The World of Alphonse Allais Read online

  If this were a pornographic publication, I could now tell you what Jean did next and we could all enjoy ourselves. Sadly, it isn’t and we can’t.

  *

  The fifth time Madeleine was unfaithful – oh, forget it ….!

  The hundred and fourth time Madeleine was unfaithful to Jean, Jean asked Madeleine:

  ‘And what has he got that I haven’t got?’

  ‘He’s very special,’ said Madeleine. ‘He’s a murderer.’

  ‘Is he now!’ said Jean.

  And he killed her.

  It was about this time that Madeleine gave up being unfaithful to Jean.

  GHOST STORY

  Christmas comes but once a year, and when it comes it brings roast chestnut sellers, chimney sweeps, Father Christmasses and all other seasonal nuisances. Not that I mind them too much; what I do object to is finding that the 21.22 train back to Paris suddenly starts vanishing at 20.17. And I told the station master so in no uncertain terms.

  ‘This – is – absolutely – monstrous!’

  It was no use. The tall, blond, vaguely retarded-looking station master simply said:

  ‘Can’t help that, sir. Winter timetable started yesterday. Sorry, sir.’

  And that was that.

  Luckily the friend I had been spending the weekend with in the country had brought me to the station in his carriage and stayed to see me off, so he promptly said:

  ‘No problem at all, old chap. You must come back and stay the night with us. Plenty of spare beds, I’m glad to say.’

  And off we jogged into the night again, drawn by his patient white mare. But by the time we finally got back to his house again the cold had bitten deep into our bodies and we decided that the only thing that could possibly arrest our falling temperatures was a generous injection of old Calvados. It did the trick all right, though I have to admit it took a whole bottle to do it. In mitigation, we did get some help from the lady of the house, not to mention her two daughters, who sipped away as if they had done it all their lives.

  So there we were, sitting up late at night in the middle of the country. And when you sit up late at night in the middle of the country, what do you talk about? Of course you do. You talk about ghosts. So we started talking about ghosts.

  ‘Oh, M. Allais, you shouldn’t make fun of ghosts,’ the elder daughter, Césarine, told me. ‘They really do exist, you know.’

  ‘Ah, but have you ever seen one?’

  ‘Well, no …. but I’ve heard one!’

  ‘Really? Where was that?’

  ‘Right here in this house. In the Pink Room.’

  The rest of the family came to her defence. They had all heard noises coming from the Pink Room on different occasions, and always at night. Of course, it might have been the wind. Or the furniture cracking. On the other hand, it might not have been.

  ‘Well,’ I said firmly, ‘I have never seen a ghost and I would very much like to, so why not let me sleep in the Pink Room tonight?’

  They greeted this proposal with a chorus of total horror, then readily fell in with my idea. So the ladies went off to make up a bed for me before retiring, while my host and I decided to sit up just a little while longer in the company of another bottle of very old Calvados, which in due course went to join its predecessor in that place from which no bottle ever returns. And it came to pass that while I was expounding to my host, in a less than coherent manner, my plans for the social reform of France, the old grandfather clock whirred and struck half past eleven.

  ‘Damn!’ I thought. ‘I’d better get to bed if I want to see my ghost.’

  Now, when you over-indulge in fermented cider you tend to see things just that bit more clearly than usual and it suddenly occurred to me that it wouldn’t be right to receive a ghost in a night shirt, especially if he turned out to be a well-born ghost. So, for purely social reasons you understand, I fell on to my bed fully clothed and passed out.

  Then midnight struck. And the last echoes of the twelfth stroke had not yet died away in the empty air of the Pink Room when there came a sharp knocking at the door.

  I started upright.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘The ghost.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course … sorry … do come in, please.’

