showing its teeth‚ and once it thought it was beyond reach of some unspecified danger‚ known only to itself‚ it fled and ran to cower against its master’s legs. The Gypsy didn’t push things any further. He ambled off.
Now the dog trembles incessantly. It won’t eat anything. It has to be dragged out. It keeps escaping and comes straight back. Its fur’s falling out in handfuls. Valentin decided to wrap it up in a blanket and carry the whining creature in his arms to the vet near by. This specialist‚ Doctor N‚ a black man‚ is well known for his intuitive expertise‚ which never fails. He nodded at Valentin’s story. He spoke of ‘sorcery’ with the air of a man who knows what he’s talking about.
He gives the bald skeletal creature two injections a day. Without holding out much hope for it. He wants this to be known.
It’s all over. The dog has been put down.
Throughout the dog’s ‘treatment’‚ the Gypsy didn’t reappear in Rue de Bièvre. The nights finally grew shorter‚ the weathermilder‚ and Valentin more and more gloomy. He nursed a brooding anger. We were all dreading the day when …
And then it happened.
The Gypsy came in quietly while Valentin had his back turned‚ as he was arranging his bottles. I was in the back of the room‚ at the end of the counter.
Valentin fell into a frightful fit of fury. He shouted insults left hanging in the air. ‘Son of a … Sodding …’ He ended up brandishing a heavy stick.
Blackbeard – still with that exasperating smile – levelled both hands this time‚ his fingers set in two horizontal Vs. And again he spoke.
Yes‚ it was a force‚ a real force that emanated in successive waves from the hands of this demonic man and immobilized Valentin‚ now suddenly as limp as a rag.
Blackbeard put one hand behind him‚ opened the door and backed out‚ taking his time. His nasty smile deepened.
Overwhelmed with unconquerable lethargy‚ Valentin had to retire to bed. He wasn’t seen again for several days. Blackbeard took advantage of his absence to come by in the afternoons and lay out his deck of cards in front of Paulette. We never found out whatever it was he told her – she wouldn’t let anyone come near. ‘It’s my own business‚’ she said.
Valentin has returned to his counter. He’s unrecognizable. Emaciated‚ pasty-faced‚ he stares dull-eyed at his clients. You often have to repeat your order. He’s acquired nervous ticks. He scratches between his fingers. Paulette watches this without seeming to be very much affected by it.
Valentin is turning into a monkey. He starts scratching at his armpits‚ then his groin‚ then all over. This disgusts the clients‚ though they’re far from fastidious and accustomed to some pretty insalubrious behaviour. It’s only curiosity that brings people to see him. At the same time his mind wanders. He’s incapable of finishing a sentence. Usually a man of so few words‚ he launches into bombastic speeches and after a few words‚ dries up.
His hands and his neck are nothing but open wounds‚ withsuppurating scabs here and there. We made him go to Hôtel- Dieu. He was sent straight off to St-Louis. No one’s able to give a definite diagnosis of the type of leprosy that’s eating away at his skin. The agony – it’s like being flayed alive – is driving him berserk.
Paulette wasn’t opening the bar now until the afternoon‚ and refused to serve clients she didn’t like. Meanwhile‚ a ceiling in the hotel partly collapsed‚ and the fire brigade had to prop it up.
We only saw the Dutchman twice. He was solidly built‚ and looked young despite his grey hair. Pullover‚ loose garments of dark blue heavy woollen cloth. Sailor’s cap. He claimed to be the owner of a barge moored not far from here‚ and we wondered how‚ with most of the canals blocked‚ he’d managed to get inside the city walls.
Whenever he was around‚ Paulette had eyes only for him.
Now the dog trembles incessantly. It won’t eat anything. It has to be dragged out. It keeps escaping and comes straight back. Its fur’s falling out in handfuls. Valentin decided to wrap it up in a blanket and carry the whining creature in his arms to the vet near by. This specialist‚ Doctor N‚ a black man‚ is well known for his intuitive expertise‚ which never fails. He nodded at Valentin’s story. He spoke of ‘sorcery’ with the air of a man who knows what he’s talking about.
He gives the bald skeletal creature two injections a day. Without holding out much hope for it. He wants this to be known.
It’s all over. The dog has been put down.
Throughout the dog’s ‘treatment’‚ the Gypsy didn’t reappear in Rue de Bièvre. The nights finally grew shorter‚ the weathermilder‚ and Valentin more and more gloomy. He nursed a brooding anger. We were all dreading the day when …
And then it happened.
The Gypsy came in quietly while Valentin had his back turned‚ as he was arranging his bottles. I was in the back of the room‚ at the end of the counter.
Valentin fell into a frightful fit of fury. He shouted insults left hanging in the air. ‘Son of a … Sodding …’ He ended up brandishing a heavy stick.
Blackbeard – still with that exasperating smile – levelled both hands this time‚ his fingers set in two horizontal Vs. And again he spoke.
Yes‚ it was a force‚ a real force that emanated in successive waves from the hands of this demonic man and immobilized Valentin‚ now suddenly as limp as a rag.
Blackbeard put one hand behind him‚ opened the door and backed out‚ taking his time. His nasty smile deepened.
Overwhelmed with unconquerable lethargy‚ Valentin had to retire to bed. He wasn’t seen again for several days. Blackbeard took advantage of his absence to come by in the afternoons and lay out his deck of cards in front of Paulette. We never found out whatever it was he told her – she wouldn’t let anyone come near. ‘It’s my own business‚’ she said.
Valentin has returned to his counter. He’s unrecognizable. Emaciated‚ pasty-faced‚ he stares dull-eyed at his clients. You often have to repeat your order. He’s acquired nervous ticks. He scratches between his fingers. Paulette watches this without seeming to be very much affected by it.
Valentin is turning into a monkey. He starts scratching at his armpits‚ then his groin‚ then all over. This disgusts the clients‚ though they’re far from fastidious and accustomed to some pretty insalubrious behaviour. It’s only curiosity that brings people to see him. At the same time his mind wanders. He’s incapable of finishing a sentence. Usually a man of so few words‚ he launches into bombastic speeches and after a few words‚ dries up.
His hands and his neck are nothing but open wounds‚ withsuppurating scabs here and there. We made him go to Hôtel- Dieu. He was sent straight off to St-Louis. No one’s able to give a definite diagnosis of the type of leprosy that’s eating away at his skin. The agony – it’s like being flayed alive – is driving him berserk.
Paulette wasn’t opening the bar now until the afternoon‚ and refused to serve clients she didn’t like. Meanwhile‚ a ceiling in the hotel partly collapsed‚ and the fire brigade had to prop it up.
We only saw the Dutchman twice. He was solidly built‚ and looked young despite his grey hair. Pullover‚ loose garments of dark blue heavy woollen cloth. Sailor’s cap. He claimed to be the owner of a barge moored not far from here‚ and we wondered how‚ with most of the canals blocked‚ he’d managed to get inside the city walls.
Whenever he was around‚ Paulette had eyes only for him.
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