Time went on and the Auberge de Jehan Cottard showed no signs of opening. Boris and I went down there one day during our afternoon interval1 and found that none of the alterations2 had been done, except the indecent pictures, and there were three duns instead of two. The PATRON greeted us with his usual blandness3, and the next instant turned to me (his prospective4 dishwasher) and borrowed five francs. After that I felt certain that the restaurant would never get beyond talk. The PATRON, however, again named the opening for ‘exactly a fortnight from today’, and introduced us to the woman who was to do the cooking, a Baltic Russian five feet tall and a yard across the hips5. She told us that she had been a singer before she came down to cooking, and that she was very artistic6 and adored English literature, especially LA CASE DE L’ONCLE TOM.
In a fortnight I had got so used to the routine of a PLONGEUR’S life that I could hardly imagine anything different. It was a life without much variation. At a quarter to six one woke with a sudden start, tumbled into grease-stiffened clothes, and hurried out with dirty face and protesting muscles. It was dawn, and the windows were dark except for the workmen’s cafes. The sky was like a vast flat wall of cobalt, with roofs and spires7 of black paper pasted upon it. Drowsy8 men were sweeping9 the pavements with ten-foot besoms, and ragged10 families picking over the dustbins. Workmen, and girls with a piece of chocolate in one hand and a CROISSANT in the other, were pouring into the Metro11 stations. Trams, filled with more workmen, boomed gloomily past. One hastened down to the station, fought for a place — one does literally12 have to fight on the Paris Metro at six in the morning — and stood jammed in the swaying mass of passengers, nose to nose with some hideous13 French face, breathing sour wine and garlic. And then one descended14 into the labyrinth15 of the hotel basement, and forgot daylight till two o’clock, when the sun was hot and the town black with people and cars.
After my first week at the hotel I always spent the afternoon interval in sleeping, or, when I had money, in a BISTRO. Except for a few ambitious waiters who went to English classes, the whole staff wasted their leisure in this way; one seemed too lazy after the morning’s work to do anything better. Sometimes half a dozen PLONGEURS would make up a party and go to an abominable16 brothel in the Rue17 de Sieyes, where the charge was only five francs twenty-five centimes — tenpence half-penny. It was nicknamed ‘LE PRIX FIXE’, and they used to describe their experiences there as a great joke. It was a favourite rendezvous18 of hotel workers. The PLONGEURS’ wages did not allow them to marry, and no doubt work in the basement does not encourage fastidious feelings.
For another four hours one was in the cellars, and then one emerged, sweating, into the cool street. It was lamplight — that strange purplish gleam of the Paris lamps — and beyond the river the Eiffel Tower flashed from top to bottom with zigzag19 skysigns, like enormous snakes of fire. Streams of cars glided20 silently to and fro, and women, exquisite-looking in the dim light, strolled up and down the arcade21. Sometimes a woman would glance at Boris or me, and then, noticing our greasy22 clothes, look hastily away again. One fought another battle in the Metro and was home by ten. Generally from ten to midnight I went to a little BISTRO in our street, an underground place frequented by Arab navvies. It was a bad place for fights, and I sometimes saw bottles thrown, once with fearful effect, but as a rule the Arabs fought among themselves and let Christians23 alone. Raki, the Arab drink, was very cheap, and the BISTRO was open at all hours, for the Arabs — lucky men — had the power of working all day and drinking all night.
It was the typical life of a PLONGEUR, and it did not seem a bad life at the time. I had no sensation of poverty, for even after paying my rent and setting aside enough for tobacco and journeys and my food on Sundays, I still had four francs a day for drinks, and four francs was wealth. There was — it is hard to express it — a sort of heavy contentment, the contentment a well-fed beast might feel, in a life which had become so simple. For nothing could be simpler than the life of a PLONGEUR. He lives in a rhythm between work and sleep, without time to think, hardly conscious of the exterior24 world; his Paris has shrunk to the hotel, the Metro, a few BISTROS and his bed. If he goes afield, it is only a few streets away, on a trip with some servant-girl who sits on his knee swallowing oysters25 and beer. On his free day he lies in bed till noon, puts on a clean shirt, throws dice26 for drinks, and after lunch goes back to bed again. Nothing is quite real to him but the BOULOT, drinks and sleep; and of these sleep is the most important.
One night, in the small hours, there was a murder just beneath my window. I was woken by a fearful uproar27, and, going to the window, saw a man lying flat on the stones below; I could see the murderers, three of them, flitting away at the end of the street. Some of us went down and found that the man was quite dead, his skull28 cracked with a piece of lead piping. I remember the colour of his blood, curiously29 purple, like wine; it was still on the cobbles when I came home that evening, and they said the school-children had come from miles round to see it. But the thing that strikes me in looking back is that I was in bed and asleep within three minutes of the murder. So were most of the people in the street; we just made sure that the man was done for, and went straight back to bed. We were working people, and where was the sense of wasting sleep over a murder?
Work in the hotel taught me the true value of sleep, just as being hungry had taught me the true value of food. Sleep had ceased to be a mere30 physical necessity; it was something voluptuous31, a debauch32 more than a relief. I had no more trouble with the bugs33. Mario had told me of a sure remedy for them, namely pepper, strewed34 thick over the bedclothes. It made me sneeze, but the bugs all hated it, and emigrated to other rooms.
1 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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2 alterations | |
n.改动( alteration的名词复数 );更改;变化;改变 | |
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3 blandness | |
n.温柔,爽快 | |
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4 prospective | |
adj.预期的,未来的,前瞻性的 | |
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5 hips | |
abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯,耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 );[建筑学]屋脊;臀围(尺寸);臀部…的 | |
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6 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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7 spires | |
n.(教堂的) 塔尖,尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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8 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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9 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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10 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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11 metro | |
n.地铁;adj.大都市的;(METRO)麦德隆(财富500强公司之一总部所在地德国,主要经营零售) | |
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12 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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13 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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14 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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15 labyrinth | |
n.迷宫;难解的事物;迷路 | |
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16 abominable | |
adj.可厌的,令人憎恶的 | |
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17 rue | |
n.懊悔,芸香,后悔;v.后悔,悲伤,懊悔 | |
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18 rendezvous | |
n.约会,约会地点,汇合点;vi.汇合,集合;vt.使汇合,使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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19 zigzag | |
n.曲折,之字形;adj.曲折的,锯齿形的;adv.曲折地,成锯齿形地;vt.使曲折;vi.曲折前行 | |
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20 glided | |
v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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21 arcade | |
n.拱廊;(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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22 greasy | |
adj. 多脂的,油脂的 | |
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23 Christians | |
n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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24 exterior | |
adj.外部的,外在的;表面的 | |
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25 oysters | |
牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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26 dice | |
n.骰子;vt.把(食物)切成小方块,冒险 | |
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27 uproar | |
n.骚动,喧嚣,鼎沸 | |
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28 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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29 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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30 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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31 voluptuous | |
adj.肉欲的,骄奢淫逸的 | |
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32 debauch | |
v.使堕落,放纵 | |
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33 bugs | |
adj.疯狂的,发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 );病菌;虫子;[计算机](制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的)错误 | |
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34 strewed | |
v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 );散落于;点缀;撒满 | |
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