As I watch VanNorden tackle her, it seems to me that I'm looking at a
machine whosecogs have slipped. Left to themselves, they could go on this
way forever,grinding and slipping, without ever anything happening. Until a
handshuts the motor off. The sight of them coupled like a pair of
goatswithout the least spark of passion, grinding and grinding away for
noreason except the fifteen francs, washes away every bit of feeling Ihave
except the inhuman one of satisfying my curiosity. The girl islying on the
edge of the bed and Van Norden is bent over her like asatyr with his two
feet solidly planted on the floor. I am sitting ona chair behind him,
watching their movements with a cool, scientificdetachment; it doesn't
matter to me if it should last forever. It'slike watching one of those crazy
machines which throw the newspaperout, millions and billions and trillions
of them with their meaninglessheadlines. The machine seems more sensible,
crazy as it is, and morefascinating to watch, than the human beings and the
events which producedit. My interest in Van Norden and the girl is nil; if I
could sit likethis. and watch every single performance going on at this
minute allover the world my interest would be even less than nil. I wouldn't
beable to differentiate between this phenomenon and the rain falling ora
volcano erupting. As long as that spark of passion is missing thereis no
human significance in the performance. The machine is better towatch. And
these two are like a machine which has slipped its cogs.It needs the touch
of a human hand to set it right. It needs a mechanic.
    I get down onmy knees behind Van Norden and I examine the machine more
attentively.The girl throws her head on one side and gives me a despairing
look."It's no use, " she says. "It's impossible. " Upon which Van Nordensets
to work with renewed energy, just like an old billy goat. He'ssuch an
obstinate cuss that hell break his horns rather than give up.And he's
getting sore now because I'm tickling him in the rump.
    "For God's sake.Joe, give it up! You'll kill the poor girl. " "Leave me
alone, " hegrunts. "I almost got it in that time. " The posture and the
determinedway in which he blurts this out suddenly bring to my mind. for the
secondtime. the remembrance of my dream. Only now it seems as though
thatbroomstick, which he had so nonchalantly slung under his arm, as
hewalked

    away, is lostforever. It is like the sequel to the dream _ the same Van
Norden, butminus the primal cause. He's like a hero come back from the war,
a poormaimed bastard living out the reality of his dreams. Wherever he
sitshimself the chair collapses; whatever door he enters the roomis empty;
whatever he puts in his mouth leaves a bad taste. Everythingis just the same
as it was before; the elements are unchanged, the dreamis no different than
the reality. Only, between the time he went tosleep and the time he woke up,
his body was stolen. He's like a machinethrowing out newspapers, millions
and billions of them every day. andthe front page is loaded with catastrophes,
with riots, murders, explosions,collisions, but he doesn't feel anything. If
somebody doesn't turn theswitch off hell never know what it means to die;
you can't die if yourown proper body has been stolen. You can get over a
cunt and work awaylike a billy goat until eternity; you can go to the
trenches and beblown to bits; nothing will create that spark of passion if
there isn'tthe intervention of a human hand. Somebody has to put his hand
intothe machine and let it be wrenched off if the cogs are to mesh
again.Somebody has to do this without hope of reward. without concern
overthe fifteen francs; somebody whose chest is so thin that a medal
wouldmake him hunchbacked. And somebody has to throw a feed into a
starvingcunt without fear of pushing it out again. Otherwise this showll
goon forever. There's no way out of the mess. .. .
    After suckingthe boss's ass for a whole week _ it's the thing to do here
_ I managedto land Peckover's job. He died all right, the poor devil, a few
hoursafter he hit the bottom of the shaft. And just as I predicted, theygave
him a fine funeral, with solemn mass, huge wreaths, and everything.Tout
compris. And after the ceremonies they regaled themselves,the upstairs guys.
at a bistro. It was too bad Peckover couldn'thave had just a little snack _
he would have appreciated it so muchto sit with the men upstairs and hear
his own name mentioned so frequently.
    I must say, rightat the start, that I haven't a thing to complain about.
