had discovered a source of funds.
“I told you you would,” his waiter friend replied. “I told you that the way to find a job was to wander round Paris.”
“You’re perfectly right,” Tito said. “By wandering round Paris I found a source of funds in New York.”
“Explain the riddle.”
“An uncle of mine in America . . .”
“You mean to tell me that uncles in America really exist?”
“. . . is the editor of a big morning newspaper. He has just replied by cable informing me that he will be glad to publish any articles I offer him. Thanks to my uncle’s generosity and the favorable exchange rate, I shall be able to earn a by no means despicable monthly income. My first article will be on cocaine and cocaine addicts.”
The waiter had in fact taken him to Montmartre in search of dens where worshippers of la captivante coco gathered.
“Here?” Tito asked at the entrance to a café.
“Here,” his friend replied, pushing him in.
From the outside the café looked gloomy. From the outside Paris cafés generally look gloomy; there’s too much wood and too little glass on the doors and windows, and the little light that might have been able to get in is partly obstructed by the big enamel lettering giving the names of the drinks and their prices.
They were just about to go in when they met the man with a wooden leg, who stepped back to allow them to pass.
“He lives in my hotel,” Tito said, “and no one knows what his job is.”
“Job?” his friend replied. “He’s in a very lucrative business indeed, it’s all in his wooden leg.”
“He must be a beggar,” said Tito.
“Good heavens, no.”
“That’s the only way of earning money with a wooden leg.”
“Is that what you think? He does much better than that. But there’s no hurry. You’ll soon see what I mean.”
The landlord was behind the counter, serving big glasses of beer to a number of taxi drivers, who smelled of cheap tobacco and wet mackintoshes. Behind him bottles of liquor garlanded with little flags sparkled cheerfully on glass shelves, doubly reflected in the walls of bright mirrors behind them and in front of them.
On the counter a big spherical aquarium housed some melancholy red fish. The refraction and the combination of natural and artificial light made them look as strange as Chinese dragons as they swam around gracefully.
“There are some people,” said Tito, drinking a glass of port at the counter, “who go to bed full of aches and pains after a drop of rain, while fish, who spend their whole lives in water, don’t even know what rheumatism is.”
A metallic, strident laugh that sounded as if someone had struck a tray full of glasses echoed through the room.
“Go back in there, you fool,” the landlord called out.
And the girl with the pale face and glassy eyes who had laughed fell back two or three paces as if her face had been slapped, and withdrew behind the reddish curtains that concealed the entrance to the next room.
“ Pas de pétard ici ,” the man continued in slang. Then, realizing that Tito was a foreigner, he translated for him. “ Pas de bruit,” he said.
Tito took umbrage at this. “Are you referring to me?” he said
“ A la môme,” the man explained. “ A la poule .”
When the taxi drivers left, Tito’s friend whispered something to the man, whose only answer was to raise the red velvet curtains.
“ À votre service ,” he said with a bow.
Tito and his friend went into the next room as if they were entering a waxwork show restricted to men over the age of eighteen.
Their arrival was greeted with a certain mistrust. A stagnant, yellowish light shone down on a number of small tables covered with green baize of the kind used for card tables and university exams. The room was not a big one; there was a big divan that went all round it, eight small tables, a piano, some newspapers dirtied by drink and finger marks, and a mirror that had been scratched with a
“I told you you would,” his waiter friend replied. “I told you that the way to find a job was to wander round Paris.”
“You’re perfectly right,” Tito said. “By wandering round Paris I found a source of funds in New York.”
“Explain the riddle.”
“An uncle of mine in America . . .”
“You mean to tell me that uncles in America really exist?”
“. . . is the editor of a big morning newspaper. He has just replied by cable informing me that he will be glad to publish any articles I offer him. Thanks to my uncle’s generosity and the favorable exchange rate, I shall be able to earn a by no means despicable monthly income. My first article will be on cocaine and cocaine addicts.”
The waiter had in fact taken him to Montmartre in search of dens where worshippers of la captivante coco gathered.
“Here?” Tito asked at the entrance to a café.
“Here,” his friend replied, pushing him in.
From the outside the café looked gloomy. From the outside Paris cafés generally look gloomy; there’s too much wood and too little glass on the doors and windows, and the little light that might have been able to get in is partly obstructed by the big enamel lettering giving the names of the drinks and their prices.
They were just about to go in when they met the man with a wooden leg, who stepped back to allow them to pass.
“He lives in my hotel,” Tito said, “and no one knows what his job is.”
“Job?” his friend replied. “He’s in a very lucrative business indeed, it’s all in his wooden leg.”
“He must be a beggar,” said Tito.
“Good heavens, no.”
“That’s the only way of earning money with a wooden leg.”
“Is that what you think? He does much better than that. But there’s no hurry. You’ll soon see what I mean.”
The landlord was behind the counter, serving big glasses of beer to a number of taxi drivers, who smelled of cheap tobacco and wet mackintoshes. Behind him bottles of liquor garlanded with little flags sparkled cheerfully on glass shelves, doubly reflected in the walls of bright mirrors behind them and in front of them.
On the counter a big spherical aquarium housed some melancholy red fish. The refraction and the combination of natural and artificial light made them look as strange as Chinese dragons as they swam around gracefully.
“There are some people,” said Tito, drinking a glass of port at the counter, “who go to bed full of aches and pains after a drop of rain, while fish, who spend their whole lives in water, don’t even know what rheumatism is.”
A metallic, strident laugh that sounded as if someone had struck a tray full of glasses echoed through the room.
“Go back in there, you fool,” the landlord called out.
And the girl with the pale face and glassy eyes who had laughed fell back two or three paces as if her face had been slapped, and withdrew behind the reddish curtains that concealed the entrance to the next room.
“ Pas de pétard ici ,” the man continued in slang. Then, realizing that Tito was a foreigner, he translated for him. “ Pas de bruit,” he said.
Tito took umbrage at this. “Are you referring to me?” he said
“ A la môme,” the man explained. “ A la poule .”
When the taxi drivers left, Tito’s friend whispered something to the man, whose only answer was to raise the red velvet curtains.
“ À votre service ,” he said with a bow.
Tito and his friend went into the next room as if they were entering a waxwork show restricted to men over the age of eighteen.
Their arrival was greeted with a certain mistrust. A stagnant, yellowish light shone down on a number of small tables covered with green baize of the kind used for card tables and university exams. The room was not a big one; there was a big divan that went all round it, eight small tables, a piano, some newspapers dirtied by drink and finger marks, and a mirror that had been scratched with a
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