Carol SANDERS University of Surrey

"POURQUOI QU'ON DIT DES CHOSES ET PAS D ' A U T R E S ? "

TRANSLATING QUENEAU'S FRANÇAIS PARLÉ IN ZAZIE DANS LE MÉTRO AND LE CHIENDENT

QUENEAU, Raymond. Le Chiendent. Paris: Gallimard, 1933. pp. 205-206

Ernestine, d'un geste aimable, invita la foule à entrer dans sa chambre, prit la position de Socrate buvant la ciguë et prononça ces mots :

— C'est gentil ça, madame Pic, d'avoir pensé à moi, mais vot'curé, vous savez, vous pouvez vous le mettre quelque part, parce que, vous savez, je l'connais vot'curé, j'l'ai assez vu faire de saloperies pour savoir de quoi i r'tourne avec ses histoires et pas seulement çui-là, mais encore ceux qu'j'ai vus quand j'étais tout'petite et qui s'privaient pas d'faire leurs petites saletés avec tout c'qui leur tombait sous la main, d'puis leur mouchoir à carreaux jusqu'aux p'tits garçons du catéchisme. Enfin, vous voyez, madame Pic, que si vous aviez l'idée d'm'imposer vos mômeries, vous vous êtes fourré l'doigt dans l'oeil jusqu'au poignet, et vot'curé y peut rengainer son crucifix dans l'fond d'sa culotte qu'i cache sous sa soutane. Enfin, c'est quand même gentil de m'prévenir gentiment que j'vais mourir. Des fois qu'j'en aurais rien su. Vous savez, madame Pic, j'tenais pas plus que ça à l'savoir, mais maintenant qu'vous m'avez montré vot'bonhomme noir, j'sais c'qui va s'passer. Je l'sais pas tellement qu'ça. Enfin, gens d'la noce qu'êtes là à m'écouter jacter, j'vais vous dire deux ou trois mots d'la situation. C'est pas qu'j'ai envie d'vous instruire ou d'vous faire d'la morale. J'suis pas désignée pour ça sur les r 'g istres d'la mairie; tout de même j'saurais aussi bien l'faire que l'bonhomme en noir qui fait une sale grimace en m'écoutant parler. Donc, gens d'la noce, ouvrez vos esgourdes, comme on disait dans mon village où que j'suis née, et j'm'en vais vous faire un p'tit discours; c'est un'façon comme une autre d'employer l'temps qui m'reste à vivre, spa? Pour commencer, j'vous dirai donc que ça m'épate un peu de disparaître. Comme ça, je n'comprends pas très bien comment ça peut s'passer. J'sais bien qu'on peut s'passer de d'moi et qu'après moi on continuera à vivre; tout d'même, j'm'essplique pas bien c'te curieuse aventure. D'ici dix minutes ou une heure, j'sais pas au juste...

— Dix minutes au plus, dit Mme Belhôtel. — Merci, madame Belhôtel. Je m'arrangerai pour avoir fini à l'heure. Donc j'disais

qu'd'ici dix minutes j'allais être supprimée, rayée, effacée. Ça, lors, c'est vraiment curieux. C'est pas que j'crois à l'immortalité d'l'âme, comme dirait l'abbé, ou à la survie, comme dit la marchande de journaux, vous savez bien, celle qu'est spirite. J'y crois pas. J'ai réfléchi la-d'ssus. S'imaginer tout pareil qu'on est sans avoir des yeux, des bras, des jambes, ça n'tient pas d'bout. Pasque je m'suis aperçue que c'qu'on est c'est pas seulement une p'tite voix qui parle dans la tête, mais c'est aussi tout l'corps qu'on sent vivre et tout c'qu'on peut faire avec. Si on a pus d'corps, comment dire qu'c'est toujours moi? Donc, pour revenir à c'que j'disais à l'instant, quand j'm'épate de disparaître, c'est pas que j'pense à la survie ou à l'âme au ciel ou en enfer ou à des imaginations de c't'ordre. J'en parle, comme qui dirait, de haut. Quand n'importe quoi disparaît, c'est déjà drôle. Mais moi. Ça alors, ça d'vient renversant. Un arbre brûle, i reste la fumée et la cendre; pourtant, l'arbre n'est plus là. C'est comme moi. I reste du pourri mais la p'tite voix qui parle dans la tête quand on est tout seul, i n'en reste rien. La mienne quand è s'taira, è r'parlera pas ailleurs. C'est ça qu'est drôle. C'est pas qu'ça m'fâche autrement. On s passera d'moi.

