Rigadoon Read Free

90 . . . 100! With every possible blessing . . . Grand Cross of everything! and Holy Sepulcher! . . . and those rip-roaring funerals . . . every kind of unction, Bishop, Prefect, Chamber of Commerce, and the Devil himself in his tilbury . . .
    My Figaro , my relaxation! . . .
    I don't subscribe for nothing . . . every day five columns of edifying deaths . . . Mind you, I've been looking for years . . . for news of a lousy collaborator buried in style . . . with honors and blessings . . . no dice! . . . those stiffs get buried without any holy water, without choirboys, in some stinking field . . . nameless . . . like pretty near happened to Poquelin . . . me, they've erased me . . . rubbed out our tombstones in Père-Lachaise, papa, mama, and me . . .
    Dear Figaro , my yoyo! . . . not just the death notices! another good joke! . . . the news from the ex-colonies . . . how the new electors are planning to decapitate and roast the backward whites . . . oh, with the best of intentions, no thought of racism! nicely salted . . . no swastikas in Timbuktu! once and for all, the brown plague can't get off the ground outside of Germany! . . . Adolf is dead? another laugh! since Bismarck all chancellors, big, little, young, old, doddering, have been cracked . . . nuts, it's comical! the last one, the sly old wreck, has started a crusade! anti-goy pogroms for Europe! ten thousand massacres on every sidewalk! . . . every night! antiracist! . . . I won't live to see it, maybe you will . . . that's Germany, still chasing after the madman's dream . . .
    Dingggaling! somebody else at the door! . . . where's my head? . . . I'm talking to myself! . . . no! no! it's the phone! Again! I've nothing to say! . . . oh yes, I have! . . .
    "Hello! Hello! no, monsieur, our goose is cooked! we're cosmic!"
    "Cosmic?!"
    "Yes, the whole lot of us! . . . I beseech you, let me finish my little tale!"
    "What's the title, Maaaître? oh, the title?"
    "For what paper?"
    "La Source . . . pro-Communo-pluto-Christian!"
    "Excellent! . . . excellent!"
    "Yes, but the title?"
    "Blind-man's buff!"
    "For the movies?"
    "Of course!"
    "What stars?"
    "A whole raft!"
    "Names, names, Maaître!"
    "Impossible! stars, étoiles, the heavens! Delphi made gods, Rome never made anything but saints, but we, monsieur, the wonders of our age, turn out a hundred stars a week!"
    So what? big, little, medium, midgets? . . . I'll see . . . dinga-ling! I hang up, that'll do! somebody else on the line . . . I won't answer.

 

    Here it is Christmas! . . . I say to myself: now they'll leave me alone! that's all senior citizens think about unless they're completely off their rocker . . . about being left alone . . . Hurrah for Christmas . . . not very festive, you've nothing left to give, you're not getting any more visits . . . exempt! Hurrah for Christmas! . . . Not getting any more presents either! Hurrah some more for Christmas! No need to say thank you! Hurrah for Christmas!
    Basta! somebody ringing! . . . once, twice, not the phone . . . at the gate! down below the garden, three times! . . . of course I could play deaf, I'm not a maid. Bow-wow! . . . the dogs start up! it's their job . . . four of them, the little bitch and three males . . . they like noise! . . . the bastard's still ringing! maybe a beggar? hell! they've taken enough, robbed me enough, they've hauled everything away, sold it at the Flea Market and the auction rooms! shit, I've given enough for a lifetime! I just wish they'd give it back! . . . some people get compensation for being looted, and plenty! I'm not one of them! . . . I'm the other kind that always owe! . . . Grrr! the stubborn bastard at the gate, he's rung at least ten times, it gives the mutts a kick . . . not so good, this Christmas! . . . oh yes, I forgot, it's raining blue blazes! . . . he must be soaked through, the lout . . . oh, that doesn't cramp his style . . . he's still ringing, but there's one drawback, the neighbors! suppose they start barking