Andrea Mann visits Charleville, France, on the anniversary of symbolist poet, Arthur Rimbaud's death.
While there she meets a pretty boy and a charismatic older man and is soon drawn into their strange games.
She doesn't believe the boy when he claims to be a reincarnation of Rimbaud, but is the lost manuscript he claims to have found genuine?
Work in Progress. First Draft. 2008
Excerpt From
DON'T LOOK DOWN
by Barbara Scott Emmett
One
He stood by his own grave, squinting into the sunlight. I was reminded of that photograph by Carjat - not the one where he looks louchely handsome with his loosened necktie and his carefully ruffled hair, but the one that shows him as the cross-eyed schoolboy he really was.
I slowed as I drew near him, reluctant to disturb his reflections. When he glanced up at my approach the squint disappeared and he was beautiful again. Sunlight flared off his tangled curls, bringing out the coppery highlights. He seemed rueful, as well he might for someone over a century dead.
Bright blue eyes regarded me, rosy cheeks shone. His face was as smooth as if he’d seen barely twenty summers, never mind the hundred and fifty he would have suffered through - if it was him. If he was real.
He scowled and the schoolboy was back. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me - a sweaty woman of thirty come to annoy him, or a cool blonde in tight jeans - the way I liked to imagine myself.
‘For a moment,’ I said in French, ‘I thought you were him.’ I nodded at the inscription on the tombstone:
Arthur Rimbaud
37 ans
10 Novembre 1891
Priez pour lui
Pray for him, it said, but I doubted the dead poet would appreciate any prayers of mine.
‘I am him,’ the boy said. His mumbled words were slack with the dialect of Northern France. ‘Jean-Nicholas Arthur Rimbaud. Poete maudit. ’
Wretched poet, eh? ‘You look well for your age,’ I said. ‘You must let me in on your beauty secret. Picture in an attic somewhere?’ I smiled.
‘Reincarnation,’ he said, turning back to the grave. ‘I am he. He is me.’
‘Damn,’ I said. ‘And there’s me thinking I was the reincarnation of Rimbaud.’ Yeah, right. Along with Patti Smith, Bob Dylan, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and a hundred other punk poets with vivid imaginations.
‘So,’ I said, ‘written anything new lately? Any more Illuminations? Another few paragraphs of A Season in Hell perhaps?’
He shot me a disgusted look. Yanking a few sheets of lined notepaper from the back pocket of his jeans, he paced away down the gravel path, reading from the papers and muttering to himself.
Pulling out my hanky, I wiped my brow. The walk from Charleville town centre to the cemetery had made me hot and thirsty. There was little shade to be had at this time of day, even from the cypress trees nearby. The cemetery was deserted, apart from the two of us, and felt arid and exposed in the noon sun. I prefer romantically overgrown graveyards, myself, with dank and broken tombs, like Père Lachaise in Paris or the older part of Highgate Cemetery. This one was nothing like that, being too neat and well-kept for my taste.
I glanced again at Rimbaud’s grave and at the one next to it where his sister, Vitalie, dead at seventeen, was interred. The headstones were the same - adorned with carvings of flowers and five-point stars, and topped with stone crosses. I remembered the story of Madame Rimbaud, the poet’s mother, climbing down into the grave to clean up the family vault and calmly rearranging her daughter’s bones. An odd, cold woman, was Mother Rimbaud - Arthur had called her La Bouche d’Ombre : The Mouth of Darkness. Freud would no doubt place all the poet’s troubles at Ma Rimbaud’s door.
‘Strange to think he’s really down there,’ I said as the youth drew near again. He was still mumbling what sounded like poetry. ‘Just a few feet below us. His mortal remains.’
He paused and together we stared at the grave as though we could see through the dry earth to the whitened bones beneath.
‘Minus one leg, of course,’ I went on, ‘having left that in Marseilles after the amputation.’ I glanced at the boy’s own legs, clad in scruffy loose jeans. ‘Guess when you reincarnate, you come back whole, huh?’
He scowled again. ‘I am him,’ he said, his stance defiant. ‘I am Rimbaud.’ He thrust the papers he’d been studying in front of my face. ‘This proves it,’ he said. ‘I wrote this last time around.’
I peered at the crumpled paper in his fist. ‘ Le Chasse Spirituel ,’ I read. I looked up at him quizzically. ‘The Spiritual Chase? Is this a joke?’
Le Chasse Spirituel is a lost poem. The only record of it ever having existed is the title, which was recorded as being amongst the possessions of Rimbaud’s lover, Paul Verlaine. It subsequently disappeared, possibly destroyed by Verlaine’s understandably irate wife. People have been searching for it ever since. ‘Let’s have a look then.’
‘This isn’t the original,’ he said, snatching the loose leaves away. ‘This is a copy. I’ve got the original but I don’t like to carry it around with me.’
‘Naturally,’ I said, ‘since it must be worth a small fortune.’ To the French, a find like that would be like the discovery of a new play by Shakespeare. Museums and collectors would go wild. Rimbaldians - Rimbaud scholars and fanatics - would fall over themselves to get their hands on it. ‘Mind telling me exactly how you came by it?’
‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’ He stuffed the papers back into his pocket. No doubt he guessed from my tone of voice that I didn’t believe a word he said.
‘True,’ I said. ‘But, hey, I’m interested. I’m a fan of the guy myself. That’s why I’m here.’
I’d come to Charleville to honour Rimbaud. It would be the 150th anniversary of his birth on twentieth October. By then, I’d be back in Edinburgh teaching Business French, so I’d had to come in August. It wasn’t ideal but it was better than not coming at all. I backtracked a little to appease the youth. Persuade him I might actually believe his delusions of being a reincarnation of the man himself. ‘Le Chasse Spirituel, huh? It’s a great find, if it’s genuine. Can I get a proper look at it?’
If, by some slim unimaginable chance, he was in possession of the real thing, I’d do pretty much anything just to get a look at it, a feel of it, to touch the lines scrawled by the poet himself. I felt a stir in the region of my heart - an area not noted for ill-advised flurries of excitement. How many times had I myself dreamt of coming across the yellowing manuscript of Le Chasse Spirituel - inside an old book on a stall in Paris, perhaps. Or in the attic of some befriended ancien. How many happy daydreams had I enjoyed over the possibility that one day...
I shook myself. It couldn’t possibly be true.
‘I didn’t find it,’ he said. ‘I knew where it was. I wrote it.’
‘Of course you did,’ I said, tongue firmly in cheek. ‘Pleasure to meet you, M’seur Rimbaud.’ I held out my hand.
He regarded me with cross-eyed suspicion then stuck out a grubby paw, shaking my hand briefly. It was hard, dry, a peasant’s hand.
We spent a little time staring down at the graves, contemplating the wilted lilies someone had left and, in my case, briefly pondering the meaning of life and its inevitable successor. I took a couple of photographs, including one of the alleged reincarnation himself. He perched on the ornate metal fence enclosing the Rimbaud plot, pointing to the inscription on the headstone with one hand and to himself, proudly, with the other.
‘Give me your email address and I’ll send you a copy,’ I said.
He looked at me like I’d escaped from a secure facility. ‘I don’t bother with all that crap any more.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ I slid him a sly smile. ‘I’d have thought, though, since Rimbaud - I mean, you - were so progressive last time around, technology would have been right up your street. No matter.’
The cross-eyed scowl was back. ‘I’ve done all that. I don’t need it any more. There are other ways of communicating - much better ways. If you know how.’
We locked eyes for a moment. A long moment. Then I broke contact. Wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans, I considered the long dusty walk back to the town centre. ‘Well, I think I’ll head on back and get a beer somewhere,’ I said. The sun was drilling a hole in the top of my head. ‘Want to join me? My treat.’ If he really was a reincarnation of the boy poet, he’d accept an invitation to a free drink without question. I have to confess I was intrigued by the youth, and yes, attracted to him. I’ve always had a thing for waifs and strays.
He toed the dirt for a second or two then shrugged. ‘If you like,’ he said, reaching under his tee-shirt to scratch his flat stomach. ‘You might regret it though.’
Two;
Le Univers café was cool and shady. It was also empty. I stirred the bored waitress from her lethargy by ordering beers from the tap. ‘Deux pressions, s’il vous plais.’
The boy swung himself moodily into one of the booths that lined the right side of the room. I slid onto the red [leatherette] bench opposite, with the table between us. Glancing around, I wondered how much the place had changed since Rimbaud’s day. I fancied I could hear echoes of the poet’s pals discussing Arthur’s latest exploits and laughing. But it wouldn’t have been like this then. Then there would surely have been round tables and bentwood chairs. It looked like the place had been updated in the nineteen fifties.
‘So, what’s your name, then?’ I said, turning back to my companion.
‘I told you. Jean-Nicholas Arthur-’
‘I mean your real name. The name you were given this time around. You’re not telling me you were reincarnated back into the Rimbaud family, surely?’ I sat back as the waitress put a glass in front of me. ‘I’m Andy, by the way - Andrea, actually, but I prefer the diminutive.’ I ran my finger through the condensation on the glass. ‘Andy Mann. And don’t you dare laugh.’
He screwed up his face. The joke wouldn’t translate so I didn’t bother trying. He didn’t reply anyway and set to, swilling his beer down in swift gulps. I savoured a long draught of my own.
‘Let’s have another look then.’ I stuck out my hand. ‘Le Chasse Spirituel.’
He hesitated then disentangled the sheaf of creased paper from his pocket. I smoothed the top sheet and started to read. Now, I wouldn’t call myself a full-on Rimbaud scholar, but I’ve read enough of the man to get a flavour of his work and the opening lines of the poem didn’t immediately shriek forgery. I raised my eyes. ‘Where did you say you found this?’
‘I didn’t,’ he said. He drained his glass and banged it down on the table.
I took another pull on my own beer and signalled to the waitress for two more. ‘Well, why don’t you tell me now?’
