The Tenant Read online

  THE TENANT

  Trelkovsky rented the small and shabby apartment—even though the former tenant had hurled herself screaming through the window. Even though her presence—and her madness—seemed to seep through the damp walls. Even though the dead woman still lived in that apartment. A superstitious person, a fearful person, would not have rented it. But Trelkovsky did. For better, or for worse, he was The Tenant.

  THE TENANT—

  A NOVEL OF NIGHTMARE TERROR

  “A really up-to-date thriller—as closely coiled, as cold and quiet and deadly as a snake in the bed.”

  —John Collier, author of

  Fancies and Goodnights

  “This story will lift you out of your seat with its grotesqueries . . . Whatever echoes there are of Kafka, Poe, and Hitchcock, Mr. Topor is a writer of the new breed of down-to-earthness which accepts a vulgarity for what it is worth and describes it without emotion. For that reason the book is not recommended to any average reader who may be easily shocked . . .”

  —Bestsellers

  PARAMOUNT PICTURES

  presents

  A ROMAN POLANSKI FILM

  THE TENANT

  starring

  ISABELLE ADJANI

  MELVYN DOUGLAS

  JO VAN FLEET

  and

  SHELLEY WINTERS

  as The Concierge

  Music by Philippe Sarde

  Produced by Andrew Braunsberg

  Screenplay by Gerard Brach

  and Roman Polanski

  Directed by Roman Polanski

  A Paramount Picture

  THE TENANT

  A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with

  Doubleday & Company, Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Originally published in France by Buchet-Chastel in 1964

  under the title LE LOCATAIRE CHIMERIQUE

  Doubleday edition published February 1966

  2nd printing . . . February 1966

  Bantam edition / March 1967

  2nd printing . . . August 1976

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1966 by Doubleday & Company, Inc.

  ISBN 0-553-10200-1

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 656 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10019.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  THE

  T E N A N T

  Part One

  THE

  NEW TENANT

  1

  The Apartment

  Trelkovsky was on the point of being thrown out in the street when his friend Simon told him about an apartment on the rue des Pyrénées. He went to look at it. The concierge, an ill-tempered woman, refused to show it to him, but a thousand franc note changed her mind.

  “Follow me,” she said then, without altering her surly attitude.

  Trelkovsky was an honest, polite young man in his early thirties, and above everything else he detested complications. He earned a modest living, but the prospect of losing the roof over his head was nothing less than a catastrophe, since his salary would not permit the extravagance of living in a hotel. He did, however, have a few savings in the bank, and he was counting on these to pay the under-the-counter fee he knew the landlord would demand. He could only hope it would not be too high.

  The apartment consisted of two gloomy rooms, with no kitchen. A single window in the back room looked directly out on an oddly shaped oval window in the wall on the other side of a courtyard. Trelkovsky thought it must be the window of one of the toilets in the building next door. The walls of the apartment had been covered with a yellowish paper on which there were now several large stains, caused by dampness. The whole of the ceiling seemed covered with a network of tiny cracks, spreading out and crossing each other like the veins of a leaf. Little bits of plaster which had fallen from it crunched beneath their shoes. In the room without a window, a mantelpiece of fake marble framed a small gas heater.

  “The tenant who used to live here threw herself out the window,” the concierge said, seeming suddenly to have become more friendly. “Look, you can see where she fell.”

  She led Trelkovsky through a jumbled labyrinth of furniture to the window, and gestured triumphantly toward the wreckage of a glass roofing over the courtyard, three stories below.

  “She’s not dead,” she said, “but she might just as well be. She’s at the Saint-Antoine hospital.”

  “And what if she recovers?” Trelkovsky murmured.

  “There’s no danger of that,” the odious woman laughed. “Don’t give it a thought.” She winked at him, and added, “it’s a piece of luck for you.”

  “What are the conditions?” Trelkovsky asked.

  “Reasonable. There’s a small fee to be paid, for the water. The plumbing is all new. Before, you had to go out to the landing for running water. The landlord had it done.”

  “What about the toilets?”

  “Just over there. You go down, and then you take the B staircase. From over there you can see the apartment. And vice versa.” She winked again, obscenely, “it’s a view worth looking at!”

  Trelkovsky was far from being overwhelmed with delight. But even as it was, the apartment was a windfall.

  “How much is the fee?” he asked.

  “Five hundred thousand. The rent is fifteen thousand francs a month.”

  “That’s expensive. I couldn’t pay more than four hundred thousand.”

  “That’s not up to me. You’ll have to work it out with the landlord.” Another wink. “Go and see him. He lives on the floor beneath this, so you won’t have to go far. I have to get back now—but don’t forget what I told you. It’s a chance you don’t want to miss.”

  Trelkovsky followed her down the steps to the landlord’s door. He rang the bell, and an old woman opened, peering at him suspiciously.

  “We don’t give anything to the blind,” she snapped, before he could say a word.

  “It’s about the apartment . . .”

