if I stop and open this door, I’ll have nothing in front of me and nothing behind me except the abyss.
100 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
The brass door handle. The tinkling of the shop bell.
“ Bonjour, monsieur. You won’t have long to wait.”
As always, the old man was there, reading his newspaper. A customer sat in the broad-backed chair, her wet hair combed down over her face. Chantal stood at the cash register. At that moment, the sun disappeared behind an isolated cloud. The barber turned around.
No one said anything.
I began. In my very best French.
“Once upon a time, there was an animal. It had the head of a bear, but its hindquarters resembled a zebra’s. When people saw it from the front, they said, ‘That’s a bear.’ The people who observed the beast from behind declared it was a zebra. And because no one saw it from both the back and the front at once, a quar-rel arose. The animal didn’t understand what the argument was about, because it experienced itself as a single whole.”
I spoke the last sentence in Chantal’s direction. Her eyes were dark with confusion. She braced herself with both hands on the cash drawer.
“What’s he talking about?” the barber hissed. “What does he want?”
During my tale, the customer had parted her hair like a curtain and looked at me in the mirror.
“Close your shop, monsieur,” I said to the barber. “Immediately would be best.”
“Are you mad?” He came closer to me.
“You have to leave.” I turned in the direction of the cashier’s desk. “You, too, Chantal.”
“What do you know about this?” the barber asked her fiercely.
A P R I L I N PA R I S . 101
“Nothing.” She didn’t move an inch.
Suddenly, and for the first time since I’d entered the shop, the old man lowered his newspaper. I could see white hair and glittering blue eyes. He looked me up and down.
“Are you the boche ?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m the boche. ”
Calmly, the old man rested his hands on his newspaper. “And you’re the zebra, and you’re also the bear?”
“Just so, monsieur.”
The old man turned to the barber. “Listen to him, Gustave.”
As he said this, he folded the paper and stood up.
“Why should I, Papa?”
“Do it.” The old man took his hat from the hook, opened the door, and stepped out. He seemed to be checking the weather.
Then, after lingering in the sun for a few moments, he finally began strolling down rue Jacob.
“Let’s go in the back.” Gustave pointed to a glass-bead curtain.
“We’ll just be a second, madame,” he said, turning briefly to the customer, who watched in amazement as he withdrew.
I stepped through the strings of beads; Chantal was the last to enter. A tiny kitchen, a small round table. The barber pointed me to the only chair. Chantal leaned on the sink. The glass beads were still clicking.
After a brief silence, I said, “You’re waiting for the Gascon.”
The barber exchanged glances with Chantal. “Who?”
I described the man.
“We don’t know him.”
“I translated his interrogation,” I said. “They set him free. And now he’s led them to you. When is he coming?”
102 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
Despite the tense silence and their mutual consternation, I couldn’t help looking at Chantal. She was breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling.
“We’re not waiting for anybody,” the barber said, lying.
“At six-thirty,” said Chantal, interrupting him. He stared at her.
“Six-thirty,” I repeated, remembering the clocks striking six just after I crossed the bridge. “Then there’s hardly any time.”
I held my clenched fists between my knees and told my story as calmly as I could, addressing most of it to Chantal. The beaded curtain broke up the light coming into the room.
“That’s quite a tale you tell,” the barber said brusquely.
“Why are you doing this?” Chantal pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Those are your people.”
I shrugged
100 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
The brass door handle. The tinkling of the shop bell.
“ Bonjour, monsieur. You won’t have long to wait.”
As always, the old man was there, reading his newspaper. A customer sat in the broad-backed chair, her wet hair combed down over her face. Chantal stood at the cash register. At that moment, the sun disappeared behind an isolated cloud. The barber turned around.
No one said anything.
I began. In my very best French.
“Once upon a time, there was an animal. It had the head of a bear, but its hindquarters resembled a zebra’s. When people saw it from the front, they said, ‘That’s a bear.’ The people who observed the beast from behind declared it was a zebra. And because no one saw it from both the back and the front at once, a quar-rel arose. The animal didn’t understand what the argument was about, because it experienced itself as a single whole.”
I spoke the last sentence in Chantal’s direction. Her eyes were dark with confusion. She braced herself with both hands on the cash drawer.
“What’s he talking about?” the barber hissed. “What does he want?”
During my tale, the customer had parted her hair like a curtain and looked at me in the mirror.
“Close your shop, monsieur,” I said to the barber. “Immediately would be best.”
“Are you mad?” He came closer to me.
“You have to leave.” I turned in the direction of the cashier’s desk. “You, too, Chantal.”
“What do you know about this?” the barber asked her fiercely.
A P R I L I N PA R I S . 101
“Nothing.” She didn’t move an inch.
Suddenly, and for the first time since I’d entered the shop, the old man lowered his newspaper. I could see white hair and glittering blue eyes. He looked me up and down.
“Are you the boche ?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m the boche. ”
Calmly, the old man rested his hands on his newspaper. “And you’re the zebra, and you’re also the bear?”
“Just so, monsieur.”
The old man turned to the barber. “Listen to him, Gustave.”
As he said this, he folded the paper and stood up.
“Why should I, Papa?”
“Do it.” The old man took his hat from the hook, opened the door, and stepped out. He seemed to be checking the weather.
Then, after lingering in the sun for a few moments, he finally began strolling down rue Jacob.
“Let’s go in the back.” Gustave pointed to a glass-bead curtain.
“We’ll just be a second, madame,” he said, turning briefly to the customer, who watched in amazement as he withdrew.
I stepped through the strings of beads; Chantal was the last to enter. A tiny kitchen, a small round table. The barber pointed me to the only chair. Chantal leaned on the sink. The glass beads were still clicking.
After a brief silence, I said, “You’re waiting for the Gascon.”
The barber exchanged glances with Chantal. “Who?”
I described the man.
“We don’t know him.”
“I translated his interrogation,” I said. “They set him free. And now he’s led them to you. When is he coming?”
102 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
Despite the tense silence and their mutual consternation, I couldn’t help looking at Chantal. She was breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling.
“We’re not waiting for anybody,” the barber said, lying.
“At six-thirty,” said Chantal, interrupting him. He stared at her.
“Six-thirty,” I repeated, remembering the clocks striking six just after I crossed the bridge. “Then there’s hardly any time.”
I held my clenched fists between my knees and told my story as calmly as I could, addressing most of it to Chantal. The beaded curtain broke up the light coming into the room.
“That’s quite a tale you tell,” the barber said brusquely.
“Why are you doing this?” Chantal pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Those are your people.”
I shrugged
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