you. What a life. I haven’t always lived like this, Monsieur, if only you knew—’
‘I had guessed as much. Goodbye.’
‘Freeloaders, and women’s meddling, that’s what brings down a ministry!’ Lorson muttered to Victor’s receding back.
Victor had nearly reached the exit to the abattoirs when he came across a mob of people. He stopped, unable to believe his eyes. A group of men and women were waiting their turn to sip from a bowl of red liquid that a butcher was holding out to them.
Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He had never seen anything as bad as this.
‘Get in line!’ a policeman warned him.
Victor made a faint gesture of refusal. He felt as though he were losing his grip on reality. He leant against the railings and closed his eyes. He had heard of this practice: a dose of warm, fresh blood was reputed to cure nervous disorders and tuberculosis.
Trembling, and revolted by the sickly smell, he walked along past a cold store and found himself back at the Ourcq canal. A stray dog eyed him for a moment before going back to foraging among the contents of a bin. The snow had stopped falling.
*
Kenji had been careful not to let his irritation show when, for the hundredth time, his business partner had not arrived at work until almost midday. Kenji had sat down at his desk and carried on working imperturbably on his spring catalogue. Although on the outside he was a picture of serenity, on the inside he was outraged.
‘No respect! Part of the furniture! I’m just part of the furniture! Everyone has abandoned me!’
Iris, his precious daughter and the centre of his universe, had become a stranger to him, enamoured of his shop assistant, who was infatuated with himself: Joseph had become even more insolent since his marriage. A little brat would soon arrive and turn the household upside down with its screaming and its tantrums. Euphrosine Pignot had extended her despotic rule over the whole family. And, to cap it all, Victor clearly begrudged the time he spent working in the bookshop. It seemed to Kenji that growing old was indeed like swallowing a bitter draught of tea. Was this a transition period? Had he been alone for too long? He felt himself becoming intellectually weaker, as the passing years relentlessly sapped his enthusiasm, and yet he still wanted to see more of life.
The voice of youth seemed to whisper: ‘Throw off your ties! Live your life!’ Torn between his love for his family and his desire for independence, he could not quite resolve to leave Rue des Saints-Pères and the Elzévir bookshop, the fruit of so many years’ work.
There’s nothing to stop me renting a room in town, he thought.
This vision of escape had begun to occupy his mind at the beginning of the year. He had received a letter from the disconcerting Eudoxie Allard, alias Fifi Bas-Rhin, alias the Archduchess Maximova, who assured him that she had not forgotten him in icy St Petersburg, and that soon she would be coming to Paris to embrace him. Kenji’s thoughts, however, had turned away from Eudoxie Allard. Instead, he was building castles in the air for Tasha’s mother, Djina Kherson, whom he imagined crossing the threshold of the room he could not quite resolve to rent.
That’s all very well, but how will I persuade her to come and see me, he wondered. How should I play it with a woman as intelligent, cultivated and slightly puritanical as she is? A woman who has passed the first flush of youth but still seems so youthful. A woman who would accept me as I am?
First of all, he would ask her advice about trifling details to do with the decoration or the colour of the curtains in his bachelor flat. Then he would try to get closer to her, tell her more about himself, make her laugh … In his mind, he began to construct an intimate relationship, rich in shared pleasures, emotions and promises.
When the time came for the family to gather for the midday meal, a minor incident confirmed his decision. Victor had stayed to eat and Euphrosine, annoyed by this unforeseen eventuality, had grumbled that she had made enough for four, not five, and that the portions would all be too small. She had prepared a celery salad followed by broad beans in a béchamel sauce, a feast of vegetables that suited Iris but left the three men feeling rather disappointed. Nevertheless, they ate heartily, careful not to offend their chef, who served them with such authority and refused to sit down herself until they had finished everything on their plates. The moment had finally come when they were about to tuck in to an eagerly anticipated orange blancmange, when Iris suddenly stopped chewing and, after a discreet exploration with her index finger, pulled a morsel of food out of her mouth and examined it suspiciously.
‘This looks … This looks like a piece of ham!’
Euphrosine responded with a bellow like an enraged bull.
‘Anybody would think I was trying to poison you! Oh, nobody knows the efforts I go to!’
Iris looked to Kenji and Joseph for support, but they maintained a diplomatic silence, although they had rather enjoyed the rich flavour of the ham in amongst all the vegetables.
‘And they call themselves men!’ cried the young woman indignantly. ‘I can’t count on anyone!’
She jumped up and ran off to shut herself in her bedroom. Joseph plucked up the courage to brave his mother’s wrath.
‘You know perfectly well she can’t stand meat!’
‘It’s not for the meat, it’s for the fat! She’s as skinny as a rake, that girl! I’m just trying to help the poor little baby!’
Victor chose this moment to interject.
‘If everybody who ate meat took the trouble to have a look at what goes on in abattoirs, they’d be permanently cured of their taste for a juicy steak. Luckily for them, they never do!’
‘Jesus, Mary and all the saints!’ cried Euphrosine. ‘Is that the way it is now? In that case, you can all make your own food!’
A second door slammed. Looking pale, Kenji quietly folded his napkin. ‘Well done, Victor, nicely timed. I’m going out and I’ll be back late,’ he muttered.
‘I’ll look after the shop,’ said Victor.
Joseph listened for a moment to Iris’s loud sobs and to his mother’s curses, and then he opened the door of the cupboard where the remains of a plate of roast beef and some cold potatoes still sat, looking a little forlorn by this time. As he chewed his way through it, he began to think about the second instalment of his serial, The Devil’s Bouquet, in which the unfortunate Carmella was destined to be murdered by the dastardly Zandini. Such literary concerns allowed him to rise above life’s little trials.
The afternoon passed without mishap. Euphrosine had taken refuge at her home in Rue Visconti with the dignity of a queen who has been severely wronged, and Iris hadn’t reappeared.
Victor was going over various theories about the murder of Louise Fontane and turning the unicorn talisman over and over in his hand, when the door opened and Horace Tenson, otherwise known as Pocket Size, also known as Abridged Edition, burst in.
‘I bring fresh news, Legris. I’ve got a petition here against the proliferation of velocipedes. The bicycle is killing the book trade! Devotees of this form of transport no longer have time to discover the wonders of literature! You agree, I assume?’
‘Of
