Out of te Dak

Out of te Dak
(Du plus loin de l'oubli)
PATRICK MODIANO
Translated by Jordan Stp
Uni\'ersit of Nebraska Press
Lincoln
C Editons Gallimard,
11. Traslation ad
introucon C 19
by dc Univcnit of
Nebrk Prs. Al
right rr. Mau
fc in dc Unitm
Stte of Aerica
9Te papr in dis
bok me de
miniu ruirment
of Aerc Natona
Stdad fr
Infraton Sience
Prence of Ppr
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Materials, AN s 1 z
39 .. 191
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Lbr of Cngs
Cg-in
Publcaton Dat
Moao, Ptck 1S
[Du plu loi de l'oubli.
Engish] Ot ofde
dark Du plu loin
de l'qbli I Ptck
M ; tslatm by
Jo Stp. p. e.
ISBN o-IOJ-39-2
(havr : a
p). -ISBN 0-
8032-1229X (pbk. :
a. papr) I. Stp,
Jo, 19 .
II. Title.
PQ:73.03D833 19
13' 91-C
91-IJ CIP
Transl ator's I nt roduction
I fnd it di fcul t to preface this nmcl without al l udi ng to a
very di ferent age-nearly thiry years before the publ ication
of Out of tbe Dark in F ranee - and to a year that looms l arge
i n the French i magi nation: 1968. This was a year of many
changes in France. A massi\e springime upri si ng among
stdents and workers paralyed the nation, shaking many of
i ts most sol i dl y establ ished insti n1tions (notabl y the univer
sity system) to thei r foundations and ushering in a newly
vi si bl e and newly powelul youth cultre, a cul tre of con
testation and anti -tradi ti onal i sm that woul d dramati cal l y
change the look and feel of the country. Charles de Gaul l e,
who had domi nated French pol i tics si nce the early days of
World War I I , woul d not survi ve the blow to his credi bi l ity
and reputation deal t by hi s i ntransi gence toward the young
revol uti onari es; he woul d resign early the fol lowing year.
De Gaul l e was not alone: many of the great icons of twen
ti eth-century France were fndi ng themselves forced to
make way for somethi ng new. Jean- Paul Sartre was openly
mocked by the i nsurgent stdents when he tried to joi n one
of thei r ral l ies . The daring of the New Novel i sts, the avant
garde of the decade before, was begi nni ng to seem l ess dar
i ng than the work of the so-cal l ed New New Novel ists, who
were bl ending a purel y l iterary di scourse with a new cri tical
and theoretical awareness i nfuenced by stmcturalism and
v
semi oti cs. And the purel y theoretical di scourse of those di s
cipl i nes- and most paricul arl y of deconstruction and post
stmctural i sm- was begi nni ng to impri nt itself on the publ i c
i magination, al lowi ng a rigorous and i mplacable question
ing of l anguagc, tmth, and the ideologies behi nd them. Ex
istenti al i sm and humani sm were rapi dly l osi ng ground to
a far more radi ca way of thi nki ng, whose infuence is sti l l
with us today. I n many ways, 1968 was a moment when the
shape of the centry changed.
It was also i n1968 that
E
di tions Gal l i mard publ i shed
Patrick Modiano's frst no\'el, La Place de /'Etoile, which
brought its twenty-three-year-old author i mmedi ate cri ti cal
ad publ i c accl ai m. La Place de /'Etoile is not fl l y a product
of i ts ti me: i t i s not exactly rebel l i ous or transgressi \'e i n the
way that many texts by young wri ters were at that ti me, and
i t docs not i ncorporate the l atest advaces in stmcturaist
or poststructurai st theor I ts gae is turned not toward a
bright reml uti onary fture but toward a rather faded past,
and toward a subj ect that might ha\e seemed strangel y
aachroni sti c to the forard- looki ng reader of the l ate si x
tics: the pl ace of the Jew i n France. The no\'el 's protagoni st,
a presumabl y young man with the unl i kel y name of Raphael
Schl emil o\'itch, haunts the holy pl aces of Frenchncss, from
seaside resors to Al pine meadows, contami nati ng them
with hi s \'cry presence, not unl i ke a character i n a no\'cl by
the \'i ml ently anti -Semi ti c Ccl ine, of whose wri ti ng La Place
de /'Etoile prmides a de\'astati ng pastiche. This harsh, funny.
profoundl y i roni c no\'cl ofers no hopcfl \'i sions for the fJ
tre; rather, dredgi ng up old hosti l i ties that France woul d
prefer to forget, i t casts the Jew as a conti nual outsi der, a
\
'1
pari ah, an object of acute terror and loathi ng. The nation's
past, it woul d seem, coul d nor be done away with qui te so
easi l \' as some woul d wi sh.
Today Ln J>lnce de /'Etoile seems as thoroughl y si ngul ar a
no\'cl as ever, standing wel l apart from its contemporaries.
I ndeed, both in style and in subj ect, it is a deepl y permzal
book, whose themes of persecution and excl usi on have thei r
roots i n Modi ano's own fami ly background. Hi s father was
a Jew of Alexandri an extraction, hi s mother a aspi ri ng ac
tress from Bel gi um; the coupl e met and fel l in love in the
uneasy Pari s of the early fori es. Modi ano was bor in 1945,
and hi s chi l dhood was profoundl y marked by memories of
rhe Occupation, the Deporation, and the atmosphere of
menace and cl andestinity that had haunted the years j ust be
fore his bi rh. E\'en i fModi ano hi msel f di d not l i ve through
that dark ti me, he neverheless 'remembers' it, both as a his
torical event and as a way of l i fe, a free-foating and perva
si ve presence. It i s thi s presence, this unfadi ng past, that
forms the backdrop for al l hi s nmel s, obscssi\'cl y remrni ng,
though never i n the same form-onl y as a pal pable but inde
fnabl e ambience whose source i s ne,cr made clear, and that
canot si mpl y be traced to one chronologi cal moment. In
other words, Modi ano does nor wri te 'historical ' novel s,
even i f they arc al l profoundl y shaped by a cerai n hi stor a
history of margi nal i zation and efacement . Time and agai n,
his central characters arc caught up i n an atmosphere of ex
cl usi on, i mmi nent danger, uncertai n or concealed i dent i
ti es; ti me and again they fnd themscl \es i n mi l i eux that arc
abut to b wi ped out by the approaching shadows : quai ntly
gl amorous resorts, el egant cl ubs, pl aces of i nnocent pleasure
\
'II
for mo\' ie stars or up-and-coming champi ons i n tennis or
skii ng. The story i s always the same, and yet the great preoc
cupati on of Modiano's wri ting cannot be defned by one
event, even if it is always a question of the same phenome
non: nothi ng less (and nothi ng more precise) than the obl i t
eration of a past.
So insi stently docs this story recur that Modiano is ofen
said to be 'forc\er writing the same book. ' This is not exactly
true: each novel has a perectly distinct (if someti mes bewi l
dering) pl ot, perfectly defned (i f sometimes ambiguous)
characters, a paricul ar ( i f someti mes permeabl e) seting in
time and space. Stil l , there i s a very strong phenomenon of
repetition at work i n Modiano's wri ting, both withi n each
nmcl and from one to another. It is not onlv the same talc
of loss that repeats itsel f in his books; agai n and agai n, we
fnd ourselves before the same colors (bl ue i n paricular) ,
the same sounds (a voice hal f CO\'ercd by some sor of
noise) , the same setings (empty rooms, desered streets) ,
even the same gestres (an arm raised i n greeting or fare
wel l , a forehead pressed against a windowpane) . I n them
selves, these repetitions create a haunti ng and unforgettabl e
atmosphere, i nstantly recognizble to any reader familiar
with Modiano's work; set agai nst the merwhcl mi ng sense
of loss and disappearance that is the nmcl s' other most , i si
ble cl ement, they make of our reading a deepl y disorient-
ing experience, sad and strange. Everythi ng disappcarsl his
books seem to tel l us, and also - i n smal l but omni present
echoes-everhing somehow stays. This presence of an
obl i terated past is meant neither to comfor us nor to terrify
us : it is there to remi nd us endl essly of that loss, I think, so
VIII
that the loss is not i tsdf lost, so that it remai ns sharp, i nsi s
tent, present, so that we arc conti nual l y cal led to a l i te that
has long si nce di sappeared.
Thi s i s the story tol d by Out oftbc Dnrk, Modiano's four
teenth novel, which appeared in 1996. Its setting i s not the
Occupation but the early sixti es; ne,erhelcss, the opprcs
si \'c, menaci ng atmosphere of that earlier ti me seems to have
l i ngered long afer i ts di sappearance. The young narrator,
l i ke hi s fri ends or even his older sel f, appears to be on the
nm from somethi ng (but what? ), l i vi ng a strangely worried
l i fe whose uncerai n joys seem always about to be wiped
out; l i ke his friends or even his older sel f, he has a vaguel y
marginal air about hi m, even i f we can't quite sec why he
shoul d or what makes him so. \Vc arc far from the dark days
of the past, then, but strangel y close as wel l .
At the same time, however, Out of the Dark is a sadl y
fmny and touchi ng lme story and a personal remi ni scence
that may wel l seem oddl y fami l i ar to many readers. Thi s
is perhaps the most extraordi nary of Modiano's feats as a
writer: howc,cr pri ,ate his work seems, howe\'er insepar
able from a personal past, i t always speaks to us of some
thing we ted we know, as i f these were our own faded
memories, our own shapeless uncertai nties and apprehen
sions, our own loose ends. The potency of hi s stri ki ngl y
si mpl e, enigmatic, and profoundl y moving prose is no se
cret i n France, where Modiano is a perenni al best-sel l er and
a household name, still enjoyi ng the same critical accl ai m
and publ i c success that greeted hi s frst novel . Outsi de of ac
ademi c circles, however, most readers in the United States
have yet to di scover him; they have a great surprise in store.
IX
.
Modi ano is never easy to transl ate; the apparent simpl i ci ty
and neutral i ty of hi s style conceals a weal th of subtle di f
fculties for the transl ator, and I wish to thank here sev-
eral people who hel ped me through those di fculties. The
French title of this book, Du pitts loiu de l'ottbli, poses a par
ti cul arl y thory probl em, si nce the Engl i sh l anguage has
no real equi\'al cnt for ottbli, nor e\'en a simple way of saying
dtt pitts loiu. The phrase, taken from a French translation of
a poem by the German writer Stefan George, is l i teral l y
equival ent to 'from the furhest poi nt of forgotten ness,' and
I ha\e found no way to express this idea with the eloquent
si mpl i city of the origi nal . I woul d l ike to extend my most
gratefu l thanks to Eleanor Hardi n for comi ng up with the
current title, and for al l the i m al uabl e help she has gi ven
me with thi s transl ation; thanks, too, to \Varrcn Motte and
Tom Vosteen for thei r sympathetic readi ng and i nsightful
suggesti ons.
X
Out of te Dak
Fo Pee Hand
Du plus loin de l'oubli ...
Stefa George
She was a woman of average hei ght; he, Gerard Van
Rc,cr, was sl i ghtl y shorer. The ni ght of our frst meet
i ng, that wi nter thi r years ago, I had gone with them
to a hotel on the Quai de I a Tourncllc and found mysel f
i n thei r room. Two beds, one ncar the door, the other
beneath the wi ndow. The window di dn't face the quai ,
and as I remember i t was set i nto a gable.
1othi ng i n te room was out of pl ace. The beds were
made. No sui tcases. No clothes. Only a l arge al arm cl ock,
si tti ng on one of the ni ghtstands. And despi te that alarm
clock, i t seemed as though they were l i,i ng here i n secret,
tryi ng to leave no si gn of thei r presence. We had spent
onl y a brief moment i n the room that frst night, j ust long
enough to drop of some ar books I was ti red of carry
i ng, which I hadn't maaged to sell to a secondand book
dealer on the Pl ace Sai nt- Mi chel .
And it was on the Place Saint-Michel tat tev had frst
spoken to me, l ate that afernoon, as all around us the
crowds streamed down the steps to the metro or up the
boulc\'ard i n the opposi te di recti on. They had asked me
where they mi ght fnd a post ofce nearby. I was afraid
my di recti ons mi ght be too vague for them to fol l ow,
si nce I've nc\cr been able to descri be the shorest route
between two poi nts. I had deci ded i t woul d be best to
5
show them to the Odeon post ofce mysel f. On the way
there, she had stopped in a cafc-tabac and bought three
stamps. As she sntck them to the cmclope, I had ti me to
read the address : Majorca.
She had sl i pped the letter i nt o one of the mai l boxes
wi thout checki ng to sec whether i t was the one marked
AIR MAIL- FOREIGN. \\'c had tred back toward the
Pl ace Sai nt-Mi chel and the quai s. She was concered to
sec me carryi ng the books, si nce 'they were probably
heavy.' She had sai d sharply to Gerard Van Be\'er:
'You could hel p hi m.'
He had smi led at me and taken one of the books - the
l argest - under his arm.
I n thei r room on the Quai de I a Tournel l c, I had set the
b<x>ks at the foot of the ni ghtstand, the one wi th the
al arm clock. I couldn't hear i t ticki ng. The hands poi nted
to three o'clock. A spot on the pi l lowcase. Bendi ng down
to set the hk on the foor, I had noticed a smell of ether
coming fom the pi l low and the bed. Her am1 had bmshed
agai nst me, and she had switched on the bedsi de l amp.
We had di ned i n a cafe on the quai , next door to thei r
hotel . We had ordered onl y the mai n di sh of that ni ght's
speci al . Van Be\'er had pai d the check. I had no money
wi th me that night, and Van Be\'er thought he was f\c
francs shor. He had searched through the pockets of hi!
mercoat and his j acket and fnally found f\' e francs in
change. She sai d nothing and watched hi m absentl y,
smoki ng a ci garete. She had gi \'en us her di sh to share
and had eaten onl y a few bites from Van Be\cr's pl ate.
6
She had mred to me and said in her sl i ghtly graYclly
\"OICe:
'Next ti me we' l l go to a real restaurant . . . e
Later, we had both waited byt he front door of the ho
tel whi le Van Be,er went up to the room for my books. I
broke the si lence by aski ng if they had l i ved here long and
if they came from the provi nces or from abroad. No, they
were from around Pari s. They'd been living here for two
months. That was al l she had told me that ni ght. And her
frst name: Jacquel i ne.
Van Bever had come down and gi ,en me my books.
He had asked if I would try to sell them agai n the next
day, and if I made much money this way. They had sug
gested we meet agai n. I t was di fcult for them to give me
a precise ti me, but they could often be found in a cafe on
the corer of the Rue Dante.
I go back there sometimes in my dreams. The other
night, a Febrary sunset bl i nded me as I walked up the
Rue Dante. Afer all these years, i t hadn't changed.
I stood at the gl assed- i n terrace and looked i n at the
bar, the pi nbal l machi ne, and the handful of tables, set up
as i f around a dance foor.
As I crossed the street, the tall aparment bui l di ng op
posi te on the Boulevard Sai nt-Germain cast i ts shadow
over me. But behind me the si dewalk was sti ll l i t by the
sun.
When I awoke, the ti me i n my l i fe when I had known
Jacquel i ne appeared to me with the same contrast of
shadow and l i ght. Pale wi ntertime streets, and the sun fl
teri ng through the sl ats of the shutters.
7
Gerard Van Bever wore a herri ngbone overcoat that was too
l arge for hi m. I can sec hi m standing at the pinball machi ne
i n the cafe on the Rue Dante. But Jacquel i ne is the one pl ay
i ng. Her arms and shoulders scarcel y move as the machi ne
rattles and fashes. Van Bever's overcoat was vol umi nous
and came down past hi s kees . He stood very strai ght, wi th
hi s col l ar tured up and hi s hands i n hi s pockets. Jacquel i ne
wore a gray cable-kni t n1rlcncck and a brown j acket made
of sof l eather.
The frst ti me I found them at the Cafe Dante, Jacquel i ne
mred to me, smi l ed, and went back to her pi nbal l game. I
sat down at a tabl e. Her arms and her upper body looked
del i cate next to the huge machi ne, whose j ol ts and shudders
threatened to toss her backward at ay moment. She was
struggl i ng to stay upri ght, l i ke someone in danger offal l i ng
overboard. She came to j oi n me at the table, and Van Bever
took hi s tur at the machi ne.
At frst I was surprised by how much ti me they spent
pl ayi ng that game. I often i nterrupted thei r match; i fl
hadn't come, i t woul d have gone on i ndefni tely.
In the afteroon the cafe was al most empty, but after si x
o'cl ock the customers were shoul der to shoul der at the bar
and at the tables. I couldn't i mmedi ate!\ make out Van
Bever and Jacquel i ne through the roar of cmwersations, the
8
ratt l i ng of the pi nbal l machine, and all the customers
squeezed i n together. I caught si ght of Van Bever's her
ri ngbone O\'ercoat frst, and then of Jacquel ine. I had al ready
come here se\eral ti mes and not found them, and each time
I had wai ted and wai ted, si tti ng at a tabl e. I thought I would
nc,er see them agai n, that they had disappeared i nto the
crowds and the noi se. And then one day, i n the early afer
noon, at the far end of the desered cafe, they were there,
standi ng side by side at the pi nbal l machi ne.