The Bark-tree. Trad. Barbara Wright, Londres: Calder, 1968. pp. 198-199

Ernestine, with a friendly gesture, invited the crowd into her room, adopted the position of Socrates drinking the hemlock, and uttered these words:

"It was nice of you, Madame Pic, to think of me, but your curé, you know, well, you know that you can do with him, because 1 know your curé, I've seen him often enough, him and his dirty tricks, to know the sort of thing he gets up to, and snot only this one, it's the ones I knew when I was just a tittle girl, too, they never deprived themselves of their nasty little pleasures with anything they could get hold of, from their check handkerchiefs to the little boys in the catechism class. Anyway, as you see, Madame Pic, if you thought you were going to inflict your mumbo-jumbo on me, you were barking up the wrongest tree you ever could bark up, and your curé, he can stuff his crucifix back in his pants that he hides underneath his soutane. Anyway, even so it's nice of you to let me know nicely that I'm going to die. Praps I mightn't even have known. You know, Madame Pic, I wasn't all that keen on knowing, but now you've shown me your gent in black I know what's going to happen. Cept that I dont really know. Anyway, members of the wedding party that are here to listen to me jabbering. I'm going to tell you a bit about what's going on. Snot that I want to teach you anything or start preaching at you. They haven't got me registered at the town hall for that sort of caper, even so I could do it just as well as that gent in black that's making such horrid faces at what I'm saying. And so, members of the wedding party, open your lug-holes, like we used to say in my village where I was born, and I'm going to make you a little speech; that's as good a way as any to use up the time I've got left to live, doncha think? To start with, I must tell you, then, that the fact that I'm going to disappear amazes me a bit. Somehow, I can't quite understand how it's going to happen. I know that everyone can do without me quite all right, and that they'll go on living after me; even so, I can't quite essplain this peculiar adventure to myself. Ten minutes, or an hour, mnot quite sure which, from now . . ."

"Ten minutes at the most," says Mme. Belhôtel. "Thanks, Madame Belhôtel. I'll see that I finish in time. So as I was saying, in ten

minutes from now I'll be disposed of, obliterated, blotted out. That—now that's really peculiar. Snot that I believe in the immortality of the soul, as the Abbé would say, or in life after death, like the woman that sells newspapers would say, you know the one I mean, the one that's a spiritualist. I don't believe in all that. I've thought about it. Imagining yourself just like you are only not having any eyes, or arms, or legs—doesn't make sense. On account of I've realised that what you are, it's not just a little voice that talks in your head, but it's your whole body, too, that you can feel is alive, and everything you can do with it. If you haven't got a body any more, how can you say that it's still me? And so, to come back to what I was saying just now, when 1 find it surprising that I'm going to disappear, snot that I'm thinking about life after death or my soul in heaven or in hell or any sort of imaginative stuff like that. I'm talking, as you might say, objectively. When something else disappears, that's already odd. But me. That's just staggering. A tree catches fire—there's still the smoke and ash left; and yet the tree's gone. It's like me. The decay will be left, but the little voice that talks in your head when you're by yourself, there won't be anything left of that. Mine, when it stops talking, it won't be talking anywhere else. That's what's strange. Tisn't that it worries me so specially. People can do without me.

QUENEAU, Raymond. Zazie dans le métro. Paris: Gallimard, 1959. pp. 7-9

DOUKIPUDONKTAN, se demanda Gabriel excédé. Pas possible, ils se nettoient jamais. Dans le journal, on dit qu'il y a pas onze pour cent des appartements à Paris qui ont des salles de bain, ça m'étonne pas, mais on peut se laver sans. Tous ceux là qui m'entourent, ils doivent pas faire de grands efforts. D'un autre côté, c'est tout de même pas un choix parmi les plus crasseux de Paris. Y a pas de raison. C'est le hasard qui les a réunis. On peut pas supposer que les gens qu'attendent à la gare d'Austerlitz sentent plus mauvais que ceux qu'attendent à la gare de Lyon. Non vraiment, y a pas de raison. Tout de même quelle odeur.

