The Belly of Paris Read online

  “It's the face of a convict caught redhanded,” added Madame Lecœur.

  La Sarriette showed her white teeth and said, “I once saw a man guillotined, and he looked just like that.”

  They had come closer and were craning their necks, trying to see inside the cab. Just as the vehicle was leaving, the old woman pulled hard at the skirts of the other two to point out Claire, who was running wildly from rue Pirouette. Her hair was undone, and she looked like a madwoman, her fingernails bleeding. She had managed to dismantle her door. Once she realized that she had arrived too late and Florent was being taken, she hurled herself in the direction of the cab, then stopped abruptly, making a gesture of useless rage, shaking her fist at the vanishing wheels. Then, all red under the fine plaster powder with which she was covered, she hurried home to rue Pirouette.

  “You would think he'd promised to marry her,” said La Sarriette, laughing. “She's completely smitten, the big idiot.”

  The neighborhood returned to calm. Small groups gathered until the pavilion closed to discuss the morning's events. People peered curiously into the charcuterie. Lisa avoided showing herself, leaving Augustine at the counter. Finally, in the afternoon, she thought it her duty to tell Quenu everything for fear that some big mouth would blurt it all out. She waited until she could be alone with him in the kitchen, understanding that this was the part of the house where he felt most at ease and he would cry less. She proceeded with maternal gentleness. But once he knew the truth, he fell on the butcher block and started crying like a baby.

  “Now, now, my poor big lug, don't carry on like this, you'll hurt yourself.” And she took him in her arms.

  Tears ran out of his eyes and down his white apron. His bulk shook with pain. He was silent, melting away. When he managed to speak, he stammered, “You have no idea how good he was to me when we lived on rue Royer-Collard. He cleaned and did the cooking … He loved me like his child, you see. He would come home at night caked in mud, too tired to stand. Meanwhile there was me, staying at home well fed and warm … And now they're going to shoot him.”

  Lisa insisted that he was not going to be shot, but he shook his head and continued, “It doesn't matter. I didn't love him enough. It's no use saying that now. I've been heartless. I even hesitated to give him his inheritance.”

  “But I offered it to him more than ten times,” she interjected. “We have nothing to reproach ourselves about on that score.”

  “Oh, I know, you were very kind. You'd have given him everything. But not me, you see. I'll have to live with this grief for the rest of my life. I will always think that if I had shared with him, he would not have gone back to his bad ways. It's my fault. I'm the one who drove him to this.”

  She was even gentler, telling him to stop torturing himself. She felt sorry for Florent too, even though he was very guilty. If he'd had more money, he might have committed even greater follies. Little by little, she managed to convince him that it could not have ended up any other way and that it had all worked out for the best. Quenu was still crying, wiping his cheeks with his apron, stifling his sobs to listen, then melting into a fresh wave of tears. Without thinking, he had sunk his fingers into a pile of sausage meat on the chopping block. He was drilling holes in it, kneading it roughly.

  “Do you remember that you weren't feeling well?” Lisa continued. “It was because we had lost our routine. Although I never said anything about it, I was worried. I could see your health was suffering.”

  “It was, wasn't it?” he said, holding back his tears for an instant.

  “And the shop too. That hasn't done well this year. It was as if a spell … Come on, don't cry. You'll see how everything will be better. You have to take care of yourself. For my sake. And your daughter's. You have your responsibilities to us, too.”

  He was kneading the sausage meat more gently now. He was still in the grip of his emotions, but now a more tender kind, which brought a slight smile to his drawn face. Lisa could see that she had convinced him. Quickly she called Pauline, who was playing in the shop, and lifting her onto his lap, she said, “Pauline, isn't it true that your father must be reasonable? Ask him nicely not to make any more trouble.”

  The child asked him gently. They looked at each other and hugged in one huge, overflowing embrace, already recuperating from the yearlong illness that was now slipping away from them. Smiles broadened on their round faces, and Lisa said, “After all, there are only three of us, my dear, only three.”

