Mercier and Camier (6 page)

That will be all for today, said Mr. Gast. Impregnate yourselves with these considerations. They are the fruit of an eternity of public fawning and private snarls. I make you a present of them. If I'm wanted I'm out. Call me at six as usual.

There's something in what he says, said George.

There's men all over for you, said Teresa, no more ideal than a monkey.

Mr. Conaire reappeared, enchanted to have got it over so fast.

I had my work cut out, he said, but I did it, I did it. He shivered. Nice north pole you have here, he said, what will you take. Jump at the chance, I feel the other hell calling me back.

George jumped.

Your health, sir, he said.

Pledge it, pledge it, said Mr. Conaire, none deserves it more. And rosebud here, he said, would she deign to clink with us?

She's married, said George, and mother of three.

Fie upon you! cried Mr. Conaire. How can one say such things!

You're being stood a port, said George.

Teresa moved behind the bar.

When I think what it means, said Mr. Conaire. The torn flesh! The pretty crutch in tatters! The screams! The blood! The glair! The afterbirth! He put his hand before his eyes. The afterbirth! he groaned.

All the best, said Teresa.

Drink, drink, said Mr. Conaire, pay no heed to me. What an abomination! What an abomination!

He took away his hand and saw them smiling at him, as at a child.

Forgive me, he said, when I think of women I think of maidens, I can't help it. They have no hairs, they pee not neither do they cack.

Mention it not, said George.

I took you for a maiden, said Mr. Conaire, I give you my oath, no flattery intended. On the buxom side I grant you, nice and plump, plenty of bounce, a bosom in a thousand, a bottom in a million, thighs—. He broke off. No good, he said, not a stir out of him.

Teresa went back to her work.

I now come to the object of my visit, said Mr. Conaire. Would you happen to know of a man by the name of Camier?

No, said George.

Strange, said Mr. Conaire, seeing I was to meet him here, this very place, this very afternoon. Here's his card.

George read:

F. X. C
AMIER

Private Investigator

Soul of Discretion

New one on me, said George.

Small and fat, said Mr. Conaire, red face, scant hair, four chins, protruding paunch, bandy legs, beady pig eyes.

There's a couple above, said George, showed up there a short time back. What's the other like? said Mr. Conaire.

A big bony hank with a beard, said George, hardly able to stand, wicked expression.

That's him, cried Mr. Conaire, those are them! Slip up now and give him the word. Tell him Mr. Conaire is waiting in the lounge. Co-naire.

They left word not to be disturbed, said George. They'd turn on you like a shot, I tell you.

Listen, said Mr. Conaire.

George listened.

Well I don't mind trying, he said.

He went out and a moment later came back.

They're snoring, he said.

Rouse them, said Mr. Conaire.

The bottle is empty, said George, and there they are—.

What bottle? said Mr. Conaire.

They ordered a bottle of malt in the room, said George.

Oh the hogs, said Mr. Conaire.

There they are stretched out side by side in their clothes on the floor, said George. Snoring hand in hand.

Oh the hogs, said Mr. Conaire.

The field lay spread before them. In it nothing grew, that is nothing of use to man. Nor was it clear at first sight what interest it could have for animals. Birds may have found the odd worm there. Its straggling expanse was bounded by a sickly hedge of old tree stumps and tangles of brambles perhaps good for a few bramble berries at brambleberry time. Thistles and nettles, possible fodder at a pinch, contended for the soil with a sour blue grass. Beyond the hedge were other fields, similar in aspect, bounded by no less similar hedges. How did one get from one field to another? Through the hedges perhaps. Capriciously a goat, braced on its hind legs, its forefeet on a stump, was muzzling the brambles in search of the tenderer thorns. Now and then it turned with petulance away, took a few angry steps, stood still, then perhaps a little spring, straight up in the air, before returning to the hedge. Would it continue thus all round the field? Or weary first?

Some day someone would realize. Then the builders would come. Or a priest, with his sprinkler, and another acre would be God's. When prosperity returned.

