Cocaine Read Online Free PDF

laughing.
    Tito turned to his friend and said in an undertone: “The first things that cocaine destroys are the will and the sense of shame.”
    “But what shame remains to be destroyed among these people?” said the waiter. “They’re worse than respectable women.”

2
    The article on cocaine addicts was a great success. The American newspaper editor telegraphed one hundred dollars to his nephew even before the article appeared in the centre columns of his sensational news page. A hundred dollars amounted to one thousand francs and convinced him that he was a great journalist; and with that belief in his epigastrium (for that is where arrogance, presumption and pride are situated) the first thing he did was to jump into a taxi, hurry to his shady little hotel in Montmartre, pay the bill, pack his bags, and move to one of the smartest hotels in Paris, the Hotel Napoléon in the Place Vendôme, where he installed himself in an unheated room on the fourth floor, facing the interior courtyard.
    That same afternoon he called on the editor of a newspaper with a big circulation called The Fleeting Moment.
    The editor was a very elegant individual. It is only aged teachers at technical schools who fail to understand that it is possible to be both intelligent and well dressed. A big ruby on his finger gleamed like a tiny lamp. Like one of those little lamps that novelists compare to big rubies.
    “Yes, I know your uncle,” he said, as erect in his armchair as if had been fixed with a u-joint, for an editor’s conscience always remains perfectly upright no matter how much his ship is tossed by stormy seas. “Yes, I know your uncle, and if your flair for journalism is anything like his,” he added, stropping an ivory paper knife on his thigh, “you’ll go a long way. Where did you work in Italy?”
    “On the Corriere della Sera.”
    “And what were you?”
    “Sub-editor.”
    “Have you a degree?”
    “In law and medicine.”
    “And what are your political views?”
    “I have none.”
    “Good. If you are to argue convincingly for a point of view, it’s better to have none yourself. But the difficulty,” the editor went on, applying his scissors to an English newspaper, “is that I have no vacancies at the moment, and I have no work to offer you. But I shall bear you in mind and send for you as soon as there’s an opening. Where are you staying?”
    Tito, gloating over the sensational impact of what he was about to say, replied with deliberate gravity: “The Hotel Napoléon.”
    The editor, who had picked up a pen to jot down his address and had pressed a bell to have him shown out, put down the pen and the notebook and sent the commissionaire away.
    “I’ll give you a month’s trial on a salary of 1500 francs,” he said.
    “Tomorrow’s the first, so let us start tomorrow. Come and see me as soon as you arrive at the office and I’ll introduce you to your colleagues. Goodbye.”
    He then pressed the button again.
    That evening Tito dined at Poccardi’s and bought himself an orchestra stall at the Boîte à Fursy, where he picked up the latest tune. He went back to his hotel whistling it.
    To the Hotel Napoléon.
    Remember that you’re staying at the Hotel Napoléon, he said to himself. In an unheated, back room on the fourth floor, it’s true, but it’s also true that you’re staying at the Hotel Napoléon.
    He unpacked his bags, arranged his toilet articles on the washstand, put his shirts, socks and vests in the drawers and hung his jackets on the clothes hangers in the wardrobe. There was even a telephone in the room.
    What a shame I’ve no one to ring up, he said to himself. To have a telephone and no one to ring up is sad. But not having anyone to ring up is not sufficient reason for not using the thing.
    He picked up the receiver and asked for a number, the first that came into his head.
    He did not have long to wait. A female voice replied.
    “Is that you?” Tito said. “What did you say?