The Belly of Paris Read online

  Florent smiled but still said no. Quenu, to please his wife, tried to come up with a good argument. But Lisa seemed to no longer be listening. She was staring at the market. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, shouting, “Aha, now they're sending the Norman to spy on us. She's going to pay for the others.”

  A tall brunette pushed open the shop door. It was Louise Méhudin, the beautiful fish woman whom everyone called the Norman. She had a brazen kind of good looks and delicate white skin. She was almost as assertive as Lisa, the look in her eyes was even bolder, and her breasts were more alluring. She came in with a prancing gait, a gold chain jingling against her apron, her uncovered hair combed up in the latest style, and a bow at her throat, a lace bow that made her the queen coquette of Les Halles. She had about her a slight scent of the sea, and on one of her hands, near the little finger, a herring scale shone like a small patch of mother-of-pearl. The two women had lived in the same house on rue Pirouette, where they had been close friends, linked by a rivalry that kept each thinking about the other. In the neighborhood people said “the Beautiful Norman,” just as they said “Beautiful Lisa.” This made them competitors, always compared, forcing them both to live up to their reputation for beauty.

  If Lisa leaned over a little at her counter, she could see the fish woman working in the pavilion across the way amid salmons and turbots. Each kept an eye on the other. Beautiful Lisa tightened the laces on her corset and the Beautiful Norman responded by adding more rings to her fingers and bows to her shoulders. Whenever they saw each other, they were very sweet, very flattering, while their eyes darted from under lowered lids, searching for defects. They were always very attentive to each other and professed the greatest affection.

  “Tell me, is it tomorrow that you make the boudin?” asked the Norman in a merry voice.

  Lisa remained icy. She did not often get angry, but when she did, her anger stubbornly remained. She responded, “Yes,” in a cold voice, barely moving her lips.

  “It's just that, you know, I love boudin hot out of the pot. I'll come back.”

  She was aware of the icy reception by her rival. She looked at Florent, who seemed to interest her, and then, not wanting to leave without having the last word, she unwisely added, “I bought some of your boudins the day before yesterday. They weren't very fresh.”

  “Not fresh!” Lisa repeated, her face turned white and lips trembling.

  Up until that point Lisa might have kept her composure lest the Norman get the idea that it was the lace bow to which she was reacting But now not only was she being spied on but she was also being insulted, and that was going too far. Arching her back and planting her fists on the counter, she let loose in a harsh voice, “You don't say. Remember last week when you sold that pair of soles, did I go saying in front of everyone that they were spoiled?”

  “Spoiled? My soles spoiled?” shouted the fish woman, her face turning purple.

  For a moment they stood breathless, mute and infuriated beneath the meat rack. All the loveliness of their friendship had evaporated. It had taken only one word to reveal the sharp teeth hidden behind the smile.

  “You are a crude and vulgar woman,” said the Beautiful Norman. “See if I ever set foot in here again.”

  “Get out then, get out!” said Beautiful Lisa. “Everyone knows about you.”

  The fish woman parted with a vulgar word that left the charcuterie woman's entire body shaking. The scene had unfolded so quickly that the three astonished men had not had time to intervene. Lisa quickly regained her composure. As Augustine, the shopgirl, was returning from her errands, Lisa took up the conversation where it had left off without making the slightest reference to what had just taken place. Pulling Gavard to the side, she told him not to give Verlaque a final answer. She would make it her mission to make up her brother-in-law's mind, for which she would need, at most, two days.

  Quenu came back to the kitchen just as Gavard was taking Florent for a vermouth at Monsieur Lebigre's. He pointed out three women in the covered street between the fish and the poultry pavilions.

  “They're gossping away,” Gavard muttered in a voice that was full of envy.

  Les Halles was slowly clearing out, and there stood Mademoiselle Saget, Madame Lecœur, and La Sarriette at the edge of the walk. The old woman was spouting, “Just like I told you, Madame Lecœur, they always have your brother-in-law in the shop. You saw him there yourself, didn't you?”

