COQ-TALE (first published in Arts, November 1954)

Ever since the bistros got closed down, we just have to make do with what we have.  That’s why, the other day, I took a pub bus, at cocktail hour, on the N.R.F. line.  No point in telling you that I had a terribly hard time getting in.  I even had a permit, but IT WASN’T ENOUGH.  It was also necessary to have an INVITATION.  An invitation.  They are doing pretty well, the R.A.T.P.  But I managed.  I yelled, “Coming through!  I’m an Éditions Julliard author,” and there I was inside the pub bus.  I headed straight for the buffet, but there was no way to get near it.  In front of me, a young man with a long neck who hadn’t removed the Tyrolean hat with a plait around it that he wore – a lout, a boor, a caveman, obviously – seemed set on gobbling down every last crumb that was before him.  But I was thirsty.  So I whispered in his ear, “You know, back on the platform, Gaston Gallimard is signing contracts.”  And off he ran, the sucker.

An hour later, I see him in front of the Gare Saint-Bottin, in the midst of devouring the buttons of his overcoat, which he had swapped for some

—Raymond Queneau

Translated by Chris Clarke