Quiet Days in Clichy. Генри Миллер
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 to her.
“Sure I’m French,” said Carl blithely. “Can’t you tell by my speech? Do I talk like a Boche? Want to see my passport?”
“Better not show her that,” I said, remembering that he carried a Czech passport.
“Would you like to come in and look at the sheets?” he said, putting an arm around Colette’s waist. “We’ll have to throw them away, I guess. I can’t take them to the laundry; they’d suspect me of having committed a crime.”
“Get her to wash them,” I said jocularly. “There’s a lot she can do around here if she wants to keep house for us.”
“So you do want her to stay? You know it’s illegal, don’t you? We can go to jail for this.”
“Better get her a pair of pajamas, or a nightgown,” I said, “because if she’s going to walk around at night in that crazy shift of yours I may forget myself and rape her.”
He looked at Colette and burst out laughing.
“What is it?” she exclaimed. “Are you making fun of me? Why doesn’t your friend talk French?”
“You’re right,” I said. “From now on we’re talking French and nothing but French. D’accord?”
A childish grin spread over her face. She bent down and gave me a kiss on both cheeks. As she did so her boobies fell out and brushed my face. The little shift fell open all the way down, revealing an exquisitely full young body.
“Jesus, take her away and keep her locked up in your room,” I said. “I won’t be responsible for what happens if she’s going to prowl around in that get-up while you’re out.”
Carl packed her off to his room and sat down again on the edge of the bed. “We’ve got a problem on our hands, Joey,” he began, “and you’ve got to help me. I don’t care what you do with her when my back is turned. I’m not jealous, you know that. But