I can scarcely remember any other detai l s of that ti me of my
l i te. l'\'e al most forgotten my parents' faces. I had stayed on
a whi l e l onger i n thei r aparment, and then I had gi \'en up
on my studies and begn sel l i ng ol d books for money.
Not l ong afer meeting Jacquel i ne and Van Be\er, I
rented a room in a hotel near thei rs, the Hotel de Li ma.
I had al tered the bi rh date on my passpor to make my
sel f one year older and no longer a mi nor.
The week before I mo\'ed i nto the Hotel de Li ma I had
no pl ace to sl eep, so they had lef me the key to thei r room
whi l e thev were out of town at one of the casi nos thev ofen
went to.

They had fal l en i nto this habi t before we met, at the En
ghi en casi no and two or three others i n smal l resor towns
in Normandy. Then they had setled on Dieppe, Forges-les
Eaux, and Bagnol l es-dc-l 'Ore. They always lef on Sarur
day and cae back on Monday with the money they had
won, whi ch was never more than a thousand francs. Van
Bever had come up with a maringale 'around the neutral
9
f\'e,' as he sai d, but it was onl y proftable if he l i mi ted hi m
sel f t small bets.
I ne\'er went with them to the casi nos. I waited for them
unt i l Monday, ne\'er lea, i ng the nei ghborhood. And then,
after a whi l e, Van Be\'er began goi ng onl y to ' Forges'-as
he cal led i t- because i t was closer than Bagnol l es-de-I 'Ore,
whi l e Jacquel i ne stayed i n Pari s.
The smel l of ether was al ways hanging i n thei r room when I
spent the night al one there. The blue bottl e sat on the shel f
abme the si nk. There were clothes i n the closet : a man's
j acket, a pai r of trousers, a bra, and one of the gray turle
neck sweaters that Jacquel i ne wore.
I sl ept badly those ni ghts. I woke up not kowi ng where
I was. It took me a long time to recogni ze the rom. I f
someone had asked me about Van Be,er and Jacquel i ne, I
woul d ha,e had trouble comi ng up with answers or j ustify
i ng my presence here. Woul d they e\'er come back? I began
to doubt i t. The man behi nd the dark wooden counter at the
entrance to the hotel was ne\er concerned to see me headi ng
upstai rs to thei r room or keepi ng the key with me when I
went out. He greeted me with a nod.
On the last night, I had awoken about f,e o'clock and
coul dn't get back to sleep. I was probabl y in Jacquel i ne's
bed, and the cl ock was ti cki ng so loudl y that I wanted to
put it away in the cl oset or hi de it under a pi l low. But I ,
\
as
afrai d of the si lence. I had got up and lef the hotel . I had
walked along the quai to the gates of the Jardi n des Pl antes
and then i nto the only cafe open that early, across from the
Austerl i tz trai n stati on.
1 0
The week bctore, they had gone of to gamble at the
Dieppe casi no and returned very early i n the mori ng. It
would be the same today. One more hour, two more hours
to wai t . . . . The commuters were emerging from the Gare
d'Austerl i t in greater and greater numbers, dri nki ng a cup
of cofe at the bar, then headi ng for the entry to the metro.
It was sti l l dark. I wal ked al ong the edge of the Jardi n des
Pl anres agai n, and then along the fence around the ol d Hal l e
aux Vi ns.
I spared thei r si l houenes from far away. Van Bever's her
ri ngbone m"Crcoat stood our i n the darkness. They were sit
ti ng on a bench on the other side of the quai, faci ng the
closed di spl ay cases of the si dewal k book dealers. They were
j ust back from Dieppe. They had knocked on the door of
the room, but no one had answered. And I had lef not long
before, keepi ng the key i n my pocket.
In the Hotel de Li ma, my wi ndow overlooked the Boule
,ard Saint-Germai n and the upper end of the Rue des Ber
nard i ns. When I l ay on the bed I could sec the steepl e of a
church whose name I have forgonen, framed by the wi n
dow. And the hours rang throughout the night, afer the
trafc noi se had fal l en of Jacquel i ne and Van Bever ofen
walked me back to my hotel . \Ve had gone to di nner at a
Chi nese restaurant. \\'e had gone to a movie.
Those ni ghts, nothi ng disti ngui shed us from the students
on the Boul evard Saint-Mi chel . Van Bever's sl ightly worn
coat and Jacquel i ne's leather j acket blended i n wi th the drab
backdrop of the Latin Quarer. I wore an old rai ncoat of
11
diry bige and carried bk under my ar. o. there wa
nothing to draw attention to us.
On the regi stration
f
orm at the Hotel de Lima I had put my
sel
f
down a a 'ui,crsity stdent: but this was onl y a
f
or
malit si nce the ma bhind the desk had nc,cr aked me
f
or any frher i n
f
om1ation. All he aked was that I pa
y
f
or
the rom e\cry week. One day a I wa lca,;ng with a load
o
f
bo k I wa planni ng to sell to a bok dealer I kew. he
aked me:
'So. how ac your stdie going?"
At frst I tought I heard somethi ng sarcastic in his mice.
But he was completely serious.
The Hotel de Ia Tourelle wa as quiet as the Lima. \a
Be,er ad Jacqueline were the only logers. Tey had ex
pl ai ned to me that the hotel was abut to close so that it
coul d b comered i nto aparments. During the day you
coul d hear hanll cring in the surrounding roms.
Had they flled out a registation
f
or. and what was
teir occpation? \a Bever aswered that in his paprs he
wa listed as a 'dor-to-dor salesman: but he mi ght ha\"e
been joking. Jacquel i ne shrgged. She had no ocupation.
Saeman: I could ha,e cl aimed the sae title. si nce I spent
my days ca;ng bks fom one secondhad dealer to the
next.
It wa cold. Te snow melting on the si dewalk ad
quai s. the black ad gay o
f
winter come to me in my mem
ory. Ad Jacqueline always went out in her leather jacket. fa
to light
f
or that weather.
1 2
It was on one of those winter days that Van Rever frst went to
Forges-l es-Eam: al one, whi l e Jacquel i ne stayed in Pari s. She
and I walked with Van Re,er across the Sei ne to the Pont
Marie metro stop, si nce his trai n would be l ea,i ng from the
Gare Sai nt- Lazare. He tol d u that he mi ght go on to the
Di eppe casi no as wel l , and that he wanted to make more
money than usual . Hi s herringbone mercoat di sappeared
i nto the entrance of the metro and Jacquel i ne ad I found
oursehes together.
I had al ways seen her wi th Van Re,er and had never had
an opporuni ty for a real conversation with her. Resides, she
sometimes went an enti re c\eni ng wi thout sayi ng a word.
Or el se she woul d curly ask Van Re\'er to go and get her
some ci garettes, as i f she were tryi ng to get rid of hi m. And
of me too. Rut l i ttle by l i tle I had grown used to her si
l ences and her sharpness.
As Van Re,er wal ked down the steps i nto the metro
that day, I thought she must be sorry not to be setti ng of
wi th hi m as she usuall y di d. \\e walked along the Quai de
)'Hotel -de- Vi l l e i nstead of crossing mer to the Lef Rank.
She was quiet. I expected her to say good-bye to me at any
moment. Rut no. She conti nued to wal k beside me.
A mi st was foating o\'er the Sei ne and the quais. Jacque
l i ne must have been freezing in that l i ght leather j acket. We
1 3
walked along the Square de I'Arche,cchc. at the end of the
l ie de Ia Ci te, and she began to cough uncontrol l ably. Fi
nal l y she caught her breath. I told her she should ha\"c some
thing hot to dri nk and we enterd d1e cafe on the Rue Dante.
The usual late-a
f
eroon msh was on. Two si l houettes were
standi ng at the pi nbal l machi ne, but Jacquel i ne di dn't wat
to pl ay. I ordered a hot toddy for her and she drank i t with
a gri mace, a i f she were taki ng poi son. I told her, ' You
shouldn't go out i n such a l ight j acket.' E,en though I had
kown her for some time, I had ne\"er spoken to her as a
fi end. She always kept a sor of di stance btween us.
We were si tti ng at a table in the back, near the pi nball ma
chine. She leaned toward me and said she hadn't l et with Van
Be,er because she was feel i ng out of sors. She wa speakng
in a low ,oice, and I brought my face close to hers. Our
foreheads were nearly touchi ng. She told me a secret: once
wi nter was o\cr, she planned to lea,e Paris. And go where?
'o Majorca . . .
I remembered the leter she had mai led the day we met,
addressed to Maj orca.
' But i t woul d be beter i f we coul d lea,e tomorrow . . . '
Suddenly she looked ,cry pale. Te man si tti ng next to
us had put hi s el bow on the edge of our table as if he hadn't
noti ced us, and he went on talki ng to the person across from
hi m. Jacquel i ne had retreated to the far end of the benc
h
.
The pi nball machi ne rattled oppressi \"cly.
I to dreamt of leavi ng Paris when the snow melted
on the si dewalk and I went out in my old sl i p-ons.
' Why wait until the end of wi nter?' I asked her.
14
She smi l ed.
'\\'e'\"e got to ha,e some money sa\cd up frst. '
She lit a cigarete. She coughed. She smoked too much.
And al ways the same brand, wi th the sl i ghtly stale smel l of
French blond tobacco.
'\\'c'l l ne\"cr sa\"C up enough from sel l i ng your books.'
I was happy to hear her say 'we,' as if our fnt rcs were
l i nked from now on.
'Gerard wi l l probabl y bri ng back a l ot of money from
Forges-l es-Eaux and Dicppe.' I sai d.
She shrgged.
'\Ve'\"e been usi ng hi s maringale for sLx months, but i t's
nc\er made us much mone\.'
She di dn't seem to ha\'e much faith in the 'around the
neutral f\"e' mari ngal e.
' Have you known Gerard l ong? '
'Yes . . . we met i n Athis-Mons, outside Paris . . . .'
She was l ooki ng si l ently i nto my eyes. She was proba-
bly tryi ng to tel l me there was nothi ng more to say on thi s
subj ect.
'So you come from Athi s-Mons ? '
'Yes.'
I knew the na1e wel l , si nce Athi s-Mons was ncar Ablon,
where one of my friends l i \'cd. He used to borrow hi s par
ents' car and drhc me to Orl y at night. We woul d go to the
movie theater and one of the bars i n the ai rpor. We stayed
\"cry late l i steni ng to the announcements of arri,als and de
parres for distant places, and we strolled through the cen
tral hal l . When he drove me back to Pari s we nc\'Cr took the
freeway, but i nstead detoured through Vi l leneu\"c- lc- Roi ,
15
Athis-Mons, other towns in the souther suburbs. I might
have passed by Jacquel i ne one ni ght back then.
' Have you traveled much? '
I t was one of those questions peopl e ask to enliven a dul l
conversation, and I had spoken it i n a falsely casual way.
'Not real l y travel ed,' she sai d. ' But now, if we could get
ou hands on a l i tl e money . . . .'
She was speaking even more quietl y, as i f she didn't want
an\'onc el se to hear. And it was difcul t to make out what
she said amid all the noi se.
I l eaned toward her, and agai n our foreheads were nearly
touchi ng.
'Gerard and I know an American who wri tes no\'els . . . .
He l i \'cs on Maj orca . . . . He'l l fnd us a house there. \\'e met
hi m in the Engl i sh bookstore on the quai .'
I used to go to that bookstore often. It was a maze of l i t
tl e rooms l i ned with books, where i t was easy to be al one.
The customers came from far away to vi sit it. It stayed open
very l ate. I had bought a few novels from the Tauchni tz col
lection there, whi ch I had then tried to sel l . Shelves fu l l of
books on the sidewal k i n front of the shop, with chairs and
even a couch. It was like the terrace of a cafe. You could sec
Notre Dame from there. And yet once you crossed the
threshol d, it fel t l i ke Amsterdam or San Francisco.
So the letter she had mai led from the Odeon post ofce
was addressed to the 'American who wrte novel s . . . .'
What was his name? Maybe I had read one of hi s books . . . .
'Wil l i am McGiver . . .'
No, I had never heard of this McGivern. She lit another
cigarette. She coughed. She was sti l l as pale as before.
16
'I must ha,e the flu.' she sai d.
'You shoul d dri nk another hot toddy.'
'No thanks.'
She looked worried al l of a sudden.
' I hope e\erhi ng goes wel l for Gerard . . . .'
'Me too . . .
' I' m al ways worried when Gerard isn't here . . . .'
She had l i ngered mer the syl lables of 'Gerard' with great
tenderess. Of course, she was sometimes shor with hi m,
bu she took hi s arm i n the street, or l ai d her head on hi s
shoul der when we were si tti ng at one of the tables i n the
Cafe Dante. One afernoon when I had knocked on the
door to thei r room, she had tol d me to come in, and they
were both lyi ng i n one of the narrow beds, the one nearest
the wi ndow.
' I can't do without Gerard . . . .
The words had come mshi ng out, as if she were speaki ng
to herself and had forgotten I was there. Suddenly I was i n
the way. Maybe i t was best for her to be al one. And j ust as I
was try i ng to f
i
nd an excuse to l ea\'e, she turned her gaze on
me, an absent gaze at frst. Then fnal l y she saw me.
I was the one who broke the si l ence.
' Is \'OUr fu an\' beter? '
o o
'I need some aspi ri n. Do you know of a pharmacy around
here? '
So far, my role consi sted of di recting them to the nearest
post ofce or pharmacy.
There was one ncar my hotel on the Boulevard Sai nt
Germai n. She bought some aspi ri n, but also a botle of
I7
ether. We wal ked together for a few mi nutes more, to the
corer of the Rue des Berardi ns. She stopped at the door
to my hotel.
'\ Ve could meet for di nner, if you li ke.'
She squeezed my hand. She smi led at me. I had to stop
myscl f from asking i fl coul d stay wi th her.
'Come and pi ck me up at se,en o'clock,' she sai d.
She turned the comer. I couldn't hel p watchi ng her wal k
toward the quai , i n that l eather j acket that was too l ight for
thi s ki nd of weather. She had put her hands in her pockets.
I spent the afernoon in my room. The heat was of, and I
had stretched out on the bed without remo\'i ng my coat.
Now and then I fell hal f asl eep, or stared at a poi nt on the
cei l i ng thi nki ng about Jacquel i ne and Gerard Van Be\'er.
Had she gone back to her hotel ? Or was she meeti ng
someone, somewhere i n Pari s ? I remembered an e\'eni ng
when she had l eft Van Be,er and me on our own. He and I
had gone to sec a mo\' i e, the l ate show, and Van Bc\'er
seemed ner'ous. He had taken me to the mmics wi th hi m
so that the ti me would pass more qui ckly. About one o'clock
in the morni ng, we had gone to meet Jacquel i ne in a cafe on
the Rue Cuj as. She hadn't told us how she'd spent the c\e
ni ng. And Van Be\'er hadn't asked any questions, as if 11y
presence were keepi ng them from speaki ng freely. I was i n
the way that ni ght. l11cy had wal ked me back to the Hotel
de Li ma. They were si lent. It was a Fri day, the day before
they usual ly l ef for Dieppc or Forgcs-l es- Eaux. I had asked
them what trai n they woul d be taki ng.
18
'\\'c're stayi ng in Paris tomorrow,' Van BeYer had said
curtly.
They had l eft me at the entrance to the hotel . Van Bever
had sai d, 'Sec you tomorrow,' wi th no good-bye handshake.
Jacquel i ne had smi led at me, a sl ightly forced smi le. She
seemed anxious at the prospect of being left al one wi th Van
Be,cr, as though she wanted someone else around. And yet
as I watched them walk away, Van Bever had taken Jacque
l i ne's arm. What were they sayi ng? Was Jacquel i ne tryi ng to
j usti fy somethi ng she had done? Was Van Bever rebuki ng
her? Or was I i magi ni ng i t al l ?
Ni ght had long si nce fallen when I l ef the hotel . I fol lowed
the Rue des Bcrnardi ns to the quai . I knocked on her door.
She came to let me in. She was wearing one of her gray
cabl e-kni t turtlenecks and her black pants, narrow at the
ankles. She was barefoot. The bed ncar the wi ndow was
unmade, and the curtai ns were drawn. Someone had re
moved the shade from the bedside lamp, but the tiny bul b
lef part of the room i n shadow. And sti l l that smel l of ether,
stronger than usual .
She sat down on the edge of the bd, and I tok the room's
onl y chai r, agai nst the wal l, next to the si nk.
I asked i f she was feel i ng better.
' A l i ttle better . . o
She saw me l ooki ng at the open bottle of ether i n the cen
ter of the ni ghtstand. I t must have oc\urcd to her that I coul d
smel l the odor.
' I take that to stop my cough . . . .'
