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592 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1936
As soon as things begin to look up a little, all people can think of is piggishness…
“You’re working too hard! You’re a sap! You think they appreciate it? … If you knock yourself out, who’s going to take care of you? Not your boss, I bet! Buy me a menthe, kid! … I’ll sing you The Girl from Mostaganem’ … It’ll drive you crazy, you’ll see …” For that little number she’d hike up her skirt front and back … She didn’t wear any panties, so it was a real belly dance … She’d do it right out in the open … in the middle of the Galerie … The other floozies would come running … usually with three or four customers each … Bums, jerkoffs, bankrupt peepers … “Do your stuff, Suzy! Don’t piss crooked!” She sure threw her twot around … You could see it bobbing up and down … The crowd clapped and cheered, that Tunisian dance of hers was some excitement … It always drew a crowd. When it was over, I’d buy her her menthe … We’d all end up at the Insurrection …
When we got to the Arc de Triomphe, the whole crowd began to whirl like a merry-go-round. The whole mob was chasing Mireille. The square was littered with corpses. The living were tearing off each other’s pricks. The Englishwoman was toting her car over her head at arm’s length. Hurray, hurray! She knocks over a bus with it. The traffic is blocked by three files of Mobile Guards with shouldered rifles. All for our benefit. Mireille’s dress flies away. The Englishwoman flings herself on the kid, claws at her breasts … trickling, pouring, red all over. We fall, we writhe all together, we strangle each other. Pure bedlam.
The flame under the Arc de Triomphe rises, rises higher, breaks, scatters through the sky … The whole place smells of smoked ham … Then Mireille whispering in my ear, speaking to me at last: ‘Ferdinand, my darling, I love you! … I admit it, you have wonderful ideas!’ The flames rain down on us, everyone picks up a big chunk … We stuff them sizzling and whirling into our flies. The ladies put on bouquets of fire … We fall asleep inside each other.
Twenty-five thousand policemen clear the Place de la Concorde. It was too much for us inside each other. It was too hot. There was smoke coming out. It was hell.