Free Paris Noir by Jacques Yonnet Page A

There are in a few small areas of the city places where a sense of eternity pervades everything that happens. The simple folk that populate them are the last people to realize what kind of timelessness they represent. Some of them constitute what can only be described as a sheer phenomenon of survival.
    At Pignol’s‚ for instance‚ there are evenings when we experience what I call the ‘magic’ hour. This word‚ for me‚ is fraught with meaning: I use it rarely. I’m wary of it. But I know why I’ve written it here.
    In general it comes the day after a grim day‚ on which one of us has received bad news: the death of a distant loved one‚ or the arrest of a friend. Here‚ we share our sorrows as if by osmosis. We all suffer intensely‚ dutifully‚ as if to relieve the person principally concerned. And we only speak of the unhappy event to try and attenuate‚ assuage‚ avert what might arise from it. Our silences are filled with suppressed anger. But every time‚ something unexpected happens to restore the atmosphere‚ by shifting‚ rearranging our way of thinking. Often the conversation‚ desultory at first‚ revolves round a mythical figure‚ a curious character‚ a semi-phantom everyone claims to have met though I still don’t know whether he exists in the same way as you and I‚ or whether he’s part of the suggestive fantasy that envelops ‘the Village’ and sometimes takes possession of it by unhinging the minds of all its night- birds‚ simultaneously. We’re talking about the Old Man Who Appears After Midnight.
    In this most deceptive and secret corner of the capital‚ many are the bars where the night life‚ though far from noisy‚ is in full swing between midnight and five in the morning‚ during the hours of curfew. Apart from the gang of bohemians of whom I am in some sense the key player and prime mover‚ it’s mostly the dustbin-rakers and wholesale rag-and-bone men who keep these unsociable hours‚ all shutters closed‚ all doors bolted‚ whistle wet and ears pricked. Then‚ tradition has it – unfortunately‚ I’ve so far been unable to check the foundations of this tradition – that when an argument which cannot be resolved sets at loggerheads peopleof opposing views‚ whether it’s over military operations‚ black market transactions‚ or the buying price of non-ferrous metals‚ the Old Man turns up‚ without anyone having seen him enter. Huddled in a dark corner‚ seated with his tall walking- stick beside him‚ he chips in and with a few words confounds the cocksure or the wrong-headed.
    The Old Man doesn’t appear to all and sundry. In any case‚ no one’s ever seen him until after midnight‚ and only in these parts: at Pignol’s‚ Quatre-Fesses‚ Trois-Mailletz‚ Dumont’s. He takes a mischievous pleasure in making his entrance or exit when people’s attention is focused elsewhere. He reveals his presence with a little laugh‚ a kind of chuckle‚ or else he says something – a simple truth – that’s spot on‚ and comes just at the right moment‚ leaving nothing more to be said. Often when there’s a quarrel to settle‚ questions are put to him‚ but he only answers when both parties are present. And his word is regarded as final. ‘God’s Honest Truth‚’ say the old women – Salagnac‚ Georgette‚ Thérèse …
    The old fellow’s a good man. It was he who patched things up between Edouard and Bébert‚ the two junk dealers who fell out over some story about fencing stolen goods of which neither one of them was guilty. It was he who reconciled the Graillot couple‚ despite the slanderous lies that had been told about Graillot’s wife. He saw to it that at the critical moment little Bibiche was kept away because of mumps‚ and diagnosed Solange’s daughter Zouzou’s scarlet fever.
    I get to hear all this from Pignolette‚ who appears to have a strange reverence for the Old Man. Her voice changes when she talks about