La Comédie du Théâtre (The Comedy of the Theatre) – extracts
One winter evening, when it was freezing hard enough to split stones, I had gone to see a play at the back of beyond, in a little hall buried at the far end of a muddy, icy, potholed courtyard. One of those “venues” whose name means nothing to anyone and which the critics rarely honour with a visit.
After midnight, having applauded the ten actors of the company at length along with half a dozen spectators from the neighbourhood, I found myself shivering and dripping with sleet on a patch of pavement, between a dustbin and a tomcat from the wasteland “looking for adventure”.
My kingdom for a taxi!
No sooner had I uttered this cry than a cruising taxi pulled up at the pavement opposite. I rushed over to it. The driver was an old hand. Grumpy, moaning, seen it all.
_ Bloody awful mess, he muttered. I’ve had it up to here with this shambles and this stupid job…
I lit a cigarette.
_ No smoking in my cab…
I put it out.
_ One fag less won’t do you any harm… And if you don’t mind my asking, where’ve you come from at this hour?
_ From a theatre…
_ You’ve got to be bloody twisted to go to the theatre in this weather and in this rotten dump…
_ You’ve mostly got to love it…
_ And do you often treat yourself to nights out with the clowns?
– Almost every evening…
– You’re joking!
_ No, really…
_ And are you getting treatment for it?
_ Why on earth should I get treatment?
_ Because, my poor man, I know people who’ve been locked up in Sainte-Anne for less than that…