The Legend of the Holy Drinker
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY MICHAEL HOFMANN
1
On a spring evening in 1934 a gentleman of mature years descended one of the flights of stone steps that lead from the bridges over the Seine down to its banks. It is there that, as all the world knows and so will hardly need reminding, the homeless poor of Paris sleep, or rather spend the night.
One such poor vagrant chanced to be walking towards the gentleman of mature years, who was incidentally well-dressed and had the appearance of a visitor, disposed to take in the sights of foreign cities. This vagrant looked no less pitiable and bedraggled than any other, but to the elderly well-dressed man he seemed to merit some particular attention: why, we are unable to say.
It was, as already mentioned, evening, and under the bridges on the banks of the river it was rather darker than it was up on the bridges and embankments above. The vagrant was swaying slightly and was clearly the worse for wear. He seemed not to have noticed the elderly, well-dressed gentleman. He, though, had clearly seen the swaying man from some way off, and, far from swaying himself, was striding purposefully towards him. He seemed intent on barring the way of the seedy man. They both came to a halt and confronted one another.
“Where are you going, brother?” asked the elderly, well-dressed gentleman.
The other looked at him for a moment, and said: “I wasn’t aware that I had a brother, and I don’t know where I’m going.”
“Then I will try to show you the way,” said the gentleman. “But first will you not be angry with me if I ask you for a rather unusual favor?”
“I am entirely at your service,” said the clochard.
“I can see that you are not without blemish. But God has sent you to me. Now, if you’ll forgive my saying so, I am sure you could use some money. I have more than enough. Could you tell me how much you require? At least for the immediate future?”
The other reflected for a moment and said: “Twenty francs.”
“That can’t be enough,” replied the gentleman. “I’m sure you require two hundred.”
The vagrant took a step back, and for a moment it looked as if he might fall over, but he managed to stay on his feet, if with a little local difficulty. Then he said: “Certainly, I would rather two hundred francs than twenty, but I am a man of honor. You may not have realized as much. I am unable to accept the sum you offer me for the following reasons: firstly, because I don’t have the pleasure of knowing you; secondly, because I don’t know how and when I would be able to repay you; and thirdly, because there would be no possibility of your asking me to repay you. I have no address. Almost every day finds me under a different bridge. And yet, in spite of that, as I have assured you, I am a man of honor, albeit of no fixed address.”
“I too have no address,” replied the elderly gentleman, “and I too may be found under a different bridge every day, and yet I would ask you please to accept the two hundred francs — a bagatelle for a man such as yourself. And as regards its repayment, I should explain why I am unable to refer you, say, to a bank, where you could deposit the money in my account. The fact is that I have recently become a Christian, as a result of reading the story of little St Thérèse de Lisieux. I have a special reverence for her little statue in the Chapelle de Sainte Marie des Batignolles, which you will have no trouble in finding. Therefore, when you next happen to have two hundred francs, and your conscience will not allow you to go on owing me such a paltry sum, I would ask you to go to Sainte Marie des Batignolles, and to leave the money in the hands of the priest who reads the Mass there. For if you owe it to anyone, you owe it to little Thérèse. Don’t forget now: Sainte Marie des Batignolles.”
“I see,” said the clochard, “that you have understood me and my sense of honor perfectly. I give you my word that I will keep my word. But I am only able to go to Mass on a Sunday.”
“By all means, on a Sunday,” said the elderly gentle man. He took two hundred francs from his wallet, gave them to the swaying fellow, and said: “I thank you!”
“It was a pleasure,” replied the other, and immediately vanished into the depths of the gloom.
For it had grown dark in the meantime, down by the river, while up above, on the bridges and quays, the silvery lamps were lighting up, to proclaim the merry Parisian night.
2
The well-dressed gentleman also vanished into the darkness. He had indeed experienced the miracle of faith. He had made up his mind to lead a life of poverty. And therefore he lived under bridges.
As for the other fellow, though, he was a drunkard and a toper. His name was Andreas. He lived, like many drunkards, a rather fortuitous existence. It was a long time since he had last had two hundred francs. And perhaps because it was such a long time, he took out a scrap of paper and a stub of pencil, and by the sparse light of one of the few lamps under one of the bridges, he noted down the address of St Thérèse, and the sum of two hundred francs that he now owed her. Then he climbed one of the flights of steps that lead from the Seine’s banks to the quays. He knew there was a restaurant there. And he went in, and ate and drank plentifully, and he spent a lot of money, and when he left he took a whole bottle with him for the night, which he intended to spend under the bridge, as usual. Yes, and he picked up a newspaper from a wastepaper bin, not in order to read it, but to wrap himself up in it. For, as all vagrants know, newspapers keep you warm.
3
The following morning, Andreas got up rather earlier than usual, for he had slept unusually well. After pondering the matter for a long time, he remembered that he had experienced a miracle yesterday, a miracle. And as it had been a mild night and he seemed to have slept particularly well wrapped up in his newspaper, better than for some time, he decided he would go down to the river and wash, something he hadn’t done for many months, in fact not since the onset of the colder weather. Before beginning to undress, though, he felt in the left inside pocket of his jacket, where, if he remembered correctly, there ought still to be some tangible evidence of the miracle. Then he set about looking for a secluded spot on the banks of the Seine, so that he might at least wash his face and neck. However, embarrassed at finding himself in plain view of people, of poor people such as himself (derelicts, as he now suddenly thought of them), he quickly abandoned his original plan, and made do with merely dipping his hands into the water. Then he put his jacket on again, felt once more for the bank-note in his left inside pocket, and, feeling thoroughly cleansed, yes, positively trans formed, he set forth.
He set forth into the day, into one of his typical days, such as he had now been passing since the beginning of time, resolved once more to direct his steps to the familiar Rue des Quatre Vents, to the Russian-Armenian restaurant Tari-Bari, where he was in the habit of investing in cheap liquor whatever little money had come his way.
But, at the first newspaper kiosk he passed, he stopped, attracted initially by the illustrations on the covers of some of the weekly magazines, but then also suddenly gripped by curiosity to learn what day it was today, what date and what day of the week. So he bought himself a newspaper, and saw that it was a Thursday, and he suddenly remembered that the day on which he was born was also a Thursday, and, regardless of the date, he decided to make this particular Thursday his birthday. And, already full of a childish feeling of excitement and celebration, he decided unhesitatingly to follow some good, yes, some noble prompting, and for once not go to the Tari-Bari, but instead, newspaper in hand, to seek out some classier establishment, where he would order a roll and some coffee — perhaps inspirited with a jigger of rum.