Free North by Louis-Ferdinand Céline Page B

something to eat . . . Le Vig goes back to his bedspring, he's asleep again . . . we'll do the same, I guess . . . talking is out . . . can't hear anything but the sirens . . . they bellow an hour at least . . . two hours false alarm . . . not a single bomb . . . Ivan had said so . . . nothing but sound effects . . . so let's doze if we can . . . we need a rest . . . I'll see the dawn coming . . . I can lie like this for hours, I'm used to it . . . I had a feeling Ivan wasn't far away . . . he must be watching to see what we're up to . . . a peephole, a private crack . . .
    "Komm, Ivan! Komm!"
    Can't he stop pussyfooting? . . . I want to talk to him . . . it bugs me his roaming around this way . . . here he is! . . .
    "Ivan . . . the other guests?"
    "All weg! all gone!"
    So that's why there was room for us!
    "And the coffee?"
    His wife must have some downstairs . . . I slip him another hundred marks . . . he'll be rich if this goes on . . . Ivan is willing . . . he goes down and comes back with a tray, three bowls, a coffeepot, powdered milk, and a pile of black bread . . . loaves and slices . . .
    "Sugar, Ivan. . ."
    The sugar comes out of his pocket . . . big lumps . . . two apiece . . . nothing to complain about . . .
    "Ivan . . . Künstler . . . bright as a new ruble! . . . maybe they'll send you home . . . you deserve it. . . to Siberia! . . . you'll open a palace hotel! . . . nach Siberia!"
    "Ach! ach! ach!"
    We may as well enjoy ourselves . . . we're not here to weep! . . . our morale at the Steinbock Hotel was tops! Proof: we drank all his phony coffee, with his bread, if you can call it bread, half sawdust . . . and his sugar . . . pure saccharine . . . and lukewarm! . . .
    "Hey, Ferd! Look at this!"
    I go look out his window, I lift the curtain . . . Schinderstrasse is waking up . . . people coining and going . . . mostly crews picking up the junk . . . stones, rabble . . . still falling! . . . gangs of old men and women . . . they pick the stuff up, they make new piles . . . neat and orderly . . . pretty soon there won't be any more sidewalk, too many piles, too high, too wide, pyramids . . . I've told you, the house fronts that are left wobble, float, sway and flake in the wind . . . the scavengers come out of their holes at dawn . . . day rats . . . they don't work fast, not much enthusiasm, but plenty of order . . . old hands, old bodies, rheumatic, haggard, twisted . . . wonder where they eat? are they Russians? . . . Baltics?. . . down-and-outers from here?. . . they're all wearing pants . . . well, practically . . . the ones in skirts look more like men . . . they all seem to be smoking . . . smoking what? . . . pretty soon there won't be anything left of the houses . . . nothing but dust and craters . . . the Steinbock can expect to be a mound before long . . . there are two stories on the sidewalk already . . . those gangs of old gravediggers are working for the future! They make Hamlet look like a smalltime punk, a spoiled dialectician . . . he should have gone to work on the Castle, demolished it stone by stone . . . done him a lot of good! there wouldn't have been so many alas alases out of him! I saw those old people toiling, they looked like ghosts, not very quick I'll admit but extra conscientious, piling up those tiles . . . till there wasn't one left lying around . . . even looking across the street, in the other piles that came from the Steinbock, that belonged to our ruin . . . really hardworking . . . none of your slapdash slobs . . . Those crews . . . when the world is all ashes . . . when the whole planet's reduced to neutron sludge . . . they'll make little piles of those chemical compounds, say three four piles to a capital . . . five piles for Brooklyn-Manhattan . . . of course I'm joking! . . . well see what happens . . . now we're on Schinderstrasse . . . two piles for Paris! . . . we've lost the thread . . . I'll get back! . . . we look out at the street . . . those people put order in