He turned and looked out of the window towards the Place de la Gare - and saw something that made his lip curl in distaste. I followed his gaze. A knot of tourists gathered across the street. After a moment they trailed after their guide, heading no doubt for the bust of Rimbaud and the bandstand in the square. I could imagine what the tour guide would say: And this is the bandstand Rimbaud refers to in the poem À la Musique...
‘Merde,’ the boy snarled, glowering at them. ‘Cretins. Arseholes. Pricks.’
I smiled to myself. It was a good act. He played the surly Rimbaud well. Of course, the little sod was quite obviously surly in his own right, so it wasn’t difficult for him. He turned back when the second beers arrived.
‘You were telling me where you found this,’ I said, tapping the poem.
Again, half the contents of his glass disappeared in one swallow. ‘Paris,’ he said, snatching the sheaf of paper from my hand. ‘It was in Paris.’
‘In Paris? Where in Paris? How come you found it?’
‘Never mind the details. You don’t need to know where. And don’t worry, the original is safe.’ He fingered the crumpled copy.
‘It all seems a bit far-fetched,’ I said. ‘I think you’re telling-’
‘I’m supposed to care what you think? Read it if you don’t believe me. Here. Read all of it. What is it if it’s not ‘ Le Chasse Spirituel?’
I lowered my eyes and read a few more lines. ‘It’s beautiful...but...’ I shook my head. ‘I can’t believe you could come across it just like that. People have been searching for this poem for over a hundred years. Who in Paris could have had it without realising what it was?’
‘I didn’t say they didn’t know what it was.’ The strabismus made a fleeting reappearance.
‘Oh right. So someone - and you’re not saying who - has had this tucked away since 1873. And now they’ve handed it over to you. You must have asked really nicely.’
‘I knew where it was. I went back for it.’
‘Oh yeah? And whoever had it, handed it over. Just like that. No questions asked.’
‘It’s my property.’
I took a sip of my beer. I couldn’t tell for sure whether he was simply a good actor, or if he really believed what he was saying. ‘And have you told anyone about it? Shown it to anyone? Had it authenticated?’
‘I don’t need to have it authenticated.’ He bristled. ‘And if you saw the original you’d recognise his handwriting. I mean,’ he corrected himself shamelessly, ‘my handwriting.’
‘You seem confused,’ I said. ‘His? Or yours? Did you write this? I mean you. You as you are now.’ If he’d said yes, I’d have been impressed.
‘I told you. I wrote it last time around.’
I tried to hold his gaze again but this time he slid his eyes away. He twisted his lips. He shuffled his feet. He didn’t believe what he was saying any more than I did. It was a game. I raised my beer to him. ‘Okay. So, what should I call you, then? Rimbe?’
He shrugged and stuck a finger up his nose. After a rummage, he howked something out, had a quick look at it, then wiped it on the underside of the [Formica-topped] table. I was glad I hadn’t ordered the escargot.
‘Rimboy,’ I said. ‘I’m going to call you Rimboy.’ I said the ‘boy’ part in English, of course. ‘If you don’t like it, you can tell me your real name. Or any other name, if you prefer. I’m not bothered. But not Jean-Nicolas-Arthur Rimbaud. I don’t believe you’re a reincarnation. And neither do you.’
‘Think what you like,’ he said, swilling down the last of his beer and standing up. He left the café with a swagger and set off across the road.
As I bent to get my bag from the floor, I saw he’d dropped one of the sheets of poetry. Throwing some coins on the table for the beers, I grabbed it and ran out into the street. The tourists were wandering off in the direction of the river Meuse - presumably to look at the poet’s mother’s house on what was now the Quai Arthur-Rimbaud, and go to the Old Mill that housed the museum to Charleville’s most famous son. They had to be British - anyone sensible would have been somewhere cool enjoying the long French lunch break. Rimboy was nowhere to be seen.
I scanned the square, shading my eyes from the sun. A few people strolled along over by the station but they were all too clean to be the Boy Who Would Be Rimbaud. The grassy square was deserted, drowsy with the buzz of bees.
Then I spotted him. He was lying under a plane tree, hands behind his head, one battered boot crossed over the other, staring at the branches whispering above him in a gentle breeze. I put my fingers in my mouth and whistled. I’ve never been one for ladylike behaviour. He raised himself on an elbow as I hurried towards him, waving the tattered paper.
As I drew level with the bust of the real Rimbaud, I noticed someone - another Rimbaldian perhaps - hanging around nearby. I shot him a brief grin as I passed. It froze on my face when a pair of cold dark eyes bored back into mine. I was reminded of that photograph of Aleister Crowley with a tea-cosy on his head, except this guy had a tiny beard. Uh-oh, I thought. Weirdo.
I flapped the sheet of paper above my head. ‘‘ Le Chasse Spirituel ,’ I shouted to the boy. ‘It was in danger of being lost again.’
All I remember after that was coming to on the path, my head throbbing, the sun burning red behind my eyelids. When I opened my eyes, I saw I was alone. The boy, the poetry, and the weirdo, had all disappeared.
******
© Barbara Scott Emmett 2008. No Unauthorised Reproduction. All Rights Reserved