It's like beingin a lunatic asylum, with permission to masturbate for the
rest of yourlife. The world is brought right under my nose and all that is
requestedof me is to punctuate the calamities. There is nothing in which
theseslick guys upstairs do

    not put their[fingers;: no joy,, .ao ntisstly pasaes unnoticed.' They
live amongthe hardifacts of life, reality, as rt is called. It.isithe
realityof ＆ swamp and they are the i fogs, who have nothing i betterto do
than to croak. The' imbre they'croak ,the more realvlife, becomes.Lawyer,
priest, doctor, politician, ^newspaperman_ these are the quackswho have
their fingers on the pulse of'trie world;)a constant atmosphereof calamity.
'It's marvelous. It's;as;if the .barometer never. changed,:as,if the'tlag
were always at half-mast.i On_ ican see nowihisw the; idea of. heaven takes
hold of men's consciousness, lw*r it .gains gnaunoleven whenall the props
have been knocked from. under it* Tbeire must.be; another World beside this
swartipiin which everything is dumpedpeU-riBell. It's hard; to imagine what
it/can be like, -this heaven:that men dream about. A, frog's/heaven, no
idoubt; Miasma, scum, pondlilies, .'stagnant water. Sit on a lily pad
unmolested aad croak allday. Something like that, I imagine.
    _ They have awonderful -therapeutic effect upon me, these -caitaatrophes
which'Iproofread. Imagine a state of perfect irnmuni--ty, a charmed
existence,a-life of absolute security in rthe midst of poison baeillii.
Nothingtouches me, neither earthquakes nor explosions; nor riots Tior
faminenor collisions nor wars nor revolutions. I aim inoculated against
everydisease, every calamity, every sorrow and misery. It's the
culminationof a life of fortitude. -Seated at my little niche all the
poisons whichthe world gives off each. day pass through my hands. Not even a
fingernailgets stained. I am absolutely immune. I am even better off than a
laboratoryattendant. because there are no bad odors here, just the smell of
leadburning. The!worid can blow up _ be here just the same to put in a
commaor a semicolon. I may even touch a little overtime, for with an
eVentlike that there's bouttd to be/a final extra. When the world blows
upand the final' edition, has gone to press the proof reade_s will
quietlygather up all conrmas, semicolons, hyphens. _ asterisks, brackets,
parentheses,periods, exclamation marks,, etc. and put them in a little box
overthe editorial chair. Comme ca tout est regle....
    None of my companionsseem to understand why I appear so contented^ They
grumble all the:time, they have ambitions, they want to show their pride and
spleen.A good proofreader .has no ambitions, no pride, no spleen. A good
proofreaderis a-little like

    God Almighty,he's in the world but not of it. He's for Sundays only.
Sunday is hisnight off. On Sundays he steps down from his pedestal and shows
hisass to the faithful. Once a week he listens in on all the private
griefand misery of the world; it's enough to last him for the rest of theweek.
The rest of the week he remains in the frozen winter marshes,an absolute, an
impeccable absolute, with only a vaccination mark todistinguish him from the
immense void.
    The greatestcalamity for a proofreader is the threat of losing his job.
When weget together in the break the question that sends a shiver down
ourspines is: whatll you do if you lose your job? For the man in the
paddock,whose duty it is to sweep up manure, the supreme terror is the
possibilityof a world without horses. To tell him that it is disgusting to
spendone's life shoveling up hot turds is a piece of imbecility. A man
canget to love shit if his livelihood depends on it, if his happiness
isinvolved.
    This life which,if I were still a man with pride, honor, ambition and so
forth, wouldseem like the bottom rung of degradation, I welcome now. as an
invalidwelcomes death. It's a negative reality, just like death _ a sort
ofheaven without the pain and terror of dying. In this chthonian worldthe
only thing of importance is orthography and punctuation. It doesn'tmatter
what the nature of the calamity is, only whether it is spelledright.
