chief things a waiter needs. Wait till I can bend this
accursed leg,
mon ami. And then, if you are ever out of
a job, come to me."
Now that I was short of my rent, and getting hungry,
I remembered Boris's promise, and decided to look him
up at once. I did not hope to become a waiter so easily
as he had promised, but of course I knew how to scrub
dishes, and no doubt he could get me a job in the
kitchen. He had said that dishwashing jobs were to be
had for the asking during the summer. It was a great
relief to remember that I had after all one influential
friend to fall back on.
V
A SHORT time before, Boris had given me an address
in the Rue du Marché des Blancs Manteaux. All he had
said in his letter was that "things were not marching too
badly," and I assumed that he was back
at the Hôtel Scribe, touching his hundred francs a
day. I was full of hope, and wondered why I had been
fool enough not to go to Boris before. I saw myself in a
cosy restaurant, with jolly cooks singing love-songs as
they broke eggs into the pan, and five solid meals a day.
I even squandered two francs-fifty on a packet of
Gaulois Bleu, in anticipation of my wages.
In the morning I walked down to the Rue du Marché
des Blancs Manteaux; with a shock, I found it a slummy
back street as bad as my own. Boris's hotel was the
dirtiest hotel in the street. From its dark doorway there
came out a vile, sour odour, a mixture of slops and
synthetic soup-it was Bouillon Zip, twenty-five
centimes a packet. A misgiving came over me. People
who drink Bouillon Zip are starving, or near it. Could
Boris possibly be earning a hundred francs a day? A
surly patron, sitting in the office, said to me, Yes, the
Russian was at home-in the attic. I went up six flights of
narrow, winding stairs, the Bouillon Zip growing
stronger as one got higher. Boris did not answer when I
knocked at his door, so I opened it and went in.
The room was an attic, ten feet square, lighted only
by a skylight, its sole furniture a narrow iron bedstead, a
chair, and a washhand-stand with one game leg. A long
S-shaped chain of bugs marched slowly across the wall
above the bed. Boris was lying asleep, naked, his large
belly making a mound under the grimy sheet. His chest
was spotted with insect bites. As I came in he woke up,
rubbed his eyes, and groaned deeply.
"Name of Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, "oh, name of
Jesus Christ, my back! Curse it, I believe my back is
broken!"
"What's the matter?" I exclaimed.
"My back is broken, that is all. I have spent the night
on the floor. Oh, name of Jesus Christ! If you knew
what my back feels like!"
"My dear Boris, are you ill?"
"Not ill, only starving-yes, starving to death if this
goes on much longer. Besides sleeping on the floor, I
have lived on two francs a day for weeks past. It is
fearful. You have come at a bad moment, mon ami. »
It did not seem much use to ask whether Boris still
had his job at the Hôtel Scribe. I hurried downstairs
and bought a loaf of bread. Boris threw himself on the
bread and ate half of it, after which he felt better, sat
up in bed, and told me what was the matter with him.
He had failed to get a job after leaving the hospital,
because he was still very lame, and he had spent all
his money and pawned everything, and finally starved
for several days. He had slept a week on the quay
under the Pont d'Austerlitz, among some empty wine
barrels. For the past fortnight he had been living in
this room, together with a Jew, a mechanic. It -
appeared (there was some complicated explanation)
that the Jew owed Boris three hundred francs, and
was repaying this by letting him sleep on the floor and
allowing him two francs a day for food. Two francs
would buy a bowl of coffee and three rolls. The Jew
went to work at seven in the mornings, and after that
Boris would leave his sleepingplace (it was beneath the
skylight, which let in the rain) and get into the bed. He
could not sleep much even there owing to the bugs,
but it rested his back after the floor.
It was a great disappointment, when I had come to
Boris for help, to find him even worse off than myself. I
explained that I had only about sixty francs left and
must get a job immediately. By this time, however,
Boris had eaten the rest of the bread and was feeling
cheerful and talkative. He said carelessly:
"Good heavens, what are you worrying about? Sixty
francs-why, it's a fortune! Please hand me that shoe,
mon ami. I'm going to smash some of those bugs if they
come within reach."
"But do you think there's any chance of getting a
job?"
"Chance? It's a certainty. In fact, I have got some-
thing already. There is a new Russian restaurant which
is to open in a few days in the Rue du Commerce. It is
une chose entendue
that I am to be
maitre d'hôtel. I can
easily get you a job in the kitchen. Five hundred francs
a month and your food-tips, too, if you are lucky."
"But in the meantime? I've got to pay my rent before
long."
"Oh, we shall find something. I have got a few cards
up my sleeve. There are people who owe me money, for
"instance-Paris is full of them. One of them is bound to
pay up before long. Then think of all the women who
have been my mistress! A woman never forgets, you
know-I have only to ask and they will help me. 'Besides,
the Jew tells me he is going to steal some magnetos
from the garage where he works, and he will pay us five
francs a day to clean them before he sells them. That
alone would keep us. Never worry, mon ami. Nothing is
easier to get than money."