Page 107 - down-and-out-in-paris-and-london

beyond the river the Eiffel Tower flashed from top to bottom
with zigzag skysigns, like enormous snakes of fire. Streams
of cars glided silently to and fro, and women, exquisite-
looking in the dim light, strolled up and down the arcade.
Sometimes a woman would glance at Boris or me, and then,
noticing our greasy clothes, look hastily away again. One
fought another battle in the Metro and was home by ten.
Generally from ten to midnight I went to a little BISTRO
in our street, an underground place frequented by Arab
navvies. It was a bad place for fights, and I sometimes saw
bottles thrown, once with fearful effect, but as a rule the
Arabs fought among themselves and let Christians alone.
Raki, the Arab drink, was very cheap, and the BISTRO was
open at all hours, for the Arabs—lucky men—had the pow-
er of working all day and drinking all night.
It was the typical life of a PLONGEUR, and it did not
seem a bad life at the time. I had no sensation of poverty, for
even after paying my rent and setting aside enough for to-
bacco and journeys and my food on Sundays, I still had four
francs a day for drinks, and four francs was wealth. There
was—it is hard to express it—a sort of heavy contentment,
the contentment a well-fed beast might feel, in a life which
had become so simple. For nothing could be simpler than
the life of a PLONGEUR. He lives in a rhythm between
work and sleep, without time to think, hardly conscious
of the exterior world; his Paris has shrunk to the hotel, the
Metro, a few BISTROS and his bed. If he goes afield, it is
only a few streets away, on a trip with some servant-girl who
sits on his knee swallowing oysters and beer. On his free day

10 Down and Out in Paris and London