Irma La Douce

1

Tell me, how'd a nice girl like you

get into a racket like this?

I was studying at the Paris Conservatory.

I was going to be a concert pianist.

Chopin and Debussy, and like that.

And then the night of my first recital,

the piano cover fell on my hand.

Three broken fingers and a broken dream.

After that I didn't care what happened...

...as long as I could feed

myself and my little dog.

Thank you.

Do you mind if I ask you

a personal question?

You mean, why does a girl like me

have to do this for a living?

Well, actually, I'm Belgian. My parents

were missionaries in the Congo.

I don't wanna talk about that.

- I understand.

- So now there's just me and my sister.

She's in the hospital.

Needs three transfusions a day.

D'you know how much

a pint of blood costs these days?

Thank you.

Sorry, pooch. What's his name?

Her name. Coquette.

- And what's yours?

- Irma. They call me Irma la Douce.

That means Irma the Sweet.

I don't know why.

I know why. How much is that, in dollars?

Five dollars. Actually,

I don't even know my real name.

I was brought up in an orphanage near

Cherbourg - it was destroyed on D-day.

I've been sending money to help rebuild

it. I've already paid for a whole wing.

Uh...

That's all I have on me, ma'am.

Actually, it was bombed by the Eighth Air

Force. Not that I blame you Americans.

But if you could see those poor orphans,

sleeping on the floor, the rain coming in.

There are no beds yet and no roof.

Uh...

Do y'all take traveller's cheques?

This, then,

is the story of Irma la Douce.

A story of passion,

bloodshed, desire and death.

Everything, in fact,

that makes life worth living.

The place is Paris, the time

is five o'clock in the morning.

You may have read in travel folders

that Paris is a city that never sleeps.

Don't you believe it.

At this time of the day

there is nothing doing...

... unless you're working for

the department of sanitation.

If you want a nightcap

at Maxim's, it's too late.

It's been closed for hours.

If you want to jump off

the Eiffel Tower, it's too early.

It won't be open for hours.

So, if you're looking for a little action,

forget the high-rent district.

You'd better come to our neighborhood.

This is Les Halles,

the wholesale food market.

We call it the stomach of Paris.

Keep your Champs lyses

and your palace in Versailles.

This is the place for me..

Brawling, vulgar, smelly, but alive.

Beef from Charollais,

pork from Prigord...

... lamb from Brittany, veal from Normandy.

Brains and kidneys and tripe.

Pigs' feet and calves' heads

waiting for sauce vinaigrette.

Salmon from the Loire,

sole from the Channel...

... lobsters from Corsica...

... oysters from Dieppe,

sardines from Lorient.

Asparagus from Argenteuil,

oranges from Valencia...

... melons from Cavaillon,

cabbage from Aubervilliers.

But man does not live by cabbage alone.

And if that's what you're in the market for,

just step into the Rue Casanova.

This is where the girls are,

or, as we say, the "poules".

You can have your choice of

Kiki the Cossack, Amazon Annie...

... Lolita, Suzette Wong,

Mimi the Maumau...

... and then, of course,

there's Irma la Douce.

She was born here, in Les Halles,

in a truck behind the fish market.

Like all the others, she takes her coffee

break in the bistro across the street.

This is the owner.

He is known as Moustache.

According to police records,

he is a Romanian chicken thief...

... named Constantinescu,

but when he bought this place...

... it was called "Chez Moustache" and

it was cheaper to grow a moustache...

... than to buy a new sign.

Sometimes, at dawn, rich slummers

drop in for a bowl of onion soup.

But mostly the clientele consists

of the "poules" and their "macs".

You know what a "mac" is?

How do you say it in English?

A protector, a consort,

a business manager?

Well, stick around, you'll get the idea.

- How are we doin'?

- Not bad.

Mostly tips. I had

some real pigeons tonight.

- Sometimes I wish you were twins.

- Thanks.

- What's that?

- What's what? Oh, that.

The last one didn't have any more money,

so he gave me a cheque.

Now is that nice, Irma,

holding out on me?

- It's only ten dollars.

- And you weren't gonna tell me about it?

I was gonna put it down

as a deposit, on a hair dryer.

A hair dryer?! We're partners, Irma.

You wouldn't wanna cheat me?

- Let go, Hippolyte.

- There's such a thing as ethics.

You're hurting me, you big ox!

If you don't like the way I treat you,

why don't you get yourself another guy?

- I will one of these days.

- Why wait? Why not leave me now?

I'd take her any time.

Oh, you would?

- It was just a joke, Hippolyte.

- A joke?

So how come nobody's laughing?

Now go back to work.

Ox.

And so it was one big,

happy family around here..

The "macs", the "poules" and the "flics"...

... or as you would say, the cops.

Your statesmen and politicians keep

talking about peaceful coexistence...

... but here, in our milieu,

we really practise it.

The attitude of the police

is live and let live.

And some of them make

a pretty good living at it.

Every other Friday the "flics" would raid

Rue Casanova, just for the record.

A few "poules" would be hauled to

the station, they'd pay a small fine...

... and 24 hours later

they'd be back on the street.

It was a nice, friendly,

civilised arrangement.

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