And she repeated i n a defensi ve tone:
19
'It's true . . . it's very good for coughs. '
And si nce she real i zed that I was prepared to bcl i e\'C her,
she asked:
' Have you ever tried i r? '
'No.'
She handed me a coton bal l she had soaked in the ether.
I hesi tated to rake i t for a few seconds, bur i f ir would bri ng
us together . . . I i nhaled rhe fumes from the carton ball and
then from rhe ether bottle. She did the same afer me. A
cool ness flled my l ungs. I was l yi ng next to her. We were
pressed together, fal l ing through space. The feel i ng of cool
ness grL' W stronger and stronger as the ti cki ng of the clock
stood out more and more clearly agai nst the si l ence, so
cl earl y that I could hear its echo.
We l eft rhe hotel ar about six o'clock i n rhe morni ng and
walked ro rhe cafe on the Rue Cujas, whi ch stayed open al l
ni ght. That was where we had arranged to meet rhe week
before on their retr from Forges-les- Eaux. They had
arrived at about seven i n the morni ng, and we had eaten
breakfast together. Bur neither ofrhem looked l i ke they had
been up all ni ght, and they were much l i vel i er than usual .
Especially Jacquel i ne. They had won rwo thousand francs.
Thi s ri me Van Bever woul d nor be comi ng back by trai n,
but i n the car of someone they had mer at rhe Langrm\e ca
si no, someone who l i ,ed i n Pari s. As we lef rhe hotel, Jac
quel i ne told me he mi ght al ready be wai ti ng ar rhe cafe.
I asked whether she woul dn't rather go and meet hi m
al one, whether my presence was really necessary. Bur she
shrugged and sai d she wanted me to come al ong.
20
There was no one but us i n the cafe. The fuorescent l ight
bl i nded me. It was sti l l dark outside, and I had lost my sense
of ti me. We were si tti ng si de by side i n a booth ncar the
plate glass wi ndow, and i t fel t l i ke the begi nning of the
e\enmg.
Through the glass, I saw a black car stop across from the
cafe. Van Bever got out, weari ng his herringbone overcoat.
He leaned toward the dri\'er before shutting the door. He
looked around the room but di dn't sec us. He thought we
were at the far end of the cafe. He was squi nti ng because of
the fuorescent l i ght. Then he came and sat down across
from us.
He di dn't seem surprised to fnd me there, or was he too
ti red to be suspi ci ous ? He i mmediatel y ordered a double
cofee and croissants.
' I decided to go to Dicppc . . . .'
He had kept hi s mercoat on and his col l ar tured up. He
leaned over the tabl e with hi s back curved and shoul ders
hunched, as he ofen di d when he was si tting. I n that posi
ti on, he remi nded me of a j ockey. When he stood, on the
other hand, he stood very straight, as i f he wanted to look
tal ler than he was.
' I won three thousand francs at Di cppc ... .'
He said it wi th a sl ightly defant ai r. Maybe he was show
ing his displeasure at fndi ng me there wi th Jacqueli ne. He
had taken her hand. He was ignoring me.
'That's good,' sai d Jacquel i ne.
She was caressi ng hi s hand.
'You coul d buy a ticket for Majorca,' I sai d.
Van Bever looked at me, astonished.
2 1
'I told hi m about our pl an,' Jacquel i ne sai d.
' So you know about i t? I hope you'l l come wi th us . . . . '
No, he defni tely di dn't seem angry that I was there. But
he sti l l spoke to me wi th a cerai n formal i ty. Se\'eral ti mes I
had tri ed to talk wi th hi m l i ke fri ends. It nc\'cr worked. He
al ways answered pol i tel y but rescredl y.
' I ' l l come along if you want me to,' I told them.
' But of course we want you to, ' sai d Jacquel i ne.
She was smi l i ng at me. Now she had put her hand O\'er
hi s. The wai ter brought the cofcc and croi ssants.
'I ha\'cn't eaten f twent- four hours,' sai d Van Bc\'cr.
His face was pale under the fuorescent l i ghts, and he had
ci rcl es under hi s eyes. He ate SC\'Cral croi ssants \'cry qui ckly,
one afer another.
'That's better . . . . A l i ttle whi l e ago, i n the car, I fel l
asl eep . . . .
Jacquel i ne seemed better. She had stopped coughi ng. Be
cause of the ether? I wondered i fl hadn't dreamt the hours
I had spent with her, that feel i ng of empti ness, of cool ness
and l ightness, the two of us in the narrow bed, l urchi ng as
i f a whi rlwi nd had come O\'Cr us, the echo of her \'oice re
soundi ng more clearly than the ticki ng of the alarm clock.
There had been no di stance between us then. Now she was
as aloof as before. And Gerard Van Be\'er was there. I would
ha\'e to wai t unt i l he went back ro Forgcs-l es- Eam or Di
eppc, and there was no way to be sure she would C\'Cn stay
in Pari s wi th me.
'And you, what di d you do whi l e I was gone? '
For a moment, I thought he suspected somethi ng. But he
had asked the question absentmi ndedly, as i f out of habi t.
22
'Nothi ng in particular,' said Jacquel i ne. 'We went to the
mo\'ies.'
She was looki ng at me as i f she wanted me to j oi n in this
l i e. She sti l l had her hand O\'er hi s.
'\Vhat mo\'ie di d you sec? '
'1Honjeet,' I sai d.
'Was i t good? '
He pul led hi s hand away from Jacquel i ne's.
'It was \'ery good.'
He looked at us closely one afer the other. Jacqueline
retured his gae.
'You'l l ha\'C to tel l me all about i t . . . . But some other
time . . . there's no hurry.'
There was a sarcasti c tone in his voice and I noticed that
Jacquel i ne was l ookng sl i ghtly apprchensi \'e. She frowned.
Fi nal ly she said to hi m:
'Do you want t o go back t o the hotel ? '
She had taken hi s hand agai n. She had forgotten I was
there.
'Not yet . . . I want another cofee . . . .'
'And then we' l l go back to the hotel,' she repeated ten
derly.
Suddenl y I real i zed what ti me it was, and the spel l was
broken. E\'erythi ng that had made that ni ght extraordi nary
faded away. Nothi ng but a pal e, dark- hai red gi rl in a brown
leather j acket si ti ng across from a character in a herri ng
bone O\'ercoat. They were hol di ng hands in a cafe i n the
Lati n Quarer. They were about to go back to their hotel .
And another wi nter day was begi nni ng, afer so many
others . I woul d have to wander through the grayness of the
23
Boul e\'ard Sai nt-Mi chel once agai n, among the crowds of
people wal ki ng to thei r schools or unhcrsi ti cs . They were
my age, but they were strangers to me. I scarcely under
stood the l anguage they spoke. One day, I had told Va
Be\er that I wanted to mme to another nei ghborhood be
cause I felt uncomforable among all the students. He had
said to me:
'That would be a mi stake. Wi th them around, no one
notices you.'
Jacquel i ne had n1 rncd away, as i f she were bored by thi s
subject and worried that Van Bc,er woul d tell me some
thi ng he shoul dn't.
'Why?' I had asked hi m. 'Arc you afraid ofbei ng noticed?'
He hadn' t answered. But I di dn't need an explanation. I
was al ways afraid of bei ng noticed too.
'Wel l ? Shal l we go back to the hotel ? '
She was st i l l speakng i n that tender \'Oicc. She was ca
ressi ng his hand. I remembered what she had sai d that afer
noon, in the Cafe Dante: 'I can't do wi thom Gerard. ' They
would wal k i nto thei r room. Would they i nhale fom the
ether bottl e, as we had done the ni ght before? No. A l i ttl e
earl i er, as we were l ca\' i ng the hotel , Jacquel i ne had taken
the botle from her pocket and had thrown i t i nto a sewer
farher al ong the quai .
'I promised Gerard not to touch that flthy stuf a)n;ore.'
Apparentl y she fel t no such scm pies with me. I was disap
poi nted, but also strangely happy that she and I were now i n
col l usi on, si nce she had wanted t o share ' that fl thy stf
wi th me.
24
I walked them hack to the quai . As they entered the hotel ,
Van Rc\'cr hel d out hi s hand.
'Sec \'OU soon.'
She was looki ng away.
'\\'c'l l sec each other later at the Cafe Dante,' she sai d.
I watched them cl i mh the stai rs. She was holdi ng his arm.
I stood sti l l in the entryway. Then I heard the door of thei r
room closi ng.
I walked al ong the Quai de I a Tourncl lc, under the leaf
less pl ane trees, in the mist and the wet col d. I was glad to
be weari ng snow boots, but the thought of my badly heated
room and brown wooden bed gnawed at me. Van Bever had
won three thousand francs at Dieppe. How would I C\'Cr get
hold of that ki nd of money? I tried to fgure the \'al uc of the
ftw bo k I had lef to sell. Not much. I n any case, I thought
that C\'en i f I had a great deal of money, i t woul d mean noth
ing to Jacquel i ne.
She had said, '\'l l sec each other later at the Cafe Dante.'
She had lef it vague. So I woul d ha\e to spend an afernoon
wai ti ng for them, and then another, l ike the frst ti me. And
as I waited, a thought woul d come to me: she di dn't want to
see me anymore, because of what had happened between us
last ni ght. I had become a problem for her because of what I
kew.
I walked up the Boule\ard Sai nt-Mi chel , and I fel t as
though I 'd been wal ki ng these same si dewalks si nce long
before, a pri soner of this neighborhood for no paricular
reason. Except one : I had a fal se student ID card i n my
pocket i n case I was stopped, so i t was better to stay i n a
smdent nei ghborhood.
25
W I g t t Hel d L I bt g i.
Bu I co't qt wl dy oid ~
by te p wmkm mm
hee f t Ie, t Srnt El d M. I
lay dmt b. 1 m' mmf ay
el: wmd.
T cu sel ' f b t w, a
wt br o a cu m. I w ta I o
s t cve wkb it w b a
mt b s m. I d't rb i I c
tut a t f i mdy. I mI l i
t p mypt r , a I d ty,
ad h t s te mmJi t
C D.
26
They i nt roduced me to Cartaud later on, at around one
in the morni ng. I had waited for them in vai n at the Cafe
Dante that eveni ng, and I di dn't ha\'c the ncr'c to stop by
thei r hotel . I had eaten in one of the Chi nese restaurants on
the Rue du Sommerard. The i dea that I might never sec Jac
quel i ne agai n ki l l ed my appeti te. I tried to reassure mysel f:
they woul dn't mme out of the hotel j ust l i ke that, and c\'cn
i f they di d, they woul d leave thei r new address for me wi th
the conci erge. But what paricul ar reason woul d they have
for l ca\'i ng me thei r address? No matter; I would spend my
Satrdays and Sundays hangi ng around the casi nos of
Di cppe and Forges-l c-Eaux unti l I found them.
I spent a l ong time in the Engl i sh bookstore on the quai ,
ncar Sai nt-Jul i en-lc- Pamre. I bought a bok there : A Hih
Wi11d in Jamaica, whi ch I had read in French when I was
about ffeen, as U1z
c
co11e a Ia Jamaiipte. I walked ai mlessly
for a whi le, fnal ly endi ng up i n aother bookstore, al so
open very l ate, on the Rue Sai ne-Severi n. Then I came back
to my room and tried to read.
I went out agai n and found myself headi ng for t he cafe
where we had met that morni ng, on the Rue Cuj as. My
hear j umped: they were si ti ng i n that same booth, near the
wi ndow, along with a dark-hai red man. Van Bever was on
hi s ri ght. Then I could only sec Jacquel i ne, si tti ng across
27
from them, al one on the bench, her arms folded. She was
there behi nd the glass, in the yellow l i ght, and I wi sh I could
tra\'el back in time. I would fnd mysel f on the si dewal k of
the Rue Cujas j ust where I was before, but as I am today,
and i t woul d be si mple for me t lead Jacquel i ne out of that
fshbowl and i nto the open ai r.
I fel t sheepish approachi ng thei r table as i fl were trying to
surprise them. Seei ng me, Van Be\"er made a gestu re of
greeti ng. Jacquel i ne smi l ed at me, showi ng no surprise at
al l . Van Be\"er i ntroduced me to the other man:
'Pi erre Cartaud . . .
I shook hi s hand and sat down next to Jacquel i ne.
'Were you i n the nei ghborhod? ' asked Van Be\"er i n the
polite tone of \'oi ce he woul d ha\'e used for a \"ague acquai n
tance.
'Yes . . . Completel y by chance . . .'
I was \"cry determi ned to stay where I was, in the booth.
Jacquel i ne was a\"oi di ng my gaz. Was i t Cartaud's presence
that was maki ng them so di stant toward me ? I must ha,e i n
terntpted thei r con\"ersati on.
'Woul d you l i ke a dri nk?' Cartaud asked me.
He had the deep, resonant \'Oi ce of someone who was
practi ced at speaki ng and i nfuenci ng peopl e.
'A grenadi ne.'
He was ol der than us, about thi rt-f\'e. Dark, with regu
l ar featres. He was wearing a gray sui t.
Lea\'i ng the hotel , I had stufed A Hib 1Viud in Jamaic
i nto the pocket of my rai ncoat. I found it reassuri ng al ways
to ha\'e with me a no\'el I l iked. I set it on the table as I fel t
28
deep i n my pcket for a pack of cigarettes, and Caraud
noticed it.
'You read Engl i sh? '
I told hi m yes. Si nce Jacqueline and Van Be,er were sti l l
si lent, he fnal ly sai d:
'Ha\e you known each other long?'
'We met i n the nei ghborhood,' sai d Jacquel i ne.
'Oh \'es . . . I see . . . . '
Wat exacly di d he see? He l i t a ci garete.
'And do you go to the casinos wi t them? '
'o.'
Van Bever ad Jacqueli ne were sti l l keepi ng qui et. What
coul d they fnd so troubl i ng about my bei ng here?
'So you've ne\er seen them play boztle for three hours
straight . . . .'
He let out a loud l augh.
Jacquel i ne trned to me.
'We met thi s gentl eman at Langrune, ' she tol d me.
'I spoted them ri ght away,' sai d Caraud. 'hey had such
a odd way of pl ayi ng . . . .'
'Wy odd? ' sai d Van Bever. with feigned nai\'ete.
'And we might ask j ust what .vott were up to at Langrne ?'
said Jacquel i ne, smi l i ng at hi m.
Van Be\er had struck hi s cstomary j okey pose: hi s back
cuned, hi s head between his shoul ders. He seemed uncom
forabl e.
'Do you gambl e at the casi no?' I asked Caraud.
' at reall y. I fnd it amusi ng to go there, for no speci al
reason . . . when thi ngs are sl ack . . . .'
And what was his occupation when thi ngs weren't slack?
29
Li ttl e by l i tle, Jacquel i ne and Van Be\er rel axed. Had they
been worried that I might say somethi ng to di spl ease Car
taud, or that i n the course of our conversation he would
reveal somethi ng that they both wanted to keep hidden
from me?
'And next week . . . forges ? '
Cartaud was looki ng at them with amusement .
'No, Di cppc,' sai d Van Bever.
' I could gi ve you a ride there i n my car. I t's \'cry fast . . . .'
He n1rncd to Jacquel i ne and me:
'Yestcrdav it took us a l ittle over an hour to come back
from Di cppe . e .'
So he was the one who had dri ven Van Bever back to
Pari s. I remembered the bl ack car stopped on the Rue Cuj as.
'That woul d be \-cry ni ce of you,' said Jacquel i ne. ' It's
such a bore taki ng the trai n every ti me.'
She was l ooki ng at Cartaud i n a strange way, as if she
found him i mpressive and coul dn't hel p feel i ng somehow
attracted to hi m. Had Van Bever noticed?
'I'd be deli ghted to hel p you, ' sai d Caraud. 'I hope you' l l
j oi n us . . . . '
He was stari ng at me wi th his sardoni c l ook. It was as i f
he had al ready made up hi s mi nd about me and had settled
on an atti nidc of sl ight condescensi on.
'I don't go to casi nos in the provinces,' I sai d cunly.
He bl i nked. Jacquel i ne was surprised at my reply as wel l .
Van Bc,cr showed no emoti on.
' You're mi ssi ng out. Real l y very amusi ng, casi nos in the
provi nces . . .'
Hi s gaze had hardened. I must have ofended hi m. He
30
wasn't expecti ng tl t<lt ki nd of comeback from such a meek
looki ng boy. But I wanted to ease the tension. So I sai d:
'You're right. They're ,cry amusi ng . . . . Especi al l y
Langnmc . . .'
Yes, I would have l i ked to know what he was doing at
Lagrune when he met Jacquel i ne and Van Be\cr. I knew
the pl ace, because I had spent an aferoon there with some
fri ends duri ng a trip to lorntandy the year before. I had a
hard ti me i magi ni ng hi m there, weari ng hi s gray sui t and
wal ki ng along the row of nm-down \'i l l as by the sea, i n the
rai n, looki ng for the casi no. I \'agely remembered that the
casi no was not i n Langrne i tself but a few hundred meters
down the road, at Luc-sur-.er.
