Georges

Elie Nagéar is a young cosmopolitan who grew up and lived for a long time across many countries, particularly in Turkey. On his journey to Europe, he meets Sylvie, with whom he has a relationship. The young woman works in a nightclub, and in no time the two squander what little money they possess. Seized by desperation during a train journey from Brussels to Paris, Elie robs and kills a wealthy patron of the nightclub. To hide him, Sylvie sends him to her mother, who runs a boarding house. The life of the landlady, of Antoinette, her other daughter, and of the lodgers revolves around the kitchen, where relationships intertwine and where Elie soon becomes the center of attention with the incredible stories of his life and the countries he has lived in: > like the prelude to an orchestra, one could hear the clatter of forks, plates, and glasses rising and intensifying; whenever a voice was heard, it was Elie’s... He was not lying, yet he felt as if he were. He searched his memory for something more to tell, something comforting and flowing like a Neapolitan song . Thus a surreal atmosphere is created, disrupting the house’s mediocre and monotonous existence. All the inhabitants of the boarding house are so fascinated by the new lodger that, once it becomes known that he is the killer, far from reporting him, they actually help hide him in the hope that he might escape. Even when Elie, by then captured and sentenced, is boarded alongside the other deportees onto the ship that will carry him to forced labor, the landlady will be there on the pier to see him off, filled with nostalgia for a young man who, for a brief time, brought novelty to her mediocre bourgeois life. The milieu is the Belgian petite bourgeoisie. The story unfolds slowly, attentive to the details of life in a boarding house, where the tenants can barely make ends meet and where, paradoxically, all concern is devoted to propriety, to upholding a good name: the landlady’s husband is a conductor for the Belgian railways!! Why, then, does everyone let themselves be captivated by the new lodger’s stories? Why do they not turn him in? Perhaps because, Simenon seems to tell us, we all feel constrained by the flatness of everyday life. Why not read it? It reads very well owing to its concise and effective style. Yet the narrative pace is too slow to make for an enthralling read.

This is likely not one of Simenon’s finest novels. The plot is exceedingly simple: the niece, who served as a maid, kills her sick aunt when the latter refuses to give her money for her brother. Rummaging through the drawers, she discovers old papers proving that the aunt, together with her lover, had murdered her husband fifteen years earlier. The aunt’s former lover, who remains her business partner and lives in an adjoining flat, in turn murders Cécile to prevent her from revealing the contents of the documents she uncovered. From the standpoint of the detective genre, the events of the novel feel predictable, and the pacing certainly fails to grip the reader. The atmosphere (the figure of Maigret, the petty-bourgeois life) is sketched in a hurried, almost superficial manner. The fundamental virtue of the novel lies in its style. Even if the French language is not simple (owing to the richness of its vocabulary), it becomes readily intelligible through the sequence of clauses and words, which, even phonetically, help convey the traits of the characters, Maigret’s demeanor, and the salient aspects of the setting. What is to be appreciated is not so much the novel as a whole, but rather certain glimpses, such as the following: > Il arrivait a Maigret de hausser les épaules quand on s’émerveillait devant lui de la résignation des humbles, des malades …..sans horizon…. ; il savait par expérience que la bete humaine s’accomode de n’importe quel nid, du moment qu’elle peut le remplir de sa chaleur, de son odeur, de ses habitudes .

Maigret returns to the village where he grew up, as an elderly countess has died and he suspects she was murdered. All the figures of a potentially sordid affair are present: the countess’s young lover, the playboy son living the high life, a young parish priest who perhaps knows more than he lets on, and so forth. What emerges is a portrait of a provincial milieu, sketched, in truth, in a superficial and unengaging manner. The characters, too, emerge flat, devoid of any genuine analysis of the motivations underpinning their actions and the events. The detective element is virtually nonexistent, and Maigret feels more like an extra than a police superintendent capable of steering and managing the investigation. Perhaps I am simply unlucky, as I cannot seem to read a book by Simenon that I truly enjoy.