in a body, was now clearly imminent. Most of them climbed aboard old high-slung Fords, others dispersed through the village in search of bargains. Others gathered talking in the rain which did not seem to incommode them. They
were perhaps so pleased, who knows, for professional reasons, to see it fall, that they were pleased to feel it fall, wetting them through. Soon they would be on their several ways, scattered along the muddy roads shadowy already in the last gleams of niggard day. Each hastens towards his little kingdom, his waiting wife, his beasts snugly stalled, his dogs listening for the coming of their lord.

  Mr. Gast returned to the saloon.

  Have you served them? he said.

  Yes, said the barman.

  They made no remark? said Mr. Gast.

  Only not to be disturbed, said the barman.

  Where’s Patrick? said Mr. Gast. At home or in hospital?

  I think he’s at home, said the barman, but I wouldn’t vouch for it.

  You don’t know a great deal, said Mr. Gast.

  I keep my mind on my work, said the barman. He fixed Mr. Gast in the eye. On my duties and prerogatives, he said.

  You couldn’t do better, said Mr. Gast, that way greatness lies. He went to the door. If I’m wanted, he said, I’ve gone out and won’t be long.

  He went out sure enough and sure enough was not long.

  Dead, he said.

  The barman wiped his hands in haste and crossed himself.

  His last words, said Mr. Gast, before yielding up the ghost, were unintelligible. Not so his second last, a gem of their kind, namely, A pint, for the love of Christ, a pint.

  What ailed him exactly? said the barman.

  How many days had he coming to him? said the barman.

  He drew on Saturday like the rest, said the barman.

  Negligible so, said Mr. Gast. I’ll send a sheaf.

  A good pal as ever was, said the barman.

  Mr. Gast shrugged his shoulders.

  Where’s Teresa? he said. Don’t tell me she’s been taken too. Teresa! he cried.

  In the toilet, said the barman.

  Nothing escapes you, said Mr. Gast.

  Coming! cried Teresa.

  A buxom wench appeared, a big tray under her arm and a clout in her hand.

  Look at this sty, said Mr. Gast.

  A man entered the saloon. He wore a cap, a trench-coat all tabs, flaps, pockets and leather buttons, riding-breeches and mountaineering boots. His still brawny back was bowed beneath a knapsack filled to bursting and he held a huge stick in his hand. He lurched across the saloon, dragging noisily his hobnailed soles.

  Some are best limned at first sight, those liable to vanish and never reappear.

  My parquet, said Mr. Gast.

  Water, said Mr. Conaire (the name without delay).

  Mr. Gast did not budge, nor did the barman. Had Mr. Gast budged, then doubtless the barman too had budged. But Mr. Gast not budging the barman did not budge either.

  Water first, said Mr. Conaire, then floods of liquor. Thanks. Again. Thanks. Enough.

  He shed his sack with convulsive contortions of shoulders and loins.

  Gin, he said.

  He took off his cap and shook it violently in all directions. Then he put it back on his shining sugarloaf.

  You have before you, gentlemen, he said, a man. Make the most of it. I have footed it from the very core of the metropolitan gas-chamber without rest or pause except twice to—. He looked about him, saw Teresa (already seen, but now with ostentation), leaned across the bar and finished his phrase in a murmur. He looked from Mr. Gast to George (as the barman now is called), from George to Mr. Gast, as though to make sure his words had done their work. Then drawing himself up he declared in ringing tones, Little and often, little and often, and gently, gently, that’s what I’ve come to. He leered at Teresa and broke into a strident laugh. Where’s your convenience? he said, adding, Convenience! They call that a convenience!

  Mr. Gast described the way that led to it.

  What complications, said Mr. Conaire. Always the same abominable well-bred latency. In Frankfurt, when you get off the train, what is the first thing you see, in gigantic letters of fire? A single word: HIER. Gin.

  Neat? said Mr. Gast.

  Mr. Conaire stepped back and struck an attitude.

  What age would you say I was? he said. He rotated slowly. Speak up, he said, don’t spare me.

  Mr. Gast named a figure.

  Damnation, said Mr. Conaire, got it in one.

  Tis the baldness is deceptive, said Mr. Gast.

  Not another word, said Mr. Conaire. In the yard, did I hear you say?

  At the back on the left, said Mr. Gast.

  And to win from here to there? said Mr. Conaire.

  Mr. Gast renewed his directions.

  Lest I be taken short, said Mr. Conaire.

  On his way out he paused for a brush with Teresa.

  Hello sweety, he said.

  Teresa eyed him.

  Sir, she said.

  What loveliness, said Mr. Conaire. At the door he turned. And graciousness, he said, what graciousness. He went out.

  Mr. Gast and George exchanged a look. Get out your slate, said Mr. Gast. His next words were for Teresa. You couldn’t be a little more endearing? he said.

  The old dirt, said Teresa.