'Arc you a smdent? '
He had come around to that question. At frst I wanted
to say yes, but such a si mpl e answer would onl y compl i cate
thi ngs, si nce I would ha\'e to go on to tel l hi m what I was
smdyi ng.
' No. I work for book dealers.'
I hoped that would be enough for hi m. Had he asked Jac
quel i ne and Van Be\cr the same questi on? And what was
thei r answer? Had Van Be\'er told hi m he was a door-to
door salesman? I di dn't thi nk so.
' I used to be a smdent, just across the way . . . .'
He was poi nti ng at a small bui l di ng on the other side of
the street. 'That was the French School of Orhopedics. I
was there for a year. . . . Then I smdied dentistry at a school
on the A\enue de Chois\' . . . a'
3 1
Hi s tone had become confdent i al . Was this real l y si n
ccrd ,l aybe he was hopi ng to make us forget that he was
not our age and no longer a smdent.
'I chose dental school so that I could fnd a specifc di rec
tion to take. I had a tendency to dri f, l i ke you . . . .'
I n the end, I could thi nk of onl y one expl anati on for the
fact that this thi ry-f\'c- ycar-old man i n hi s gray suit should
be si tti ng with us at this hour i n this Lati n Quarer cafe : he
was i nterested i n Jacquel i ne.
' You want somethi ng el se to dri nk? I 'l l ha\'c another
whi skey . . . .'
Van Rc\'er and Jacquel i ne di d not show the sl i ghtest sign
of i mpatience. As for me, J stayed where J was i n the booth,
l i ke in those nightmares where you can't stand up because
your l egs arc as hea\'y as lead. From time to ti me I turned
toward Jacquel i ne, want i ng to ask her to lea,e this cafe and
wak with me to the Garc de Lyon. \\'e woul d ha\'C taken
a ni ght trai n, and the next mori ng we woul d ha\'e found
ourschcs on the Ri vi era or i n I taly.
The car was parked a l i ttle farher up the Rue Cuj as, where
the si dewal k became steps wi th i ron handrai l s. Jacquel i ne
got i nt o the front scat.
Caraud asked me for the address of my hotel , and we
took the Rue Sai nt-Jacques to reach the Roul e\'ard Sai nt
Germai n.
' I fJ understand correctl y,' he sai d, 'you al l l i \'e i n
hotels . . . .'
He tred his head toward Van Rc\'cr and me. He looked
32
us OYer agai n wi th hi s sardoni c smi le, and I had the feel i ng
he saw us as uterly i nsi gni fcant.
'A wry Bohemian l i fe, in other words . . .'
l aybc he was try i ng to stri ke a fi ppant and sympathetic
tone. I f so, he was doing i t awkwardl y, as older people do
who arc i nti mi dated by youth.
'And how long wi l l you go on l i vi ng i n hotel s? '
Thi s ti me he was talki ng to Jacquel i ne. She was smoki ng
and droppi ng the ash out the hal f-open wi ndow.
'Unti l we can l eave Paris,' she sai d. 'I t al l depends on our
American fri end who l ives on Majorca.'
A l i tle earl i er, I had looked for a book by this McGhcr
person in the Engl i sh bookstore on the quai but found
nothi ng. The only proof of hi s exi stence was the envelope
wi th the Majorca address that I had seen i n Jacquel i ne's
hand that frst day. But I wasn't sure the nan1c on the eme
lope was 'McGhern.'
'Arc you sure you can count on hi m? ' Cartaud asked.
Van BeYer, si ti ng next to me, seemed uncomfortabl e. Fi
nal l y Jacquel i ne sai d:
'Of course . . . He suggested we come t o Maj orca.'
She was speakng in a mater-of-fact tone I di dn't recog
ni ze. I got the i mpression that she wanted to lord i t over
Caraud wi th thi s 'American fri end' and to let hi m know
that he, Caraud, wasn't the only one i nterested in her and
Van Bever.
He stopped the car i n front of my hotel . So this was my
cue to say goodni ght, and I was afrai d I would never sec
them agai n, l i ke those aferoons when I wai ted for them i n
the Cafe Dante. Caraud woul dn't take them straight back
33
t thei r hotel , and they would end the e\'ening together
somewhere on the Right Rank. Or they might C\'en ha\'c
one last dri nk somewhere in thi s nei ghborhood. Bur they
wanted to get rid of me frst.
Van Bc\er got our of the car, l eaving the door open. I
thought I saw Caraud's hand brush Jacquel i ne ' s knee, bur i t
mi ght ha\'c been an i l l usi on caused by the semi darkness.
She had sai d good- bye to me, \'cry qui etl y. Caraud had
fa\'orcd me with a noncommi tal good-ni ght. I was clearly
in rhe way. Standi ng on the si dewalk, Van Be\"Cr had wai ted
for me to get out of the car. And he had shaken my hand.
' One of these days i n the Cafe Dante, maybe,' he ' d sai d.
At the door of the hotel , I trned around. Van Be\'er
wa\'ed at me and got back i n the car. Te door slammed.
:ow he was alone in the rear sear.
The car stared of i n the di rection of the Seine. Tat was
also the way to the Austerl i t and Lyon trai n stations, and I
thought to mysel f that they were goi ng ro lea\'e Pari s.
Before goi ng upstai rs to my room I asked the ni ght cl erk for
a telephone book, bur I wasn't qui te sure how to spel l 'Car
taud, ' ad I found l i sti ngs for Carau, Caraud, Caraul t,
Cartaux, Careau, Carteaud, Cartcaux. :onc of them was
named Pi erre.
I coul dn't get to sleep, and I regretted not ha, i ng asked
Caraud some questions. But woul d he ha,e answered? I fhe
had real l y gone to dental school , di d he ha\'e a practice now?
I tried to i magi ne hi m i n a whi te dentist's smock, rccei \' i ng
pati ents i n hi s ofce. Then my thoughts retured to Jacque-
34
line, ad Caraud's hand on her knee. Maybe Va Bever
could explain some of this for me. I slept restlessly. In my
drea, names writen in glowing leters were marching by.
Carau, Caraud, Carault, Caraux, Caeau, Careaud,
Careaux.
35
I woke up at about eight o'clock: someone was knockng on
the door to my room. It was Jacquel i ne. I must ha\'e had the
haggard look of someone who hasn't sl ept wel l . She sai d she
woul d wai t for me outsi de.
It was dark. I saw her from the wi ndow. She was sitti ng
on the bench across the boulevard. She had trned up the
collar of her leather j acket and buri ed her hands i n her
pockets to protect hersel f from the col d.
\Ve wal ked together toward the Seine and went i nto the
last cafe before the Hal l e au Vi ns. How was it that she was
si ti ng there, across from me? The night before, geti ng out
ofCaraud's car, I woul d ne\'er ha\'e dreamt this could hap
pen so si mply. I could onl y i magi ne spendi ng many long af
ternoons waiting for her in the Cafe Dante, i n ,ain. She
expl ained that Van Be,er had l ef for Athis-Mons to pi ck up
their bi rh cerifcates so that they coul d get new passpors.
They had lost the old ones duri ng a trip to Bel gi um three
months earl i er.
She showed no si gn of the i ndi ference that had troubled
me so much the night before, when I found them both with
Caraud. She seemed just as she had been before, in the mo
ments we had spent together. I asked her i f she was O\'cr her
fl u.
36
She shrugged. It was even colder than yesterday, and she
was sti l l weari ng that thi n lcathcr j acket.
'You should get a real coat,' I tol d her.
She looked i mo my eyes and ga,c me a sl i ghtly mocki ng
smi l e
'\Vhat do you thi nk of as ' a real coat' ? '
I wasn't expecti ng that question. As i f she wanted to reas
sure me, she sai d:
'Anyay, wi nter's nearly mer.'
She was wai ti ng for news from Majorca. And she ex
pected to be hearing somethi ng any day now. She hoped
to l ea,e in the spri ng. Obviously, I woul d come with them,
i f l wanted to. I was rel i eved to hear her say i t.
'And Caraud? What do you hear from him?'
At the menti on of the name Caraud, she frowned. I had
spoken in an ordi nary tone of mice, l i ke someone tal ki ng
about the weather.
'You remember his name? '
' It's an easy name t o remember.'
And did he have a profession, this Cartaud? Yes, he
worked in the ofce of a dental surgeon on the Boulevard
Haussmann, next door to the Jacquemart-Andrc Museum.
Wi th a ner'ous gesture, she l i t a cigarette.
' He might l end us money. That woul d be usefl for our
tri p.'
She seemed to be watchi ng my reacti on i ntently.
' Is he ri ch? ' I asked her.
She smi l ed.
'You were tal ki ng about a coat, j ust now . . . . \Vei l , I'l l ask
hi m to gi \'e me a fur coat . . . .'
37
She l ai d her hand on mi ne, as I had seen her do wi th Van
Be\' er in the catc on the Rue Cujas, and brought her face
close to mi ne.
' Don't worr she said. ' I really don't l i ke fI r coats at al l .'
I n my room, she drew the bl ack curai ns. I'd ne\'er done so
before because the color of the curains bothered me. Every
morni ng the sunl ight woke me up. Now the l ight was stream
ing through the gap beteen the mrai ns. It was strange to
sec her jacket and her clothes scatered O\'Cr the foor. l uch
l ater, we fel l asl eep. Comings and goi ngs in the stai rway
brought me back to consciousness, but I di dn't mo\'e. She
was sti l l sl eepi ng, her head agai nst my shoul der. I looked
at my wri stwatch. It was two o'clock in the afernoon.
As she l ef the room, she tol d me i t woul d be best not to sec
each other toni ght. Van Bever had probably been back from
Athi s-Mons for some time, and he was expecti ng her at thei r
hotel on the Quai de Ia Tourcl l c. I di dn't want to ask how
she woul d expl ai n her absence.
Wen I was alone agai n, I fel t as though I were back
where I had been the night before: once agai n there was
nothi ng I could be sure of, and I had no choice but to wai t
here, or at the Cafe Dante, or maybe to go by the Rue Cujas
around one in the mori ng. And agai n, on Santrday,
\
ran
Bc\'Cr woul d lca\'e for Forgcs-lcs- Eaux or Di cppc, and we
woul d wal k hi m to the metro stati on. And i f he let her sta\'
in Pari s, it woul d be exactly l i ke before. And so on unt i l the
end of ti me.
38
I gathered together three or four ar boks in my beige
canvas carryal and went downstairs.
I asked the man standing behnd the font desk i he had a
directory of the streets of Pais, and he handed me one that
loked brand-new, with a blue cover. I loked up all te
numbers on the Boulevard Haussmann until I found the
Jacquema-Andre Museum at numbr 158. At 16o tere
really was a dentist, a Pierre Robbes. I wrote down his tele
phone nuber, just in case it might be usefl : Wagram 13 18.
Then, wit my beige carryall in my hand, I walked to the
English bookstore by Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, where I man
aged to sell one of the books I was carying, Itain Vila
and Their Gardns, for 150 fracs.
39
I hesi tated for a moment before the bui l di ng at 160 Boul e
vard Haussmann, and then I stepped into the entray. On
the wal l , a pl aque l i sted the names and foors i n large pri nted
l etters :
Doctor P. Robbcs P. Canaud
3rd foor
The name Canaud wasn't wri tten i n the same letteri ng as
the others, and i t seemed to have been i nsered someti me af
terward. I decided to try the ofce on the thi rd foor, but I
di dn't take the elevator, whose cage and glass doubl e doors
shone i n the semi darkness. Slowly I cl i mbed the stai rs, prac
ti ci ng what I would say to the person who came and opened
the door - ' I ha\'e an appoi ntment with Dr. Canaud.' If they
showed me i n to sec hi m, I woul d take on the jovial tone of
someone payi ng a spur-of-the- moment cal l on a fri end.
Wi th thi s one smal l di ference: he had only seen me once,
and i t was possi bl e that he woul dn't recogni ze me.
On the door there was a gi lded pl aque wi th the words :
DENTAL S URGEON
I buzzed once, twice, three ti mes, bu no one answered.
40
I l ef the bui l di ng. Beyond the Jacquemar-Andre Mu
seum, a catc wi th a gl assed- i n terrace. I chose a table wi th a
\" iew of the front door of number 160. I waited for Caraud
to ;l rri \"e. I wasn't e\"cn sure he meant anythi ng to Jacquel i ne
and Van Bc\"cr. I t was onl y one of those chance meeti ngs.
They might nc\"cr sec Caraud agai n i n thei r l i,cs.
I had al ready drunk sc,cral grenadi nes and it was fhe
o'clock in the aferoon. I was begi nni ng to forget j ust why
I was wai ti ng i n thi s cafe. I hadn't set foot on the Right
Bank tor months, and now the Quai de I a Tourcl l e and
the Latin Quarter seemed thousands of mi les away.
Night was fal l i ng. The cafe, whi ch was desered when
I sat down at my table, was gradual l y fl l i ng up with cus
tomers who must haYc come from the ofces i n the nei gh
borhood. I coul d hear the sound of a pi nbal l machi ne, as i n
the Cafe Dante.
A bl ack car pul l ed up alongside the Jacqucmart-Andrc
Museum. I watched it absently at frst. Then suddenl y I fel t
a j ol t: i t was Cartaud's. I recognized i t because i t was an En
gl ish model , not ,cry common i n France. He got out of the
car and went around to open the l ef door for someone: it
was Jacquel i ne. They woul d be abl e to sec me behi nd the
gl ass wal l of the terrace as they wal ked toward the bui l di ng's
front door, but I di dn't mo\'e from my tabl e. I e\en kept my
eyes fxed on them, as i f I were tryi ng to attract their atten
ti on.
They passed by unaware of my presence. Caraud pushed
open the front door to let Jacquel i ne go i n. He was weari ng
a naYy blue O\'ercoat and Jacquel i ne her l ight leather j acket.
I bought a token for the telephone at the bar. The phone
41
both was in the baement. I daled Wagram 13 1. Someone
answered.
'Is this Pierre Caaud?'
'o's calling?'
'Could I speak to Jacqueline?'
A few seconds of silence. I hung up.
42
I met them, her and Van Re,er, the next aferoon at the
Cafe Dante. They were alone at the far end of the room, at
the pi nbal machi ne. They didn't i nterrupt their game when
I came i n. Jacquel i ne was weari ng her bl ack pants, narrow
at the ankles, and red lace-up espadri l l es. They weren't the
ki nd of shoes to wear in winter.
Van Bever went to get some ci garetes, and Jacquel i ne
and I were l ef al one, faci ng each other. I took advatage of
the moment to say:
' How's Caraud? How was everyhi ng yesterday on the
Boul e,ard Haussmann1 '
She became very pale.
'Why do you ask me that? '
' I saw you go i nto hi s bui ldi ng with hi m.'
I was forcing mysel f to smi le and to speak in a l ight
heared \'oi ce.
' You were fol l owi ng me? '
Her eyes were wi de. When Van Rever came back, she
leaned toward me and sai d qui etl y:
'Thi s stays between us.'
I thought of the bottle of ether - that flthy stuf, as she
cal l ed i t - that I had shared with her the other ni ght.
'You look worried . . . .'
Van Be\er was standi ng before me and had tapped me on
43
the shoul der, as i f he were tryi ng to bri ng me out of a bad
dream. He was hol di ng out a pack of ci garetes.
'You want to try another pi nbal l game? ' Jacquel i ne asked
hi m.
I t was as i f she were trying to keep hi m away from me.
' Not ri ght now. I t gi ves me a mi grai ne. '
Me too. I coul d hear the sound of the pi nbal l machi ne
even when I wasn't at the Cafe Dante.
I asked Van Bever:
' Ha,e you heard from Caraud latel y? '
Jacquel i ne frowned, probably as a way of tel l i ng me to
stay of that subject.
'Why? Are you i nterested in hi m? '
Hi s voice sounded sharp. He seemed surprised that I had
remembered Caraud's name.
'Is he a good denti st? ' I asked.
I remembered the gray sui t and the deep, resonant voi ce,
whi ch were not wi thout a cerain di stinction.
'I don't know,' sai d Van Bever.
Jacquel i ne was pretendi ng not to l i sten. She was looki ng
away, toward the entrance to the cafe. Van Bever was smi l
i ng a l i ttle sti fy.
' He works in Paris hal f the ti me,' he sai d.
'And other than that, where docs he work?'
'I n the provi nces. '
The other night, in the cafe on the Rue Cujas, there was
a sor of awkwardness beteen them and Caraud, and, de
spi te the mundane co1wersation we'd had when I sat down
at thei r tabl e, i t had never gone away. And I found that same
44
awkwardness now in Jacquel i ne's si lence and Van Bever's
cvasi \'e repl ies.
'The trouble wi th that one i s he's hard to get ri d of,' sai d
Jacquel i ne.
Van Bc,cr seemed rclic\'ed that she had taken the i ni ti a
ti \'e to l et me i n on the secret, as i f, from now on, they no
longer had anythi ng to hi de from me.