  Two months later Florent was once more sentenced to deportation. The incident got widespread attention. Newspapers published the tiniest of details, along with photos of the accused, the designs of the banners and the scarves, and plans of the place where the conspirators had held their meetings. For fifteen days there was no topic in Paris except the Les Halles conspiracy. The police issued statements that were more and more disturbing and in the end stated that the entire Montmartre neighborhood had been mined. Emotions were running so high in the Corps Législatif that the center and right-wing parties forgot about the ill-conceived pensions that had for an instant divided them and agreed to vote with a crushing majority for the unpopular tax. In the panic that gripped the city, not even the people of the lower-class neighborhoods dared complain.

  The trial lasted a week. Florent was surprised by the huge number of accomplices he was credited with having. He knew only six, seven at most, of the twenty faces in the dock. After the reading of the arrest decree, he thought he caught sight of the hat and innocent shoulders of Robine drifting around in the crowd. Logre was acquitted, as was Lacaille. Alexandre was sentenced to two years in prison for his childish stupidity. As for Gavard, like Florent he was sentenced to deportation. This was a crushing blow after his jubilation from a lengthy cross-examination that he managed to fill with his personality. He was paying dearly for that Parisian shopkeeper's verve. Two large tears ran down the gaunt cheeks of the white-haired fellow.

  One August morning while the people of Les Halles were just getting up, Claude Lantier, wandering where the vegetables were arriving, his waist cinched with a red belt, came to touch the hand of Madame François at pointe Saint-Eustache. There she was with her big sad face, seated on turnips and carrots. The painter was in a dark mood, despite the bright sunlight, which was already softening the big green mountains of cabbage.

  “Well,” he said, “it's over. They're sending him back there. I think they've already sent him to Brest.”

  She made a silent gesture of pain. She waved her hand slowly around her and said in a muted voice, “It's Paris. It's this damned Paris.”

  “No,” said Claude. “I know who it is. It's those sons of bitches.” Claude raised his fist. “You cannot imagine, Madame François. There isn't a single stupid thing that they didn't say at the trial. They even went as far as to go through a child's notebook. That moron of a prosecutor made a whole big thing out of preaching respect for children on one hand and demagogic education on the other. It made me sick.”

  He shuddered and, hunching his shoulders inside his green coat, continued, “A man as gentle as a girl. I saw him fall ill seeing pigeons bled. It made me laugh with pity when I saw him between two policemen. We'll never see him again. This time he'll stay there.”

  “He should have listened to me,” said the vegetable vendor after some silence. “He could have come to Nanterre, lived there with my rabbits and hens. I really liked him because I understood what a good man he was. We could have been happy. What a tragedy! Take care of yourself, Monsieur Claude. I'll expect you to come have an omelette with me one of these mornings.”

  She had tears in her eyes. She got up, a strong woman bearing her sorrow. “Oh, look,” she said. “There's Mère Chantemesse coming to buy turnips. She's hale and hearty as ever, the old fatso.”

  Claude went off for a while, prowling the streets. The day had risen like a white fountain from the depth of rue Rambuteau. The sun was spreading its rosy light above the rooftops, bright expanses washin
g the pavement even at this early hour. And Claude sensed a cheerful mood awakening in these vast echoing marketplaces filled with their piles of food. It was like the pleasure of recovered health, the brightening sound of people at last relieved of a heavy burden weighing on their stomachs. Along came La Sarriette with a gold watch, singing in the midst of her plums and strawberries, tweaking the little mustache of Monsieur Jules, who was wearing a velvet jacket.

  He caught a glimpse of Madame Lecœur and Mademoiselle Saget walking down one of the covered streets, their faces less yellow than before, almost pink. Like good friends, they giggled over some amusing incident. In the fish market Mère Méhudin was back in her stall, slapping fish, abusing customers, and snubbing the new inspector, a young man whom she had vowed to get fired. Claire, lazier and more listless, was gathering a huge handful of snails, sparkling from their silvery slime, with her hands, which had turned blue from the tanks.

  At the tripe market, Auguste and Augustine had just bought pigs' feet, and with the sweet faces of newlyweds they were taking their cart back to their charcuterie in Montrouge. It was now eight o'clock and already warm when Claude returned to rue Rambuteau, where he found Muche and Pauline playing at horses. Muche was on all fours, and Pauline was astride him, hanging on to his hair so she wouldn't fall. On the roofs of Les Halles along the gutter a shadow flitted by, causing Claude to look up. It was Cadine and Marjolin, laughing and kissing, basking in the sun, defying the neighborhood with their happy animal love.

