The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin Read Free

hesitating at street corners, then
     dashing off like a madman. In the main square, Place du Congrès, he keeps away from
     the trees. He slows down when he glimpses a passer-by in the distance. But the
     unknown figure turns off in another direction.
    Rue de la Loi. Two-storey houses. A
     doorway.
    Jean Chabot feels for his keys, puts one
     in the lock, switches on the light and goes towards the kitchen with its
     glass-panelled door, where there are still some embers glowing in the range.
    He has to turn back, because he forgot
     to shut the front door. It’s warm inside. There’s a piece of paper on
     the white oilcloth covering the kitchen table, with a few words scribbled in
     pencil:
You’ll
     find a mutton chop in the sideboard and a slice of tart in the larder.
     Goodnight. Father.
    Jean stares at it dazedly, opens the
     sideboard, sees the chop, and the sight of it makes him feel sick. On top of the
     sideboard is a pot holding a plant with blue flowers, forget-me-nots perhaps.
    That must mean Aunt Maria called round.
     She always brings some kind of house plant. Her home on Quai Saint-Léonard is full
     of them. And she always gives you detailed instructions about how to care for
     them.
    Jean switches off the light, and tiptoes
     upstairs in his stockinged feet. He goes past the lodgers’ bedrooms on the
     first floor landing.
    Another flight up, and he’s at
     attic level. Cool air comes in from the roof. As he reaches the landing, a mattress
     creaks. Someone is awake, his father or his mother. He opens his bedroom door.
    A muffled voice:
    â€˜Is that you, Jean?’
    Right, he’d better go and say
     goodnight to his parents. He goes into their room. The air is warm and stuffy. They
     must have been in bed for hours.
    â€˜Late, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Oh not very …’
    â€˜You really
     ought …’
    But no, his father doesn’t have
     the courage to scold him. Or guesses that it would be no use.
    â€˜Goodnight, son.’
    Jean bends down and kisses a damp
     forehead.
    â€˜You’re freezing cold. You—’
    â€˜Yes, it’s cold
     outside.’
    â€˜Did you find the chop? Your Aunt
     Maria brought the tart.’
    â€˜I’d already eaten with my
     friends.’
    His mother turns over in her sleep and
     her chignon uncoils on to the pillow.
    â€˜Goodnight.’
    He can’t stand any more of this.
     In his own room, he doesn’t even put the light on. He throws down his jacket
     and lies on the bed, pressing his face into the pillow. He isn’t crying. He
     can’t. But he tries to catch his breath. His limbs are trembling, his whole
     body is shivering in spasms, as if he were seriously ill.
    He just doesn’t want to make the
     bedsprings creak. He wants to stifle the sob he can feel in his throat, because he
     guesses that his father, who hardly ever sleeps, will be lying awake next door,
     listening.
    An image grows inside his head, a word
     echoes, swells, becomes monstrously loud as if it is about to destroy everything:
     the Turk!
    And he is tormented, oppressed, stifled,
     as if in the grasp of something terrible – until suddenly the sun is streaming
     through the skylight, and his father is standing at the foot of the bed, muttering
     weakly, as if afraid of being too stern:
    â€˜Look, you really shouldn’t,
     Jean … You were drinking again, weren’t you? You didn’t even
     get undressed!’
    From downstairs comes the smell of
     coffee, eggs and bacon. Trucks are passing in the streets. Doors slam. A cock
     crows.

2. Petty Cash
    Elbows on the table, Jean Chabot pushed
     away his plate, keeping his eyes fixed on the little courtyard visible through the
     net curtains, its whitewashed walls dazzling in the sunlight.
    His father, observing him
     surreptitiously between mouthfuls, was trying to maintain some kind of
     conversation.
    â€˜Do you know if it’s true