The Salamander Page #5

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I'm gonna explore.

And I'm gonna go back to Brazil.

See you later.

Paul wrote in his notebook:

"The lovely little salamander...

"belongs to the lizard family."

"It's black, with yellowish-orange

spots."

"The salamander is venomous.

It's the fire's spirit.

"Flames cannot harm it."

Pierre thought:

"What's the point of realizing

there's a connection...

"between the crushing of bodies down

there...

"and the crushing of the spirit here?"

One could only know it, say it...

and still it would roll like a pebble

down the gray stream of news.

That's where my father works.

Is he there now?

Yeah. That's him, the guy over there.

So now's a good time to visit your

mother.

He wouldn't have eaten you.

I fry the onions separately,

and put the sauce aside for the

moment.

He couldn't care less about your

cooking.

But I do.

He's not a cook, he writes books.

You write books?

I always say, "Education's a great

thing."

Rosemonde's mother,

who usually judged people correctly,

was wrong this time.

Paul had never studied.

He left school at fifteen.

Did you go to school here?

Yeah, but only for a year.

Before that,

we lived in a small town in France.

We moved a lot.

We lived in a sort of farm over

there, once.

How was school?

Here it was alright.

But in town it was a disaster.

I don't know. I didn't like it

anymore.

It's really not too warm here.

- Are the winters long?

- Here?

It drags on for at least six months,

here.

- You get used to it.

- I couldn't.

You do look sad!

Pierre says you sing when you're sad.

Sing something. It'll warm you up.

- My voice is frozen.

- Try it anyway.

What should I sing?

"Once there was a Swedish countess."

"She was so beautiful and pale."

"Forester, forester,

"my garter is undone."

"Forester, kneel and fasten it, do

not fear."

When you sleep with a woman,

do you do the usual,

or do you have special tricks?

Very special!

Slut!

Peasant clod!

This is what happened.

The uncle was here, Rosemonde was

here.

He cleaned his rifle like this.

The bullet hit the wall back there,

behind him.

I checked the room. Think about it:

How could Rosemonde have shot that

way,

with the table there?

What's your point?

You talk a lot of nonsense.

And you get on my nerves!

We're stuck.

What are we doing here?

Can you tell me?

Nothing, absolutely nothing.

We're just mucking about.

Oh, happiness is so close!

I feel it coming. Don't you?

Oh, happiness is so close!

Oh, happiness is so far away...

...and prehistory is so long!

Slowly we approach death.

Before capitalism,

in all its perversity, kicks the

bucket,

and before bureaucracy, with

its dull dogmas, passes away,

there'll be a lot of bloodshed!

Oh, happiness is so close!

Oh, happiness is so far away!

Are we lost?

No, we can get out that way.

On the path.

- That path?

- Yeah, this way.

This is the way to the Promised Land!

You think?

The exit looks rather blocked.

We have no choice.

It's either this way to the Promised

Land,

or this way...to barbarism,

and the programmed intoxication

brought about by technocrats.

With the approval of the silent

majority.

That's right!

Oh, happiness is so close.

Oh, happiness is so far away...

A silent majority

is composed of people like us,

with arms and legs,

who, from time to time,

isolated by the secrecy of

polling booths lined up like urinals,

vote for louses and scoundrels.

Here's the bill for our four days

here.

That's not bad.

No, but it's bad if you consider

that we're practically broke.

How much have you got left of your

share?

Not much, once we pay this.

Where'd it go?

Did you blow it all in a month?

I paid a few things.

You had debts, too?

No, just things to be paid.

- Let's do our accounts.

- What for?

If there's no cash, there's no cash.

How much did you give Rosemonde?

Five hundred, I think.

We owed her that, at least.

We've gotta find a way out.

That's for sure.

We're gonna have to take emergency

measures.

What's more,

I feel like our story has reached a

dead end.

A dead end?

We have to start over.

In the first person this time.

We know Rosemonde too well.

It hampers our story.

Only she can put us straight.

I'm twenty-three.

If I had been born six days later,

I would've been named Heliodore.

My breasts are small.

I like the shape of my legs.

I'm blonde.

I've always fended for myself, and I

like it.

Are you awake?

Estelle quit,

so I spoke to the boss about you.

You can start tomorrow, if you want.

They have a hard time getting

salesgirls.

You spoke to him?

It's easy, honest.

I'll help you at first.

People hate my independence,

they try to break me down.

They say I'm lazy,

unruly and hysterical.

Shoes, shoes, shoes...

Why do you always take on

pretty girls who are hopeless?

Look how she's dressed: for the beach!

Old crows don't sell anything

nowadays, mother.

She told one customer his shoes were

rotten.

Tell her to do her job properly.

Go on, tell her! Get a move on!

How do you like it here?

It's alright.

How would you like to go for a ride

in my Alfa?

I'd prefer a motorcycle.

Do you have a motorcycle?

No, I don't.

Too bad. I guess you'll have to

take your mother for a ride then.

Happily.

We won't bother you again.

But to finish this, we need

to know a few more things.

You were 15 when you left home.

How'd that come about?

What were your thoughts at the time?

When I was fifteen?

When I was fifteen,

I had cute little feet.

One day I went to the ball in glass

slippers.

There I met the King's son,

who had great big feet,

with big toes.

Nicer than yours.

And your shoes are ugly and dirty!

I'm like a dog on all fours these

days,

seeing nothing but feet.

All I see in the street are

people's dreadful shoes.

All I hear are the sounds

of their soles, it's terrible!

And all those disgusting socks!

You look so funny.

Like Laurel and Hardy.

No work today.

- Why not?

- Because it's Sunday.

Because we're stuck.

We're at a dead end with Rosemonde.

What do we do now?

- We'll read the papers.

- They give me hives.

We're bored, aren't we?

Well, it is Sunday.

Do you want to sing?

No, I'd rather chew my balls.

Listen,

there's an idea I've had for a long

time.

It needs two to work it,

and you're just right.

What cheek!

Pestering us like that!

On Sunday, no less, and in our Geneva

trams!

This is inconceivable!

Give us some peace and quiet!

No one complains!

Are you all cowards?

All you do is read the paper!

Haven't you had enough of

Italians and Spaniards

without Turks, too?

It's unbelievable!

I'm telling you, sir.

Listen to me, madam.

Soon we'll have negroes dancing in

our trams!

Drums and all.

Cowards! You're all cowards!

Can't you make him shut up?

Do it yourself, if you're so clever.

You keep your mouth shut!

He's right, we're foreigners.

Exactly, foreigners in our own

country!

It was December 12th.

The tram business nearly

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