Everything is on one level, whether it be the latest fashionfor evening gowns,
a new battleship, a plague, a high explosive, anastronomic discovery, a bank
run. a railroad wreck, a bull market, ahundred-to-one shot, an execution, a
stick-up, an assassination, orwhat. Nothing escapes the proofreader's eye.
but nothing penetrateshis bulletproof vest. To the Hindoo Agha Mir, Madam
Scheer (formerlyMiss Es-teve) writes saying she is quite satisfied with his
work. "Iwas married June th and I thank you. We are very happy and I hope
thatthanks to your power it will be so forever. I am sending you by
telegraphmoney order the sum of. . . to reward you. ..." The Hindoo Agha
Mirforetells your future and reads all your thoughts in a precise and
inexplicableway. He will advise you. will help you rid yourself of all your
worriesand troubles of all kinds, etc. Call or _write Avenue Mac-Mahon,Paris.
    He reads allyour thoughts in a marvelous way! I take it that

    means withoutexception, from the most trivial thoughts to the most
shameless. Hemust have a lot of time on his hands, this Agha Mir. Or does he
onlyconcentrate on the thoughts of those _who send money by telegraph
moneyorder? In the same edition I notice a headline announcing that
"theuniverse is expanding so fast it may burst" and underneath it is
thephotograph of a splitting headache. And then there is a spiel aboutthe
pearl, signed Tecla. The oyster produces both, he informs all andsundry.
Both the "wild" or Oriental pearl, and the "cultured" pearl.On the same day,
at the Cathedral of Trier, the Germans are exhibitingthe Coat of Christ;
it's the first time it's been taken out of the mothballs in forty-two years.
Nothing said about the pants and vest. InSalzburg, also the same day, two
mice were born in a man's stomach.believe it or not. A famous movie actress
is shown with her legs crossed:she is taking a rest in Hyde Park, and
underneath a well-known painterremarks " admit that Mrs. Coolidge has such
charm and personality thatshe would have been one of the famous Americans,
even had her husbandnot been President. " From an interview with Mr. Humhal.
of Vienna,I glean the following. . . "Before I stop, " said Mr. Humhal. "I'd
liketo say that faultless cut and fit does not suffice; the proof of
goodtailoring is seen in the wearing. A suit must bend to the body, yetkeep
its line when the wearer is walking or sitting. " And wheneverthere is an
explosion in a coal mine _ a British coal mine _notice please that the King
and Queen always send their condolencespromptly, by telegraph. And they
always attend the importantraces, though the other day, according to the copy,
it was at the Derby,I believe, "heavy rains began to fall, much to the
surprise of the Kingand Queen. " More heart-rending, however, is an item
like this: "Itis claimed in Italy that the persecutions are not against the
Church.but nevertheless they are conducted against the most exquisite
partsof the Church. It is claimed that they are not against the Pope,
butthey are against the very heart and eyes of the Pope. "
    I had to travelprecisely all around the world to find just such a
comfortable, agreeableniche as this. It seems incredible almost. How could I
have foreseen,in America, with all those firecrackers they put up your ass
to giveyou pep and courage, that the ideal position for a man of my
temperamentwas to look for orthographic

    mistakes? Overthere you think of nothing but becoming President of the
United Statessome day. Potentially every man is Presidential timber. Here
it's different.Here every man is potentially a zero. If you become something
or somebodyit is an accident, a miracle. The chances are a thousand to one
thatyou will never leave your native village. The chances are a thousandto
one that youll have your legs shot off or your eyes blown out. Unlessthe
miracle happens and you find yourself a general or a rear admiral.
    But it's justbecause the chances are all against you, just because there
is so littlehope. that life is sweet over here. Day by day. No yesterdays
and notomorrows. The barometer never changes, the flag is always at
half-mast.You wear a piece of black crepe on your arm. you have a little
ribbonin your buttonhole, and. if you are lucky enough to afford it, you
buyyourself a pair of artificial lightweight limbs, aluminum
preferably.Which does not prevent you from enjoying an aperitif or lookingat
the animals in the zoo or flirting with the vultures who sail upand down the
boulevards always on the alert for fresh carrion. Timepasses. If you're a
stranger and your papers are in order you can exposeyourself to infection
without fear of being contaminated. It is better,if possible. to have a
proofreader's job. Camme ca, tout s'arrange.That means, that if you happen
to be strolling home at three in themorning and you are intercepted by the
bicycle cops, you can snap yourfingers at them. In the morning, when the
market is in swing, you canbuy Belgian eggs, at fifty centimes apiece. A
proofreader doesn't getup usually until noon. or a little after. It's well
to choose a hotelnear a cinema, because if you have a tendency to oversleep
the bellswill wake you up in time for the matinee. Or if you can't find a
hotelnear a cinema, choose one near a cemetery, it comes to the same
thing.Above all. never despair. // ne faut jamais desesperer.
