PAY THE RENT
73
that love should neither reside in coffeepots, alligators, weathercocks,
nor slink about underground in worm's or mole's guise, it should be
self-evident in the world as any other human equation." Jean-Bap–
tiste heard his father coming downstairs, stumping with surprising
agility. He panicked, not knowing whether to rush back down, leav–
ing the case at the top, or brazen it all out. ("You, father, made me
do this. You wouldn't let me have love, money, freedom. Finally, you
left me impotent to help. I had to take to crime.") But then, dead
in front of him, was his father's bulk, the white aureole in the little
light from the cellar's low-wattage bulb, the terrifying white night–
shirt. "Rogues, rascals, thieves!" called the old man loudly. He had
a big stick. "Breaking in like that, stealing my wine, how dare
you!" He thrashed at J ean-Baptiste's head blindly. Jean-Baptiste
slipped on the stair, lost his footing and went down, trying to shout
"Father!" The case of wine bottles crashed all over him as he
thumped and flailed to the bottom of the steps. At the bottom he
struck his head with sickening finality on something hard and metal.
The Cafe Trinidad was closed next day, and the day after. The
day after that, a bright young assistant or curate polished the glasses
and poured from the bottles. Blanchard, unevicted,
in
a job at last.
"What we want to know," said Eustace Deschamps, fiddling with his
Byrrh, "is what precisely happened."
Corbiere was there. "I can tell you part of the story," he said.
He told it. "I feel a bit ashamed now," he said. "You see, I thought
about it and thought about it and I couldn't just believe that he'd
do it. I mean, after being under the old man's thumb all these years.
It
didn't seem possible that he'd find the courage to do it. I mean,
does it seem feasible to you?" Deschamps, Desportes, Marat and
others made sour mouths, saying nothing.
The typewriter was heard clacking away above. "Still at it,"
said Marot, "the man of letters.
It
must be a very long book."
"There was some talk about it being finished," said young
Blanchard, "but apparently it's been started all over again."
"What I want to know," said Deschamps, impatiently, "is what
actually happened. Is he alive or
is
he dead?"
"Jean-Baptiste?" There was some shoulder-shrugging. Marot
said: "Nobody seems quite sure. Alive or dead, he's upstairs, and
the old man won't leave him. The old man won't leave him even for
