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The tramps couldn’t care less. They’ll earn just enough to stuff their faces with no matter what‚ no matter how‚ no matter where – and to fill their stomachs with enough plonk to keep them in a drunken stupor till the next time they waken. That’s all they ask.
The Shipwreckage Doll
    Yesterday Old Hubert was found dead‚ frozen stiff‚ behind the bar. The rats had started in on the exposed softer parts: the neck‚ the cheeks and the fat of his palms. We’d seen it coming for a long time. No one was surprised. You can still make out on the front of his shop: Coffee – Wines – Liqueurs – Hotel with Every Comfort. Every comfort? What a joke!
    Rue de Bièvre‚ number 1A‚ right by the river. Two and a half storeys – in other words‚ you’d have to be a dwarf or amputated at the knees to able to stand upright under the sloping roof. From the outside it looks at least as respectable as the other hovels in the street. But just go up to the first floor‚ and you know the score. The walls are caving in or bulging with damp. The landings are pitted with holes – pot-holes. The resident population is made up of (or breaks down into) five households‚ three unsanctioned by marriage‚ with a totalof twenty-one children between the ages of two and ten‚ not to mention the babes-in-arms. All the fathers share a physical resemblance: they’re midgets. Not one of them even as tall as one metre sixty. Nowhere near it. And there’s another defining characteristic they have in common: they’ve done absolutely nothing for many‚ many years. Just a matter of bad luck! All of them skilled workers of one kind or another‚ but so highly skilled‚ and as ill luck would have it so inappropriately skilled‚ that any job that might be available never matches their skill. It’s a near thing every time. Which means unemployment‚ welfare‚ child allowance‚ assistance for this‚ benefits for that‚ social‚ unsocial‚ antisocial …
    A man can get by pretty well on this‚ and keep his whistle wet. But paying the rent‚ that’s another story. Wait till the landlord starts moaning before you give him something to keep him off your back. It wasn’t in old Hubert’s nature to give anyone a hard time. He’d already been served notice to carry out urgent health and safety repairs to his building. And with what millions? Forget it! With the Huns here‚ and everyone hard up‚ this was no time to be hoping for so much as a brass farthing. So what? Evict them? Unthinkable! Old Hubert simply decided to ignore the existence of the hotel. He condemned his own bedroom on the first floor as unfit for habitation‚ and started living in the bar.
    For the past three months he’d been dossing down behind the counter. During the day he served plonk‚ in the morning ‘coffee’ – a dark foul brew – accompanied with more or less adulterated spirits. This gave him enough to live on‚ until that winter dawn when‚ finding the door closed‚ the tramps discovered Hubert dead‚ in perishing cold weather‚ surrounded by empty wines bottles‚ tins of food and dirty dishes.
    Not a pretty sight was the late Hubert‚ scowling and grimacing‚ with his spittle frozen‚ sprawled out on his pile of refuse. Alas‚ I’ve seen all too many corpses and could have spared myself this spectacle.
    Théophile Trigou was there too. No more motivated by morbid curiosity than I was. He snatched Tutur’s pipe from his mouth and threw La Voltige’s cap on the ground. Andbecause One-Eyed Ida‚ either drunk already or still drunk‚ was bawling her head off and making a nuisance of herself‚ he literally booted her out.
    After that‚ he gave the three or four guys there a job to do – he knows how to take charge. They hadn’t worked so hard for a long time. Bottles in one corner‚ rags in another. Rubbish‚ out into the gutter‚ then down the drain. A quick sweep‚ and a going over with the floor cloth as well.
    He got the