'\Vc don't pari cularly want to sec hi m,' he added. ' He
comes chasi ng afer us . . . .'
Yes, that was j ust what Caraud had said the other night.
They had met hi m two months before i n the Langrune ca
sino. He was al one at the bottle table, playi ng hal fearedl y,
j ust ki ll i ng ti me. He had i n\' i tcd them to di nner in the onl y
restaurant that was sti l l open, a l itle up the road i n Luc-sur
Mer, and had expl ai ned to them that he worked as a dentist
i n the area. In Le Havre.
'And do you thi nk it's tru e? ' I asked.
Van Be\'cr seemed surprised that I woul d express any
doubt about Cartaud's profession. A denti st in Le Hane. I
had gone there several times, long ago, to board a boat for
Engl and, and I'd wal ked through the streets ncar the docks.
I tried to remember arri, i ng at the trai n station and goi ng to
the por. Big concrete bui l di ngs, al l the same, l i ni ng a\'enucs
that seemed too wi de. The gi ganti c bui l di ngs and the espl a
nades had gi\'en me a feel i ng of empti ness. And now I had
to imagine Caraud i n that setti ng.
' He even gave us hi s address i n Lc Hane,' Van Be,er
sai d.
I di dn't dare ask hi m i n front ofJacqucl i ne i f he also knew
his other address, in Pari s, on the Boul c\'ard Haussmann.
45
She had a bemused look al l of a sudden, as if she thought
Van Bc\'cr was si mpl i fying thi ngs and makng them much
less confsed than they were: a man you meet i n a coastal re
sort in iormandy and who works as a dentist in L Hane,
al l \'cry banal , real l y. I remembered that I'd al ways wai ted
for boarding time in a cafe by the doks: La Pore Occane . . . .
Di d Caraud go there? And i n Lc Have, di d he wear the
same gray sui t? Tomorrow I woul d buy a map of Le Have,
and when I was al one with Jacquel ine she woul d expl ai n i t
al l for me.
'\Ve thought we woul d lose hi m i n Pari s, but three weeks
ago we saw hi m agai n . . . .'
And Van Be,er hunched hi s back a l i tle more and low
ered hi s head between his shoul ders, as i fhe were about to
j ump an obstacl e.
'You met hi m i n the street? ' I asked.
' Yes,' said Jacquel i ne. 'I ran i nto hi m by chance. He was
wai ti ng for a taxi on the Pl ace du Chatelet. I ga,e him the
address of our hotel .'
Suddenl y she seemed ,cry di stressed that we were sti l l
tal kng about thi s.
'Now rhar he's i n Paris hal f the ri me,' sai d Van Bc,er, ' he
wats ro sec us. \\'e can't say no . . .
Yesterday aferoon, Jacquel i ne got our of the car afer
Caraud had opened the door, and fol lowed him i nto the
bui l di ng on the Boulenrd Haussmann. I had watched them
both. There was no trace of unhappi ness on Jacquel i ne's
face.
'Are you real l y obl i gated to sec hi m? '
' I n a way,' sai d Van Be,cr.
46
He smiled at me. He hesitated a moment, then added:
'You coud do us a favor . . . . Stay with u, next time he
huts us down . . . .'
'Your bing there would make things easier for us,' said
Jacqueline. 'You don't mind?'
'No, not at al. It will be a pleasure.'
I would have done anything for her.
47
That Samrday Van Re\'er went to Forges-l es-Eaux. I was
waiti ng for them in front of thei r hotel at about f,e in the
aferoon, as they had asked. Van Re\'er came out frst.
He suggested we take a qui ck wal k along the Quai de I a
Tourel l e.
' I 'm count i ng on you to keep an eye on Jacquel i ne.'
These words took me by surprise. A l i tle embarrassed,
he expl ained that Cartaud had called the day before to say he
woul dn't be abl e to gi \'e hi m a ride to Forges- Ies-Eaux b
cause he had work to do. Rut Caaud's apparent thoughtfl
ness and false friendl i ness were not to be trusted. Cartaud
onl y wanted to take ad\'antage of hi s absence, Van Re\er's,
to see Jacquel i ne.
So why di dn't he take her wi th hi m to Forges- lcs-Eaux?
He answered that if he di d, Caraud woul d onl y come
and fnd them there, and i t would be precisely the sae
thi ng.
Jacquel i ne came out of the hotel to meet us.
' I suppose you were tal ki ng about Cartaud,' she sai d.
She l ooked at us i ntently, one afer the other.
'I asked hi m to stay wi th you,' said Van Re\'er.
'That's ni ce. '
\Ve wal ked him to the Pont-Marie metro stati on, as be
fore. They were both qui et. And I no longer fel t l i ke asking
48
questions. I was gi vi ng in to my namral i ndi fcrence. Al l
that real l y mattered was that I would be alone wi th Jacque
l i ne. I e\'en had Van Be\'er's authorization to do so, si nce he
had asked me to ser'e as her guardi an. \Vhat more could I
ask?
Before he walked down the steps i nto the metro, he sai d:
' I' l l try to be back tomorrow morni ng.'
At the bottom of the staircae he stod sti ll tor a moment,
\'cry straight, i n his herri ngbone mcrcoat. He stared at Jac
quel i ne.
' If you want to get i n touch with me, you ha,c the phone
number for the casi no at Forges . . . '
Suddenl y he had a weary look on hi s face.
He pushed open one of the doors, and i t swu ng shut
behi nd hi m.
We were crossi ng the Il c Sai nt - Loui s headi ng for the Lef
Bank, and Jacquel i ne had taen my arm.
'When arc we goi ng to nm i nto Caraud? '
My question seemed to annoy her sl i ghtly. She di dn't
answer.
I was expecti ng her to say good-bye at the door of her
hotel . But she led me up to her room.
Ni ght had fal l en. She mred on the lamp next to the bed.
I was si ti ng on the chai r near the si nk, and she was on
the foor, with her back agai nst the edge of the bed and her
arms around her knees.
'I ha\'e to wai t for hi m to cal l , ' she sai d.
She was tal ki ng about Cartaud. But why was she forced
to wai t for hi m to cal l ?
49
' So you were spyi ng on me yesterday on the Boul evard
I aussmann ? '
' Yes. '
She lit a ci garette. She began to cough after the frst puf.
I got up from the chai r and sat down on the foor next to
her. \\'e l eaned back agai nst the edge of the bed.
I took the ci garette from her hands. Smoke di dn't agree
wi th her, and I wi shed she woul d stop coughi ng.
' I di dn't want to tal k about i t i n front of Gerard . . . . He
woul d have been embarrassed wi th you there . . . . But I
wanted to tel l you that he knows al l about it . . . .
She was looki ng defantl y i nto my eyes :
'For now, there's nothing I can do . . . . \\' need hi m . . . .'
I was about to ask her a questi on, but she reached over
and tured of the l amp. She l eaned toward me and I fel t the
caress of her l i ps on my neck.
'\Voul dn't you l i ke to thi nk about somethi ng else now? '
She was right. You never knew what trouble t he future
might hol d.
Around seven o'clock i n the e\"eni ng, someone knocked on
the door and sai d i n a gra\el l y \"Oi ce: 'You're wanted on the
tel ephone.' Jacquel i ne got up from the bed, sl i pped on my
rai ncoat, and l eft the room wi thout n1 ri ng on the l i ght,
leavi ng the door aj ar.
The tel ephone hung on the wal l i n the corridor. I coul d
hear her answeri ng yes or no and repeati ng se\"eral ti mes
that 'there was real l y no need for her to come tonight,' as i f
the person on the other end didn't understand what she was
sayi ng, or as if she wanted to be begged.
50
She closed the dor, then came and sat down on the bed.
She looked t\ mny i n that rai ncoat; it was roo big for her,
and she'd pushed the slee\"es up.
rm meeti ng hi m i n hal f an hour . . . . He's goi ng to come
and pick me up . . . . He thi nks I'm alone here . . . . '
She drew nearer to me and said, in a lower voice :
'I need you to do me a fa\"or . . . e
Caraud was goi ng to take her to di nner with some
fends of his. A
f
er tat, she di dn't real l y know how the e\e
ni ng would end. This was the fa\"or she wanted from me: to
l eave the hotel before Caraud arri,ed. She woul d
g
\e me a
key. It belonged to the aparent on the Boule,ard Hauss
mann. I was to go and pi ck up a sui tcase, whi ch I would fnd
i n one of the cupboards i n the dentist's ofce, 'the one next
to the wi ndow.' I woul d tae the suitcase and bring i t back
here, to this room. All \"c
r
y si mpl e. She woul d call me at
about ten o'clock to let me kow where to meet her.
Wat was i n thi s sui tcase? She smil ed sheepishly and said,
'Some money.' I wasn't paricularl y surpri sed. And how
woul d Caraud react when he found i t mi ssi ng? Wel l , he
woul d ne\"er suspect that we were the ones who had stol en
i t. Of course, he had no i dea that we had a copy of the key to
his aparment. She had had it made wi thout his knowl edge
at the ' Fastkey' counter in the Gare Sai nt- Lazre.
I was touched by her use of the word 'we,' because she
meat hersel f and me. Al l the same, I wanted to know if
Va Be\"er was i n on thi s
p
l an. Yes. Bur he preferred to let
her tel l me about it. So I was only to play a minor role i n all
this, and what they wanted from me was a sor of burglary.
To hel p me O\"ercomc my qualms, she went on to say that
5 1
Caraud wasn't 'a good person, ' and that in any case ' he
owed i t t her . . . .
' I s it a heavv sui tcase? ' I asked her.
' No. '
' Because I don't know i f i t would be better to take a
ta. xi or the metro.'
She seemed amazed that I wasn't expressi ng any mi s
gi vi ngs.
' It doesn't bother you to do thi s for me? '
She probabl y wanted to add that I woul d be i n no dan
ger, but I di dn't need encouragi ng. To tel l the truth, ever
si nce my chi l dhood, I had seen my father carryi ng so many
bags -sui tcases wi th false botoms, leather satchel s or over
night bags, even those black bri efcases that ga,e hi m a false
air of respectabi l i ty . . . . And I never knew just what was in
them.
' I t wi l l be a pl easure,' I told her.
She smi led. She thanked me, addi ng that she woul d ne\er
again ask me to do anythi ng l i ke thi s. I was a l i ttl e di sap
poi nted that Van Bever was i nvolved, but there was nothi ng
el se at al l that bothered me about i t. I was used to sui tcases.
Standi ng in the doorway of her room, she ga\"C me the key
and kissed me.
I ran down the stai rs and qui ckl y crossed the quai n the
di rection of the Pont de I a Tourcl l e, hopi ng not to meet up
wi t h Caraud.
In the metro, it was sti l l msh hour. I tcl t at case there,
squeezed i n wi th the other tra\"Clers. There was no risk of
drawi ng atention to mysel f.
52
\\ 11cn I came b.Kk with the sui tcase, I would defnitel y
take the metro.
I wai ted to switch to the Mi romesni l l i ne i n the Ha\'Te
Caumari n stati on. I had pl enty of ti me. Jacquel i ne woul dn't
call me at the hotel before ten o'clock. I let two or three
trai ns go by. \\by had she sent me on this mission rather
than Van Re\"er? And had she real l y told him I woul d be
going afer the sui tcase? Wi th her. you ne,er knew.
Coming out of the metro I was feel i ng apprehensi,e, but
that soon faded. There were onl y a few other pedestri ans in
the street. and the wi ndows of the buildi ngs were dark: of
fces whose occupants had j ust l ef for the day. When I cae
to number 160 I l ooked up. Onl y the ffh-foor windows
were l i t.
I crossed the lobb\ i n the dark. The cle,ator climbed
slowly ad the yel low light of the cei l i ng l ap mer my head
cast the shadow of the gri l l work onto the stai rway wal l . I l ef
the elc\ator door ajar to ghe me l ight as I sl i pped the key
i nto the lock.
Around the vesti bul e, the double doors of the rooms
were al l wide open, and there was a whi te glow comi ng
from the streetlights on te boulevard. I n1 rned to the lef
and stepped i nto the dentist's ofce. Standi ng i n the middle
of the room, the chair with its recl i ni ng leather back made a
sor of elevated couch where you coul d stretch out i f you
l i ked.
By the l i ght from the street I opened the metal cabinet,
the one that stood ncar the windows. The sui tcase was
there, on a shel f, a si mpl e ti npl ate sui tcase l i ke the ones sol
di ers on lca,c earn.
53
I took the sui tcase and found mysel f back in the vesti bul e.
Opposite the denti st's ofce, a wai ti ng room. I fi pped the
switch. Light fel l from a crystal chandel i er. Green \'civet
armchai rs. On a cofce table, pi les of magazi nes. I crossed
the wai ti ng room and entered a l ittle bedroom with a nar
row bed, lef unmade. I mmed on the bedside lamp.
A paj am a top lay on the pi l low, cmmplcd i nto a bal l .
Hangi ng i n the cl oset, two sui ts, the same color gray and
the same cut as the one Caraud was wearing i n the cafe on
the Rue Cuj as. And beneath the wi ndow, a pai r of brown
shoes, wi th shoe trees .
So this was Caraud's bedroom. I n the wi cker waste
basket I noti ced a pack of Royalcs, the cigaretes Jacque
l i ne smoked. She must ha\'e thrown it away the other night
when she was here with hi m.
Wi thout thi nki ng, I opened the ni ghtstand drawer, i n
whi ch boxes of sleepi ng pi l l s ad aspi ri n were pi led up next
to a stack of busi ness cards beari ng the name Pierre Robbes,
dental surgeon, 160 Boulc\'ard Haussmann, \Vagram 13 18.
The sui tcase was locked and I hesi tated to force i t. It
wan't heavy. It was probably ful l of banknotcs. I went
through the pockets of the sui ts and fnal l y found a black
bi l l fol d hol di ng an i denti ty card, dated a year earl ier, in
the name of Pi erre Caraud, bor 15 June 1923 i n Bordeaux
( Gironde) , address 160 Boulevard Haussmann, Paris.
So Caraud had been l h i ng here for at l east a year . . . .
And this was al so the address of the person known as Pi erre
Robbcs, dental surgeon. It was too l ate to question the con
ci erge, and I couldn't \"cry wel l appear at his door with thi s
ti npl ate suitcase i n my hand.
54
I had sat down on the edge of the bed. I could smel l
ether, and I fel t a sudden pang, as i f]acqucl i nc had just l ef
the room.
On my way out of the bui l di ng I decided to knock on the
gl ass door of the concierge's ofce, where a l i ght was on. A
dark-hai red man, not \'cry tal l , opened it a crack and put his
head out. He looked at me suspiciously.
' I'd l i ke to sec Dr. Robbes,' I tol d hi m.
' Dr. Robbes i sn't i n Paris at the moment.'
' Do you have any idea how I could get i n touch with
hi m? '
He seemed more and more suspicious, and his gaze l i n
gered on the ti npl ate sui tcase I was carryi ng.
' Don't you have his address ? '
' I can't gi ,e i t to you, monsieur. I don't know who you
arc.'
' I'm a rel ative of Dr. Robbes. I'm doing my mi litary ser-
vice, and I have a few days' l eave.'
That seemed to reassure hi m a l i ttle.
' Dr. Robbcs is at hi s house in Bchoust. '
I coul dn't quite make out the name. I asked hi m to spell it
for me: BEHOUST.
'I'm sorry' I sai d. ' But I thought Dr. Robbcs had moved
away. There's another name on the l i st of tenants.'
And I pointed at it, and Caraud's nan1c.
'He's a colleague of Dr. Robbcs . . . .'
I saw the wari ness come back i nto his face. He said:
'Good-bye, monsieur. '
And he quickl y closed the door behi nd hi m.
55
Outside, I decided to wal k to the metro stop at the Gare
Sai nt- Lazare. The sui tcase real l y wasn't hea\"y at al l . The
boul e\'ard was desered, the facades of the bui l di ngs were
dark, and from ti me to time a car passed by, headed for the
Pl ace de I '
E
toi l e. It mi ght ha,e been a mi stake to knock on
the concierge's door, si nce he would be able to gi \'e my de
scri ption. I reassued mysel f wi th the thought that no one
not Cartaud, not the ghostly Dr. Robbes, not the conci erge
of number 160 - could touch me. Yes, what I had done
enteri ng a strange aparment and taking a sui tcase that
di dn't belong to me, an act that for someone el se could
be qui te seri ous - was of no consequence for me.
I di dn't want to go back to the Quai de I a Tourelle right
awa\. I cl i mbed the stai rs i n the trai n station and cae out
i nto the huge lobby known as the Salle des Pa Perdus. There
were sti l l many people headi ng toward the pl ators of the
suburban l i nes . I sat down on a bench wi th the suitcase be
tween my legs. Li ttle by l i tl e I began to feel as though I to
were a tra,el er or a soldi er on l ea,e. The Gare Saint- Lazare
ofered me an escape route that extended far beyond the
suburbs or the prm i nce of Normady, where these trai ns
were headed. Buy a ti cket for L Ha\"re, Caraud's town.