  I swear the door never moved, yet suddenly there stood before me a human form which – though absolutely lifelike – had no substance or corporeality at all, except for a black eye-patch over its left eye. This being the first time I had ever come face to face with an apparition I felt at some loss how to proceed, especially as the damned thing seemed in no hurry to open its mouth. I waited a bit. Nothing happened. So I said, rather lamely, I’m afraid:

  ‘So you’re the ghost, are you?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I see. Good. Right. Well … carry on, then.’

  At this the ghost shrugged what were once his shoulders and an expression of inexpressible contempt flitted across the little patch of light he used to call his face.

  ‘Is that really the best a haunted person can manage? Carry on, then? Honestly, it’s hardly worth being a ghost if you can’t elicit something wittier than that.’

  That’s better, I thought. Quite sensible, for a ghost. Trenchant, even.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but I never sit down. We ghosts don’t weigh anything, you know. So we never get tired and we never have to sit down.’

  ‘That must be very handy.’

  ‘It is. It’s all the same to me whether I’m lying down, standing up or hovering in mid-air.’

  ‘But what happens if you want to get somewhere else?’

  ‘Same applies. Space has no meaning for me, you see. I’m here now, but if I wanted to, I could be in North Africa inside five minutes.’

  ‘That’s extraordinary. Apart from everything else, it must mean incredibly low running costs.’

  ‘Of course it does – virtually nil. Just as well, considering that ghosts never seem to have any money.’

  ‘You’re not the only ones … Which reminds me. If you can really get around that fast, would you do me a little favour?’

  ‘No trouble. Just name it.’

  ‘The thing is, I have a little girl-friend I’m rather fond of who has just gone over to England for a while on doctor’s orders. Change of climate, that sort of thing. Well, at the moment she’s living in a little place just outside Brighton called Guadilquivir Cottage. If it’s not too much trouble, I thought you might pop over there and see if she’s getting on all right, behaving herself properly and so on.’

  The ghost nodded, winked and vanished.

  (I may say that I had absolutely no worries on that score. She was one of those rare girls who are not only beautiful but as trustworthy and honourable as they are beautiful.)

  Before two minutes were up, the ghost was back again.

  ‘Well?’ I said.

  ‘Well!’ he said. ‘Well! Some girl-friend, that’s all I can say!’

  ‘Just what do you mean by that?’ I said icily.

  ‘Put it this way. You’re not exactly sober yourself, are you? No, you’re not. But the way she is, she makes you look as sober as a …’

  ‘Watch it!’

  ‘All right, put it another way. Your girl-friend, at this very moment, is knocking back her third bottle of plonk, in the company of four Horse Guards officers who are wearing sabres, berets and – are you listening to me? – not a stitch more.’

  ‘What! And what about her?’

  ‘Oh, she’s still got the odd garment on. Not for long, though, I’d guess.’

  ‘You bastard!’ I shouted. ‘You damned liar!’

  And I let him have a tremendous punch right on the jaw. Sadly, I’d forgotten that he was not only a damned liar but also a supernatural apparition. The result being that my fist travelled straight through him and crashed agonisingly against the all-too-solid moulding of an ancient Normandy wardrobe. The pa
in made me cry out loud; the sound of which woke me up.

  LIGHTHOUSES

  L’Eure is probably one of the few inland départements in France, and certainly the only one, to possess a maritime lighthouse. But how it ever came to acquire it, what vile intrigues were necessary to gain permission, what depths of corruption were plumbed in its construction, I do not know and have not the slightest wish to know.

  Of course, any petty bureaucrat will point out that it is quite logical to place a powerful lighthouse inland on raised ground and still have it perfectly visible from the sea if it is not too far away. I know that. All I am saying is that when you live in Honfleur as I do (home of the founders of Quebec, 1608) and a friend comes to stay as he did last weekend and says he would like to visit a really good, modern lighthouse, as he also said last weekend, it is most humiliating to have to take him into a neighbouring départment whose main idea of navigational daring is to sail up the river to Pont-Audemer.

