Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin Page B

making their way, to the great profit of a beehive of middlemen, across the city of Paris—to feed the roaring multitude. Who were roaring now, at once wounding and charming the ear, before and behind, and on either side of our taxi—our taxi driver, and Giovanni, too, roared back. The multitude of Paris seems to be dressed in blue every day but Sunday, when, for the most part, they put on an unbelievably festive black. Here they were now, in blue, disputing, every inch, our passage, with their wagons, handtrucks, camions, their bursting baskets carried at an angle steeply self-confident on the back. A red-faced woman, burdened with fruit, shouted—to Giovanni, the driver, to the world—a particularly vivid
cochonnerie
, to which thedriver and Giovanni, at once, at the top of their lungs, responded, though the fruit lady had already passed beyond our sight and perhaps no longer even remembered her precisely obscene conjectures. We crawled along, for no one had yet told the driver where to stop, and Giovanni and the driver, who had, it appeared, immediately upon entering Les Halles, been transformed into brothers, exchanged speculations, unflattering in the extreme, concerning the hygiene, language, private parts, and habits, of the citizens of Paris. (Jacques and Guillaume were exchanging speculations, unspeakably less good-natured, concerning every passing male.) The pavements were slick with leavings, mainly cast-off, rotten leaves, flowers, fruit, and vegetables which had met with disaster natural and slow, or abrupt. And the walls and corners were combed with
pissoirs
, dull-burning, make-shift braziers, cafes, restaurants, and smoky yellow bistros—of these last, some so small that they were little more than diamond-shaped, enclosed corners holding bottles and a zinc-covered counter. At all these points, men, young, old, middle-aged, powerful, powerful even in the various fashions in which they had met, or were meeting, their various ruin; and women, more than making up in shrewdness and patience, in an ability to count and weigh—and shout—whatever they might lack in muscle; though they did not, really, seem to lack much. Nothing here reminded me of home, though Giovanni recognized, revelled in it all.
    â€œI know a place,” he told the driver, “
très bon marché
”—and told the driver where it was. It developed that it was one of the driver’s favorite rendezvous.
    â€œWhere is this place?” asked Jacques, petulantly. “I thought we were going to”—and he named another place.
    â€œYou are joking,” said Giovanni, with contempt. “That place is
very
bad and
very
expensive, it is only for tourists. We are not tourists,” and he added, to me, “When I first came to Paris I worked inLes Halles—a long time, too.
Nom de Dieu, quel boulot!
I pray always never to do that again.” And he regarded the streets through which we passed with a sadness which was not less real for being a little theatrical and self-mocking.
    Guillaume said, from his corner of the cab: “Tell him who rescued you.”
    â€œAh, yes,” said Giovanni, “behold my savior, my
patron
.” He was silent a moment. Then: “You do not regret it, do you? I have not done you any harm? You are pleased with my work?”
    â€œ
Mais oui
,” said Guillaume.
    Giovanni sighed. “
Bien sûr.
” He looked out of the window again, again whistling. We came to a corner remarkably clear. The taxi stopped.
    â€œ
Ici
,” said the driver.
    â€œ
Ici
,” Giovanni echoed.
    I reached for my wallet but Giovanni sharply caught my hand, conveying to me with an angry flick of his eyelash the intelligence that the least these dirty old men could do was
pay
. He opened the door and stepped out into the street. Guillaume had not reached for his wallet and Jacques paid for the cab.
    â€œUgh,” said Guillaume, staring at the door of