Existentialism and Death On a Paris Afternoon Read online

  EXISTENTIALSIM AND DEATH ON A PARIS AFTERNOON

  A Short Novel

  VICTOR METHOS

  Recall how often in human history the saint and the rebel have been the same person

  -Rollo May

  The doves of peace do not rest on the gallows. Simon Renard remembered a young friend at the University of Algiers who had uttered these words to him upon seeing French soldiers carry out a public execution. He thought of this now as he watched German soldiers march down the Place de la Concorde from the window of his small hotel room.

  The Germans promised peace as well. They had been advancing for weeks and swore that Paris would be spared should the French army retreat south. But Renard was no idealist. He saw clearly that the Germans would bring only death and plunder. Still, there was no reason to resist them. They were the stronger force and by right of strength they had conquered their weaker enemy. What other law of nature was there if not this?

  He saw a grown man weeping amongst the crowds as the soldiers passed by and he turned from his window and went back to bed.

  *****

  It was not until three in the afternoon that Renard awoke to a knock at his door. He rose from his bed and dressed and answered the door. Henri Babin, the hotel concierge, stood before him staring at the floor.

  “To what do I owe this visit, Henri?”

  “I apologize Monsieur Renard, but as you have seen, the Germans are here. They have commandeered our hotel and asked that all guests leave immediately. I told them that Monsieur Renard has been with us for longer than a year, but they did not listen.”

  “Of course. I will pack my things.”

  “Monsieur…I…”

  “It is all right, Henri. I will be fine. Thank you.”

  He packed his clothes and toiletries and the few books he had. Renard left his hotel room and took the elevator down to the hotel’s main floor. It was a plush lobby with fine Louis XIV furniture and paintings of long dead aristocrats on the walls. A procession of guests were checking out at the front desk. A group of German soldiers sat on the couches and chairs, laughing and smoking. Renard smiled at them and said hello but received only cold stares in return.

  He walked outside and into the crowds. The people spoke quietly or not at all. An old woman was yelling.

  “Help, help. Won’t one of you bastards help me!”

  “Madame,” Renard said, “what is the matter?”

  “My oranges,” she said. “My oranges are left across the street. I live here in this building and could not carry all of the groceries. I left them for a moment when these Germans began marching.”

  Renard glanced across the street and saw a small brown bag sitting underneath a street lamp. Germans were marching before it and the crowds didn’t seem to notice the bag.

  “Please, Monsieur, you must help. I need my oranges for tonight’s dinner. My husband will come home and throw a fit if dinner is not prepared!”

  “Madame, I believe you will have to wait until the marching is finished.”

  “Bastard! You won’t help me either.” She turned back toward the crowd. “Help! Someone must help me.”

  Renard walked away and down the street and around a corner. He walked for a long time with his suitcase and would have to switch hands often. He thought he would probably leave Paris now, if the Germans allowed it. They might require a pass of some sort but such things may not be too difficult to acquire.

  He decided he was hungry and stopped at a small café and ordered a tea and chocolate with a small plate of fruit and cheese. He ate quietly and watched the few people around him. Renard wondered why the café was so empty and then remembered that the Germans had taken Paris today. People were not sociable on a day like today. But they would soon forget and life would go back to being life.

  “How can you fill your belly now?” an old man at another table said to him.

  “An empty stomach is never a good thing, Monsieur.”

  The old man shrugged. “I suppose that’s true enough. I fought these sons of goats in the first Great War. Do you know they called it ‘The War to End All Wars?’ That was what the British and Americans called it. Pehh, we knew better. The politicians have their heads up their asses but we knew better. When we learned what would be imposed on the people of Germany, we knew what would happen. They will do the same to us now I suppose. And then we will have our Führer too. You cannot push a people too far.”

  When his meal was done, Renard ordered a cigar and sat on the veranda and smoked. The sun was bright and there were few clouds. It would be a good day to go for a long walk. A radio was on at an apartment next door and it was turned up so high the sound was distorted. But Renard could make out most of what was said. There would be a new government. A more “efficient” government. A collaboration between German and French interests. But it would be a government with Frenchmen at the head. The Germans, the radio broadcast said, had no interest in ruling over the French people. Renard laughed.

  *****

  Renard found a room near the river Sien and checked in. The attendant at the front desk was drunk on cheap wine and mumbled to himself as Renard filled out the registry. The man sat down on an old wooden chair and stared vacantly at the floor.

  “You seem unhappy, Monsieur.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am,” the attendant replied. “I had a bird in that cage over there,” he said, motioning across the room with his chin, “my wife said that we had to hide the bird because of the soldiers.”

  “Do you miss your bird?”

  “Yes. It is not the same here without him. It is quiet. He would talk to me as I sat here all day and the day went by quickly. Ah, but you don’t want to hear about my problems. Do you need a room?”

  “Yes. And I am sorry about your friend.”

