frantic. I rushed out, determined to ask for credit at the little restaurant near the Place Clichy, where I often ate. Just outside the restaurant I lost my nerve and turned away. I now took to strolling about aimlessly, hoping that by some miracle I would bump into someone I knew. I knocked about for an hour or so, until I grew so exhausted that I decided to return home and go to bed. On the way I thought of a friend, a Russian, who lived near the outer boulevard. It was ages since I had seen him last. How could I walk in on him, like that, and ask for a hand-out? Then a brilliant thought hit me: I would go home, fetch the records, and hand them to him as a little gift. In that way it would be easier, after a few preliminaries, to suggest a sandwich or a piece of cake. I quickened my pace, though dog-tired and lame in the shanks.
When I got back to the house I saw that it was near midnight. That completely crushed me. It was useless to do any further foraging; I would go to bed and hope for something to turn up in the morning. As I was undressing I got another idea, this time not such a brilliant one, but still. . . I went to the sink and opened the little closet where the garbage can stood. I removed the cover and looked inside. There were a few bones and a hard crust of bread lying at the bottom. I fished out the dry crust, carefully scraped off the contaminated parts so as to waste as little as possible, and soaked it under the faucet. Then I bit into it slowly, extracting the utmost from each crumb. As I gulped it down a smile spread over my face, a broader and broader one. Tomorrow, I thought to myself, I shall go back to the shop and offer the books at half price, or a third, or a fourth. Ditto for the records. Ought to fetch ten francs, at least. Would have a good hearty breakfast, and then . . . Well, after that anything might happen. We’d see . . . I smiled some more, as if to a well-fed stomach. I was beginning to feel in excellent humor. That Nys, she must have had a corking meal. Probably with her lover. I hadn’t the vaguest doubt but that she had a lover. Her great problem, her dilemma no doubt, had been how to feed him properly, how to buy him the clothes and other little things he craved. Well, it had been a royal fuck, even though I had fucked myself into the bargain. I could see her raising the napkin to her full ripe lips to wipe away the sauce from the tender chicken she had ordered. I wondered how her taste ran in wines. If we could only go to the Touraine country! But that would need a lot of jack. I’d never have that much money. Never. Just the same, no harm dreaming about it. I drank another glass of water. Putting the glass back, I espied a piece of Roquefort in a corner of the cupboard. If only there was just another crust of bread! To make sure I had overlooked nothing, I opened the garbage can again. A few bones lying in a scum of mildewed fat stared up at me.
I wanted another piece of bread, and I wanted it bad. Maybe I could borrow a hunk from a neighboring tenant. I opened the hall door and tiptoed out. There was a silence as of the grave. I put my ear to one of the doors and listened. A child coughed faintly. No use. Even if someone was awake it wasn’t done. Not in France. Who ever heard of a Frenchman knocking at his neighbor’s door in the dead of night to ask for a crust of bread? “Shit!” I muttered to myself, “to think of all the bread we’ve thrown into the garbage can!” I bit into the Roquefort grimly. It was old and sour; it crumbled to bits, like a piece of plaster that had been soaked in urine. That bitch, Nys! If only I knew her address I would go and beg a few francs of her. I must have been out of my mind not to hold out a little change. To give money to a whore is like throwing it down the sewer. Her great need! An extra chemise, most likely, or a pair of sheer silk hose glimpsed in passing a shop window.
I worked myself into a fine fury. All because there wasn’t an extra crust of bread in the house. Idiotic! Thoroughly idiotic! In my delirium I began to dwell on malted milk shakes, and how, in America, there was always an extra glassful waiting for you in the shaker. That extra glassful was tantalizing. In America there was always more than you needed, not less. As I peeled my things off I felt my ribs. They stuck out like the sides of an accordion. That plump little bitch, Nys—she certainly was not dying of malnutrition. Once again, shit!—and to bed.
I had scarcely pulled the covers over me when I began laughing again. This time it was terrifying. I got to laughing so hysterically that I couldn’t stop. It was like a thousand Roman candles going off at once. No matter what I thought of, and I tried to think of sad and even terrible things, the laughter continued. Because of a little crust of bread! That was the phrase which repeated itself intermittently, and which threw me into renewed fits of laughter.
I was only in bed about an hour when I heard Carl opening the door. He went straight to his room and closed his door. I was sorely tempted to ask him to go out and buy me a sandwich and a bottle of wine. Then I had a better idea. I would get up early, while he was still sound asleep and rifle his pockets. As I was tossing about, I heard him open the door of his room and go to the bathroom. He was giggling and whispering—to some floozy, most likely, whom he had picked up on the way home.
As he came out of the bathroom I called to him.
“So you’re awake?” he said jubilantly. “What’s the matter, are you sick?”
I explained that I was hungry, ravenously hungry. Had he any change on him?
“I’m cleaned out,” he said. He said it cheerfully, as though it were nothing of importance.
“Haven’t you got a franc at least?” I demanded.
“Don’t worry about francs,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed with the air of a man who is about to confide a piece of important news. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about now. I brought a girl home with me—a waif. She can’t be more than fourteen. I just gave her a lay. Did you hear me? I hope I didn’t knock her up. She’s a virgin.”
“You mean she was,” I put in.
“Listen, Joey,” he said, lowering his voice to make it sound more convincing, “we’ve got to do something for her. She has no place to stay . . . she ran away from home. I found her walking about in a trance, half-starved, and a little demented, I thought at first. Don’t worry, she’s O.K. Not very bright, but a good sort. Probably from a good family. She’s just a child . . . you’ll see. Maybe I’ll marry her when she comes of age. Anyway there’s no money. I spent my last cent buying her a meal. Too bad you had to go without dinner. You should have been with us. We had oysters, lobster, shrimps—and a wonderful wine. A Chablis, year . . .”
“Fuck the year!” I shouted. “Don’t tell me about what you ate. I’m as empty as an ash can. Now we’ve got three mouths to feed and no money, not a sou.”
“Take it easy, Joey,” he said smilingly, “you know I always keep a few francs in my pocket for an emergency.” He dove into his pocket and pulled out the change. It amounted to three francs sixty altogether. “That’ll get you a breakfast,” he said. “Tomorrow’s another day.”
At that moment the girl stuck her head through the doorway. Carl jumped up and brought her to the bed. “Colette,” he said, as I put out my hand to greet her. “What do you think of her?”
Before I had time to answer, the girl turned to him and, almost as if frightened, asked what language we were speaking.
“Don’t you know English when you hear it?” said Carl, giving me a glance which said I told you she wasn’t very bright.
Blushing with confusion, the girl explained quickly that it sounded at first like German, or perhaps Belgian.
“There is no Belgian!” snorted Carl. Then to me: “She’s a little idiot. But look at those breasts! Pretty ripe for fourteen, what? She swears she’s seventeen, but I don’t believe her.”
Colette stood there listening to the strange language, unable even yet to grasp the fact that Carl could speak anything but French. Finally she demanded to know if he really was French. It seemed quite important
