Free Paris Noir by Jacques Yonnet Page B

him. It seems to quiver slightly. I don’t know what to reply or what to think. I’m living in an unreal world.
The Ill-Fated Knees
    Fourteen metres and a hundred and thirty kilos. These are the records held at the Café Guignard‚ on the corner of Rue Dante‚ by the bar counter and the patron respectively. This colossus has the huge beaky-nosed head of some strangecreature. It’s impossible not to think of the grotesques on the Pont-Neuf. His bushy brown eyebrows especially lend his face a strength that’s both solid and nervy‚ though somewhat belied by his flabby cheeks.
    I’m not particularly fond of squalor‚ and I don’t believe it was the stale smell of sweat‚ warm sour drinks‚ and fetid urine that drew me there that sweltering afternoon. Monsieur Casquette was having a quiet tipple. I offered to buy him a drink. He seemed pleased to see me. Perhaps relieved. Everyone was gathered in one part of the room‚ over on the right. A collective hysteria‚ a vile brutish laughter had taken possession of this human scum‚ their shoulders and behinds all heaving in unison. Emanating from this convulsive coagulation of bodies could be heard in snatches the sound of an argument: two shrill voices trading abuse in the most lurid language that it would be pointless and inappropriate to record here.
    I overcame my sickened indifference and went over‚ followed by Monsieur Casquette‚ to view ‘the spectacle’. It was well worth it.
    A fair-haired man stood slightly bent forwards with his hands resting on the backs of two chairs. His trousers were rolled up above his knees. The said knees were tattooed. Two faces‚ two caricatures deliberately made to look alike. On the right‚ a grim-featured moustached man with dark eyebrows. On the left‚ a rosy-cheeked woman‚ with very long eyelashes‚ heavily made-up eyes‚ and full lips. The man clenched his muscles‚ played his tendons; his knee-caps danced‚ and all his contractions imparted strange life to the two warring faces. For the knees spoke to each other in tortured French‚ interpersed with Mediterrean pidgin and unidentifiable words‚ vile expressions: the man adopted different voices‚ and the scene was of such black comedy that it made me feel a kind of anguish. Monsieur Casquette watched without turning a hair. Admittedly‚ he’s seen a lot worse.
    Tiring‚ the man stopped for a breather‚ while the baying crowd took the opportunity to relax for a moment. The man downed in quick succession four glasses of alcohol‚ to which he was generously treated by his audience. He was gettingready to resume his performance; but then the couple came in. About fifty years old‚ penurious‚ weary and scruffy. Yet not actually tramps. He was laden with a bundle‚ one of those rolled-up pieces of black cloth of the kind that painters or some day-labourers carry. The woman was dragging a suitcase. Their features were marked with dejection‚ as well as immense lassitude.
    Meeting the gaze of the man with the knees‚ they froze. Petrified. For a second‚ there was total silence. The most befuddled‚ the most obtuse of the tramps present must have felt a shock. The laughter of the half-drunken women changed in tone and colour. No one dared breathe. Three pairs of eyes confronted each other. They came from another universe‚ where hatred‚ hatred alone‚ serves as the source of energy.
    It was the man with the knees who made the first move: he readjusted his clothing‚ headed for the door‚ and was caught in sunshine. The couple‚ very slowly‚ went up to the counter. They ordered rum and exchanged a few fleeting words in a language I didn’t understand.
    ‘Let’s go‚’ said Monsieur Casquette‚ ‘there’s a sense of doom here.’

    That evening we were at the Quatre-Fesses. A joint so called [Quatre-Fesses meaning Four-Buttocks] because run by two women past their prime‚ who‚ disappointed at having found only incomplete satisfaction with