  Not that I didn’t enjoy the journey to the lighthouse. Far from it. It’s a delightful road all the way, lined with charming old ladies knitting in the sunshine and even more charming young girls, going to the well to fill what they quaintly call their ‘boocket’. What treasures they are, these northern nymphs, these Norman beauties! (I’m thinking of one in particular, who lives just this side of Ficquefleur.)*

  The lighthouse is at Fatouville. When you get there the head keeper comes out to welcome you and to remind you constantly of his exalted rank. You climb up a winding staircase, which has no less than x number of steps in it. (I forget the exact number now, though I knew once. Ah, well – which famous French writer was it said: ‘I think, therefore I forget’? I don’t remember offhand.) And when you get to the top you are rewarded with a superb view, as they say, a breathtaking circular panorama containing an extraordinary number of square miles, though I have long since forgotten exactly how many, perhaps because I could never quite understand how a circular panorama could contain square miles.

  ‘What is that lighthouse over there called?’ said one of the visitors, pointing to the distant river Seine.

  ‘That?’ said the keeper, obviously offended. ‘You call that a lighthouse, madame?’

  The visitor turned bright red, momentarily confusing the nearby shipping.

  ‘That is not a lighthouse; it is merely a beacon.’

  He did however condescend to tell us the name of the beacon. I only wish I could remember it.

  When we were sated with the landscape we climbed down exactly the same number of steps we had so recently ascended and were asked to sign the visitors’ book. Modestly I concealed my identity and signed myself ‘M. le Président de France’. And in the column headed ‘Comments’ I wrote:

  ‘…………………………………………………………’

  Very apt, I thought at the time, even if the exact wording has now slipped my memory.

  We were just about to get in our carriage for the return journey when we were approached by a strange little man, of no particular age, who asked if we were going to Honfleur. We admitted that we were and, when he requested to be allowed to come with us, said we would be delighted. As soon as we had set off, he revealed that he was an inventor, specialising as it happened in revolutionary designs for lighthouses.

  ‘You mean, a revolving lighthouse?’ I said.

  ‘Ah, you’re interested in lighthouse design, then, are you?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said, ‘and then again, no.’

  ‘Well, you should be, because it’s a fascinating subject.’

  I should have told him that I did not feel like being fascinated by any subject just at the moment, not when we were travelling along such a magnificent coastline in beautiful soft golden October weather, which I would much rather have enjoyed than his conversation. But there was no stopping him.

  ‘You see, conventional lighthouses are all right in clear weather, but when is the weather really clear?’

  ‘Well, I’ve often

  ‘Never! Not really clear. So …’

  ‘But you can use a fog-horn then.’

  ‘Fog-horn? Phooey. No sailor in a fog has the vaguest idea where the sound of a fog-horn is coming from. He’ll always be at least 30° out. So I have invented something better. You see, if sound is so deceptive, it stand to reason that what you need is a smellhouse. Shall I explain?’

  ‘I think you’d better.’

  ‘Instead of lights we ought to be using smells. Every lighthouse should have its own agreed smell. I visualise a lemon lighthouse, a carnation lighthouse, a coffee lighthouse and so on all round the coast. If you had a powerful vaporiser mounted on top of the smellhouse, it would blow the odour far out to sea. So, in foggy weather the captain of a ship would only need to take a quick sniff and find, for example, that there were cloves to the N.N.W. and wallflowers to the S.E. He would check his chart and plot his bearing exactly. You see?’

  ‘Splendid! I think you have overlooked one thing though. The most powerful smell you can arrange is a good local cheese, which would give you different flavours in different parts of France. But lighthouses are often battered by terrible storms and cut off from vital supplies of food. What would you say when you found that an awful disaster at sea had been caused by a starving lighthouse keeper who had been obliged to eat his lighthouse?’

  The inventor gave me a queer look and mercifully kept quiet for the rest of the journey.

  * I have since found out that she is Parisian born and bred. No matter, I still love her.

