Paris Noir - Aurelien Masson [80]
“No, I was saying ‘bravo’ because of your memory …”
Maybe I have to kill him because he’s so irritating. It’s astonishing how irritating he is. Look at him, he’s happy with himself now. The guy is a moron. That’s another reason!
“You see, Monsieur Robert, when you concentrate, your memory works. It’s important to exercise it. Do you want us to do some exercises?”
He really is very dumb.
“Shooting exercises?”
“Ah! I like you better like that. When he jokes, it’s because he’s feeling good.”
“But who the hell are you talking about? There’s only you and me in this room!”
“Come close to the window. And your revolver—”
“Pistol!”
“Sorry. I’m not very sharp on this subject.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Okay, fine. Your pistol, then, weighs more than eight hundred grams …”
“One kilo plus ten grams. Don’t forget, it’s loaded.”
“Can you point it in a different direction? … Thank you. What make is it?”
“The make? It’s a Luger. Parabellum P-08.”
“Perfect!”
“Yes, it’s a fine weapon. A little capricious, but it passed the test.”
“A collector’s piece …”
“The Americans would give a truckload of chewing gum for one.”
“The Americans?”
“The guys who didn’t have the luck to get one off a dead Kraut.”
“A Kr—Are you talking about the war?”
“I have to spoon-feed you everything. Of course, the war. You haven’t noticed?”
“The … lastwar?”
“How should I know? They say that every time!”
“Thirty-nine to forty-five?”
“Another one of your lame games? You want me to add? Subtract? Three plus nine equals twelve. Four plus five equals nine … What do we have here? A logical equation?”
“Are you serious?”
“Young man, I can assure you that a Luger Parabellum P-08 gives you many urges, but rarely the urge to joke.”
“I’m talking about the war that involved a good part of the world from 1939 to 1945.”
“Hold your horses! Germany’s taking some serious hits, but really, nothing’s over. At least nothing you can put a date on. You might as well say ’46, it seems to me. Besides, open the window.”
“The window?”
“Go over there, what do you see?”
“Nothing. Well, rue des Dames …”
“Yet, the street! But what else?”
“Um, okay, pedestrians, cars, the line at the bakery—”
“The eternal problem of bread rations …”
“Rations? Monsieur Robert, we’re in 2007, it’s 4:30 p.m., it’s the end of the school day, and the bakery is selling cakes to the kids like … like hot cakes, precisely!”
I’ll kill him tomorrow. By then I’ll remember why. And I will be rested. He’s tired me out. People who are going to die are exhausting. Most people are no picnic. But with one foot in the grave, they become impossible. To the point of making you want to murder them, if you didn’t already feel like doing it. This one’s hit the jackpot. Fifteen minutes, and he’s worn me out! It’s the world upside down. Now I don’t even know what he came for. Or what he was telling me. A chatterbox, words coming out of his mouth like oatmeal. Mush. A swill of words that leave you parched.
Pip, or in French pépie,from the Latin pituita, a bird sickness characterized by the presence of a thick coating on the tongue. Makes them terribly thirsty. Isn’t my memory impressive? Its whatchamacallits and what’s-his-names, crammed like junk into a wicker trunk. Open it! Rummage around! Find stuff you like! A real treasure hunt.
Parched. Or thirsty. Thirst, human sickness characterized by the presence of words you couldn’t swallow. Gets cured at the bar.
The Renaissance Bar is just as good as any other. With its crooked façade like a down-turned mouth, it owes its name to Pétain. The owner saw the Maréchal and his National Revolution as a sign of recovery, rebirth. The return of values, of black coffee and white sauvignon. Yellow, too, the color of anisette. Yellow mainly leaked on the stars. As for the rest, cheap, adulterated wine and sawdust calvados. Finally, when he saw that nothing was changing and his big nose felt the wind turn, he removed Pétain’s mug from the wall. Everyone forgot the reason for the Renaissance. I didn’t. Dead memory … memories are the shreds of life that stick to