Gabriel extirpa de sa manche une pochette de soie couleur mauve et s'en tamponna le tarin.

"Qu'est-ce qui pue comme ça?" dit une bonne femme à haute voix. Elle pensait pas à elle en disant ça, elle était pas égoïste, elle voulait parler du

parfum qui émanait de ce meussieu. "Ça, ptite mère, répondit Gabriel qui avait de la vitesse dans la repartie, c'est

Barbouze, un parfum de chez Fior. — Ça devrait pas être permis d'empester le monde comme ça, continua la

rombière sûre de son bon droit. — Si je comprends bien, ptite mère, tu crois que ton parfum naturel fait la pige

à celui des rosiers. Eh bien, tu te trompes, ptite mère, tu te trompes. — T'entends ça?" dit la bonne femme à un ptit type à côté d'elle, probablement

celui qu'avait le droit de la grimper légalement. "T'entends comme il me manque de respect, ce gros cochon?"

QUENEAU, Raymond. Zazie dans le métro. Paris: Gallimard, 1959 (chap. I)

Trad. Barbara Wright, Londres: Calder, 1960. pp. 11-13

Howcanaystinksotho,wondered Gabriel, exasperated. Incredible, they never clean themselves. It says in the paper that not eleven percent of the flats in Paris have bathrooms, doesn't surprise me, but you can wash without. They can't make much of an effort, all this lot around me. On the other hand, it's not as if they've been specially hand-picked from the dosses of Paris. Zno reason. They're only here by accident. You really can't assume that people who meet people at the Gare d'Austerlitz smell worse than people who meet people at the Gare de Lyon. No really, zno reason. All the same, what a smell.

Gabriel extirpated from his sleeve a mauve silk handkerchief and dabbed his boko with it.

"What on earth's that stench?" said a good lady out loud.

She wasn't thinking abourt herself when she said that, she wasn't so self-centred, she was referring to the perfume that emanated from the meussieu.

"That, dearie," replied Gabriel, who was never at a loss when it came to repartee, "is Barbouze, a perfume from the House of Fior."

"Toughtn't to be allowed, stinking people out like that," continued the old bag, sure of her ground.

"If I understand you right, my dear, you imagine that your natural perfume is sweeter than the roses. Well, you're wrong, my dear, you're wrong."

"Hear that?" said the good lady to a little chap by her side, probably the one legally entitled to mount her. "D'you hear how rude he's being to me, the dirty great pig?"

Trad. Akbar del Piombo and Eric Kahane, Paris: The Olympia Press, 1959. pp. 7-9

Holifart watastink, thinks Gabriel, exasperated. You'd think those people don't ever wash. It says in the papers that hardly eleven percent of the apartments in Paris have a regular bathroom, and hot water, but you don't really need a bath to keep clean. Seems none of these jokers here is makin' any great efforts in that direction. On the other hand, they haven't been picked among the sloppiest people in town—it doesn't add up. They're all here only by chance. Fact is, the people waitin' at the Gare d'Austerlitz can't possibly smell worse than the people waitin' at the Gare de Lyon. No, it doesn't add up—but Krissake, what a stink.

Drawing from his sleeve a fancy mauve-colored silk hankie, Gabriel dabs his beak.

"God, what an awful stink," says a dame in a loud voice.

Being no egoist, she is not referring to herself, but to the perfume emanating from this gennulman.

"That's Barbooze, granny," retorts Gabriel, who is quick with the repartee, "Fior's best perfume."

"There should be a law against fouling the air like that," continues the madame, sure of her rights.

"Look, granny, if you think your own natural odor can beat a rosebush, you're kiddin' yourself."

"Hey, did you hear that?" the dame says to a little guy next to her—probably the one who is entitled to jump her legally. "Didja hear how rude he is, this big fat pig?"