Camier was reading in his notebook. He tore out the little leaves when read, crumpled them and threw them away. He watches me, he said, without a word. He drew a big envelope from his pocket, took from it and threw away the following: buttons, two specimens of head or body hair, an embroidered handkerchief, a number of laces (his speciality),
one toothbrush, a strange piece of rubber, one garter, samples of material. The envelope too, when he had emptied it, he threw away. I might as well be picking my nose, he said, for all he cares. He rose, impelled by scruples that did him credit, and gathered up the crumpled leaves, those at least which the light morning breeze had not blown away, or hidden in a fold of the ground, or behind a clump of thistles. The leaves thus recovered he tore up and threw away. So, he said, I feel lighter now. He turned back towards Mercier. You're not sitting on the wet grass, I hope, he said.

I'm sitting on my half of our coat, said Mercier, clover is nothing to it.

Fine too early, said Camier, bad sign.

What is the weather doing, said Mercier, now you mention it.

Look and see, said Camier.

I'd rather you told me, said Mercier.

A pale raw blotch, said Camier, has appeared in the east, the sun presumably. Happily it is intermittent, thanks to a murk of tattered wrack driving from the west before its face. It is cold, but not yet raining.

Sit, said Mercier. I know you do not share my chilly nature, but profit by the bank just the same. Don't overdo it, Camier, a nice bloody fool I'd look if you caught pneumonia.

Camier sat.

Cuddle close, said Mercier, snug and warm. Now look, like me, wrap the slack round your legs. So. All we need now is the hard-boiled egg and bottle of pop.

I feel the damp creeping up my crack, said Camier.

So long as none creeps down, said Mercier.

I fear for my cyst, said Camier.

What you lack, said Mercier, is a sense of proportion.

I don't see the connexion, said Camier.

Just so, said Mercier, you never see the connexion. When you fear for your cyst think of your fistula. And when you tremble for your fistula consider your chancre. This method holds equally for what is called happiness. Take one for example entirely free from pain all over, both his body and the other yoke. Where can he turn for relief? Nothing simpler. To the
thought of annihilation. Thus, whatever the conjuncture, nature bids us smile, if not laugh. And now, let us look things calmly in the face.

After a moment's silence Camier began to laugh. Mercier in due course was tickled too. Then they laughed long together, clutching each other by the shoulders so as not to collapse.

What innocent merriment, said Camier, finally.

Well you know what I mean, said Mercier.

Before going any further they asked and told each other how they felt. Then Mercier said:

What exactly did we decide? I remember we agreed, as indeed we always do, in the end, but I forgot as to what. But you must know, since it is your plan, is it not, we are putting into execution.

For me too, said Camier, certain details have faded, and certain refinements of reasoning. So if I have any light to throw it is rather on what we are going to do, or rather again on what we are going to try and do, than on why we are going to try and do it.

I'm ready to try anything, said Mercier, so long as I know what.

Well, said Camier, the idea is to return to town, at our leisure, and stay there for as long as necessary.

Necessary for what? said Mercier.

For retrieving our belongings, said Camier, or giving them up for lost.

It must indeed have been rich in refinements, said Mercier, the reasoning responsible for that.

It would seem to have seemed to us, said Camier, though I cannot swear to it, that the sack is the crux of the whole matter in that it contains, or did contain, certain objects we cannot dispense with.

But we have reviewed its entire contents, said Mercier, and deemed them superfluous without exception.

True, said Camier, and our conception of what is superfluous can scarcely have evolved since yesterday. Whence then our disquiet?

Well, whence? said Mercier.

From the intuition, said Camier, if I remember right, that the said sack contains something essential to our salvation.

But we know that is not so, said Mercier.

You know the faint imploring voice, said Camier, that drivels to us on and off of former lives?

I confuse it more and more, said Mercier, with the one that tries to cod me I'm not yet dead. But I take your meaning.

It would seem to be some such organ, said Camier, that for the past twenty-four hours has not ceased to murmur, The sack! Your sack! Our latest heart to heart made this quite clear.

I recall nothing of the kind, said Mercier.

And so the need for us, said Camier, if not to find, at least to look for it, and for the bicycle, and for the umbrella.

I fail to see why, said Mercier. Why not the sack alone, since our concern is with the sack alone.

I too fail to see why, said Camier, exactly why. All I know is that yesterday we did see why, exactly why.

When the cause eludes me, said Mercier, I begin to feel uneasy.

Here Camier was alone in wetting his trousers.

Mercier does not join in Camier's laugh? said Camier.

Not just this once, said Mercier.