  A look of cunning narrowed her eyes. “What apartment?”

  “The one on the floor above. Could I see Monsieur Zy?”

  The old woman left Trelkovsky standing at the door. He heard the murmuring of voices, and then she came back to tell him Monsieur Zy would see him. She led him into the dining room, where Monsieur Zy was sitting at the table, meticulously picking at his teeth with the sharpened point of a matchstick. With a little gesture of a finger he indicated that he was busy, and went on rummaging among his upper molars. After a moment he withdrew a tiny bit of meat, speared on the pick, studied it attentively, then replaced it in his mouth and swallowed it. Only then did he turn his attention to Trelkovsky.

  “Have you seen the apartment?” he said.

  Trelkovsky nodded. “Yes. That’s why I wanted to see you—to discuss the conditions.”

  “Five hundred thousand, and fifteen thousand a month.”

  “That’s what the concierge told me. But I wanted to know if that is your final price, because I can’t pay more than four hundred thousand.”

  The landlord frowned. For the space of a minute or two, he said nothing, and his eyes followed the movements of the old woman as she cleared off the table. He seemed to be passing in review everything he had just eaten. Occasionally he nodded his head, as if in approval. He returned at last to the subject under discussion.

  “The concierge told you about the water?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s damnably hard to find an apartment these days. There’s a student who gave me half that much for just one room on the sixth floor. And he doesn’
t have water.”

  Trelkovsky coughed, to clear out his throat; he realized that he was frowning too.

  “Please understand me,” he said. “I’m not trying to belittle your apartment, but after all, there is no kitchen. And the toilets are also a problem . . . Just suppose that I should get sick—which I don’t very often do, I can assure you of that—and had to relieve myself in the middle of the night . . . Well, it wouldn’t be very convenient. And on the other hand, even though I only gave you four hundred thousand I would give it to you in cash.”

  The landlord held up a hand to interrupt him. “It isn’t a question of the money. I won’t make any bones of that, Monsieur . . .”

  “Trelkovsky.”

  “Monsieur Trelkovsky. I’m in no difficulties there. I don’t need your money in order to go on eating. No; I am renting because I have a vacant apartment and I know how scarce they are.”

  “Of course.”

  “However, there is the principle of the thing. I am not a miser, but neither am I a philanthropist. Five hundred thousand is the price. I know other landlords who would ask seven hundred thousand, and be within their rights. As for myself, I am asking five hundred thousand and I have no reason to accept less.”

  Trelkovsky had followed this discourse with little approving nods of the head and a smile of understanding on his lips. “Of course, Monsieur Zy,” he said. “I understand your point of view perfectly; it’s entirely reasonable. But . . . May I offer you a cigarette?” The landlord declined and Trelkovsky went on, “We are not savages, after all. We can argue these points, but we can always try to understand each other. You want five hundred. Good. But if someone were to give you five hundred spread over a period of three months, that three months could turn into three years. Do you think that would be preferable to four hundred in a lump sum?”

  “No, I don’t. I know better than you that nothing is preferable to the entire sum in cash. But I prefer five hundred thousand cash to four hundred thousand cash.”

  Trelkovsky lit his cigarette. “Naturally. And I have no intention of saying that you are wrong. But just think for a minute—the former tenant is not yet dead. Perhaps she will come back. And then, perhaps, if she is ill, or can’t climb the stairs, she might want to exchange the apartment for something else. And you know that you don’t have the legal right to oppose such an exchange. In that case, it isn’t four hundred thousand you would have, it would be nothing. But with me—I will give you the four hundred thousand, there will be no complications, and everything will be worked out on a friendly basis. No problems for you, and none for me. Can you think of a better solution than that?”

  “You’re talking about a highly unlikely eventuality.”

  “Perhaps, but it is possible. But with the four hundred thousand cash, no problems, no complications . . .”

  “Very well—let’s forget about that angle of it for a moment, Monsieur . . . Trelkovsky. I’ve already told you that it isn’t the most important consideration for me. Are you married? Excuse me for asking, but it’s because of the children. This is a very quiet house; my wife and I are old . . .”

  “Not so old as all that, Monsieur Zy!” Trelkovsky interrupted.

  “I know what I am saying. We are both old people, and we don’t like noise. So I warn you right now that if you are married and have children you could offer me a million francs and I wouldn’t accept.”

  “You can stop worrying about that, Monsieur Zy. You won’t have that kind of trouble with me. I am very quiet myself, and I am a bachelor.”

  “Bachelors can be a problem, too. If you want the apartment as a place to entertain your girl friends, then this is not the house for you. I would rather take two hundred thousand and give it to someone who really needed it.”

  Trelkovsky nodded. “I agree completely. And I am not that kind of person. I’m a quiet man, and I don’t like complications. You won’t have any with me.”

  “Don’t be offended by all of these things I am asking you now,” the landlord said. “We might as well understand each other from the first, and then we can live together without disagreement.”