And from Le Hane, di sappear anywhere, anyhere i n
the world, through the Porte Occane . . .
Why di d they cal l this the Sal l e des Pas Perdus, th6 room
ofl ost steps ? It probably took onl y a l i ttle ti me here before
nothi ng meant anythi ng an)more, not e\'en your footsteps.
I walked to the bufet restaurant at the far end of the
l obby. There were tw o soldi ers si tti ng on the terrace, each
wi th a sui tcase i denti cal to mi ne. I nearlv asked them for the
56
l i nl c key to thei r sui tcases so that I could try to open the one
I was carryi ng. But I was afraid that once i t was open the
bundl es of banknotes i t contained woul d be visible to every
one around me, and particularly to one of the pl ai nclothes
ofcers I had heard about: the station pol ice. Those two
words made me thi nk ofJacqucl i ne and Va Bever, as if they
had dragged me i nto an afai r that would expose me to the
menace of the station pol i ce for the rest of my life.
I went i nto the bufet restaurant and decided to si t down
at one of the tables near the bay wi ndows overlooking the
Rue d'Amsterdam. I wasn't hungr. I ordered a grenadi ne. I
kept the sui tcase cl asped between my legs. There was a cou
ple at the next table speaking in qui et voices. The man was
dark-hai red, i n his thi ries, with pockarked ski n over hi s
cheekbones. He hadn't taken ofhi s mercoat. The woma
also had dark hai r and was wearing a fr coat. They were fn
i shi ng thei r di nner. The woman was smoking Royales, l i ke
Jacquel i ne. Si ni ng next to them, a fat bl ack briefcase and a
l eather sui tcase of the same col or. I wondered if they had
j ust arri \ed in Pari s or if they were about to l eave. The
woman said i n a more audi bl e voice:
'\Vc coul d j ust take the next trai n.'
'When is i t? '
'Ten ffeen.'
'
o K,
'
said the man.
They were looki ng at each other in an odd way. Ten ff
teen. That was about when Jacquel i ne would call me at the
hotel on the Quai de Ia Toumel l e.
The man pai d the check and they stood up. He picked up
57
the bl ack bri efcase and the sui tcase. They passed by my ta
ble, but they tok no notice of me at al l .
The waiter l eaned down toward me.
' Have you deci ded? '
He was poi nti ng at the menu.
'Thi s section i s reserved for di ners . . . . I can' t serve you
j ust a dri nk . . . .
' I'm wai ti ng for someone,' I told hi m.
Through the bay wi ndow I suddenl y saw the man and
the woman, on the si dewal k of the Rue d'Amsterdam. He
had taken her arm. They wal ked i nto a hotel , j ust a l i tle
down the street.
The waiter came back to my tabl e.
'You'll have to make up your mi nd, monsi eur . . . my shif
i s endi ng . . . .
I looked at my watch. Eight ffeen. I wanted to stay
where I was rather than wander around outsi de in the col d,
and I ordered the speci a. Rush hour was over. They'd all
taken their trai ns to the suburbs.
Down below, on the Rue d'Amsterdam, there was a
crowd behi nd the wi ndows of the l ast cafe before the Pl ace
de Budapest. The l i ght there was yellower and murkier tha
i n te Cafe Dante. I used to wonder why al these people
came and lost themsel ves in the area around the Gare Sai nt
Lazare, unti l I learned that this was one of the lowest areas
of Pari s. They sl i d here down a gentle slope. The cou
'
pl e
who had been here a moment ago di dn't fght the slope.
They had l et the ti me of thei r trai n go by, to end up in a
room wi th bl ack curai ns l i ke the Hotel de Li ma, but with
di ri er wal l paper and sheets mmpled by the people who had
58
been there bctore them. Lying on the bed, she woul dn't
e\cn take othcr fu coat.
I fni shed eati ng. I put the sui tcase on the scat next to me. I
pi cked up my kni tc and tried to ft the end of it i nto the lock,
but the hole was too smal l . The lock was attached to the
sui tcase by bolts, whi ch I could ha\'C pul led out i fl'd had
some pl iers. Why bother? I woul d wai t unti l I was wi th Jac
quel i ne i n the room on the Quai de Ia Tourncl l c.
I coul d also l ea,c town on my own ad l ose contact wi th
her and Van Be\'cr fore,er. My onl y good memories up to
now were memories of escape.
I thought of cutti ng a sheet of paper i nto l i tle squares.
On each of the squares, I woul d write a nae and a pl ace:
Jacquel i ne
Van Bc\'er
Canaud
Dr. Robbcs
160 Boulc\'ard Haussmann, thi rd foor
Hotel de I a Tourncl l e, 65 Quai de Ia Tourncl l c
Hotel de Li ma, +6 Boulevard Sai nt-Germai n
Le Cuj as, 22 Rue Cujas
Cafe Dante
Forgcs-l cs-Eau, Di cppc, Bagnol l cs-de- l'Ornc, Enghien,
Luc-sur-Mcr, Langnmc
Lc Ha,re
Athi s-Mons
I woul d shufe the papers l i ke a deck of cards and l ay
them out on the tabl e. So this was my l i fe? So my whole
59
exi stence at this moment came down to about twenty un
connected names and addresses that had nothi ng i n com
mon but me: And wl w these rather than others ? Wat di d
I have to do wi th these names and pl aces ? I was i n one of
those dreams where you know you can wake up at any ti me,
whenever thi ngs trn threateni ng. If i l i ked, I coul d wal k
away from thi s table and it woul d all come undone; e\ery
thi ng woul d di sappear i nto empti ness. There would be
nothi ng l ef but a ti npl ate sui tcase and a few scraps of paper
on which someone had scrawled names and pl aces that no
longer meant anythi ng to anyone.
I crossed the Sall e des Pas Perdus agai n, al most desered
now, and wal ked toward the platforms. I l ooked at the big
board merhead to fnd the destination of the 1 0: 15 tran the
couple that had been siting next to me would take: LE
HAVRE. I bega to thi nk tat none of these trai ns went
ayhere at al , and that we were condemned to wander
from the bufet to the Sal le des Pas Perdus and from there
to the commerci al gal ery and the surrounding streets . One
more hour to kl l . I stopped by a telephone both near te
suburban l i nes. Should I go back to 160 Boule\ard Hauss
mann and l eave the sui tcase where I 'd found i t ? That \\'a\'
everthi ng woul d be restored to norma and I would have
nothing on my conscience. I l oked at the phone bqok i n
the booth, because I had forgoten Dr. Robbes's number.
It rag agai n and agai n. There was no one i n the aparment.
Shoul d I cal l thi s Dr. Robbes i n Behoust and make a fl l
confession? And where might Jacquel i ne and Caraud be
right now? I hung up. I decided to keep the suitcase and
60
bri ng it back to Jacquel ine, si nce that was the onl y way to
stay i n contact wi th her.
I lcatcd through the phone book. The streets of Paris
passed by before my eyes, along with the addresses of bui ld
i ngs and the names of thei r occupants. I cae across
SAINT-LAZARE ( Gare) , and I was surprised to f
i
nd that
there were naes there as wel l :
Railwar Police
WAGONS-LITS
CAFE ROME
HOTEL TERM I NUS
Porters' Cooperative
Gabrielle Debrie, forist, Salle des Pas Perdus
Commercial Gallery:
1 . Bernois
5. Bi ddeloo et Dilley Mmes
Geo Shoes
CI NEAC
1 9 . Bourgeois ( Renee)
25 . Stop prvate mai l senice
25 bis. :ono- :anette
27. Discobolos ( The)
Lab 28 42
Eur 44 46
Eur 48 30
Eur 36 So
Eur 58 77
Lab 02 47
Eur 45 66
Eur 42 48
Eur 44 63
Lab So 74
Eur 3 5 20
Eur 45 96
Eur 42 62
Eur 41 43
Wa i t possi ble to get i n touch with these peopl e? Was
Renee Bourgeoi s sti l l somewhere i n the stati0n at thi s hour?
Behi nd the glass of one of the wai ti ng rooms, I could see
onl y a man in an old brown overcoat, sl umped on one of the
benches, asleep, with a newspaper sticking out of the pocket
of his mercoat. Bernois ?
I cl i mbed the central stai rcase and entered the commer-
61
ci al gal lery. Al l the shops were cl osed. I could hear the
sound of di esel engi nes comi ng from the taxi stand i n the
Cour d'Amsterdam. The commerci al gal l ery was \'Cry
bri ghtl y l i t, and I was suddenl y afrai d I mi ght run i nto one
of the agents of the ' Rai lway Pol ice,' as they were l i sted i n
the phone book. He would ask me to open the suitcase and
I woul d ha\'c to nm. They woul d ha,c no troubl e catchi ng
me, and they woul d drag me i nto thei r ofce in the stati on.
I t was too smpi d.
I entered the Ci ncac and pai d my two francs ffy at the
ti cket counter. The usherete, a blonde wi th short hai r,
wanted to l ead me to the front rows with her l i ttl e fashl ight,
but I preferred to si t i n the back. The newsreel pi cmrcs were
passi ng by, and the narrator prmidcd a commentary in a
grati ng \'oi ce that was \'ery fami l i ar to me: that same \'Oicc,
for more than twent-f,e years. I had heard i t the year be
fore at the Ci nema Bonapare, whi ch was showi ng a mon
tage of ol d newsreel s.
I had set the sui tcase on the scat to my ri ght. I counted
seven separate si l houettes i n front of me, SC\'en people
aone. The theater was fl l ed with that warm smel l of ozone
that hits you when you wal k m cr a subway grati ng. I hardl y
gl anced at the pi cmrcs of the week's e\'cnts. E\'CI' ffeen
mi nutes these same picn1 rcs would appear on the screen,
ti mel ess, l i ke that pi erci ng mice, whi ch sounded to Q1e as
i f i t coul d ha\'c been produced through some sor of pros
thesi s.
The newsreel went by a thi rd time, and I looked at my
watch. Ni ne thi r. There were onl y two si l houettes lef i n
front of me. They were probably asl eep. The usherette was
62
si ti ng ncar the entrance on a l i tle scat that folded out from
the wal l . I heard the scat clack. The beam from her flashl ight
swept owr the row of seats where I was si ti ng but on the
other si de of the ai sl e. She was showi ng a young man i n uni
frm to his seat. She mrncd of her fashlight and they sat
down together. I o\"erheard a few words of thei r comersa
tion. He woul d be taki ng the train for Le Havre as wel l . He
woul d try to be back i n Paris i n two weeks. He woul d call to
l et her know the exact date of hi s retrn. Tey were qui te
close to me. Onl y the aisl e separated us. They were tal king
out l oud, as i f they di dn't kow I ad the t sleepi ng si l
houetes i n front of us were here. They stopped tal ki ng.
They were squeezed together, and they were kissi ng. The
grating ,oice was sti l l di scussi ng the i mages on the screen: a
parade of striking workers, a foreign statesman's motorcade
passing through Pari s, bombi ngs . . I wished that \"Oice
woul d fal l silent forc\er. The thought that i t woul d go on
j ust as i t was, commenti ng on ftre catastrophes without
the sl i ghtest hi nt of compassi on, sent a shi ver down my
spi ne. Now the usherete was straddl i ng her compani on's
kees. She was movi ng rhythmi cal l y abo\"e hi m, and the
spri ngs were squeakng. And soon her si ghs and moans
drowned out the commentator's quavering ,oice.
In the Cou de Rome, I l oked through my pokets to sec
i f l had enough money l ef. Ten francs. I coul d take a ta"i .
That woul d be much faster than the metro: I woul d ha,e
had to change at the Opera station and carr the sui tcase
through the corridors.
Te driver got out to pu the sui tcase i n the trnk, but I
63
wanted to keep it wi th me. \\'e drove down the A\'enue
de I'Opcra and fol lowed the quais. Paris was desered that
ni ght, l i ke a ci ty I was about to leave forever. Once I was at
the Quai de I a Tournel l e, I was afraid I'd lost the key to the
room, but i t was in one of my raincoat pockets after al l .
I walked past the l ittle reception counter and asked the
man who usual l y sat there until mi dnight i f anyone had
cal l ed for room 3. He answered no, but i t was onl y ten
to ten.
I cl i mbed the stai rs wi thout any objecti on from hi m.
Maybe he coul dn't tell the di ference between Van Bever
and me. Or else he di dn't feel l i ke worry i ng about people's
comi ngs and goi ngs anymore, in thi s hotel that was about
to be closed down.
I l ef the door of the room aj ar so that I woul d be sure to
hear hi m when he cal l ed me to the telephone. I put the sui t
case fat on the foor and stretched out on Jac
q
uel i ne's bedo
The smel l of ether cl ung sn1bbornly to the pi l l ow. Had she
been takng i t agai n? Woul d that smel l be fore,cr associ ated
in my mi nd wi th Jacquel i ne?
At ten o'clock I began t o worry : she woul d never cal l , and
I woul d ne\' cr sec her agai n. I ofen expected people I had
met to di sappear at any moment, not to be heard from
agai n. I mysel f someti mes arranged to meet people and
nc\'cr showed up, and sometimes I e\'en took advantage of
the momentary di stracti on of someone I was wal ki ng wi th
i n the street to di sappear. A pore-cochcrc on the Pl ace
Sai nt- Mi chel had ofen been extremel y usefl to me. Once
you passed through i t you could cross a couryard and come
out on the Rue de I'Hi rondel l e. And i n a l i tl e bl ack note-
64
book I had made a l i st of al l the aparment bui l di ngs with
to exi ts . . . .
I heard the man's ,oice i n the stai rway: telephone for
room 3 It was ten ffeen and I had al ready gi ,cn up on her.
She had sl i pped away from Caraud. She was i n the se\en
tccnth arrondissement. She asked i f l had the sui tcase. I was
to pack her clothes in an overnight bag and go get my thi ngs
as wel l from the Hotel de Lima, then wait for her in the Cafe
Dante. But I had to get away from the Quai de Ia Tourncllc
as qui ckly as possi bl e, because that was the frst pl ace Car
taud would come looking. She spoke i n a \'cry cal m \'Oicc, as
if she had prepared all this i n her head beforehand. I found
an ol d O\'cmight bag i n the closet and in it I put her t pai rs
of pants, her leather j acket, her bras, her pai rs of red espa
dri l les, her ntrtleneck sweater, and the \'arious toi letries
l i ned up on the shel f abmc the si nk, among them a bottle of
ether. There was nothi ng lef but Van Bc,er's clothes. I l ef
the l i ght on so the concierge woul d thi nk someone was sti l l
i n the room, and I closed the door behi nd me. What ti me
would Van Be\'er come back? He might \'cry wel l j oi n us at
the Cafe Dante. Had she called hi m in Forges or Dicppe,
and had she sai d the same thi ng to hi m as she'd said to me?
I l ef the stai rway l i ght of a I went downstairs. I didn't
want to attract the concierge's attention carrying this suit
case and merni ght bag. He was hunched O\'Cr a newspaper,
doing the crossword puzzle. I coul dn't help looking at hi m
as I wal ked by, but he didn't C\'Cn l i f his head. Out on the
Quai de Ia Tourel lc, I was afraid I might hear someone
behi nd me shouting 'Monsieur, mons ieur . . . \Yould you
please come back at once . . . . ' And I was also expecti ng to
65
see Caraud pul aongside me ad stop. But once I got to
the Rue des Bemardins I calmed down. I quickly went up t
my rom and put the few clothes and the to bok I had
lef into Jacqueline's bag.
Then I went downstars and asked for te bill. The night
concierge asked me no quetons. Outside on the Boulevad
Saint-Gerain I felt te sae euphoria that aways welled
up in me when I wa abut to r away.
I "
66
I sat down at the table in the back of the cafe and l ai d the
sui tcase down fat on the bench. No one si ti ng at the tables .
Onl y one customer was standi ng at the bar. On the wal l
abme the ci garettes, the hands of the cl ock pointed to ten
thi rt. Next to me, the pi nbal l machi ne was quiet for the
frt time. Now I was sure she woul d come and meet me.
She came i n, but she di dn't look around for me right
away. She went to buy some cigaretes at the counter. She
sat down. She spoted the sui tcase, then put her elbows on
the table and let out a long si gh.
'I managed to get rid of hi m, ' she told me.
They were havi ng di nner i n a restaurant ncar the Pl ace
Pcrei rc, she, Cartaud, and another coupl e. She wanted to
get away at the end of the meal, but from the terrace of the
restaurant they might ha\e been able to sec her wal ki ng to
ward the taxi stand or the metro entrance.
They had l ef the restaurant, and she had no choice but
to get i nto a car with them. They'd taken her to a nearby
bar, i n a hotel cal l ed Lcs Marronniers, for one last dri nk.
And i n Les 1 arronni ers she had gi\'en them the sl i p. Once
she was free, she'd cal l ed me from a cafe on the Boulevard de
Courcel l cs.
