body laid out on a not too wobbly table covered with brand new pieces of sacking.
The end result was an almost shocking semblance of decency.
Théophile stood there motionless beside the dead man. I realized he was praying. La Voltige‚ the spurious tough guy‚ took a while to twig. He sniggered. Someone said‚ ‘Don’t be stupid!’ He wiped the grin off his face and adopted a serious expression.
Everyone scarpered when the cops arrived.
Old Hubert must have had a premonition of his squalid demise. In October he said to me‚ ‘Forty-two years I’ve had this place. I’d really like to go back home‚ but I ain’t got the energy since my old girl died. And I can’t sell it the way it is now. But anyway before I hang my hat up I’d be curious to know what’s in that third cellar of mine.’
The third cellar has been walled up by order of the civil defence authorities after the floods of 1910. A double barrier of cemented bricks prevents the rising waters from invading the upper floors when flooding occurs. In the event of storms or blocked drains‚ the cellar acts as a regulatory overflow.
The weather was fine: no risk of drowning or any sudden emergency. There were five of us: Hubert‚ Gérard the painter‚ two regulars and myself. Old Marteau‚ the local builder‚ was upstairs with his gear‚ ready to repair the damage. We made a hole.
Our exploration took us sixty metres down a laboriously- faced vaulted corridor (it must have been an old thoroughfare). We were wading through a disgusting sludge. At the farend‚ an impassable barrier of iron bars. The corridor continued beyond it‚ plunging downwards. In short‚ it was a kind of drain-trap.
That’s all. Nothing else. Disappointed‚ we retraced our steps. Old Hubert scanned the walls with his electric torch. Look! An opening. No‚ an alcove‚ with some wooden object that looks like a black statuette. I pick the thing up: it’s easily removable. I stick it under my arm. I told Hubert‚ ‘It’s of no interest …’ and kept this treasure for myself.
I gazed at it for hours on end‚ in private. So my deductions‚ my hunches were not mistaken: the Bièvre-Seine confluence was once the site where sorcerers and satanists must surely have gathered. And this kind of primitive magic‚ which the blacks of Central Africa practise today‚ was known here several centuries ago. The statuette had miraculously survived the onslaught of time: the well-known virtues of the waters of the Bièvre‚ so rich in tannin‚ had protected the wood from rotting‚ actually hardened‚ almost fossilized it. The object answered a purpose that was anything but aesthetic. Crudely carved‚ probably from heart of oak. The legs were slightly set apart‚ the arms detached from the body. No indication of gender. Four nails set in a triangle were planted in its chest. Two of them‚ corroded with rust‚ broke off at the wood’s surface all on their own. There was a spike sunk in each eye. The skull‚ like a salt cellar‚ had twenty-four holes in which little tufts of brown hair had been planted‚ fixed in place with wax‚ of which there were still some vestiges. I’ve kept quiet about my find. I’m biding my time.
Chapter III
‘Your Body’s Tattooed’
The other day some of La Mouffe’s most egregious specimens of humanity went over to La Maube and fetched up at Pignol’s. They were carrying baskets. I think they sold Pignolette‚ on the semi-black market‚ the rabbits we’ve been eating since. There was Fanfan-No-Kidding‚ Smoke-Sucker and Butterfly. Butterfly is so called because the stem of his nose runs into the abdomen of a blue bombyx that spreads its delicately veined wings across his forehead.
During a period of his life when he wasn’t making much use of his‚ what Rabelais referred to as‚ ‘quickening peg’‚ Smoke-Sucker thought it a good idea to have it decorated with delicate spiral motifs. Something of a Don Juan by nature‚
The end result was an almost shocking semblance of decency.
Théophile stood there motionless beside the dead man. I realized he was praying. La Voltige‚ the spurious tough guy‚ took a while to twig. He sniggered. Someone said‚ ‘Don’t be stupid!’ He wiped the grin off his face and adopted a serious expression.
Everyone scarpered when the cops arrived.
Old Hubert must have had a premonition of his squalid demise. In October he said to me‚ ‘Forty-two years I’ve had this place. I’d really like to go back home‚ but I ain’t got the energy since my old girl died. And I can’t sell it the way it is now. But anyway before I hang my hat up I’d be curious to know what’s in that third cellar of mine.’
The third cellar has been walled up by order of the civil defence authorities after the floods of 1910. A double barrier of cemented bricks prevents the rising waters from invading the upper floors when flooding occurs. In the event of storms or blocked drains‚ the cellar acts as a regulatory overflow.
The weather was fine: no risk of drowning or any sudden emergency. There were five of us: Hubert‚ Gérard the painter‚ two regulars and myself. Old Marteau‚ the local builder‚ was upstairs with his gear‚ ready to repair the damage. We made a hole.
Our exploration took us sixty metres down a laboriously- faced vaulted corridor (it must have been an old thoroughfare). We were wading through a disgusting sludge. At the farend‚ an impassable barrier of iron bars. The corridor continued beyond it‚ plunging downwards. In short‚ it was a kind of drain-trap.
That’s all. Nothing else. Disappointed‚ we retraced our steps. Old Hubert scanned the walls with his electric torch. Look! An opening. No‚ an alcove‚ with some wooden object that looks like a black statuette. I pick the thing up: it’s easily removable. I stick it under my arm. I told Hubert‚ ‘It’s of no interest …’ and kept this treasure for myself.
I gazed at it for hours on end‚ in private. So my deductions‚ my hunches were not mistaken: the Bièvre-Seine confluence was once the site where sorcerers and satanists must surely have gathered. And this kind of primitive magic‚ which the blacks of Central Africa practise today‚ was known here several centuries ago. The statuette had miraculously survived the onslaught of time: the well-known virtues of the waters of the Bièvre‚ so rich in tannin‚ had protected the wood from rotting‚ actually hardened‚ almost fossilized it. The object answered a purpose that was anything but aesthetic. Crudely carved‚ probably from heart of oak. The legs were slightly set apart‚ the arms detached from the body. No indication of gender. Four nails set in a triangle were planted in its chest. Two of them‚ corroded with rust‚ broke off at the wood’s surface all on their own. There was a spike sunk in each eye. The skull‚ like a salt cellar‚ had twenty-four holes in which little tufts of brown hair had been planted‚ fixed in place with wax‚ of which there were still some vestiges. I’ve kept quiet about my find. I’m biding my time.
Chapter III
‘Your Body’s Tattooed’
The other day some of La Mouffe’s most egregious specimens of humanity went over to La Maube and fetched up at Pignol’s. They were carrying baskets. I think they sold Pignolette‚ on the semi-black market‚ the rabbits we’ve been eating since. There was Fanfan-No-Kidding‚ Smoke-Sucker and Butterfly. Butterfly is so called because the stem of his nose runs into the abdomen of a blue bombyx that spreads its delicately veined wings across his forehead.
During a period of his life when he wasn’t making much use of his‚ what Rabelais referred to as‚ ‘quickening peg’‚ Smoke-Sucker thought it a good idea to have it decorated with delicate spiral motifs. Something of a Don Juan by nature‚
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