This thing we think we need, said Camier, once in our possession and now no longer so, we situate in the sack, as in that which contains. But on further thought nothing proves it is not in the umbrella, or fastened to some part of the bicycle. All we know is we had it once and now no more. And even that we do not know for sure.

There's premises for you if you like, said Mercier.

It boils down then to some unknown, said Camier, which not only is not necessarily in the sack, but which perhaps no sack of this type could possibly accommodate, the bicycle itself for example, or the umbrella, or both. By what token shall we know the truth? By a heightened sense of well-being? Unlikely.

I had a strange dream last night, said Mercier, I was in a wood with my grandmother, she was—.

Most unlikely, said Camier. No, but perhaps rather a gradual feeling of relief, spun out in time, reaching its paroxysm a fortnight or three weeks later, without our knowing exactly to what it was due. An example
of bliss in ignorance, bliss at having recovered an essential good, ignorance of its nature.

She was carrying her breasts in her hands, said Mercier, by the nipples held between finger and thumb. But unfortunately—.

Camier flew into a rage, into a feigned rage that is, for into a true rage with Mercier Camier could not fly. The former sat agape. Drops seemingly from nowhere glistened in the grey tangles of his beard. The fingers fumbled at the great bony nose, its red skin stretched to bursting, delved furtively in the black holes, spread to feel their way down the channelled cheeks, began again. The ashen eyes stared into space aghast. The brow, scored deep with aliform furrows due less to meditation than to chronic amaze, this brow was perhaps, all things considered, of this grotesque head the least grotesque feature. It culminated in an unbelievably tousled mass of dirty hair comprising every tone from tow to snow. The ears—no.

Mercier had little to say for himself.

You ask me to explain, said Camier, I do so and you don't mind me.

It's my dream came over me again, said Mercier.

Yes, said Camier, instead of minding me you tell me your dreams. And yet you know our covenant: no communication of dreams on any account. The same holds for quotes. No dreams or quotes at any price. He got up. Do you feel strong enough to move? he said.

No, said Mercier.

Camier go get you food, said Camier.

Go, said Mercier.

The stout little bandy legs carried him in no time to the village, from the waist up all swagger and swing, an act. Mercier, alone in the lee of the bank, wavered between his two familiar leanings, not knowing which way to fall. Was not the outcome the same? In the end he said, I am Mercier, alone, ill, in the cold, the wet, old, half mad, no way on, no way back. He eyed briefly, with nostalgia, the ghastly sky, the hideous earth. At your age, he said. Another act. Immaterial.

I was about to go, said Mr. Conaire, all hope abandoned.

George, said Camier, five sandwiches, four wrapped and one on the side. You see, he said, turning graciously to Mr. Conaire, I think of
everything. For the one I eat here will give me the strength to get back with the four others.

Sophistry, said Mr. Conaire. You set off with your five, wrapped, feel faint, open up, take one out, eat, recuperate, push on with the others.

For all response Camier began to eat.

You'll spoil him, said Mr. Conaire. Yesterday cakes, today sandwiches, tomorrow crusts and Thursday stones.

Mustard, said Camier.

Before leaving me yesterday, said Mr. Conaire, for your matter of life and death, you appointed to meet me here, at this very place, that very afternoon. I arrive, ask George in what a state, with my invariable punctuality. I wait. Doubts gradually assail me. Can I have mistaken the place? The day? The hour? I unburden myself to the barman. I learn you are somewhere above-stairs, with your butty, for some time past what is more, the pair of you plunged in a crapulous stupor. I invoke the urgency of my business and request you be waked. No question. You are not to be disturbed, on any account. You entice me to this place and take measures to prevent my seeing you. I receive advice. Stay around, they'll soon be down. Weakly I stay. Are you soon down? Bah! I return to the charge. Wake him, tell him Mr. Conaire is below. What a hope! The guest's desires are sacred. I offer threats. They laugh in my face. I press my point. By force. They bar the way. By stealth, sneaking up the stairs. They overtake me. I go down on my knees. General hilarity. They egg me on to drink, to stay for dinner, to stay the night. I'll see you in the morning. I'll be told the moment you're down. The saloon fills. Labourers, travellers. I get carried away. I come to on a couch. It is seven in the morning. You are gone. Why was I not told? No one knew. What time did you leave? No one knows. Are you expected back? No one knows.