The first of these days was Mension's eighteenth birthday:
“My birthday party was on the sidewalk across the boulevard from the Mabillon. I rather think the metro station there was closed at the time. I was drinking – drinking vin ordinaire on the sidewalk with Debord. Other people came along; I was panhandling, and so were they. Not Debord – but then Debord had money; he got living expenses from his family, because officially he was a student. People with allowances – there were surprisingly many of them – made it possible for the rest of us who were flat broke to survive." And thus began the routine:
That
was the beginning of our friendship; we sealed it that day, so to
speak. After that we went drinking together every day or almost every
day for several months. We would go drinking, just the two of us, Guy
with his bottle and I with mine. He was usually the one to pay;
occasionally I had money, but as a rule he bought, then we would go
to Cour de Rohan, a little courtyard off Rue de l'Ancienne-Comédie,
and settle down in the passageway – there are some steps there, and
we would sit on the bottom step, holding forth. In other words, we
would set the whole world to rights while polishing off a liter or
perhaps two liters of wine[...] We pulled the world apart and put it
back together again – and I imagine there was more of the former
than of the latter. Still, it was fairly important work: they were
real discussions. Guy, for his part, was highly cultivated,
enormously well read.
Mension and Debord maintained different schedules, and would meet
Late
afternoon as a rule, because usually I got up late; he got up much
earlier. He was living in a hotel in Rue Racine; I have no idea at all
what he did in the mornings. He had a more or less regular life in
terms of the hours he kept: he never went home really late. During
the whole time I knew Guy, I used to get home in the morning five
minutes after my mother left for work. He would call it a night
fairly early, around midnight or one; he rarely closed Moineau's, and
I suppose he must have been in the habit of leaving when he felt he'd
reached his limit, had enough to drink. He was methodical that way.
He must have drunk alone before I met him about six or so.
The
first true dérives
were
in no way distinct from what we did in the ordinary way. We went on
walks from time to time. One among others that became traditional
took us from the neighborhood to the Chinese section around Rue
Chalon – behind the Gare de Lyon. We would eat over there, because
it was not expensive, or occasionally we would stop on the way near
Saint-Paul to buy salted anchovies, which made us desperately
thirsty. Then we would make our way back as best we could. Some made
it, some didn't, some collapsed en route. We also used to visit the
Spanish neighborhood along the canal at Aubervilliers. We would go
there either at the start or at the end of the night. There was
chorizo, paella.... Old workers' bistros frequented in the main by
guys who had arrived after the Spanish Civil War, Republicans. We
were pretty well received, because we drank enormously.