    Which is whatI try to din into Carl and Van Norden every night. A world
without hope,but no despair. It's as though I had been converted to a new
religion,as though I were making an annual novena every night to Our Lady
ofSolace. I can't imagine what there would be to gain if I were made
editorof the paper, or even President of the United States. I'm up a
blindalley, and it's cosy and comfortable. With a piece of copy in my handI
listen to the music around me, the hum and drone of voices, the tinkleof the

    linotype machines,as if there were a thousand silver bracelets passing
through a wringer; now and then a rat scurries past our feet or a cockroach
descends thewall in front of us, moving nimbly and gingerly on his delicate
legs.The events of the day are slid under your nose, quietly,
unostentatiously,with, now and then. a byline to mark the presence of a
human hand, anego, a touch of vanity. The procession passes serenely, like a
cortegeentering the cemetery gates. The paper under the copy desk is so
thickthat it almost feels like a carpet with a soft nap. Under Van
Norden'sdesk it is stained with brown juice. Around eleven o'clock the
peanutvendor arrives, a half-wit of an Armenian who is also content with
hislot in life.
    Now and thenI get a cablegram from Mona saying that she's arriving on
the next boat."Letter following, " it always says. It's been going on like
this fornine months, but I never see her name in the list of boat
arrivals,nor does the garyon ever bring me a letter on a silver platter.I
haven't any more expectations in that direction either. If she everdoes
arrive she can look for me downstairs, just behind the lavatory.Shell
probably tell me right away that it's unsanitary. That's the firstthing that
strikes an American woman about Europe _ that it's unsanitary.Impossible for
them to conceive of a paradise without modern plumbing.If they find a bedbug
they want to write a letter immediately to thechamber of commerce. How am I
ever going to explain to her that I'mcontented here? She'll say I've become
a degenerate. I know her linefrom beginning to end. She'll want to look for
a studio with a gardenattached _ and a bathtub to be sure. She wants to be
poor in a romanticway. I know her. But I'm prepared for her this time.
    There are days,nevertheless, when the sun is out and I get off the
beaten path andthink about her hungrily. Now and then, despite my grim
satisfaction.I get to thinking about another way of life. get to wondering
if itwould make a difference having a young, restless creature by my
side.The trouble is I can hardly remember what she looks like. nor even
howit feels to have my arms around her. Everything that belongs to thepast
seems to have fallen into the sea; I have memories, but the imageshave lost
their vividness. they seem dead and desultory, like timebittenmummies stuck
in a quagmire. If I try to recall my life in New YorkI get a few splin-

    tered fragments,nightmarish and covered with verdigris. It seems as if
my own properexistence had come to an end somewhere, just where exactly I
can't makeout. I'm not an American any more. nor a New Yorker, and even less
aEuropean, or a Parisian. I haven't any allegiance, any responsibilities,any
hatreds, any worries, any prejudices, any passion. I'm neither fornor against.
I'm a neutral.
    When we walkhome of a night, the three of us. it often happens after the
first spasmsof disgust that we get to talking about the condition of things
withthat enthusiasm which only those who bear no active part in life
canmuster. What seems strange to me sometimes, when I crawl into bed. isthat
all this enthusiasm is engendered just to kill time, just to annihilatethe
three-quarters of an hour which it requires to walk from the officeto
Montparnasse. We might have the most brilliant, the most feasibleideas for
the amelioration of this or that, but there is no vehicleto hitch them to.