  “You’re perfectly right; it’s the only logical thing to do.”

  “In that case, you must also understand that I can’t permit you to have animals here—cats, dogs, or any other kind of animal.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “Well then, Monsieur Trelkovsky—I can’t give you an answer yet, of course; there can’t be any question of that as long as the former tenant is still alive. But I like you; you give me the impression of being a serious young man. So I will just say this: come back later in the week. At that time, I should be in a position to give you a definite reply.”

  Trelkovsky thanked him profusely before leaving. As he passed in front of the concierge’s room, she glanced at him curiously, without the slightest sign of recognition, and went back to the interrupted routine of drying a plate with the skirt of her apron.

  He paused on the sidewalk to study the outside of the building. The upper floors were bathed in the light of the September sun, giving it the appearance of being almost new and fresh. He looked for the window of “his” apartment, but immediately remembered that it looked out on the courtyard.

  The whole of the fifth floor had been repainted pink, with the shutters in a canary yellow. The harmony was not subtle, but the note of color it gave to the building had a happy tone. There were boxes of green plants all along the windows of the third floor, and on the fourth, grills had been added to heighten the support rail of the balcony—because of children, perhaps, although that did not seem likely, since the landlord did not want children. The roof was studded with chimneys of every size and shape. A cat, which certainly did not belong to any of the tenants, was strolling among them. Trelkovsky smiled to himself, imagining that it was he who was up there, instead of the cat, being gently warmed by the rays of the sun. But then he noticed a curtain moving on the second floor, in the landlord’s apartment, and walked hastily away.

  The street was almost deserted, doubtless because it was still the lunch hour. Trelkovsky stopped and bought himself some bread and a few slices of garlic sausage. He sat down on a bench and considered matters as he ate.

  After all, perhaps the argument he had used with the landlord was correct, and the former tenant would come back and want to exchange the apartment. Perhaps she would recover. He sincerely hoped she would, of course. But if she didn’t, perhaps she had left a will. In that case, what were the landlord’s rights in the matter? Would Trelkovsky be obliged to pay the fee twice—once to the landlord, and again to the former tenant? He wished that he could talk to his friend Scope, who was a lawyer’s clerk, but unfortunately he was out of town on some sort of business.

  “The best thing to do is to go and see the former tenant in the hospital,” he thought.

  As soon as he had finished eating, he went back to the building to question the concierge. She informed him, with ill-concealed bad temper, that the tenant’s name was Mademoiselle Choule.

  “Poor woman!” Trelkovsky said, and wrote the name down on the back of an envelope.

  2

  The Former Tenant

  The next day, at precisely the prescribed visiting hour, Trelkovsky entered the door of the Saint-Antoine hospital. He was wearing his only dark suit, and in his right hand he carried a pound of oranges wrapped in an old newspaper.

  He had always had a very unhappy reaction to hospitals. It seemed to him that he could hear a final rasping breath behind every window, and that the instant he turned his back they would begin moving out the corpses. He considered both doctors and nurses as monsters of insensitivity, in spite of the fact that he admired their devotion to duty.

  At the information window, he asked where he might find Mademoiselle Choule. The young woman on duty consulted her cards.

  “Are you a member of the family?” she asked.

  Trelkovsky hesitated. If he answered in the negative, would
they just send him away? Finally, he said, “I’m a friend.”

  “Ward 27, bed 18. See the head nurse first.”

  He murmured a word of thanks and went in. Ward 27 was enormous, as big as the main lobby of a railroad station. Four rows of beds stretched down its entire length. Around the white shapes of the beds clustered little groups of people whose somber clothing formed a startling contrast. It was the rush hour for visitors. A continuous murmuring, like the roar of the sea imprisoned in a shell, drummed at his ears. A woman in white snatched at his arm and thrust out her jaw aggressively.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Are you the head nurse?” Trelkovsky asked, and when the jaw nodded he said, “My name is Trelkovsky. I’m very glad I found you, because I was told at the information desk to see you first. It’s about Mademoiselle Choule.”

  “Bed 18?”

  “That’s what I was told. May I see her?”

  The head nurse frowned, put a pencil between her teeth, and chewed on it thoughtfully before answering.

  “She can’t be disturbed,” she said at last. “She was in a coma until yesterday. Go ahead, but be very careful, and don’t try to talk to her.”

  Trelkovsky had no great trouble finding bed 18. A woman was stretched out in it, her face covered with bandages, and her left leg suspended by a complicated system of pulleys. The single eye visible through the bandages was open. Trelkovsky approached the bed very quietly. He could not tell whether the woman had noticed him, because the eye did not blink, and she was so heavily bandaged that he could see nothing of the expression on her face. He put the oranges on the bed table and sat down on a little stool.

  She seemed older than he had thought she would be. She was breathing with great difficulty, her mouth wide open, like a black well in the center of a white field. He noticed, with an acute sense of embarrassment, that one of her upper incisor teeth was missing.