Rumor, n. A favorite weapon of the assassins of character. (A. Bierce,ibid, p. 116)
Proust
Marcel lives in rue Condorcet, au numero 71, next door to a local ceramics workshop, run by M. Jules Dubonnet and his assistants.
Berthe, la concierge of the apartment building at 71, rue Condorcet, is a middle-aged large widow, with a couple of dark-haired children: Gustave, 11 years old sharp little mean, often found playing in the couryard with his comrades, running around, playing at war; Genevieve is the little puffy 5 year-old girl, quietly sitting in her mother's booth, fingering an old fabric doll or pretending to read a comic magazine. Berthe, the courageous survivor of a lifetime of troubles and sorrows, still bears the marks of misfortune in her dark ringed eyes, greyish swollen bags hanging from them, prematurely grey ruffled hair, more or less grouped on top of her big head.
"Hi, Berthe. Marcel upstairs?" She nods gravely. "No, honey. Monsieur not in a good mood this morning when he left. You listen to me, dear, you stay away from him today." "Why? Something bad happened to him?" She swings her head sideways in heavy consternation. "You know I don't make gossips, I don't nose around people's business like some others..." I believe she was referring to Michelle, the concierge of the building across the street. Her eyes, enlightened at the possibility of showing off what she knew, were already predicting bad news. "Please, Berthe, don't keep me in suspense, you know I care for Marcel." Theatrically, she draws me closer and closer to her wrinkly face and whispers: "I don't know what's going on with him, but something must have happened when that guy asked for him this morning." "What guy?" "Oh, I haven't seen his face before, but I sure didn't like it. Elegant, pretentious walk, you know, one of those people that live down there," and she finger-pointed toward south, I imagine she meant the boulevards. "You wouldn't know him, I tell you. Rich, rich, rich." There was a malignant smile on her face, as if "rich" were an insult.
"Go on." "There's not much else to say. He just came here and asked for Monsieur. So, I don't trust him, right? and I ask him, who you? and he says he's a friend. I don't really believe him, but I don't meddle in people's business, you know, and I point him the way. So he goes. After no more than 10 minutes, I see him coming downstairs, even waves at me 'good bye, madame', he says. Sure that's nice, but I still don't like him." "Forget about that. Go on, when did you see Marcel?" She leans back in her chair. "Right after that I see Monsieur coming down the stairs, very dark, oh boy, he looked darn serious. I even says 'good morning, Monsieur'. Ha, did you answer you that weren't there? Nothing, just out in the street." I am rather worried and exclaim: "Oh dear, what might have happened?" Berthe, who is very cooperative and always likes to display more knowledge that she has, makes a suggestion.
"I think it's for a woman." Wink wink. "Oh Berthe, get out of here! Marcel for a woman!" She keeps smiling in that irritating malignant way and I think 'Why not? What's so strange about it?' "Can you at least describe that man a bit better?" "What for? You don't know him. Not too tall, very sharp clothes, big nose, yes he had a big nose and curly black hair, that's it, a frog, oh man, so ugly. Brrrr!" She is obviously overcome with disgust and repulsion for the morning vision. I can only sympathize with her, I think I have an idea and she's right, I don't like him at all.
I bid her good bye, thank her and get back into the street. What would Jacques want from Marcel? How come that two opposite worlds such as theirs would collide fantastically one day? This can only preannounce troubles and more troubles. My Marcel and that scumbag? They have nothing in common, except... me! No, that's out of the question. Absolutely out of the question. Neither one of them is in love with me. That's what they have in common. I must find Marcel, somehow, somewhere... but where? All entranced in my deep thoughts of amateurish detective I crash against M. Dubonnet.
"Watch where you're going! Oh, but it's you, Madeleine." "Hi, Jules. I'm sorry. did I hurt you?" "You hurt me? Don't make me laugh! What's the trouble, hein?" "Have you seen Marcel?" His face assumes immediately a dark expression. "I don't know. He walked in front of my shop a couple of hours ago. He seemed in a hurry, but I didn't talk to him." I would like to ask him why he looks so worried if he hasn't talked to him, but I'm not an inquisitor, so I turn to other kind of questioning. "Do you have any idea of where he was going to?" "He was walking in the direction of the Cafe, I assume, but you stay away from him today, ok?" "Why?" "Just a piece of advice from an old friend, that's all." He pats me on the shoulder and walks away, brooding. Yes, I intend to go to the Cafe and there I find Pierre talking to Georges at the bar. Feign distracted attitude and approach them. Curiosity and worry are gnawing my heart.
"Hi folks, what's up?" "Heila! Nothing new here, what's up with you?" Have strange feeling of having interrupted something serious. "I'm looking for Marcel. Any of you saw him recently?" Pierre, who is a sweetie, affectionately pinches my cheek. "Don't look for him. He's ok, don't worry." "Pierre, why is everybody so secretive about him? Every time I ask for him, people tell me to stay away from him, why?" He sighs deeply, Georges pushes a glass of beer in front of me. "Sit down. Maybe we should tell you after all." "It would be about time. Something terrible happened, tell me." Pierre, who can't hide his feelings, starts recounting the story. "He came to see me a few hours ago. He was quite angry, but he didn't want to explain what had happened. Something about some guy and a silver cigarette case." "Did he say anything about the man?" "No, well actually yes, right Georges?" Georges nods. "I believe his name was Jacques, or something like that. Anyway, some rich asshole that visited him this morning." I gulp down a large portion of beer.
"Then why do you all look so perturbed when I ask about him? You've still told me nothing about why I should stay away from him." Pierre shrugs his shoulders and looks at Georges, as if looking for encouragement, which he finds in that large humane face.
"That's what he told me. Don't ask me why, I haven't the faintest idea. Stay here for a while. If he comes back, he'll be surely in a ligher mood." "I don't like this story. He came to see you and he didn't bother to explain what happened?" "I told you all I know. I know, it seemed strange to me too, but what can you do? You know what kind of a person he is, don't you?" "Something fishy in the kingdom of Danmark. I know the guy, he has nothing to do with Marcel, as far as I can tell. The two together are like oil and water." Georges and Pierre widen with surprise. "Close that mouth, Georges. There's a fly around here. What's the matter?" "You know him?" "Well, what's strange about that? Yes, I know the guy and I can tell you right now he's scum." "How do you know him?" Pierre questions me with incredulous eyes. I keep sipping my beer, which needs a refill, look straight in front of me, bottles and bottles of liqueurs. "I sleep with him." "No! You with that man?", says Pierre. "Mais ce n'est pas possible!", it's Georges confession. I play mysterious. I feel I should skip the details of pointless, painful experience, but somehow feel proud and urgent need to reveal dirty secrets to these anything-but-naive boys induces me to confess.
As a result we spend quite a long time talking about my unfortunate spicy sex life, which is out of tune with overall worry over Marcel's misterious wonderings. Speaking of the devil, he makes silent but equally choquing entrance in the otherwise empty cafe.
"Oh, there you are, we were worried sick over you. Where have you been?" For an answer, he smoothly reaches the counter and sits far away from Pierre, Georges and me. Hesitant, I take a seat next to him. I deposit my hand over his arm. "Are you OK?" Obviously he is not, hisses toward the void. Somehow I feel guilty and look at Pierre, requesting support. Pierre comes to sit on the other side of Marcel and begins to talk. Exchange of whispers follows, soon to break not without some annoyance on Marcel's part, who looks away, funereal expression. I form a wonderful interrogation mark. He gobbles down some beer offered by Georges. Loses his eyes over imaginary landscapes and finally emits words of wisdom.