  A CAREFUL CRIMINAL

  With the help of an ingenious gadget (made in America) similar to that used for opening tins of food, the lawbreaker made two incisions in the metal shutters of the shop, one vertical, one horizontal, and both starting from the same point.

  He put forth a strong hand and pulled the triangle of metal thus created towards him as easily as if it had been made of tinfoil.

  (He was strong, as lawbreakers go.)

  When he had squeezed through into the little space on the other side, he found himself facing the main shop door.

  Carefully keeping the glass part of the door in position with a rubber suction cup (made in America) he proceeded to cut through it with a Cape diamond.

  There was no further bar to his entry. Once inside, he began very calmly and methodically piling into a convenient bag as many jewels and precious stones as he could find, for jewels, as you know, combine the twin advantages of great value and modest volume.

  His work was almost over when the owner of the shop, a certain M. Josse, appeared at the far end of the room with a candle in one hand and a revolver in the other.

  Very courteously the lawbreaker greeted him with the affable remark:

  ‘Hello there – I was just passing by and thought it would be rude not to drop in and say hello.’

  The goldsmith, quite unsuspecting, came forward with outstretched hand and the lawbreaker swiftly plunged a sharp metal weapon (made in America) into his chest.

  After which he finished loading his convenient bag with jewels and precious stones.

  He was almost back in the street when a sudden thought struck him.

  Retracing his steps, he returned to the shop counter and wrote a few words in large letters on a sheet of paper.

  As he went out he pasted it on the shop front. And next morning the passers-by all read:

  CLOSED OWING TO DEATH OF OWNER

  ST. PETER AND HIS CONCIERGE

  If you imagine that the proceedings of the Académie Française are always dull and dreary, then you are much mistaken. I would not go so far as to recommend them as an alternative to an evening at the Moulin Rouge, but they certainly have their moments. During the last session, for instance, I especially enjoyed a learned speech by M. Clermont-Ganneau, an archaeologist and a gentleman, which proved beyond all doubt that concierges were in existence thousands of years ago and that documentary evidence had come to light about the one employed by St. Peter, the
late lamented apostle.

  M. Clermont-Ganneau has even discovered her name, which was Ballia, or more accurately Ba’aya, the Aramaic present participle feminine meaning ‘a woman asking for more than she has got’, which shows that concierges haven’t changed much over the years.

  Fired by M. Clermont-Ganneau’s discovery and anxious to learn more, I remembered suddenly that the public library at Criqueboeuf near Villerville on the Channel coast has perhaps the richest collection of Aramaic manuscripts anywhere in the world.

  I sprang into action at once …..

  ‘Driver! How much would it cost to take me to Criqueboeuf?’

  ‘Hmm … And back again?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Will you be there long?’

  ‘Just as long as it takes to consult a few Aramaic manuscripts.’

  ‘Ah, in that case, jump in! I’m a bit of an archaeologist myself and I’m always glad to give a colleague a free ride. Perhaps you’ve read my “Report on Some Broken Egyptian Bottles of the Eleventh Dynasty”?’

  ‘Not yet, actually.’

  ‘Never mind, jump in and I’ll tell you all about it as we go along.’

  There’s nothing like a bit of historical chit-chat about broken bottles to make a journey pass quickly, and before I knew where we were, we were in Criqueboeuf.

  My hunch proved absolutely correct.

  The manuscripts in the library were full of stuff about Peter and his concierge. And she turns out to have been typically bad-tempered, shrewish, demanding, gossipy and fussy. In short, she made his life hell and there was nothing he could do about it, being a good, forgiving apostle. He was also, as we know from the New Testament, a bit of a coward on occasion, and her flood of incessant nagging met no obstacle except the humble dykes of his boundless patience and constant generosity. Because every time he came back from a day’s fishing, he would have a nice turbot for her, or a pair of lemon sole, or perhaps a basket of smelts or shrimps, and he would smilingly hand them over to the old crone. But Ba’aya had no time for his little acts of kindness; she always yelled: