PRIVATE ENTERPRISE
By A. V. DAVIS
THE café alone could not pay its way. Chez Jean-Pierre it was the sidelines that brought in the steady income, attracted custom to the bar and made accurate book-keeping impossible—not altogether a disadvantage in times of high taxation and devaluation. On taking over the business Madame Potinon had given one look at the bedraggled garden, flung up her hands and decided to make a terse battue bowling pitch. She hired labourers to clear away the greenery, roll the soil level and tread it down, firm and even. Never were hard-earned francs laid out to better purpose. Each week she drew in rent from the Society of Peaceful Sports, who organised games of boules at belote, and occasional competitions ouverts a tout venant. Every Sunday morning the worthies of the district hurled balls down narrow alleys, watching the result poised on toes, right arms crooked behind. And after these exertions they cooled on the café's slippery black banqueues, pouring water from carafes into tooth-glasses of yellow pastis, observing the sudden opaqueness with never-failing satisfaction.
At the zinc counter Jean-Pierre splashed out vies ordinaires for _the minor clerks, quinine wines for the mechanics and cognac for the merchants. Propped against the chromium coffee-urn, Madame exchanged back-chat, eyes downcast as if she were blushing, her beringed hands dipping glasses into a concealed tank of water. Out- side, in the shade of the lemon trees, sat the unfortunate ones who could not afford refreshment—Christophe the lame postman, Marius the shoe-mender, an improvident rogue and grandfather, and Monsieur Roux from the State Lottery kiosk, all elderly men, in- sensitive to the proximity of the Potinon rabbits. Thirty or more chalk-white animals, segregated according to age, sex, size and ferocity, rolled prominent pink eyes as stray balls skimmed past the wire enclosure. Their span of life seldom exceeded four months. They were seized by the ears, dropped on to the scales and if up to the required weight were given the coup de grace there and then. The skins were dried and packed off to Paris to be made into infants' fur coats. The bodies were sold to the Hotel Miramar. • On week-days, every evening, the pitch became an open-air cinema, with a silver screen, rather small, erected in front of the fig trees. Jean-Pierre was ensconced in the projection box with a • small boy crouched beside him to rewind the spools by hand. Madame was seated in the gateway, taking the thirty francs admis- sion fee, half price for enfants de moms de quatorze ans, letting in a number of patrons on tickets that did not come from the official roll. When the lights dimmed she retired to attend to the normal requirements of the café. Films, chez Jean-Pierre, were seldom more than two years old. Before petrol disappeared passing motor-bikes and cars played havoc with the sound track, and there were frequent mechanical breakdowns, when Jean-Pierre would flash a notice on the screen: "La suite dans un instant." But the audience was indulgent.
During the twenty minutes' interval for conversation, Jean-Pierre left the boy to change the tango records on the gramophone, climbed stiffly down the ladder and went across to take over behind the bar, while Madame appeared with a tray of sweets hung round her neck, shouting " Bouchies. Bouchies." At fifteen francs a mouthful trade was never very brisk. She did better with brown ice-cream made from peanuts. On Sunday evenings there was no " plein air " cinema. , The pitch was needed for the more profitable weekly
dance. A poster, printed by Jean-Pierre, laboriously, with a match stick, was pinned to the wall by the bus-stop. " Dimanche, a huit heures," the "Grand Bal" would take place, described according to season, as "de In Fite, de la Kermesse, de Pentecate, des Mimosas, de la Liberation troisieme anniversaire." No false hopes were raised. Patrons knew what to expect.
An hour before the wrought-iron gates were opened Jean-Pierre arranged the cinema seats round the dance floor, and went round the mimosas with a step-ladder, rigging up fairy lights. On the stroke of eight he was in position on an improvised dais, playing " Fleur de Paris " on his concertina and beating out a breathless tempo on the big drum with his foot. Madame again took the money, " prix fixe," no reductions for juveniles. Every man, woman and child in the quarter put in an appearance. Young and old, halt and hale, they flung themselves into the dance, feet kicking up behind, knees relaxed, hair dankly falling. The postman sat out for most of the evening, balancing on his wooden leg, his good leg and his stick ; but even he took a turn when " Ah le petit yin blanc " was played. Furtive silhouettes could be seen creeping round the lemon trees. No bicycles were piled against the rabbit hutches, as on other occasions ; the roofspace was reserved for sitting out. Blissfully the happy couples sighed and whispered in the soft night air, fragrant with blossom—and other scents—listening to the music of the con- certina and the scufflings of nervous animals. Six people could sit in comfort on the big hutch that housed the amicable does, though, naturally, the smaller hutches of the bucks and quarrelsome females were more popular.
Inside the café Madame Potinon, ministering angel behind the counter, drew corks from inexpensive beer and sliced lemon-peel for the vermouth, leaving the back door open so that dancers would be tempted inside. On Sundays she wore her best black gown, six years old, twice turned, and in her ears she clamped gilt daisies. The drum beat incessantly ; the music pealed out full strength in steady two-pulse rhythm. Between dances Jean-Pierre rushed on to the floor, his thumb over the mouth of a bottle, spraying water to lay the dust. At twelve o'clock, the Grand Bal ended. "Ca suffit," called Madame from the café doorway. " Bien," said Jean-Pierre thankfully. "C'est tout." Handshakes, farewells, cries of "Dormer bien," and a few final drinks occupied another hour ; then, at last, the Potinons were able to count up the takings, setting aside a fair proportion to be represented in their account-books. Sunday was always a heavy day, with custom augmented by the " Contours de Boules et Belote " in addition to the dance, but Jean-Pierre and his wife went to bed happy in the knowledge that their enterprises were bringing in good profits. Everything was going well until the Government stepped in.
" Safe from the rats," said Madame sarcastically, as they fetched bundles of paper money from the wash-copper, and broke the wine- bottles stuffed with notes which they had hidden under the floor- boards. " And now they fall into the hands of the Ministry of Finance." Madame was of the opinion that by declaring their five- thousand franc notes and laying themselves open to tax investigations they might well be the losers. Jean-Pierre, however, as head of the family, took his place in the bank queue. He stood for three hours. He identified himself. He gave assurances that he had paid up all his obligations to the Government. He handed over the money from his attaché case and was clipped on the ration book. He then went home to await developments. It was a difficult situation. Madame was apprehensive but Jean-Pierre was not unduly per- turbed. He had full confidence in his wife's book-keeping.
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