  Claude shook his fist at them. He was exasperated by all this celebration on the streets and in the sky. He cursed the Fats, for he had to say that the Fats had won. All around him he could see nothing but Fats, growing, bursting with health, saluting a new day of lovely digestion.

  When he stopped in front of rue Pirouette, the sight in front of him, to the left and right, was the final blow. On his right was the Beautiful Norman, the Beautiful Madame Lebigre, as she was now known, standing at the doorway of her shop. Her husband had finally managed to merge his wine business with the tobacco shop, a long-nurtured ambition finally realized thanks to important services rendered. Beautiful Madame Lebigre was looking fantastic in her silk dress, her hair curled, ready to take her place behind the counter, where all the neighborhood men came to buy their cigars and pouches of tobacco. She had become very distinguished-looking, quite the lady. Behind her the barroom had been repainted with leaves on the pale wall. The zinc was bright, and the bottles of liquor cast even more sparkling reflections in the mirror. She laughed in the clear morning light.

  To his left was Beautiful Lisa at the doorway to the charcuterie, taking up its entire width. Her linens had never been so white. Her rosy cheeks had never been so refreshed or so perfectly framed in smooth waves of hair. She exhibited calm and a splendid poise, an impressive peacefulness that could not be disturbed, even by a smile. This was total tranquillity, complete happiness, lifeless and unshakable, as she bathed in the warm air. Her tightly stretched bodice seemed to be still digesting yesterday's happiness. Her chubby hands, lost in the folds of her apron, were not even outstretched to catch today's happiness, for it was certain to fall into her hands.

  Close by, the window display expressed a similar felicity. It too had recovered, and the stuffed tongues were redder and healthier, the jambonneaux were showing their fine yellow faces, the garlands of sausages no longer had the look of despair that had depressed Quenu.

  A loud laugh resounded from the kitchen in the back, accompanied by the tintinnabulation of saucepans. The charcuterie was once again ringing with good health, a fatted health. The strips of lard and the half pigs hanging against the marble suggested the roundness of bellies, the belly triumphant, while Lisa, motionless, posed with dignity, offering Les Halles her large, well-fed smile as a morning greeting.

  Then both ladies bowed. Beautiful Madame Lebigre and Beautiful Madame Quenu exchanged a friendly salute.

  And Claude, who no doubt had forgotten supper the night before, was infuriated by the sight of the two of them looking so prosperous and well, with their huge breasts shoved out in front of them, and he tightened his belt as he muttered in an angry voice, “What bastards respectable people are!”

  NOTES ON FOOD AND HISTORY

  CHAPTER ONE

  1. SENTENCED TO CAYENNE: Cayenne is the capital city, a beat-up, tropical, colonial town, in what is today the Department of French Guiana in northern South America, but the name Cayenne used to refer to the penal colony, which consisted of a number of places on the French Guianese mainland and three offshore islands. Dutch Guiana, across the Maroni River, today the independent nation of Suriname, shares an unguardable border in a still undeveloped rain forest.

  2. THE EVENTS OF DECEMBER: On December 2, 1851, Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte staged a successful coup d'état to remain in power beyond his elected term and establish a dictatorship, proclaiming himself Emperor Napoleon III. The date was chosen to mark the forty-sixth anniversary of the victory of his uncle, Napoleon Bonaparte, at the Battle of Austerlitz. Angry people supporting the overthrown republic rose up two days later, on December 4, in Paris and the provinces. They were violently suppressed, and thousands were driven into exile, including, most famously, Victor Hugo; thousands more were shipped to penal colonies.

  3. “AT THE COMPAS D'OR ON RUE MONTORGUEIL”: To be precise, the inn was at numbers 64 to 72 rue Montorgueil. In his notes in preparation for writing The Belly of Paris, Zola described this inn, built in the sixteenth century, as “several buildings of different sizes united by a courtyard in the back.” He wrote of how the area was covered with straw for parking carts. “Chickens walked around,” he noted, “and the place had the appearance of a farm.” He also described a door on the ground floor that led to the Restaurant Philippe, which is mentioned later, in Chapter Four. In the 1870s, when Zola was writing this book, Restaurant Philippe was one of the most famous restaurants in Paris. Though the name Compas d'Or continues, the original complex of buildings was torn down in 1927.