  “That will be ten francs.”

  Renard pulled out all the money he had and counted. Fifty-seven francs. He gave ten to the attendant and put the rest back in his pocket. “This is a bit embarrassing,” he said, “but it seems I am in need of work as well. Do you know of anything?”

  The attendant looked him over. “Monsieur, you were kind to me about my bird. We have a position in the kitchen. It is only a few hours a day but it will cover the cost of your food and put a few francs in your pocket.”

  Renard thanked the man and went to his room. It was a small space with no décor and the slightest scent of perfume. He sat on the bed and looked out the window. There was only the view of a brick apartment building next door. He saw two elderly people sitting on a sofa listening to the radio. The woman turned it off and went and lie down in the bedroom. The male fell asleep on the sofa with his shoes on.

  Renard stared out the window for hours and smoked before falling asleep. When he awoke it was morning and he could smell frying bacon.

  He went downstairs to the kitchen. It was large and smelled of burnt oil. The cook was behind a line of stoves with two assistants preparing meat and eggs and salads. The cook looked to Renard and stopped what he was doing. He walked over and wiped the sweat from his brow on the back of his arm.

  “Are you the new assistant?”

  “Yes,” Renard said.

  “I have no work for you. Come back in four hours and we will be preparing for dinner. I have no work for you now.”

  “All right.”

  He turned to leave and saw a bottle of white wine on the counter. He glanced back and saw that no one was looking. He took a few francs out of his pocket and laid it on the counter and stuffed the wine under his shirt.

  It was warm outside and the streets were empty. He opened the wine and took a long drink. A transie
nt was on the corner and stared at him meekly. Renard took another long drink and then handed the bottle to the transient.

  “Bless you,” the transient said, “most people want to give me food but a man can survive for a long time without food or can find it. Wine is what he needs.”

  Renard walked away and rounded a corner. There was a bakery but it was closed. A small café was next to it and people sat at tables speaking quietly. It was far enough from the marching soldiers that they could imagine that all was as it had been when they had woken up this morning.

  He saw a woman sitting by herself. She had short black hair and a white dress. She was absently stirring a drink with a red straw. Renard walked to her and sat down across from her at the table.

  “I thought perhaps I would join you,” he said, “Epicureans would say it is bad for the digestion to eat alone.”

  “And what would Epicurus say about strange men approaching vulnerable women?”

  “I believe he would say a lonely woman is a sin.”

  “And what makes you think I am lonely?” she said.

  “Your eyes. There is sadness in them but they seem like eyes that are not used to sadness.”

  She gave a melancholy smile. “No, they are not.”

  The waiter came and Renard ordered two glasses of red wine. “And why are they sad today?”

  “It is cruel to joke on a day like today.” She looked to his face and could see the puzzlement. “My goodness, you are not joking are you? Why the Germans of course. Have you not heard or seen them?”

  “No, I saw them.”

  “Do you not care?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Were you born in France?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how do you not care, Monsieur? Do you see your homeland claimed by savages every day?”

  “One politician is as good as the next. Perhaps the one benefit to having your own kind rob you instead of a foreigner is that the foreigner is more likely to use violence. But all things being equal, there is little difference.”

  “Even if that were true, France is ours.”

  The wine came and Renard drank an entire glass without taste and ordered another. “Do you see that hill over there?” he said, pointing north to Belleville. “Two thousand years ago two Gallic soldiers stood where we sit as the Romans marched on them and said, ‘this hill is ours.’ A thousand years after that, two Romans stood here as the barbarians slaughtered them and said, ‘this hill is ours.’ And now, here we sit. One day, the Germans will be sitting here too.”

  She leaned back and took a cigarette out of her purse. Before she could light it, Renard pulled out a match and struck it, lighting the cigarette and throwing the used match into his empty glass.

  “That does not make me any happier,” she said.

  “No, I suppose it does not. Then what about this; the rest of the world will come to our aid and we will defeat the Germans.” She smiled and he returned her smile. “What is your name, Mademoiselle?”

  “Apollina Gravois.”

  “Apollina, I am Simon Renard. I would like to formally request your company as we drink wine and talk about these bastard Germans that will no doubt be at the mercy of the English soon.”

  They sat on the veranda for hours and laughed and spoke of mundane things. Apollina had been an actress in the French cinema and had had a lover that had died in the war and another lover that was an actor that wanted to move her to Germany. He thought the war was all but over and that they should try and assimilate as best they could. Renard listened and drank wine. The more she spoke, the happier her mood.

  As afternoon came, she promised that she would come to his hotel tonight and have a late dinner with him. Renard left money on the table to cover the drinks and walked back to the hotel.

  He went to the kitchen and it was a furious blur of movement as waiters and assistants and the cook prepared for dinner.

  “Where have you been!” the cook shouted. “I said four hours. He blew his nose onto a rag he kept next to the stove. “Go out back and help unload the seafood for tonight.”

