New Venice 02 - Luminous Chaos by Valtat Jean-Christophe

Author:Valtat, Jean-Christophe [Valtat, Jean-Christophe]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Melville House
Published: 2013-10-14T22:00:00+00:00

VII

The Red Castle

Only a few yards away from the splendour of Notre-Dame, the St. Séverin quarter was a knot of narrow medieval streets that even in cold weather smelled like a cesspool. The activity in the greasy ravines zigzagging between the slanting, dark, and cracked houses was on a par with the dereliction of the surroundings: the miserable flea markets were filled with tottering ragpickers, the four-sous restaurants were filled with rejects from Les Halles, and dangerous pimps were making the rounds of the streets around them as calmly as prosperous bourgeoisie out on an evening stroll, while stooped shadows hurried from lushing ken to lushing ken.

Here Crime held its court.

And here, Amédée de Bramentombes was finally keeping his promise to lead Blankbate to the source of the Blackamoor: a café in the meandrous rue Galande called the Château-Rouge, the Red Castle—a red house indeed, also known, invitingly, as “The Guillotine.”

It was the temple of la pente—the slope, as the French called their low life. And as Blankbate and Amédée stepped from the cold into the large timbered room of the ground floor, Blankbate felt that he was entering an outer circle of hell: an enormous stove puffed turgid heat, its smoke blackening the walls and carrying in its eddies a reek of musk, vomit, and bleach. The thirty or so patrons didn’t seem all that dangerous: sleepy old ragged crones; drunkards staring through an absinthe haze; exhausted, sick girls, more or less nude under their coats, one of them, her head on the table, begging her neighbour for the bottom of his drink … The dregs of humanity, thought Blankbate, although not without pity. To the right, an opening led to a room that Amédée told him was nicknamed the “Hall of the Dead.” In the trembling glimmer from a single-wick lamp hanging from the ceiling, Blankbate could just make out a glimpse of bodies piled up on the clay floor; he could hear them snoring and, occasionally, retching.

But it was another room, visible at the back of the place, that, at Amédée’s direction, they headed for. Blankbate could see that, all things being relative, part of this forty thieves’ den was somewhat more cosy, with its walls covered with clumsy frescoes depicting a wedding party passing over a bridge. Inside, however, were figures playing cards and drinking spirits. They raised their heads and cast meaningful glances at Blankbate and Amédée as they entered, all of them looking so spectacularly mean that one might have been forgiven for thinking they had been dressed up and paid to look ferocious. Even the Parisian underworld was part of the tourist trail, and Blankbate could see that these thugs had taken their parts to heart.

And so did he. He moved with composure and did his best to look dangerous. Those still staring at him now did so with more interest than menace—they could sense a business proposition in the air.

Among so many unattractive faces, Blankbate could not but be struck by the beauty of one man, sitting at a table with his heavily made-up girlfriend.

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