"Well, let's go out now and look for a job."
"Presently, mon ami. We shan't starve, don't you fear.
This is only the fortune of war-I've been in a worse hole
scores of times. It's only a question of persisting.
Remember Foch's maxim: '
Attaquez! Attaquez! Attaquez!' "
It was midday before Boris decided to get up. All the
clothes he now had left were one suit, with one shirt,
collar and tie, a pair of shoes almost worn out, and a
pair of socks all holes. He had also an overcoat which
was to be pawned in the last extremity. He had
a suitcase, a wretched twenty-franc carboard thing, but
very important, because the
patron of the hotel believed
that it was full of clothes-without that, he would
probably have turned Boris out of doors. What it
actually contained were the medals and photographs,
various odds and ends, and huge bundles of loveletters.
In spite of all this Boris managed to keep a fairly smart
appearance. He shaved without soap and with a razor-
blade two months old, tied his tie so that the holes did
not show, and carefully stuffed the soles of his shoes
with newspaper. Finally, when he was dressed, he
produced an ink-bottle and inked the skin of his ankles
where it showed through his socks. You would never
have thought, when it was finished, that he had recently
been sleeping under the Seine bridges.
We went to a small café off the Rue de Rivoli, a well-
known rendezvous of hotel managers and employees. At
the back was a, dark, cave-like room where all kinds of
hotel workers were sitting-smart young waiters, others
not so smart and clearly hungry, fat pink cooks, greasy
dishwashers, battered old scrubbing-women. Everyone
had an untouched glass of black coffee in front of him.
The place was, in effect, an employment bureau, and the
money spent on drinks was the patron's commission.
Sometimes a stout, importantlooking man, obviously a
restaurateur, would come in and speak to the barman,
and the barman would call to one of the people at the
back of the café. But he never called to Boris or me, and
we left after two hours, as the etiquette was that you
could only stay two hours for one drink. We learned
afterwards, when it was too late, that the dodge was to
bribe the barman; if you could afford twenty francs he
would generally get you a job.
We went to the Hôtel Scribe and waited an hour on
the pavement, hoping that the manager would come
out, but he never did. Then we dragged ourselves down
to the Rue du Commerce, only to find that the new
restaurant, which was being redecorated, was shut up
and the
patron away. It was now night. We had walked
fourteen kilometres over pavement, and we were so
tired that we had to waste one franc-fifty on going
home by Metro. Walking was agony to Boris with his game
leg,
and his optimism wore thinner and thinner as the day
went on. When he got out of the Metro at the Place
d'Italie he was in despair. He began to say that it was
no use looking for work-there was nothing for it but to
try crime.
"Sooner rob than starve,
mon ami. I have often
planned it. A fat, rich American-some dark corner
down Montparnasse way-a cobblestone in a stocking -
bang! And then go through his pockets and bolt. It is
feasible, do you not think? I would not flinch-I have
been a soldier, remember."
He decided against the plan in the end, because we
were both foreigners and easily recognised.
When we had got back to my room we spent another
one franc-fifty on bread and chocolate. Boris devoured
his share, and at once cheered up like magic; food
seemed to act on his system as rapidly as a cocktail. He
took out a pencil and began making a list of the people
who would probably give us jobs. There were dozens
of them, he said.
"To-morrow we shall find something,
mon ami, I
know it in my bones. The luck always changes. Besides,
we both have brains-a man with brains can't starve.
"What things a man can do with brains! Brains will =-
make money out of anything. I had a friend once, a
Pole, a real man of genius; and what do you think he
used to do? He would buy a gold ring and pawn it for
fifteen francs. Then-you know how carelessly the clerks
fill up the tickets-where the clerk had written ' en or' he
would add '
et diamants' and he would change 'fifteen
francs' to 'fifteen thousand.' Neat, eh? Then, you see,
he could borrow a thousand francs on the security of the
ticket. That is what I mean by brains . . ."
For the rest of the evening Boris was in a hopeful
mood, talking of the times we should have together
when we were waiters together at Nice or Biarritz, with
smart rooms and enough money to set up mistresses. He
was too tired to walk the three kilometres back to his
hotel, and slept the night on the floor of my room, with
his coat rolled round his shoes for a pillow.
VI
WE again failed to find work the next day, and it was
three weeks before the luck changed. My two hundred
francs saved me from trouble about the rent, but
everything else went as badly as possible. Day after day
Boris and I went up and down Paris, drifting at two
miles an hour through the crowds, bored and hungry,
and finding nothing. One day, I remember, we crossed
the Seine eleven times. We loitered for hours outside
service doorways, and when the manager came out we
would go up to him ingratiatingly, cap in hand. We
always got the same answer: they did not want a lame
man, nor a man without experience. Once we were very
nearly engaged. While we spoke to the manager Boris
stood straight upright, not supporting himself with his