  “With my own two eyes! He was seated at a table and looked completely at home.”

  “Personally,” La Sarriette interrupted, “I didn't hear anything bad. I don't know why you're making such a fuss about it.”

  Mademoiselle Saget shrugged. “Oh well, you're still an innocent, my dear. Can't you see why the Quenus are always enticing Monsieur Gavard to their shop? What do you want to bet he'll leave everything he has to little Pauline?”

  “Do you think so!” exclaimed Madame Lecœur, pale with anger. Then, in a mournful voice as though she had just received some terrible news, she said, “I'm all alone, completely defenseless. He's completely free to do as he pleases. You just heard how his niece sides with him too. She has forgotten what she cost me and wouldn't lift a finger to help me.”

  “Not so, Aunt,” said La Sarriette. “It is you who never has a kind word for me.”

  Right there and then they reconciled their differences and kissed. The niece promised that she would stop her teasing, and the aunt swore on all she held sacred that she would treat La Sarriette as though she were her own daughter. Mademoiselle Saget offered them advice on how to keep Gavard from squandering his money. And they all agreed that the Quenu-Gradelles were unsavory and needed to be watched.

  “I don't know what kind of shenanigans they're up to,” said the old spinster, “but there's something fishy going on. And that Florent, Madame Quenu's cousin, what do you two make of him?”

  The three women huddled close together and lowered their voices. “Remember how we saw him one morning,” said Madame Lecœur, “with his boots falling apart and his clothes covered with dust, sneaking around like a thief who had just gotten away with something … That man frightens me.”

  “No,” said La Sarriette, “he's very skinny, but he's not a bad man.”

  Mademoiselle Saget was thinking out loud. “I've been working on this for the past two weeks, trying to find out something about him. Clearly Monsieur Gavard knows him. I must have met him somewhere, I just can't remember where.”

  She was still combing her memory when the Norman, straight from the charcuterie, blew in like a storm. “She's certainly polite, the big Quenu ogre!” she announced, relieved at getting it off her chest. “Imagine her telling me that I sold rotten fish. But I took care of her in her pretty little lair where she keeps tainted pork that makes everyone sick.”

  “What did you say to her?” asked the old woman, all excited, thrilled to hear that the two had argued.

  “Me, I didn't say a thing. Not a thing. I just dropped in to tell her very politely that I would be stopping by for boudin tomorrow evening. And then she turned on me. Filthy little hypocrite with her sanctimonious airs! But this is going to cost her a lot more than she knows.”

  The three could sense that the Norman had not spoken the entire truth. But that didn't stop them from rushing to her defense with a volley of curses. They turned toward rue Rambuteau, inventing insults and making up tales about the filthiness of the kitchen and other meaty accusations. If the Quenus had been dealers in human flesh, the women's outrage would not have been more violent. The Norman felt the need to retell the story three more times.

  “And the cousin?” Mademoiselle Saget asked in a mischievous tone. “What did he say?”

  “Cousin?” the Norman replied in a sharp voice. “You believe this cousin story? He's someone's lover, the big goon.”

  The other three protested. Lisa's virtue was an act of faith in the neighborhood.

  “Go on, you never know about these slippery holy hypocri
tes. That husband of hers is a bit too simple not to cheat on.”

  Mademoiselle Saget nodded as though she agreed with this point of view. Sweetly she said, “Besides, this cousin has dropped in from nowhere and the story offered by the Quenus doesn't smell quite right.”

  “Oh, yes, he's that fatso's lover,” the fish woman again asserted. “Some tramp or bum she found in the streets. That's clear.”

  “Skinny men are backward men,” declared La Sarriette with a knowing air.

  “She bought him an entire new outfit,” Madame Lecœur added. “He has cost her a lot.”

  “Well, yes, yes, you could be right,” said the old maid. “I'm going to have to learn more …”

  The three agreed to keep one another informed about anything that happened at the Quenu-Gradelle establishment. The butter vendor claimed that she wanted to open her brother-in-law's eyes to the kind of place he was frequenting. But by then the Norman's anger had subsided, and, being at heart a kind person, she left with a feeling that she had talked too much.

  Once she was gone, Madame Lecœur observed cagily “I could swear the Norman said something surly. That's the way she is. She would be wise not to talk about cousins falling from the sky, she who once found a baby in her fish shop.”

  The three looked at one another and laughed. Then, once Madame Lecœur left, La Sarriette said, “My aunt is foolish to be so preoccupied with all these stories. That's what's making her so skinny. She used to beat me if a man looked at me. One thing is sure, though, there won't be some little brat turning up under her bolster, not my aunt.”

  This gave Mademoiselle Saget another chuckle. And once she was by herself, as she went back to rue Pirouette, she thought how those “three floozies” were not worth the rope to hang them. Besides, someone could easily have seen them, and it would not be good to get on the wrong side of the Quenu-Gradelles, who were, after all, affluent and respected people. She made a detour to rue de Turbigo, to the Taboureau boulangerie, the most beautiful bakery in the neighborhood. Madame Taboureau was a close friend of Lisa and an authority beyond question on all subjects. When you said, “Madame Taboureau said so” or “according to Madame Taboureau,” there was nothing more to be said on the subject. Today, the elderly spinster Saget, on the pretext of wanting to know when the oven would be heated so that she could bring in her dish of pears, sang the praises of Lisa and especially her excellent boudin. Then, content that she had established this moral alibi and pleased that she had fanned the flames of a quarrel that was erupting while positioning herself above the fray she returned home with peace of mind, except that she still could not quite place where she had seen Madame Quenu's cousin.

  That same day, in the evening after dinner, Florent decided to go for a walk along some of the covered streets of Les Halles. A fine mist was rising, and the empty pavilions were a mournful gray, studded with the yellow teardrops of gas flames. For the first time Florent felt out of place. He recognized the inept way in which he, a thin and artless man, had fallen into a world of fat people. He realized that his presence was disturbing the entire neighborhood and that he was a problem for Quenu, as a counterfeit cousin with a dubious look. He was saddened by these thoughts, not that he had noticed the slightest coldness on the part of his brother and Lisa. It was their kindness that upset him, and he found himself guilty of insensitivity and putting himself up in their home. Self-doubt started to overtake him. Recalling the conversation in the shop that afternoon gave him a vague feeling of uneasiness. As his mind was invaded by a memory of the scent of meat at Lisa's counter, he felt himself sliding into a spineless lack of resolve. Maybe he had been wrong to refuse the position of inspector that had been offered. This thought provoked an internal struggle, and he had to shake himself to rediscover the resolve of his conscience. A damp breeze was coming up, and it blew through the covered passages. By the time he was forced to button up his coat, he had regained his calm and his conviction. It was as though the smell of fat from the charcuterie, which had weakened him, was now blown away by the wind.

  He was going back home when he ran into Claude Lantier. The painter, concealed in the folds of his green coat, had an angry, muffled voice. He was in a fury against painting, declaring it a dog's trade, and swore that he would never again in his life pick up a brush. That afternoon he had kicked his foot through a study he had been working on, of the head of that tramp Cadine.

  Claude was prone to such fits caused by his inability to produce the kind of durable, living work of which he dreamed. At such times nothing existed for him any longer, and he would wander the streets seeing only darkness and waiting for the next day's resurrection. Usually he said that he felt bright and cheerful in the morning and horribly depressed in the evening. Each of his days was a long, disillusioning struggle. Florent barely recognized the night wanderer of Les Halles. They had already met a second time before this, one time in the charcuterie. Claude, who knew the real story of the fugitive, had taken his hand and declared that he regarded Florent as a good man.

  But Claude rarely went to the charcuterie.

  “Are you still at my aunt's?” he asked. “I don't know how you can stand being around that kitchen. It stinks in there. If I spend an hour in there, I feel like I've eaten enough for the next three days. It was a mistake to have gone there this morning. That's what ruined my study.”

  Then, after he and Florent had walked a few steps in silence, he continued, “Oh, what fine people. They're so healthy, it makes me ill. I'd like to paint their portraits, but I don't know how to do such round faces that don't have any bones. You wouldn't see my aunt Lisa kicking her foot through her pots. I was a fool to have wrecked Cadine's head. Now that I think about it, it wasn't that bad.”

  Then they began chatting about Aunt Lisa. Claude said that his mother had not seen anything of her in a long time. He had the impression that Lisa was ashamed that her sister had married a worker. And besides, she did not like to be around the less fortunate. As for himself, he told Florent how a generous man had sent him to college because he had been taken with the donkeys and old women that he had drawn when he was only eight years old. But the good man had died, leaving him an income of a thousand francs a year, just enough to keep from starving.

  “I would rather have been a worker. Take a carpenter, for example. Carpenters are happy men. Say they have to make a table. They make it, then they go to bed happy to have made their table, completely satisfied. Me? I hardly sleep at all at night. All those damn studies that I can't finish dance in my head. I never finish anything, never, never!”

  His voice almost broke into sobs. Then he tried to laugh. He cursed, searching for foul language, wallowing in muck with the ice-cold rage of a fine and delicate spirit who fantasizes his own degradation. He ended by squatting in front of one of the Les Halles gratings that ventilate the markets below—cellars where the gas burns permanently. Down there in the depths, he pointed out to Florent, Marjolin and Cadine were peacefully eating their supper, seated on a stone block used for slaughtering chickens. The two young waifs had found a way of hiding in the basement and living there after the gratings were closed.

  “What an animal, an extraordinary beast!” Claude repeated with both admiration and envy of Marjolin. And to think that animal is happy. If they want their treats, they just hide together in one of those big baskets full of feathers. At least that's a life! My God, you're right to stay at the charcuterie. Maybe that will fatten you up.”

  Suddenly he left. Florent climbed up to his garret, troubled by the anxiety of uncertainty. The next morning, he avoided the shop, taking a long walk along the banks of the Seine. But when he returned for lunch he was struck once again by Lisa's kindness. She again mentioned the position of fish inspector, without pushing too hard but as something worth thinking about. As he listened to her, a plate full of food in front of him, he could not help being influenced by the comfort of the dining room. The mat beneath his feet felt soft, the hanging copper lamp glowed, the wall
paper had a yellow tint, and the light oak furniture—all filled him with a sense of well-being that threatened his sense of right and wrong. But he still had the strength to refuse, explaining his reasons once again, though at the same time realizing what bad taste it was to be making such a crude show of his stance in a place such as this.

  Lisa did not get angry but instead smiled, that beautiful smile that embarrassed Florent far more than her suppressed irritation the evening before. At dinner they spoke only of winter pickling, which would keep everyone in the charcuterie busy.

  The evenings were getting cold. As soon as dinner was over, they all went to the kitchen because it was warm there. It was so spacious that several people could sit there without getting in anyone's way. The gaslit walls were covered in white and blue tiles up to the height of a man. On the left was a huge iron stove with three deep wells in which were set three pots whose bottoms were blackened by coal soot. At the end a small chimney rose over a cooking range used for grilling with a smoker above. Above the stove, higher up the wall than the skimmers, the long-handled cooking spoons, and the grilling forks, was a row of numbered drawers containing bread crumbs, grated crusts—both fine and coarse—and spices—cloves, nutmeg, peppercorns. On the right, the chopping table, a huge oak block, leaned against the wall, all cut and scarred; various pieces of equipment attached to it—an injection pump, a stuffer, a food mill, with their cogs and cranks—gave a sense of mystery and the disturbing impression of a kitchen in Hell. All around the walls, on boards, even under tables, were heaps of pots, terrines, buckets, platters, tin tools, a battery of deep pans, tapered funnels, racks of knives and chopping tools, skewers and larding needles, a whole world of things that lived on fat.