And what is more strange is that the absence of anyrelationship between
ideas and living causes us no anguish, no discomfort.We have become so
adjusted that, if tomorrow we were ordered to walkon our hands, we would do
so without the slightest protest. Provided,of course, that the paper came
out as usual. And that we touched ourpay regularly. Otherwise nothing matters.
Nothing. We have become Orientalized.We have become coolies, white-collar
coolies, silenced by a handfulof rice each day. A special feature in
American skulls, I was readingthe other day. is the presence of the epactal
bone. or os Incae.in the occiput. The presence of this bone, so the savant
went on tosay. is due to a persistence of the transverse occipital suture
whichis usually closed in fetal life. Hence it is a sign of arrested
developmentand indicative of an inferior race. "The average cubical capacity
ofthe American skull. " so he went on to say. "falls below that of thewhite,
and rises above that of the black race. Taking both sexes, theParisians of
today have a cranial capacity of , cubic centimeters; theNegroes ,
centimeters; the American Indians ,. " From all of which Ideduce nothing
because I am an American and not an Indian. But it'scute to explain things
that way, by a bone, an os Incae, forexample. It doesn't disturb his theory
at all to admit that single examplesof Indian skulls have yielded the
extraordinary capacity of , cubiccentimeters, a cranial capacity not
exceeded in any other race.

    What I note withsatisfaction is that the Parisians, of both sexes, seem
to have a normalcranial capacity. The transverse occipital suture is
evidently not sopersistent with them. They know how to enjoy an aperitif
andthey don't worry if the houses are unpainted. There's nothing
extraordinaryabout their skulls, so far as cranial indices go. There must be
someother explanation for the art of living which they have brought to sucha
degree of perfection.
    At Monsieur Paul's,the bistro across the way, there is a back room
reserved forthe newspapermen where we can eat on credit. It is a pleasant
littleroom with sawdust on the floor and flies in season and out. When I
saythat it is reserved for the newspapermen I don't mean to imply thatwe eat
in privacy! on the contrary, it means that we have the privilegeof
associating with the whores and pimps who form the more substantialelement
of Monsier Paul's clientle. The arrangement suits the guys upstairsto a T,
because they're always on the lookout for tail, and even thosewho have a
steady little French girl are not averse to making a switchnow and then. The
principal thing is not to get a dose; at times itwould seem as if an
epidemic had swept the office, or perhaps it mightbe explained by the fact
that they all sleep with the same woman. Anyhow,it's gratifying to observe
how miserable they can look when they areobliged to sit beside a pimp who,
despite the little hardships of hisprofession, lives a life of luxury by
comparison.
    I'm thinkingparticularly now of one tall, blonde fellow who delivers the
Havas messagesby bicycle. He is always a little late for his meal, always
perspiringprofusely and his face covered with grime. He has a fine, awkward
wayof strolling in, saluting everybody with two fingers and making a
beelinefor the sink which is just between the toilet and the kitchen. As
hewipes his face he gives the edibles a quick inspection; if he sees anice
steak lying on the slab he picks it up and sniffs it. or he willdip the
ladle into the big pot and try a mouthful of soup. He's likea fine bloodhound,
his nose to the ground all the time. The preliminariesover, having made
peepee and blown his nose vigorously, he walks nonchalantlyover to his wench
and gives her a big. smacking kiss together with anaffectionate pat on the
rump. Her. the wench. I've never seen look anythingbut immaculate _ even at
three a. m. , after an evening's work. Shelooks exactly as if she had just
stepped out of a

    Turkish bath.It's a pleasure to look at such healthy brutes, to see such
repose,such affection, such appetite as they display. It's the evening
mealI'm speaking of now, the little snack that she takes before enteringupon
her duties. In a little while she will be obliged to take leaveof her big
blonde brute, to flop somewhere on the boulevard and sipher digestif. If the
job is irksome or wearing or exhaustive,she certainly doesn't show it. When
the big fellow arrives, hungry asa wolf, she puts her arms around him and
kisses him hungrily _ his eyes.nose. cheeks, hair. the back of his neck. . .
she'd kiss his ass ifit could be done publicly. She's grateful to him.
that's evident. She'sno wage slave. All through the meal she laughs
convulsively. You wouldn'tthink she had a care in the world. And now and then.
by way of affection,she gives him a resounding slap in the face, such a
whack as would knocka proofreader spinning.