She l it a ci garete and began to cough. She l ay her hand
on mi ne just a I 'd seen her do wi th Van Bc\cr i n the cafe on
67
the Rue Cujas. And she kept coughi ng, that terri ble cough
she had.
I took her cigarette and put i t out i n the ashtray. She said:
'\ \'c both ha\"c to lea\"c Paris . . . . Is that al l right with you?'
Of course i t was al l right.
' Where woul d you l i ke to go? ' I asked.
'Anyhere. '
The Garc de Lyon was quire cl ose. We onl y had to wal k
down the quai to the Jardi n des Pl ames and cross the Sei ne.
\Vc'd both touched botom, and now the ti me had come to
gi \"c the mud a kick that woul d bri ng us to the surface agai n.
Back at Les Marronni crs, Caraud was probably becomi ng
concered about Jacquel i ne's absence. Van Bc\"cr mi ght sti l l
be i n Dicppc or Forges.
'What about Gerard? Aren't we goi ng to wait for hi m?' I
asked her.
She shook her head and her fean1 rcs began to cmmple
up. She was about to di ssolve i nt o tears. I real i zed that the
reason she wanted to go away wi th me was so that she could
put an end to an epi sode of her l i fe. And me too: I was leav
i ng behi nd me all the gray, uncerai n years I had l i \"cd up to
then.
I wanted to tel l her agai n: 'Maybe we should wait for
Gerard. ' I sai d nothi ng. A si l houette in a herri ngbon
e
mcr
coat woul d remai n frozen fore\"cr in the wi nter of that \'car.
A few words would come back to me: the neutral fhc. And
also a brown-hai red man in a gray suit, with whom I'd had
only the most feeri ng encounter, and nC\'Cr l eared whether
he was a dentist or nor. And the faces, di mmer and di mmer,
of my parents.
68
I reached into my rancoat pocket for te key to the
apament on the Boulevard Haussmann that she had
given me, and I set it on the table.
'at shal we do with this?'
'e'll keep it as a souvenir.'
No one was lef at the bar. I could hear the fuorescent
lights cracking in the silence aroud u. The light they put
out contasted wit the black of te terace windows. It was
to bright, like a promise of springs ad sumers to come.
'e should go south . . . .'
It gave me pleasure to say te word south. That night, in
that desered cafe, under te fuorescent lights, life dd not
yet have any weight at al, and it was so easy to r . . . . Past
mdght. The maager cae to our table to tell us that the
Cafe Dante was closing.
69
In the suitcase we found to thin bundle ofbankote, a
pair of gloves, bk on dental surger, and a stapler. Jac
queline seemed disappointed to see how thin the bundles
were.
We decided to pass through London before heading
south to Majorca. We lef the sutcase at the checkrom i
the Gare du Nord.
We had to wait more than an hour in the bufet for our
train. I bought an envelope and a stamp, and I mailed the
claim stub to Caraud at 16 Boulevard Haussmann. I added
a note promsing to repay the money in the very near ftre.
70
I n London that spring only married adul ts coul d get a room
i n a hotel . We ended up in a sor of tui l y boardi nghouse i n
Blomsbur whose l andlady pretended to bcl i e,e we were
brother and sister. She ga,e us a rom that was meant to
sene as a smoki ng rom or a librar furnished with three
couches and a bokshel t: \ \'e could only stay f
i
ve days, and
we had to pay in ad,ance.
Afer that, by appeari ng at the front desk one aer the
other as i f we weren't acquai nted, we managed to get two
rooms i n the Cumberland, whose massi w fa\ade stood mer
l arblc Arch. But there, to, we lef afer three days, once
they had caught on to the decepti on.
We real l y di dn' t know where we woul d sl eep. Afer Mar
bl e Arch we waked straight aead, aong Hyde Park, and
tured onto Sussex Gardens, a avenue that cl i mbed toward
Paddi ngon Station. One l i ttle hotel fol l owed another along
the l ef-had sidewak. We pi cked one at radom, and this
ti me they di dn't even ask to see our papers.
71
Doubt al ways overook us at the same time: at ni ght, on
the way back to the hotel , as we thought of rcmrni ng to the
room where we were l i vi ng l i ke fugi ti ves, onl y as long as the
owner al l owed us to stay.
\ wal ked up and down Sussex Gardens before we
crossed the threshold of the hotel . Nei ther of us had any
desi re to go back to Pari s. From now on the Quai de Ia
Tourcl l c and the Lati n Quarter were dosed to us. Paris is
a big ci ty of course, and we could ha,c mmcd to another
nei ghborhood where there would be no danger of nmni ng
i nto Gerard Van Rc,cr or Carraud. Rut i t was beter not to
look back.
How much ti me went by before we made the acquai n
tance of Li nda, Peter Rachman, and Mi chael Savoundra?
Maybe two weeks. Two endless weeks of rai n. \Vc went to
the mmies as an escape from our room and i ts mi ldew
fecked wal l paper. Then we took a walk, always along Ox
ford Street. We came to Bloomsbur to the street of the
boardi nghouse where we had spent our frst night i n Lon
don. And once agai n we wal ked the length of Oxford Street,
in the opposite di rection.
\Vc were tryi ng t o put of the moment when we woul d
retur to the hotel . We couldn't go on wal ki ng i n thi s rai n.
\Ve coul d always sec another mm i e or go i nt o a dcpartmenr
72
store or a cafe. Rut then we woul d only have to give up and
rm back toward Sussex Gardens.
Late one afernoon, when we had ,enrurcd farher al ong to
the other bank of the Thames, I fel t mysel f bei ng mcrcomc
by pani c. It was rush hour: a strea of suburbani tes was
crossi ng Waterloo Rri dge in the di rection of the stati on. We
were wal ki ng across the bridge i n the opposite di rection,
and I was afrai d we woul d be caught up i n the oncomi ng
current. Rut we managed to free ourselves. \Vc sat down on
a bench i n Trafalgar Square. We hadn't spoken a si ngle word
as we walked.
' Is somethi ng wrong? ' Jacquel i ne asked me. 'You're so
pal e . . . . '
She was smi l i ng at me. I coul d sec that she was strg
gl i ng to keep cal m. The thought of wal ki ng back to the ho
tel through the crowds on Oxford Street was too much t
bear. I di dn't dare ask if she was feel i ng as anious a I was.
I sai d:
' Don't you thi nk thi s ci ty i s too big? '
I tried t o smi l e as wel l . She was lookng at me wi th a
frown.
'This city is too bi g, and we don't kow anyone . . . . '
My voice was desperate. I couldn't get another word out.
She had lit a cigarette. She was wearing her l i ght leather
j acket and coughi ng from time to time, as she used to do
in Pari s. I missed the Quai de I a Toumcl l e, the Boulevard
Haussmann, and the Garc Sai nt- Laare. 'It was easier i n
Paris . . . .'
Rut I had spoken so sofly that I wasn't sure she'd heard
73
me. She was absorbed in her thoughts. She had forgotten I
was there. I n front of us, a red telephone booth, from whi ch
a woman had just emerged.
' I t's too bad there's no one we can cal l . . . ,' I sai d.
She tured to me and put her hand on my arm. She had
o\'ercome the despai r she must ha\'e been feel i ng a moment
before, as we were wal ki ng al ong the Strand toward Trafal
gar Square.
'Al l we need is some money to get to Majorca . . . a '
She had been fxated on that idea from the moment I met
her, when I saw the address on the emclope.
'In Majorca thi ngs will be easi er for us. You'l l be able to
wri te vour books . . . e
One day I had let sl i p that I hoped to write books some
day, but we had ne\er tal ked about i t agai n. Maybe she men
tioned i t now as a way of reassuri ng me. She real l y was a
much steadi er person than I was.
Al l the same, I wondered how she was pl anni ng to fnd
the money. She di dn't fi nch :
' It's onl y in big ci ties that you can fnd money . . . . I mag
ine i f we were stuck in some backwater out i n the mi ddl e of
nowhere . . .
Yes, she was ri ght. Suddenl y Trafal gar Square looked
much fri endl i er to me. I was watchi ng the water fow from
the fountai ns, and that hel ped cal med me. \Ve were not con
demned t o stay i n thi s ci ty and drown i n the crowds on Ox
ford Street. We had a \'cry si mpl e goal : to fnd some money
and go to Majorca. It was l i ke Van Be\'cr's mari ngal e. With
all the streets and i ntersections around us our chances onl y
74
i ncreased, and we would surel y bring about a happy coi nci
dence i n the end.
From then on we a\'oided Oxford Street and the center of
town, and we always waked west toward Hol l and Park and
the Kensi ngton nei ghborhood.
One afernoon, at the Hol l and Park underground sta
tion, we had our picmres taken in a Photomat. \Ve posed
with our faces close together. I kept the pi ctures as a some
ni r. Jacquel i ne's face is in the foreground, and mi ne, sl i ghtly
set back, i s cur ofby the edge of the photo so that my lef
car can't be seen. Afer the fash we coul dn't stop l aughi ng,
and she wanted to stay on my kees i n the booth. Then we
fol lowed the avenue alongsi de Hol l and Park, past the bi g
whi te houses with thei r poricoes. The sun was shi ni ng for
the frst ri me si nce our arri\'al i n London, and as I remem
ber, the weather was always bright and warm from that day
onward, as if summer had come early.
75
At l unchti me, i n a cafe on Noti ng Hi l l Gate, we made the
acquai ntance of a woman named Linda Jacobsen. She spoke
to us frst. A dark-hai red gi rl , our age, long hai r, hi gh cheek
bones and sl i ghtl y sl anted bl ue eyes.
She asked what region of France we were from. She
spoke slowly, as i f she were hesitating over e\'ery word, so
i t was easy to ha\'e a conversati on wi th her i n Engl ish. She
seemed surprised that we were l i vi ng i n one of those seedy
Sussex Gardens hotel s. Rut we expl ai ned that we had no
other choice because we were both underage.
The next day we found her in the same pl ace agai n, and
she came to si t down at our tabl e. She asked i f we would be
stayi ng long i n London. To my great surprise, Jacquel i ne
tol d her we pl anned to stay for se\eral months and e\en to
look for work here.
' Rut i n that case you can't go on l i vi ng i n that hotel . . . . '
E\ery ni ght we longed to mo\'e out because ofth

smel l
that hung i n the room, a si ckly sweet smel l that might ha\'e
come from the drai ns, from a kitchen, or from the rotti ng
carpet. I n the mori ng we would go f a long wal k i n Hyde
Park to get ri d of the smel l , which i mpregnated our clothes.
I t went away, bu during the day i t woul d come back, and I
would ask Jacquel i ne:
' Do you smel l i t? '
76
It was depressi ng to thi nk that it would be fol l owi ng us
for the rest of our l hes.
'The worst thi ng,' Jacquel i ne tol d her i n French, ' i s the smel l
i n the hotel . . . .
I had to transl ate for her as best I coul d. Fi nal l y Li nda
understood. She asked i f we had some money. Of the two
smal l bundles in the sui tcase, onl y one was left.
'Not much.' I sai d.
She looked at us both i n nt r. She smi l ed. I was always
amazed when people were ki nd to us. Much later, I found
the Photomat pi cnt re from Hol l and Park at the botom of a
shoebox ful l of ol d l etters, and I was strck by the i nnocence
of our faces. We i nspi red trust in peopl e. And we had no real
qual i ti es, except the one that youth gi ves to everyne for a
very bri ef ti me, l i ke a ,ague promise that wi l l never be kept.
' I have a fri end who mi ght be able to hel p you, ' Li nda
told us. ' I' l l i ntroduce you to hi m tomorrow.'
They ofen arranged to meet in thi s cafe. She l i ,ed
nearby, and he, her friend, had an ofce a l i ttl e way up the
street on \Vestbournc GrO\'e, the a\'enue wi th the t movie
theaters Jacquel i ne and I ofen went to. \Ve always saw the
l ast showing of the e\eni ng, as a way of del ayi ng our renr
to the hotel , and it scarcely matered to us that we saw the
same fl ms c\ery night.
77
The next day, about noon, we were with Li nda when Peter
Rachman came i nto the cafe. He sat down at our table wi th
out even sayi ng hel l o. He was smoki ng a ci gar and droppi ng
the ash onto the l apel s of hi s j acket.
I was surpri sed at his appearance: he seemed old to me,
but he was onl y i n hi s fories. He was of a\'erage hei ght,
qui te fat, round face, bal d i n front and on top, and he wore
toroi se-shel l gl asses. Hi s chi l dl i ke hands contrasted wi th hi s
substanti al bui l d.
Li nda expl ai ned our si tuati on to hi m, but she spoke too
qui ckl y for me to understand. He kept hi s l i tl e creased eyes
on Jacquel ine. From ti me to ti me he pufcd nerousl y on hi s
ci gar and blew the smoke i nt o Li nda's face.
She stopped talking and he smi led at us, at Jacquel i ne and
me. But hi s eves were sti l l col d. He asked me the name of
our hotel on Sussex Gardens. I told hi m: the Radnor. He
burst out i n a bri ef l augh.
' Don't pay the bi l l . . . . I own the pl ace . . . . Tel l
t
he con-
ci erge I sai d there would be no charge for you . . .
He turned to Jacquel i ne.
' I s i t possi bl e that such a pretty woman coul d be l i vi ng i n
t he Radnor? '
He had tried t o sound suave and worl dl y, and it made
hi m burst out l aughi ng.
78
' You're in the hotel busi ness ? '
He di dn't answer my questi on. Agai n he blew the smoke
from his ci gar i nto Li nda's face. He shmgged hi s shoulders.
'Don't worry . . . , ' he said i n Engl i sh.
He repeated these words se\eral times, speaki ng to hi m
sel f. He got up to make a telephone cal l . Li nda sensed that
we were a l i ttle confused, and she tried to explain some
thi ngs for us. This Peter Rachman was i n the busi ness of
buyi ng and resel l i ng aparment houses. Maybe i t was too
great a stretch to cal l them 'aparment houses'; they were
only decrepi t old tenements, scarcel y more than hovels,
most of them i n thi s nei ghborhood, as wel l a in Bayswater
and Netti ng Hi ll . She di dn't understand hi s busi ness very
wel l . But despite hi s bmtish appearance, he was - she
wanted us to know from the star- real l y a lmel y fel l ow.
Rachma's Jaguar was parked a few steps down the street.
Li nda got i nto the front seat. She turned to us:
'You can come and stay wi th me whi l e you wai t for Peter
to fnd you another pl ace . . . . '
He stared up the car and fol l owed along Kensi ngton
Gardens. Then he turned onto Sussex Gardens. He stopped
in front of the Hotel Radnor.
'Go pack your bags,' he told us. 'And remember, don't
pay the bi l l . . . .'
There was no one at the front desk. I took the key to our
room from i ts hook. For the whole of our stay here, we had
kept our clothes in our two bags. I pi cked them up and we
went strai ght downstairs. Rachman was paci ng in front of
79
the hotel , hi s cigar in hi s mouth and hi s hands in the pockets
of hi s jacket.
' Happy to be l ca\" i ng the Radnor?'
He opened the trunk of the Jagu ar and I put i n our bags.
Before staring up agai n, he sai d to Li nda:
' I ha\"e to go by the Li do for a moment. I 'l l drive you
home aferwards . . . . '
I coul d sti l l smel l the sickly odor of the hotel , and I won
dered how many days i t woul d be before i t di sappeared
from our l i ves fore,er.
The Lido was a bathi ng establ i shment i n Hyde Park, on the
Serpenti ne. Rachman bought four ti ckets at the wi ndow.
' I t's fu nny . . . . Thi s pl ace remi nds me of the Del i gny
pool i n Pari s,' I sai d to Jacquel i ne.
But once we were i nsi de, we came to a sor of ri\crside
beach, wi th a few tables and parasols set up around the
edge. Rachman chose a table i n the shade. He still had his
cigar i n hi s mouth. We al l sat down. He mopped hi s fore
head and hi s neck with a big whi te handkerchi ef. He mred
to Jacquel i ne:
'ake a swi m, i f you l i ke . . . . '
'I don't ha,e a suit,' said Jacquel i ne.
'\Ye can get hol d of one . . . . I' l l send someone t fnd you
a sui t . . . .'
'Don't bother,' Li nda sai d sharpl y. ' She doesn't want to
swi m.'
Rachman lowered hi s head. He was sti l l mopping hi s
forehead and hi s neck.
' Woul d you care for some refreshment ? ' he ofered.
80
Then, speaking to Li nda:
' I'm to meet Sa,oundra here.'
The name conj ured up an exotic si lhouette in my i mag
i nati on, and I was expecti ng to sec a Hi ndu woman i n a sari
walk toward our tabl e.
But i t was a blond man of abut thi rt who wa,ed i n our di
recti on, then ca1c and clapped Rachman on the shoulder.
He i ntroduced hi msel f to Jacquel i ne ad me:
'l i chael Sa\'Oundra.'
Li nda told hi m we were French.
He took one of the chairs from the next table ad sat
down beside Rachman.
