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he said it was his practice to invite his partners to use this instrument in a subtle manner reminiscent of Baudelairean chibouk-smokers. Hence the nickname.
    Fanfan-No-Kidding gets his moniker from the unruffled nerve with which he describes Guyana‚ the penal colony he ‘very nearly’ went to. Condemned to five years’ hard labour‚ he had his sentence commuted to detention‚ which he served on French soil. He retains a deep grudge against his overzealous defence lawyers. Fanfan is tattooed all over his lower body. From his navel to his toes‚ from his coccyx to the soles of his feet‚ is all flowers‚ weird plants‚ fantastic animals romping among playing cards‚ dice boxes‚ cryptic devices.
    We bolted the door to admire at closer quarters the hidden splendours of our mates‚ who willingly displayed them.
    Then‚ taking our cue from Théophile‚ ever ready to discuss problems of ‘the marginalized’‚ we conferred. Interminably.
    Fanfan told us of the grinding boredom in top-security prisons‚ the stupefying effect of freezing-cold or stifling-hotcells‚ the friendships forged amid disgusting overcrowding. And the pleasure derived from outwitting ‘the screws’‚ getting hold of ink and needles by the most incredible means. And the horrible relief‚ for someone who knows he’s branded‚ of branding himself in a visible and indelible way to make him part of that vast and uncouth brotherhood of eternal reprobates.
    Théophile seemed obsessed with the subject. He recalled the various images‚ figures and mottoes he had observed on the epidermis of his contemporaries. There was no stopping him as he launched into a very interesting and knowledgeable disquisition on the ‘symbolism of tattoos’.
    I caught myself declaring‚ with an authoritativeness that was totally unjustified‚ how dangerous it was for any man to subject his body to such an intervention. I think I even said: ‘to such an experience’. I learned from my own lips that tattoos were not only‚ in my opinion‚ a mark of identification‚ more often than not lewd‚ but the sign of a kind of acceptance of defeat. Abandonment of the struggle against an unrelentingly hostile fate.
    Fanfan agreed with me. He said‚ ‘That’s for sure. With your tattooed man‚ there’s powers at work. Just look at what goes on at the Salève.’
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘Oh! It’s not that easy to explain. Better go and see for yourself.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Rue Zacharie‚ St-Séverin.’
    ‘Come and show me.’
    I was excited. The others objected. Not now. It was nice and comfortable here. Let’s have another round. Why move to another bar?
    No‚ no‚ right now. Théophile eyed me with anxiety. He gave the nod. We set off‚ Fanfan leading the way.
    Rue Zacharie: they’ve renamed it after the cabaret singer Xavier Privas‚ but it’s the old name that sticks in the mind. Nothing to do with the prophet. In the seventeenth century it was Rue Sac-à-Lie. While waiting for the quality of theirmerchandise to be certified at the Petit-Châtelet‚ the vinegar sellers kept stored in bonded warehouses the leather bottles containing the lees – the so-called mother of vinegar. For a while‚ under St Louis‚ it was called Rue des Trois-Chandeliers. And for just a few years‚ Rue de l’Homme-Qui-Chante. But I know an Englishman‚ Dr Garret‚ who possesses an extraordinary document: he showed it to me in Sydenham‚ in 1935. It’s a map of the Sorbonne district‚ drawn up by the scholars resident at the Irish College. Rue Zacharie‚ between St Séverin and La Huchette – on the map‚ there’s no question about it – appears under the name of Witchcraft Street.
    ‘Rue des Maléfices. Why?’
    This intrigues me‚ especially as I’ve never been able‚ since long before the war‚ to walk down that dark and narrow street on my own without a sense of painful disquiet. That feeling you get in the presence of a dear friend under the constraint