    They don't seemto be aware of anything but themselves and the food that
they pack awayin shovelsful. Such perfect contentment, such harmony, such
mutual understanding,it drives Van Norden crazy to watch them. Especially
when she slipsher hand in the big fellow's fly and caresses it, to which he
generallyresponds by grabbing her teat and squeezing it playfully.
    There is anothercouple who arrive usually about the same time and they
behave just liketwo married people. They have their spats, they wash their
linen inpublic and after they've made things disagreeable for themselves
andeverybody else, after threats and curses and reproaches and
recriminations,they make up for it by billing and cooing, just like a pair
of turtledoves. Lucienne, as he calls her, is a heavy platinum blonde with
acruel, saturnine air. She has a full underlip which she chews
venomouslywhen her temper runs away with her. And a cold. beady eye, a sort
offaded china blue, which makes him sweat when she fixes him with it.But
she's a good sort, Lucienne, despite the condor-like profile whichshe
presents to us when the squabbling begins. Her bag is always fullof dough,
and if she deals it out cautiously, it is only because shedoesn't want to
encourage him in his bad habits. He has a weak character; that is, if one
takes Lucienne's tirades seriously. He will spend fiftyfrancs of an evening
while waiting for her to get through. When thewaitress comes to take his
order he has no ap-

    petite. "Ah,you're not hungry again! " growls Lucienne. "Humpf! You were
waitingfor me, I suppose, on the Faubourg Montmartre. You had a good time,I
hope, while I slaved for you. Speak, imbecile, where were you?"
    When she flaresup like that, when she gets enraged, he looks up at her
timidly andthen, as if he had decided that silence was the best course, he
letshis head drop and he fiddles with his napkin. But this little
gesture,which she knows so well and which of course is secretly pleasing
toher because she is convinced now that he is guilty, only increases
Lucienne'sanger. "Speak, imbecile!" she shrieks. And with a squeaky,
timidlittle voice he explains to her woefully that while waiting for herhe
got so hungry that he was obliged to stop off for a sandwich anda glass of
beer. It was just e-nough to ruin his appetite _ he saysit dolefully, though
it's apparent that food just now is the least ofhis worries. "But" _ and he
tries to make his voice sound more convincing_ "I was waiting for you all
the time, " he blurts out.
    "Liar!" she screams."Liar! Ah, fortunately, I too am a liar.. . a good
liar. Youmake me ill with your petty little lies. Why don't you tell me a
biglie?"
    He hangs hishead again and absent-mindedly he gathers a few crumbs and
puts themto his mouth. Whereupon she slafps his hand. "Don't do that! You
makeme tired. You're such an imbecile. Liar! Just you wait! I have moreto say.
I am a liar too, but I am not an imbecile. "
    In a little while,however, they are sitting close together, their hands
locked, and sheis murmuring softly: "Ah, my little rabbit, it is hard to
leave younow. Come here, kiss me! What are you going to do this evening?
Tellme the truth, my little one. ... I am sorry that I have such an
uglytemper. " He kisses her timidly, just like a little bunny with longpink
ears; gives her a little peck on the lips as if he werenibbling a cabbage
leaf. And at the same time his bright round eyesfall caressingly on her
purse which is lying open beside her on thebench. He is only waiting for the
moment when he can graciously giveher the slip; he is itching to get away,
to sit down in some quiet cafeon the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre.
