Page 34 - down-and-out-in-paris-and-london

ink-bottle and inked the skin of his ankles where it showed
through his socks. You would never have thought, when it
was finished, that he had recently been sleeping under the
Seine bridges.
We went to a small cafe off the rue de Rivoli, a well-
known rendezvous of hotel managers and employees. At
the back was a dark, cave-like room where all kinds of ho-
tel workers were sitting—smart young waiters, others not
so smart and clearly hungry, fat pink cooks, greasy dish-
washers, battered old scrubbing-women. Everyone had an
untouched glass of black coffee in front of him. The place
was, in effect, an employment bureau, and the money spent
on drinks was the PATRON’S commission. Sometimes a
stout, important-looking man, obviously a restaurateur,
would come in and speak to the barman, and the barman-
would call to one of the people at the back of the cafe. But he
never called to Boris or me, and we left after two hours, as
the etiquette was that you could only stay two hours for one
drink. We learned afterwards, when it was too late, that the
dodge was to bribe the barman; if you could afford twenty
francs he would generally get you a job.
We went to the Hotel Scribe and waited an hour on the
pavement, hoping that the manager would come out, but
he never did. Then we dragged ourselves down to the rue
du Commerce, only to find that the new restaurant, which
was being redecorated, was shut up and the PATRON away.
It was now night. We had walked fourteen kilometres over
pavement, and we were so tired that we had to waste one
franc fifty on going home by Metro. Walking was agony to