  Renard went out back and saw a tall man with a square face unloading a truck. He stood behind him and watched and thought it looked miserable.

  “Bonjour,” the man said.

  “Bonjour. It appears I am here to help you unload the seafood.”

  The man looked him over. “Your hands look like city hands. You do not seem like someone that should be unloading seafood.”

  “You’re very observant, my friend. But regardless, this is what I must do.”

  “Start taking boxes out of the truck and store them through that door there. The kitchen staff will take them when they are ready.”

  Renard began unloading the boxes. They were heavy and stunk of fish. The bottoms were soaking through and making his clothes wet. He unloaded four boxes and then stopped, watching the man.

  “What is your name?” Renard asked.

  “Luke.”

  “Luke, I have a proposition for you. You see, it is the cook’s job to get as much work out of us as possible and our job to work as little as possible for the money, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “It also seems that we work to sustain ourselves and sustain ourselves to work. That is no life worth living in my view. If it is our job to get out of this vicious circle, I believe I know a way.”

  “What way?” Luke said, dropping the box he was holding.

  “How much do we get paid for this work?”

  “Thirty francs a day.”

  “Well, I am certain we can go into the city and find some young men who would be willing to do it for five or ten francs a day. We would make only a little less but we wouldn’t have to do any of the work.”

  Luke thought a moment and then nodded.

  A local pub was nearby. It was in an old brick building and had dilapidated stairs leading down to an even more dilapidated interior. It was nearly empty when the two men walked in. A single bartender was sitting on a stool, reading a book, and a waitress sat at one of the tables folding napkins. A few tables were occupied by older drunks and Renard passed them over. He saw a table of three young men. They were unkempt and drinking beer. They were silent even though Renard could tell by their postures and the redness in their eyes and noses they were drunk.

  “Bonjour my friends,” he said with as cordial a smile as he could muster.

  He explained the situation to the young men and they looked to each other and shrugged. They agreed to fifteen francs total and the men followed them to the truck.

  *****

  Renard and Luke reclined in small chairs outside, eating some bread and cheese as they watched the young men work. They were moving quickly and at easily twice the pace. Renard was pleased with himself and thought that this is perhaps how the capitalists feel. Sitting above their workers in a factory and absorbing their labor.

  “What the hell is this!” The cook stepped out back and watched the three young men. He turned to Renard and Luke, his face red with anger. “What are these men doing with my seafood?”

  “Unloading it,” Renard said.

  “I told you to unload it.”

  “And we have hired them. Do not worry, it will not cost you anything more.”

  “How much are they paying you?” the cook said, turning toward the men.

  “Five francs each,” one of them replied.

  “Fine,” the cook said, throwing up his arms. “I will pay you each seven francs.” He turned to Renard and Luke. “Both of you get out of here before I get my broom.”

  “Monsieur,” Renard said, standing up, “I am a guest of the owner. He told me that there would be work for me in the kitchen and secured this position for me.”

  “Damn you and damn him. He is not the owner. The owner is my wife. He is her ass of a brother. Now get out of here, both of you before I call the police.” He picked up a nearby broom and held it over his head, threatening to come down with it on
Renard’s head. “Off with you!”

  Renard and Luke walked away as the cook stood with his broom at his side like a conquering emperor. They walked a great distance, neither of them speaking before Luke finally said, “What are we going to do now? I needed a job.”

  “It was an awful job, Luke. And do not worry; there must be some new opportunities for two young men as ourselves.”

  Luke stared at the street as they walked. There was commotion around them as groups of German soldiers walked along the streets with the citizenry but neither of them noticed.

  “I have a wife,” Luke said. “She will be angry.” He shook his head. “Anyway, enough of this. It is dinner time. Come to my house and my wife will make us dinner.”

  Renard followed him for half a kilometer up to the twelfth arrondissement. They passed tenements that were rundown and old. Renard remembered that the wedding of Louis the XIV had occurred in this area. But now it was groups of unemployed or day laborers huddled on porches drinking cheap wine.

  “I live here,” Luke said. They climbed two flights of stairs in a narrow tenement. Renard could hear babies crying and an argument on the floor below Luke’s. They came to a door at the end of the hallway and Luke opened it and stepped inside.

  It was a simple space with rugs and handmade furniture. Though meager, it was spotless and the floors were clean and smooth. The air smelled of onions and beef broth and they walked to the kitchen to see Luke’s wife at the stove.

  “Who is your friend?” she said.

  “This is Simon. We met at the restaurant. We were both let go today.”

  “Let go? For what?”

  “Odil didn’t like us being smarter than him.”

  His wife scoffed. “You are not smarter than anybody. Now go wash up. Is your friend staying for dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he goes and washes too.”

  Luke led them to the small bathroom down the hall they shared with the other tenants on their floor. There was one sink and Renard waited as Luke washed his hands.