    I know him, theinnocent little devil, with his round, frightened eyes of
a rabbit.And I know what a devil's street is the

    Faubourg Montmartrewith its brass plates and rubber goods, the lights
twinkling all nightand sex running through the street like a sewer. To walk
from the RueLafayette to the boulevard is like running the gauntlet; they
attachthemselves to you like barnacles, they eat into you like ants, theycoax.
wheedle, cajole, implore. beseech, they try it out in German,English, Spanish,
they show you their torn hearts and their busted shoes,and long after you've
chopped the tentacles away, long after the fizzand sizzle has died out, the
fragrance of the lavabo clings toyour nostrils _ it is the odor of the
Parfum de Danse whose effectivenessis guaranteed only for a distance of
twenty centimeters. One could pissaway a whole lifetime in that little
stretch between the boulevard andthe Rue Lafayette. Every bar is alive,
throbbing, the dice loaded; thecashiers are perched like vultures on their
high stools and the moneythey handle has a human stink to it. There is no
equivalent in the Banquede France for the blood money that passes currency
here. the money thatglistens with human sweat, that passes like a forest
fire from handto hand and leaves behind it a smoke and stench. A man who can
walkthrough the Faubourg Montmartre at night without panting or
sweating,without a prayer or a curse on his lips. a man like that has no
balls,and if he has, then he ought to be castrated.
    Supposing thetimid little rabbit does spend fifty francs of an evening
while waitingfor his Lucienne? Supposing he does get hungry and buy a
sandwich anda glass of beer. or stop and chat with somebody else's trollop?
Youthink he ought to be weary of that round night after night? You thinkit
ought to weigh on him. oppress him. bore him to death? You don'tthink that a
pimp is inhuman. I hope? A pimp has his private grief andmisery too, don't
you forget. Perhaps he would like nothing better thanto stand on the corner
every night with a pair of white dogs and watchthem piddle. Perhaps he would
like it if. when he opened the door, hewould see her there reading the
Paris-Soir, her eyes alreadya little heavy with sleep. Perhaps it isn't so
wonderful, when he bendsover his Lucienne, to taste another man's breath.
Better maybe to haveonly three francs in your pocket and a pair of white
dogs that piddleon the corner than to taste those bruised lips. Bet you.
when she squeezeshim tight, when she begs for that little package of love

    which only heknows how to deliver, bet you he fights like a thousand
devils to pumpit up, to wipe out that regiment that has marched between her
legs.Maybe when he takes her body and practices a new tune, maybe it
isn'tall passion and curiosity with him, but a fight in the dark, a
fightsingle-handed against the army that rushed the gates, the army
thatwalked over her, trampled her, that left her with such a devouring
hungerthat not even a Rudolph Valentine could appease. When I listen to
thereproaches that are leveled against a girl like Lucienne. when I hearher
being denigrated or despised because she is cold and mercenary,because she
is too mechanical, or because she's in too great a hurry,or because this or
because that, I say to myself, hold on there bozo,not so fast! Remember that
you're far back in the procession; rememberthat a whole army corps has laid
siege to her, that she's been laidwaste, plundered and pillaged. I say to
myself, listen, bozo, don'tbegrudge the fifty francs you hand her because
you know her pimp ispissing it away in the Faubourg Montmartre. It's her
money andher pimp. It's blood money. It's money thatll never be takenout of
circulation because there's nothing in the Banque de France toredeem it with.
    That's how Ithink about it often when I'm seated in my little niche
juggling theHavas reports or untangling the cables from Chicago, London and
Montreal.In between the rubber and silk markets and the Winnipeg grains
thereoozes a little of the fizz and sizzle of the Faubourg Montmartre.
Whenthe bonds go weak and spongy and the pivotals balk and the
volatileseffervesce, when the grain market slips and slides and the bulls
commenceto roar, when every fucking calamity, every ad. every sport item
andfashion article, every boat arrival, every travelogue, every tag ofgossip
has been punctuated, checked, revised, pegged and wrung throughthe silver
bracelets, when I hear the front page being hammered intowhack and see the
frogs dancing around like drunken squibs, I thinkof Lucienne sailing down
the boulevard with her wings outstretched,a huge silver condor suspended
over the sluggish tide of traffic, astrange bird from the tips of the Andes
with a rose-white belly anda tenacious little knob. Sometimes I walk home
alone and I follow herthrough the dark streets, follow her through the court
of the Louvre,over the Font des Arts. through the arcade,