So, proudly, in spite of his tattered clothing, he walked into a respectable bistro and sat down at a table — he, who for so long had only stood at bars, or rather propped his elbow on them. He sat. And since his chair was facing a mirror, he could hardly avoid looking at his reflection in it, and it was as though he were making his own acquaintance again after a long absence. He was shocked. Immediately he realized why for the last few years he had been so distrustful of mirrors. It was not good to see evidence of his own dissipation with his own eyes. For as long as he had been able to avoid seeing it, it was either as though he had no face at all, or still had the old one from the time before he had become dissipated.
Now, though, he was shocked, especially when he compared his own physiognomy with those of the sleek and respectable men who were seated round him. It was fully a week since he had last had a shave — a rough and ready one, as was usually the case, administered to him by one of his fellows, who would occasionally agree to shave a brother-vagrant for a few coppers. Now, though, in view of his decision to begin a new life, nothing less than a real shave would do. He decided to go to a proper barber’s shop before going on with his breakfast.
He suited the action to the thought, and went to a barber.
When he returned to the tavern, he found his former place occupied, and he was now only able to get a distant view of himself in the mirror. But it was enough for him to see that he had been smartened up, rejuvenated, become a new man. Yes, his face seemed to be giving off a sort of radiance which made the tattiness of his clothes seem irrelevant — the ripped shirt-front, and the red-and-white striped foulard he wound over his frayed collar.
So he sat down again, our Andreas, and in the spirit of his renewal he ordered his “café, arrosé rhum,” in the confident tone of voice that had long ago once been his, and which now returned to him, like an old sweetheart. The waiter served him, he thought, with a show of esteem that was only accorded to respectable guests. This particularly gratified our Andreas — it boosted his self-esteem, and strengthened him in the conviction that today was indeed his birthday.
A gentleman, who had been sitting alone at a table close to that of our clochard, had been studying him for a while, and now turned to him and addressed him as follows: “Would you be interested in earning some money? You could do some work for me. You see, we’re moving house tomorrow. You could help my wife and the removal men. You look as though you have the strength for it. Are you free tomorrow? Would you like to?”
“Yes, by all means,” replied Andreas.
“And how much would you expect to be paid for two days’ work? Tomorrow and Saturday. Because, you see, I’ve got rather a large flat, and the one we’re moving into is even bigger. There’s stacks of furniture too. I won’t be able myself to help, as I’ll be busy looking after the shop.”
“I’m just the man for the job!” said the vagrant.
“Would you care for a drink?” asked the gentleman.
And he ordered two Pernods, they clinked glasses, the gentleman and Andreas, and they also fixed the rate for the job: it was to be two hundred francs.
“Shall we have another?” asked the gentleman, after finishing his Pernod.
“Yes, but let me buy this one,” said the vagrant Andreas. “You don’t know me, but I’m a man of principle. An honest worker. Take a look at my hands!”—and he held out his hands for inspection—“They may be dirty and calloused, but they’re real working-man’s hands.”
“That’s what I like to see!” said the gentleman. He had twinkling eyes, a pink plump baby face and, smack in the middle of it, a little black moustache. All in all, he was a friendly chap, and Andreas took a liking to him.
So they drank together, and Andreas paid for the second round. And when the baby-faced man got up, Andreas saw that he was extremely fat. He took a visiting-card from his wallet, and wrote his address on it. And then he took a hundred-franc note from the same wallet, and handed both together to Andreas, saying: “To be sure you’ll turn up tomorrow! Tomorrow morning at eight, all right? Don’t forget! I’ll pay you the rest when you’re finished! And then we’ll have another apéritif together! All right? Cheerio, friend!” And with that he was gone, the fat gentleman with the baby face, and nothing surprised Andreas more than the fact that he had produced his address from the same pocket as his money. Well, seeing as he now had some money, and the prospect of more to come, he decided to buy a wallet himself. With this in mind, he set off in search of a leather-goods shop. In the first such shop he came across, he saw a young sales-girl. He thought she looked very attractive, the way she stood behind the counter, wearing a black dress with a white apron tied across her bosom, the mop of curls on her head and the heavy gold bracelet on her right wrist. He took his hat off to her, and said breezily: “I’m looking for a wallet.” The girl cast a cursory glance at his tattered clothing, not in any spirit of disapproval, simply to assess the customer in front of her. Because in her shop, she sold wallets that were expensive, moderately expensive and very cheap. With out any more ado, she climbed up a ladder and took down a box from the topmost shelf. That was where those wallets were kept that customers sometimes brought in, in part-exchange for new ones. Andreas happened to notice that the girl had very shapely legs, and that her feet were in very trim little shoes, and he remembered those half-forgotten times when he himself had stroked such calves and kissed such feet. The faces he had forgotten, he had no recollection of the faces of the women — with one single exception, namely the one for whose sake he had gone to prison. In the meantime, the girl climbed down from the ladder, and opened the box, and he picked one of the wallets that were lying at the very top, barely looking at it. He paid, put his hat back on, and smiled at the girl and the girl smiled back at him. Rather absent-mindedly, he put the new wallet in his pocket, beside his money. It suddenly seemed to have no point, this wallet. On the other hand, the ladder, and the legs and feet of the girl filled his mind. Therefore he directed his steps towards Montmartre, in search of those places where he had once found pleasure. In a narrow and steep little lane, he found the bar where the girls were. He sat down at a table with several of them, bought a round of drinks, and chose one of the girls, in fact the one who was sitting next to him. They went up to her room. And even though it was only afternoon, he slept until the following morning — and, because the patronne was feeling generous, she let him sleep on.
That morning, the Friday, he went to work for the fat gentleman. His job was to help the lady of the house to pack, and, even though the furniture removal men were doing their work, there was more than enough, both arduous and less arduous, to keep Andreas busy. In the course of the day, he felt the strength returning to his muscles, and he took pleasure in his work. He had grown up working, he had been a coalminer like his father, and briefly a farmer like his father before him. If only the lady of the house hadn’t got on his nerves so much, giving him pointless instructions, telling him to be in two places at once, so that he didn’t know whether he was coming or going. But he could appreciate that she was agitated too. It couldn’t have been easy for her, moving house just like that, and maybe she wasn’t sure about the new place either. She stood there dressed to go out, in coat and hat and gloves, with her handbag and umbrella, even though she must have known that she would be remaining in the old house all that day and night, and even some of the next day as well. From time to time she would paint her lips, and that too Andreas could well understand. Naturally — she was a lady.