  4. BOULANGERIE: A boulangerie is a bread bakery, but because it traditionally had a huge wood-burning oven, such ovens have disappeared from Paris today. It rented out oven space to people in the neighborhood who wanted something baked. This is the origin of the many dishes, usually stews, with the adjective boulangére.

  5. EAU-DE-VIE: Eau-de-vie is white alcohol made from fermented fruit that is distilled twice and quickly bottled to remain colorless and maintain its fruity character.

  6. HE WAS A FORT: One of many examples of a particularly rich Parisan slang that came from the Les Halles market. A fort was a porter, literally a strong man, who hefted meat carcasses and crates in the market.

  7. PEAL OF BELLS: Bells were used in each of the pavilions to signal work shifts in the market.

  8. BARATTE'S: This restaurant in the Les Halles neighborhood, mentioned throughout the novel, was in vogue in the mid-nineteenth century, and the building is painstakingly described, floor by floor, in Zola's notes.

  9. TRIPERIE: A type of shop that in France goes back to the Middle Ages, a triperie sells not only tripe but the full range of offal and inward products.

  10. KÉPIS: Visored cylindrical French military caps originally invented in Algeria with a cane base to be lightweight. In 1852, six years before the action of this book, the képi became established in metropolitan France for both military personnel and some police units.

  11. HIS CHARCUTERIE: One of the oldest types of French food shops, tracing its roots back to ancient Greece and Rome. The French word comes from chair, meaning “meat,” and cuit, meaning “cooked.” Charcuteries originally concentrated on pork products, but in Zola's time the repertoire was expanding and has continued to expand in our day. A charcuterie specializes in prepared foods, including cured meats, such as sausages, hams, and pâtés, predominantly but not exclusively pork products, and also predominantly but not exclusively meat preparations.

  12. TO RUE RAMBUTEAU, ACROSS FROM LES HALLES: The significance
of the Quenu charcuterie being moved from rue Pirouette to rue Rambuteau is that rue Pirouette was a winding old street from medieval Paris that somehow survived Baron Georges Haussmann's rebuilding of Paris, whereas the new location on rue Rambuteau was very much part of the new, rebuilt Les Halles district. This was of great symbolic importance to Zola, who correctly associated Haussmann's plan with the militarism of the hated empire.

  13. RILLETTES: Rillettes are potted pork belly cooked down until it is a fatty meat spread. The belly is cooked for a number of hours; then the meat is separated from the fat and pounded into fibers, then mixed back with the fat and stored in earthen crocks, where it would keep for a very long time even before the age of refrigeration. It is also sometimes made from goose, chicken, or rabbit. In the case of goose, skin is sometimes added. But rillettes are supposed to be made exclusively from the meat and fat of a cut with salt as the only additive, though nitrates such as saltpeter, which is a salt, were sometimes added even in Zola's day. The earliest references to rillettes are from the fifteenth century, when they were called rellée or rihelle. Toward the center of France, especially Touraine and Anjou, is the celebrated area of rillettes. It is said that they were the primary food of the rural poor of Touraine.

  14. JAMBONNEAUX: A jambonneau is a lightly cured pork shoulder, which is really the upper arm of the pig. It is a pear-shaped cut, hand-molded after cooking to emphasize the shape and the meat pushed down to make the bone stick up at the end like a stem, though in this case it is presented with the bone removed. Traditionally it is lightly dusted with bread crumbs.

  15. BOUDIN: Blood sausage. In the next chapter, Zola gives as a backdrop one of the novel's best scenes, a description of how to make boudin. Today it is called boudin noir because of the advent of boudin blanc—white sausage made of white chicken or pork meat and sometimes with cream added. But in the Paris of Zola boudin referred to boudin noir, sausage made with pork blood, a little pig's head, and onions sautéed in lard and sometimes milk or cream, though this last addition seems to have been less common in the nineteenth century.