Le ptit type examina le gabarit de Gabriel et se dit c'est un malabar, mais les malabars c'est toujours bon, ça profite jamais de leur force, ça serait lâche de leur part. Tout faraud, il cria :

"Tu pues, eh gorille". Gabriel soupira. Encore faire appel à la violence. Ça le dégoûtait cette contrainte.

Depuis l'hominisation première, ça n'avait jamais arrêté. Mais enfin fallait ce qu'il fallait. C'était pas de sa faute à lui, Gabriel, si c'était toujours les faibles qui emmerdaient le monde. Il allait tout de même laisser une chance au moucheron.

"Répète un peu voir", qu'il dit Gabriel. Un peut étonné que le costaud répliquât, le ptit type prit le temps de fignoler la

réponse que voici : "Répéter un peu quoi?" Pas mécontent de sa formule, le ptit type. Seulement, l'armoire à glace

insistait : elle se pencha pour proférer cette pentasyllabe monophasée : "Skeutadittaleur..." Le ptit type se mit à craindre. C'était le temps pour lui, c'était le moment de se

forger quelque bouclier verbal. Le premier qu'il trouva fut un alexandrin : "D'abord, je vous permets pas de me tutoyer. — Foireux", répliqua Gabriel avec simplicité.

The little man examined Gabriel's dimensions and said to himself he's a Tarzan, but Tarzans are always good-natured, never take advantage of their strength, that's a coward's trick. Cock of the walk, he screeched:

"You stink, you gorilla."

Gabriel sighed. Incitement to violence again. This coercion made him sick. Since the first hominisation it had never stopped. However, what had to be had to be. Wasn't his fault if it was always the weaklings who gave everybody the balls-ache. Still, he'd give the gnat a chance.

"Say again," says Gabriel. A bit surprised that the stalwart should

answer back, the little chap took his time, and concocted the following reply:

"Say what again?" Not displeased with his turn of phrase,

the little chap wasn't. Only the great hulk didn't let up, it leant over him and uttered this monophasic pentasyllable:

"Wottusaidjusnow." The l i t t le chap began to get

apprehensive. Now was his time, now was the moment to forge some sort of verbal buckler. The first that came into his head was an alexandrine:

"And anyway who said that you could call me tu?"

"Yellow-belly," retorted Gabriel with simplicity.

The little guy takes a look at Gabriel and decides he is a damn big bozo. But then, the big bozos are the easiest, they never take davantage of their strength, because they wouldn't look good if they did. So, cheekylike, the little guy says:

"Hey, gorilla, you know what? You stink."

Gabriel heaves a sad sigh, thinking, Another punk beggin' for trouble. He is fed up with this never-ending pressure for v i o l e n c e . Ever s ince the first hominization, they've never let up. Well, Gabriel say to himself, if I must I must, can I help it if it's always the little skinny runts who shit up the world? All the same, might as well give this little snotnose a break.

"Say that again," he says. The little guy was bit expecting this

and it takes him a moment to contrive an answer, as follows:

"Say what again?" Pretty pleased with his strategy, the

little guy is. But the big bruiser does not give up—he leans over and proffers this monophasic pentasyllable:

"Watyusedjusnow." Now the little guy is really worried. He

casts about for a verbal shield, which pops out in the form of an alexandrine:

"It is not my habit to argue with strangers."

"Yellowbelly," Gabriel replies not unkindly.

Et il leva le bras comme s'il voulait donner la beigne à son interlocuteur. Sans insister, celui-ci s'en alla de lui-même au sol, parmi les jambes des gens. Il avait une grosse envie de pleurer. Heureusement vlà ltrain qu'entre en gare, ce qui change le paysage. La foule parfumée dirige ses multiples regards vers tes arrivants qui commencent à défiler, les hommes d'affaires en tête au pas accéléré avec leur porte-documents au bout du bras pour tout bagage et leur air de savoir voyager mieux que les autres.

