The Belly of Paris - Emile Zola [122]
For a quarter of an hour Florent walked in silence, already growing sad, telling himself that he was leaving his health behind him. The route to Courbevoie was whitened by dust. They both enjoyed hiking the long distance, their thick shoes ringing on the hard earth. With every step little clouds of dust rose behind them. The rays came at an angle across the avenue, stretching out their two shadows, distorting them so that their heads stretched to the other side and hopped along the opposite sidewalk.
Claude, swinging his arms loosely, took long, regular strides and enjoyed watching their shadows, happily lost in their sway, which he further exaggerated by putting his shoulders into the rhythm.
Then, as though suddenly waking from a dream, he asked, “Do you know ‘The Battle of the Fat and the Thin’?”
Florent, caught by surprise, answered no. Claude excitedly praised this series of prints, pointing out favorite parts: the Fat, bursting from their enormity, prepare the evening glut, while the Thin, doubled over from hunger, look in from the street, stick figures filled with envy; then the Fat, seated at the table, cheeks overflowing, drive away a Thin who had the audacity to approach humbly, looking like a bowling pin among bowling balls.
Claude saw in these drawings the entire drama of mankind, and he took to classifying all people into the Thin and the Fat, two opposing groups, one devouring the other to grow plump and jolly. “You can bet,” he said, “that Cain was a Fat and Abel a Thin. And since that first killing, there have always been hungry Fats sucking the blood out of scanty eaters. It is a constant preying of the stronger on the weaker, each swallowing his neighbor and then finding himself swallowed in turn … So you see, my friend, watch out for the Fat.”
He fell silent for a moment, gazing at their two shadows as the setting sun stretched them ever longer. Then he murmured, “You and I, we belong to the Thin, you see. Tell me if people with flat stomachs like ours take up much sunlight.”
Florent looked at the two shadows and smiled. But Claude became angry. “If you think it's funny, you're wrong. I suffer a lot because I'm a Thin. If I were a Fat, I could paint when I felt like it, I would have a beautiful studio, I could sell my paintings for their weight in gold. Instead, I'm a Thin. I pour my soul out to produce things that only make the Fats shrug their shoulders. I'm sure I'll end up dying of it, my skin sticking to my bones and so flat that they could bury me between the covers of a book. And you! You're a Thin, a perfect example, the King of Thins. Remember your argument with the fish sellers? It was spectacular, all those giant bosoms flying at your spindly chest. They were acting out of instinct, hunting the Thin the way a cat chases a mouse. You see, Fats have such a distaste for Thins, they have to drive them out of their sight by either biting or kicking. That's why, if I were you, I'd be careful. The Quenus are Fats, and the Méhudins too. The fact is you are completely surrounded by Fats. That would worry me.”
“And what about Gavard and Mademoiselle Saget and your friend Marjolin?” Florent asked, still smiling.
“If you want, I can classify everyone we know for you,” answered Claude. “I've been keeping a file on them in my studio for a long time with notations on who belongs to which group. It's a whole chapter of natural history. Gavard is the kind of Fat who pretends to be a Thin. Not at all a rare species. Mademoiselle Saget and Madame Lecœur are a variety of Thin that should be feared— desperate, capable of doing anything to fatten themselves. My friends Marjolin, little Cadine, and La Sarriette are three Fats, still innocent with nothing more than the lovable hunger of youth. I've noticed that the Fat, if they're still young enough, can be charming creatures. Monsieur Lebigre, he's a Fat, isn't he? Then there are your political friends, who are mostly Thins—Charvet,