Je suis Charlie

(Перевод новеллы Гонорар на английский язык)


My son, Gabriel, confuses me. So much has been invested in his education and training, just to do this job, to get to do this job. His work. Our work. My father and I have devoted our entire lives to this job!
Old Man, Jean-Baptiste, often beat me with a stick when I was a child, if he felt that I had not delved deep enough into the task of learning my skill. I would rather escape the work yard, for games in the street with the local children. Jean-Baptiste was right, a decent beating helped instill a good education in me. I was able to step into the role of my paralyzed father and accomplish his job with dignity and no complaints, well, almost none.  Marcel, did complain, he screamed and yelled to but I never listened. Those were the days, as it was under the old order. It is not like that now. Everything is mechanized. Machines have replaced manual labour, and now, one does not have to be a virtuoso, to just yank the levers.
So much work and so many sleepless nights I've put into the damn mechanisms, so many hours spent sitting with Ignace. He certainly was a genius, no argument there but what is his genius without my experience. Ignace kept calculating the angles, he kept asking my opinion of his work, his calculations. He listened as I spoke, he drew, he listened some more and he drew some more. I praised his work repeatedly. However, whilst I was taking a break and puffing hurriedly on my pipe in the very hot living room, I noticed the most basic of miscalculations on his drawing, and pointedly illustrated the correction with my grimy finger
Ignace’s face turned a shade of red, not dissimilar to my mother’s famous beetroot soup and immediately shut up, he glanced unhappily over the fruits of his labour. I just sucked greedily on some Bordeaux, laughing to my core, but not wanting Ignace to notice. I would hate to have offended him greatly. Painfully touchy, was Ignace, not comfortable being the master of his craft, barber Ignace, sometimes surgeon Ignace. In my humble opinion, this remarkable mechanical achievement is not due just to the ingenuity of Ignace, but mine in more than equal measure.
Of course, there is a downside to all of this mechanization. It has its disadvantages. The biggest one being the fact that it is no longer hands-on and attention to detail is no longer as important as in the good old days. The customers are paying the price with things not running quite as smoothly. As a result, my tips have also shrunk, and I am having to survive on a paltry state salary. The upside is that productivity has increased tenfold, but this still does not compensate for incurred losses and the beating my pride has taken.
Since I have retired, my son, Gabriel has taken over the family business. I worry about his lack of common sense and I feel so useless sitting at home looking forward to my death.
Repeatedly I have told him to take the customer’s fee in cash only, but do you think he listens. Mind you, I so seldom listened to the advice of my father, Jean-Baptiste. In our business it is better not to accept goods for payment, as goods become difficult to sell on. It’s better to just provide the service for free in that is to be the case.
Yesterday, Gabrielle came home with a really old and very ordinary copper basin. Yet again he has angered me. He is over thirty, he should know better by now. I raised my voice, yelling, shouting, and performing.
“What are we do to with this old piece of tin? How will it put food on the table?”, “There is no place in the house for this old rubbish that you keep dragging home from the gutter!”
Sullenly, he replied “It is payment for services rendered”
Taken aback, I could only stare at this son of mine. I could not understand my offspring, does he not realise how he mocks his old father?
“I am serious, Father, this basin has value”, “and the client assured me that the famous scrying basin that belonged to Nostradamus”.
“Holy Joan of Arc,” I shouted, “does it matter?! What are we to do with it? Are we dealers of antiquities now?”
“Listen, papa”, pleaded Gabriel “for some reason, the client begged me to tell you. I would not have brought it into the house otherwise, but he insisted. He spoke a few quiet, hurried, barely understandable words to me, but he stressed that if I could get this basin to you, sir, your art would once again prove useful and necessary to France. I did not understand his words, they made no sense, but his urgency spoke to something in me. So, I decided to bring this ancient thing to you, just in case. But, as usual you judge. If you don’t want it, throw it out.”  With these words, he bowed his untidy head and walked away.
I spent the next day contemplating what to do with this basin. Should I take it to the old Jew down the road? Maybe he would give me a few coins for it, maybe a silver coin for my son. I don’t really want to leave the house, it is January. It is cold and wet. At my age, catching a cold could prove expensive or even cost me my life. I will think on this a little more before I leave the warmth of the living room and the roaring fire. My pipe is lit. The room is pleasantly warm. The pale winter light filtered through the windows. My glass of Bordeaux shone blood red in the glow from the fire and the basin rested against the side of the fire place as I stared at it and at nothing in particular
I puffed my own comfortable clouds of smoke into the room. The smoke twisted around but seemed drawn to the basin where it lingered, eddying this way and that. Too much wine old man, I thought to myself. I could not really be seeing figures emerge from the smoky clouds, but I was. Definitely a city, my city, the streets of Paris, but not the Paris I knew. A different Paris, filled with horseless carts and strangely dressed people. I looked closer, felt myself being drawn into the smoke. The scene grew stronger, more defined. I was confused but unafraid as I peered from the smoke into what looked like a shop filled with people and lots of food. The shelves were bulging with food. Ah, this was a grocery store I realized, a Jewish one. The writing on the window was in Hebrew.  I recognized the Jews from their black coats and curls, at least that clothing is timeless.
Why were they sitting on the floor? Why did they look so scared? The images sucked me in further. I realized I was looking at Paris of the future from this old copper basin next to the fireplace in my living room. The people on the floor were quiet and silent. A Moor stood over them, angry looking, a bizarre musket in his hand. He walked up and down always looking, looking, looking and then something drew his attention to me. He saw me. A look of amazed confusion on his face. The basin was drawing him to me…
He walked towards me, clutching his musket tightly to his chest. He said something. Stepping out of the shelter of the shadows, he approached the weak winter light of the store’s windows, muttering constantly to himself. He looked at me closely. I could see the lines on his unshaven, angry visage.

“Qui es-tu?? “His lips said, clearly he was addressing me.
I felt compelled to respond to this person of smoke and bone
“Je suis Charlie” ... .I said, distinctly
The Moor winced. He drew in a sharp breath and started to shout something at me, but I couldn’t hear because at the same time the glass window shattered and the Moor’s head exploded. Blood gushed from his exposed throat, his heart still pumping for a few seconds even though the head was almost gone. Not unlike the results of my beloved guillotine.
I was shocked, made stone by the inertia of my tumultuous thoughts. Yes, I would be of use to France again one last time.
“Je suis Charlie ....  Chevalier Charles-Henri Sanson de Longval, former Royal Executioner of France”