Gabriel regarde dans le lointain ; elles, elles doivent être à la traîne, les femmes c'est toujours à la traîne ; mais non, une mouflette surgit qui l'interpelle :

"Chsuis Zazie, jparie que tu es mon tonton Gabriel. — C'est bien moi, répond Gabriel en anoblissant son ton. Oui, je suis ton

tonton". La gosse se marre. Gabriel, souriant poliment, la prend dans ses bras, il la

transporte au niveau de ses lèvres, il l'embrasse, elle l'embrasse, il la redescend. "Tu sens rien bon, dit l'enfant. — Barbouze de chez Fior, explique le colosse. — Tu m'en mettras un peu derrière les oreilles? — C'est un parfum d'homme. Tu vois l'objet, dit Jeanne Lalochère s'amenant enfin. T'as bien voulu t'en

charger, eh bien, le voilà. — Ça ira, dit Gabriel. — Je peux te faire confiance ? Tu comprends, je ne veux pas qu'elle se fasse

violer par toute la famille. — Mais, maman, tu sais bien que tu étais arrivée juste au bon moment, la

dernière fois. — En tout cas, dit Jeanne Lalochère, je ne veux pas que ça recommence. — Tu peux être tranquille, dit Gabriel. — Bon. Alors je vous retrouve ici après-demain pour le train de six heures

soixante. — Côté départ, dit Gabriel.

And he raised his arm as if he wanted to sock his challenger. Without laboring the point, the latter fell to the ground under his own steam, amidst the people's legs. He felt a great urge to cry. Luckily, here comes the train into the station, which changes the landscape. The perfumed crowd casts its multiple eyes in the direction of the arrivals who are starting to parade past it, business men quick-marching at their head, with their brief-cases at the end of their arms as their only encumbrance and their air of knowing how to travel better than anyone else.

Gabriel looks into the distance; they're bound to be bringing up the rear, women always do bring up the rear, no, though, a little chick materialises and addresses him:

"I'm Zazie, I bet you're my Uncle Gabriel."

"I am indeed," says Gabriel, ennobling his tone. "Yes, I'm your uncle."

The kid cackles. Gabriel, smiling politely, takes her in his arms, he transports her to the level of his lips, he kisses her, she kisses him, he puts her down again.

"You smell gorgeous," says the child. "Fior's Barbouze," exp la ins the

colossus. "Will you put a bit behind my ears?" "It's a man's perfume." "That's the little object," says Jeanne

Lalochère, turning up at last. "You said you'd look after it, well, here it is."

"It will be all right," says Gabriel. "Can I really rely on you? 1 don't want

her to get herself raped by the whole family, you know." "But Momma, you know perfectly well

that you came at the precise moment last time."

"In any case," says Jeanne Lalochère, "I don't want it to happen again."

"You don't need to worry," says Gabriel. "Good. Then I'll see you here the day after

tomorrow in time for the six-sixty train." "On the departures side," says Gabriel.

and he raises his arm as if to smash him. With no further prompting, the little guy drops to the ground. There, sprawled out between anonymous legs, he feels a strong desire to weep. At this point, fortunately, the train comes in and the scene changes. The odoriferous crowd directs its multiple eye toward the oncoming passengers— businessmen leading at a fast pace, with their I-know-how-to-travel look and a briefcase for their only luggage.

Gabriel stares into the distance. He expects the girls to be trailing behind the crowd—women always are. But suddenly a kid surges out from nowhere and calls him:

"I'm Zazie and I bet you're my unca Gabriel." That's me alright," says Gabriel with a

refined intonation. "Yes, I am your uncle Gabriel."

The kid giggles. Smiling politely, Gabriel puts his arms around her, lifts her to his lips, gives her a peck, receives one in return, then sets her down again.

"Hey, you smell real terrific," she says. "It is Fior's Barbooze," the giant

esplains. "Will you put some behind my ears?" "It's a man's perfume, kid." "Well, here's the brat," says Jeanne

Lalochère, coming up at last. "You said you'd take care of her, well here she is."

"Well manage," Gabriel says. "Can I trust you with her? I don't want

her to be raped by the whole family, you hear me?"

"Cmon, Mama," Zazie says, "last time you got there just in time."

"I still don't want that to happen again," says Jeanne Lalochère.

"Don't worry," says Gabriel. "Fine. Then I'll meet you right here day

after tomorrow for the six-sixty train." "Yeah, on the departure side," quips

Gabriel.