Читать книгу Montparnasse - Thierry Sagnier - Страница 13

Chapter 8

Henri Landru had lived in worse places—under bridges, in ditches, abandoned basements, unheated barracks, and village jails. The privations had forged him, had made him a giant of strength in a small vessel. Two weeks in the St. Lazare prison and they already respected him. He had a cell of his own—he was that important—and they fed him acceptable meals that filled his stomach and made him sleepy. He enjoyed sleeping, being in that daze just short of wakefulness when he could recall in details the women, the muscles in their legs, the colors of their nipples, the size of their breasts, how far the hair rose up their stomachs. He could bring back the smell of their fears, when their armpits exuded the warm and acrid aroma of barely baked bread. He never remembered voices, the colors of eyes, or their touch on him. He did not like being touched, but endured it and the actor in him could bench his dislike for contact because that was part of the work, part of what he did.

The Parisian prison was not a bad place. It was clean, and high above his head there was a lucarne, a tiny rectangular window. The sun shone almost directly into his cell 45 minutes every day. Because he called all the guards Monsieur, they gave him the mustache wax he preferred, and an occasional piece of hard candy. He knew the guards watched him covertly, wondered how this flea of a man had wielded such power over women.

He had a few minutes in the corridor every day and there he did knee bends, toe touches, pushups. He did them until he was breathless, then did some more. When the laundry cart came, he stripped his own bed, which he was not required to do, and that earned him the approval of the stout woman who manned the cart. He smiled at her and caught a softening on her lips. When he showered by himself in the cavernous washrooms, a guard he did not know brandished a long black club and watched him with disinterest. Once he unexpectedly got an erection and the guard laughed.

The days were monotonous. He could not trim his beard, and that irritated him. He had offered to pay for a barber but been told this was not possible. He did get three-day-old newspapers, and he read and memorized the stories about his exploits. He did not tear the articles out. As he steadfastly maintained his innocence, keeping souvenirs would certainly be misinterpreted.

He waited for Act 3 to begin.