  No one is asking you to wallow on the floor, said Mr. Gast. He began to pace up and down, then halted, his mind made up. Stop what you’re doing, he said, and collect yourselves. I shall now treat of the guest, that wild lovable beast. A shame that Patrick is not here to hear me.

  He threw back his head, clasped his hands behind him and treated of the guest. Even as he spoke he saw a little window opening on an empty place, a moor unbroken save for a single track, where no shade ever falls, winding out of sight its gentle alternate curves. Not a breath stirs the pale grey air. In the far distance here and there the seam of earth and sky exudes a sunflooded beyond. It seems an autumn afternoon, late November say. The little black mass slowly approaching gradually takes shape, a tilted wagon drawn by a black horse, without effort, saunteringly. The wagoner walks ahead, flourishing his whip. He wears a heavy greatcoat, light in colour, its skirts trailing on the ground. It may even be he is happy, for he sings as he goes, in snatches. Now and then he turns, no doubt to look inside. As he draws near he seems young, he lifts his head and smiles.

  That will be all for today, said Mr. Gast. Impregnate yourselves with these considerations. They are the fruit of an eternity of public fawning and private snarls. I make you a present of them. If I’m wanted I’m out. Call me at six as usual.

  There’s something in what he says, said George.

  There’s men all over for you, said Teresa, no more ideal than a monkey.

  Mr. Conaire reappeared, enchanted to have got it over so fast.

  I had my work cut out, he said, but I did it, I did it. He shivered. Nice north pole you have here, he said, what will you take. Jump at the chance, I feel the other hell calling me back.

  George jumped.

  Your health, sir, he said.

  Pledge it, pledge it, said Mr. Conaire, none deserves it more. And rosebud here, he said, would she deign to clink with us?

  She’s married, said George, and mother of three.

  Fie upon you! cried Mr. Conaire. How can one say such things!

  You’re being stood a port, said George.

  Teresa moved behind the bar.

  When I think what it means, said Mr. Conaire. The torn flesh! The pretty crutch in tatters! The screams! The blood! The glair! The afterbirth! He put his hand before his eyes. The afterbirth! he groaned.

  All the best, said Teresa.

  Drink, drink, said Mr. Conaire, pay no heed to me. What an abomination! What an abomination!

  He took away his hand and saw them smiling at him, as at a child.

  Forgive me, he said, when I think of women I think of maidens, I can’t help it. They have no hairs, they pee not neither do they cack.

  Mention it not, said George.

  I took you for a maiden, said Mr. Conaire, I give you my oath, no flattery intended. On the buxom side I grant you, nice and plump, plenty of bounce, a bosom in a
thousand, a bottom in a million, thighs—. He broke off. No good, he said, not a stir out of him.

  Teresa went back to her work.

  I now come to the object of my visit, said Mr. Conaire. Would you happen to know of a man by the name of Camier?

  No, said George.

  Strange, said Mr. Conaire, seeing I was to meet him here, this very place, this very afternoon. Here’s his card.

  George read:

  F. X. CAMIER

  Private Investigator

  Soul of Discretion

  New one on me, said George.

  Small and fat, said Mr. Conaire, red face, scant hair, four chins, protruding paunch, bandy legs, beady pig eyes.

  There’s a couple above, said George, showed up there a short time back. What’s the other like? said Mr. Conaire.

  A big bony hank with a beard, said George, hardly able to stand, wicked expression.

  That’s him, cried Mr. Conaire, those are them! Slip up now and give him the word. Tell him Mr. Conaire is waiting in the lounge. Co-naire.

  They left word not to be disturbed, said George. They’d turn on you like a shot, I tell you.

  Listen, said Mr. Conaire.

  George listened.

  Well I don’t mind trying, he said.

  He went out and a moment later came back.

  They’re snoring, he said.

  Rouse them, said Mr. Conaire.

  The bottle is empty, said George, and there they are—.

  What bottle? said Mr. Conaire.

  They ordered a bottle of malt in the room, said George.

  Oh the hogs, said Mr. Conaire.

  There they are stretched out side by side in their clothes on the floor, said George. Snoring hand in hand.

  Oh the hogs, said Mr. Conaire.

  IV

  The field lay spread before them. In it nothing grew, that is nothing of use to man. Nor was it clear at first sight what interest it could have for animals. Birds may have found the odd worm there. Its straggling expanse was bounded by a sickly hedge of old tree stumps and tangles of brambles perhaps good for a few bramble berries at brambleberry time. Thistles and nettles, possible fodder at a pinch, contended for the soil with a sour blue grass. Beyond the hedge were other fields, similar in aspect, bounded by no less similar hedges. How did one get from one field to another? Through the hedges perhaps. Capriciously a goat, braced on its hind legs, its forefeet on a stump, was muzzling the brambles in search of the tenderer thorns. Now and then it turned with petulance away, took a few angry steps, stood still, then perhaps a little spring, straight up in the air, before returning to the hedge. Would it continue thus all round the field? Or weary first?