'\\'el l , what's new? ' Rachman asked, staring at hi m with
hi s cold l i tl e e\'es.
' l'\'c done some more work on the scri pt . . . . \\'c' l l
sec . . . . '
'Yes . . . as you say, we'l l see . . . .
Rachma had taken a disdainfl tone. Sa\'Oundra crossed
h is am1s, and his gaze l i ngered on Jacquel i ne and me.
' Ha,e you been i n London long? ' he asked i n French.
'Three weeks,' I sai d.
He seemed \'cry i nt erested i n Jacquel ine.
' I l hed i n Paris for a whi le,' he sai d i n hi s halti ng French.
' I n the Hotel de I a Loui si ac, on the Rue de Sei ne . . . I
tried to make a fl m in Paris . . . .
'Unfommatel y, it di dn't work out,' said Rachman i n hi s
disdai nfl \'oice, and I was surprised that he had understood
the sentence in French.
There was a moment of si lence.
81
' Rut I'm sure it wi l l work out thi s ti me,' said Li nda.
' Ri ght, Peter? '
Rachman shrugged. Embarrassed, Samundra asked Jac
quel i ne, sti l l i n French :
' You l i ve in Paris? '
'Yes,' I answered, before Jacquel i ne could speak. '!or
verY far from the Hotel de Ia Lui si ane. '
Jacquel i ne's eyes met mi ne. She wi nked. Suddenl y I
l onged to be i n from of the Hotel de Ia Loui si ac, to walk to
the Sei ne and strol l past the stands of the secondhand bok
deal ers unti l I reached the Quai de I a Tournel l e. Wy did I
sudden! \ mi ss Pari s ?
Rachman asked Sa,oundra a question and he answered
with a great furry of words. Li nda joi ned i n the comersa
ti on. But I wasn't tryi ng to understand them anymore. And
I coul d sec that Jacquel i ne wasn't payi ng any anenti on to
what they were sayi ng ei ther. Ti s was the ti me of day when
we ofen dozed of, because we ne\er slept wel l at the Hotel
Radnor, barely four or fhe hours a night. And si nce we
went out early in the mori ng and came back as late as pos
si ble at ni ght, we ofen took a nap on the grass i n Hyde
Park.
They were sti l l tal ki ng. From time to time Jacquel i ne
closed her eyes, and I was afraid that I would fal l aseep as
wel l . But we gave each other l i nl c kick under the table
when we thought that the other one was abut to drif of.
I must have dozed for a few moments. The murmur ofthei r
c01wersation bl ended i n with the l aughter and shouts com
i ng from the beach and the sound of people di ,ing i nto the
82
water. Where were we? By the .l ame River or the Lake of
Enghi en? This pl ace reminded me of another Lido, the one
in Chcncvicrcs, or of the Sporti ng in La Varennc. Toni ght
we woul d go back to Paris, Jacquel i ne and I , by the Vi n
cennes trai n.
Someone was tappi ng me heavil y on the shoulder. It was
Rachman.
'Ti red?'
Across the tabl e from me, Jacquel i ne was doi ng her best
to keep her eyes wide open.
'You must not have slept much in that hotel of mi ne, ' said
Rachman.
'\Vhcrc were you? ' asked Savoundra in French.
' In a pl ace much less comforable than the Hotel de I a
Loui si ane,' I told hi m.
' It's a good thi ng I ran i nto them,' said Li nda. 'They're
goi ng to come and l i ve wi th me . . . o
I wondered why they were showi ng us such ki ndness.
Samundra's gaze was sti l l fxed on Jacquel i ne, but she di dn't
know it, or pretended not to notice. He bore a strong re
semblance to a American actor whose name I couldn't
qui te recal l . Of course. Joseph Cotten.
'You'l l sec,' sai d Li nda. ' You'll be ri ght at home at my
pl ace . . . . '
' In any case,' sai d Rachman, 'there's no l ack of apar
ments. I can let you usc one staring next week . . . . '
Savoundra was cxa1 i ni ng us curiously. He tured to
Jacquel i ne:
'Arc you brother and si ster? ' he asked i n Engl ish.
83
'You're out of l uck, Mi chael,' sai d Rachman i ci ly. 'They're
husband and wi fe. '
Leavi ng the Lido, Savoundra shook hands wi th us .
'I hope to sec you agai n very quickly,' he sai d in French.
Then he asked Rachman if he'd read hi s script.
'Not yet. I need time. I scarcely know how to read . . . . '
And he let out his short l augh, hi s eyes as cold as C\'Cr
behi nd his tortoise-shel l gl asses .
Tryi ng to fl l the awkward si l ence, Sa\oundra tred to
Jacquel i ne and me :
'I 'd be very pleased if you woul d read the scri pt. Some of
the scenes take pl ace i n Paris, and you coul d correct the mi s
takes i n the French.'
'Good idea,' said Rachman. 'Lt them read i t . . . . That
way, they can write up a summary for me . . . o'
Savoundra di sappeared down a walkway through Hyde
Park, and we found oursel ves back i n the rear scat of Rach
man's Jagu ar.
' Is hi s script any good? ' I asked.
' Oh yes . . . I'm sure it must be \'Cf' good,' sai d Li nda.
'You can rake i t, ' sai d Rachman. ' I t's on the foor.'
There was a beige fol der l yi ng beneath rhc rear scar. I
pi cked it up and set it on my knees.
' He wams me to gi ve hi m thi ry thousand pounds to
make his movi e,' sai d Rachman. 'That's a lor for a scri pt I 'l l
never read . . . . '
We were back i n the Sussex Gardens nei ghborhood. I was
afraid he woul d rake us back to the hotel , and once agai n I
smel led the si cky odor of the hal l way and the room. Bu he
84
kept on dri \i ng, in the di rection of Noni ng Hi ll . He turned
right, toward the a\enue with the mo\"i e theaters, and he
entered a street l i ned with trees and white houses with
poricoes. He stopped i n front of one of them.
We got out of the car with Linda. Rachman stayed be
hi nd the wheel . I took the two bags from the tnmk and
Li nda opened the i ron door. A ,ery steep stai rcase. Li nda
walked ahead of us. Two doors on the l andi ng. Li nda
opened the one on the lef. A room with white wal l s. I ts
windows merlooked the street. :o frniture. A l arge mat
tress on the foor. There was a bathroom adjoi ni ng.
'You' l l be comforable here,' sai d Li nda.
Through the wi ndow, I could sec Rachma's bl ack car i n
a patch of sunl i ght.
'You're \"cry ki nd,' I tol d her.
'o, no . . . It's Peter . . . . I t belongs to hi m . . . . He has
loads of aparents . . . .'
She wanted to show us her room. I ts entrance was the
other door on the l anding. Clothes and records were scat
tered mer the bed and the foor. There was a odor here
too, a penetrati ng as the one in the Hotel Radnor, but
sweeter: the smel l of marij uana.
' Don't l ook to cl osel y,' Li nda sai d. ' My room is al ways
such a mess . . . .'
Rachman had got out of the car and was standi ng before
the entrance to the house. Once agai n, he was mopping hi s
neck and forehead wi th hi s whi te handkerchi ef
'You probabl y need some spendi ng money?'
And he held out a light bl ue cmcl ope. I was about to tel l -
85
hi m we didn't need it, bur Jacquel i ne casual l y took the eme
lope from his hand.
'Thanks ,cry much,' she sai d, as i f thi s were al l
p
erfectly
namral . 'We'll pay you back as quickly as possi bl e. '
' I hope so,' sai d Rachman. '\Vi th i nterest . . . Anyay,
I 'm sure you' l l fnd some way to express your grati tude . . . .'
He laughed out l oud.
Li nda handed me a smal l key ri ng.
'There arc two keys,' she sai d. 'One for the front door,
the other for the aparment .'
They got i nt o the car. And before Rachman dro\'e of
Li nda lowered the wi ndow on her si de:
' I' l l gi \'e you the address of the aparment, in case you get
l ost . . . . '
She wrote it on the back of the l i ght blue emelope: 22
Chepstows Vi l l as.
Back i n the room, Jacquel i ne opened t he en\'elope. I t hel d a
hundred pounds.
'\Ye shoul dn't ha\'e taken this money,' I tol d her.
'Yes we shoul d ha\'e . . . . \'l l need it to go to Majorca . . . . '
She real i zed I wasn't convi nced.
'\Vc'll need about rwenr thousand francs to fnd a house
and to l i \'e i n Majorca . . . . Once we're there, we w
o
n't need
anyone anymore . . . .'
She went i nto the bathroom. I heard water nmni ng in
the rub.
'This i s marc
l
ous,' she cal led to me. ' It's been so
l
ong
si nce l '\'e had a bath . . . .'
I stretched out on the mattress. I was tryi ng hard no to
86
til l ! asl eep. I could hear the sound of her bathi ng. At one
poi nt, she said to me:
' You'l l sec how ni ce it is to ha,c hot water . . . .'
I n the si nk in our room at the Hotel Radnor we'd onl y
had a thi n stream of col d water.
The l i ght bl ue cn\'elope was si ting next to me on the
mattress. A gentl e torpor was comi ng mer me, dissol vi ng
my scrupl es.
About se\cn o'clock i n the e\'eni ng, the sound ofJamaican
music comi ng from Li nda's room woke us up. I knocked
on her door before we went downstai rs . I coul d smel l
mari j uana.
Afer a l ong wai t, she opened the door. She was weari ng
a red terrycloth bathrobe. She stuck her head out.
' I'm sorry . . . . I 'm with someone . . . .'
'\Yc j ust wanted to say good C\'eni ng,' sai d Jacquel i ne.
Li nda hesi tated, then fnal l y made up her mi nd to speak:
'Can I ask you to do me a fa\'or? When we sec Peter, you
mustn't let hi m fnd out that I ha\'e someone here . . . . He's
\'cry j ealous . . . . Last ti me, he came by when I wasn't ex
pecti ng hi m, and he was this cl ose to smashi ng the place up
and throwi ng me out the wi ndow.'
' What if he comes toni ght? ' I said.
' He's away for two days. He went to the seasi de, to
Bl ackpool , to buy up some more old dumps.'
'Why i s he so kind to us ? ' Jacquel i ne asked.
' Peter's \'cry fond of young peopl e. He hardl y C\'er sees
anyone hi s own age. He onl y l i kes young people . . . .'
87
A man's \'oicc was cal l i ng her, a \'cry qui et \'oice, al most
drowned out by the musi c.
' Excuse me . . . . Sec you soon . . . . And make yoursel \'cs
at home . . . .
She smi led and dosed the door. The musi c got louder,
and we coul d sti l l hear i t from far awa\' i n the street.
'That Rachman seems l i ke an odd type,' I sai d to Jacquel i ne.
She shmgged.
' Oh, he's nothi ng to be afraid of . . . .
She said it as i f she'd al ready met men of hi s sor, and
found him compl etely i nofensi ,e.
'At any rate, he l i kes young peopl e . . .
I had spoken those words in a l ugubrious tone that made
her l augh. Ni ght had fal l en. She had taken my arm, and I no
longer wanted to ask questi ons or worry about the future.
\Ve wal ked toward Kensi ngton down quiet l i ttle streets that
seemed out of pl ace i n this huge ci ty. A taxi passed by, and
Jacquel i ne rai sed her arm to make i t stop. She ga\'e the ad
dress of an I tal i an restaurant i n the Kni ghtsbri dge area,
whi ch she had spoted duri ng one of our wal ks and thought
would be a good pl ace to go for di nner when we were rich .
&
The apartment was qui et, and there was no l i ght under
Li nda's door. \Vc opened the wi ndow. Not a sound from
the street. Across the way, under the boughs of the trees, an
empty red phone booth was lit up.
That ni ght we felt as though we had l i \'cd in thi s apart
ment for a long ti me. I had l eft Mi chael Sa\'Oundra's scri pt
on the foor. I began to read it. I ts ti tl e was Rlnckpol Suu-
88
dn_1. The two heroes, a boy and a gi rl of tenty, wandered
through the suburbs of London. They went to the Lido
on the Strpcnti nc and to the beach at Backpool in August.
They came from modest fami l ies and spoke with a Cockney
accent. Then they lef Engl and. \\'e next saw them in Paris,
and then on an island in the Medi terranean that might have
been l ajorca, where they were fnal l y l i vi ng 'the good l i fe. ' I
summarized the plot for Jacquel i ne as I went along. Accord
i ng to hi s i ntroduction, Samundra hoped to fl m thi s scri pt
as i f i t were a documentar casti ng a boy and gi rl who
weren't professi onal actors.
I remembered that he'd suggested I correct the French
in the part of the script that took pl ace i n Pari s. There were
a few mistakes, and also some very smal l errors in the street
names of the Sai nt-Germain-des- Pres neighborhood. As I
went frther, I thought of cerai n detai l s that I woul d add,
or others that I woul d modi fv. I wanted to tell Samundra
about al l this, and maybe, if he was wi l l i ng, to work with
him on Blnckpol Sttndny.
89
For the next few days I di dn't ha\'c a chance to sec Mi chael
Samundra agai n. Readi ng Blackpol Szmday had suddenl y
ghcn me the desi re to write a story. One mori ng I woke
up ''cry early and made as l i ttl e noise as possi bl e so as not
to di smrb Jacquel i ne, who usual l y sl ept unti l noon.
I bought a pad of lcttcr paper i n a shop on Noting Hi l l
Gate. Then I wal ked strai ght ahead along Hol l and Park A\'c
nuc in the summer mori ng l i ght. Yes, duri ng our stay i n
London we were at the \'cry hear of the summer. So I re
member Peter Rachman as a huge bl ack si l houete, lit from
behi nd, beside the Serpenti ne. The strong contrast of
shadow and sunl i ght makes i t i mpossi bl e to di stinguish hi s
feamres. Bursts of l aughter. Sounds of di \' i ng. And those
\'Oices from the beach wi th thei r l i mpi d, faraway sound, un
der the ctct of the sun and the hazy heat. Li nda's mi ce.
Mi chael Samundra's mi ce aski ng Jacquel i ne:
'Ha,e you been i n London long? '
I sat down i n a cafeteri a ncar Hol l and Park. I had no i dea of
the story I wanted to tel l . I thought I shoul d put down a few
sentences at radom. I t woul d be l i ke pri mi ng a pump or
geti ng a sei7.cd-up engi ne stared.
As I wrote the frst words, I real i zed how much i nfu
ence B/ackpol Szmday had on me. But it di dn't matter i f Sa-
90
,mmdra's script served as my spri ngboard. The two heroes
arri ve at the Gare du Nord one winter eveni ng. They're i n
Paris for the frst ti me i n thei r l i ves. They wal k through the
nei ghborhood for some time, looki ng for a pl ace to stay. On
the Boulevard de Magenta they fnd a hotel whose concierge
agrees to accept them: the Hotel d'Anglcterre et de Bel
gi que. Next door, at the Hotel de Londres et d'Anvers, they
were tured down because they weren't adults.
They never leave the neighborhood, as i f they were afraid
to ri sk wandering any farher. At ni ght, in a cafe just across
from the Gare du Nord, on the corner of the Rue de Com
pi cgne and the Rue de Dunkerque, they are si tti ng at a ta
ble next to a strange couple, the Charel l s, and it i s not qui te
clear what they are doi ng here: she is a very elegant- lookng
blonde, he a dark-hai red man wi th a quiet voice. The couple
i mi tes them to an apartment on the Boulevard de Magenta,
not far from their hotel . The rooms are hal f-l i t. Mme Char
ell pours them a dri nk . . . .
I stopped there. Three and a hal f pages. The two heroes
of Blackpool Su11day, on arri ,i ng i n Paris, i mmedi ately f
i
nd
themselves i n Sai nt-Germai n-des- Pres, at the Hotel de Ia
Loui si ane. Whereas I prevented them from crossi ng the
Sei ne, letti ng them sink i n ad lose themselves i n the depths
of the Gare du Nord neighborhood.
The Charel ls were not in the script. Another l i berty I had
taken. I was i n a hurry to wri te more, but I was still too i nex
perienced and lazy to keep my concentrati on for more than
an hour, or to wri te more than three pages a day.
91
Every mori ng I went and wrote ncar Hol l and Park, and I
was no longer in London but in front of the Garc du .ord
and wal ki ng al ong the Boulevard de 1 agcnta. Today, thi ry
years l ater, in Paris, I am tryi ng to escape from this month
ofJul y 199+ t that other summer, when the breeze gentl y
caressed the boughs of the trees in Hol l and Park. The con
trast of shadow and sun was the strongest I have ever seen.
I had managed to free mysel f from the i nfuence of Blnck
pool Sunday, but I was grateful to Michael Samundra for
havi ng given me a sor of push. I asked Li nda if I could sec
hi m. \Vc met one eveni ng, he, Jacquel i ne, Li nda, and I, at
the Rio in Koni ng Hi l l , a popul ar bar among Jamaicans. We
were the onl y white people there that eveni ng, but Li nda
kew the pl ace wel l . I thi nk thi s was where she got the mari
juana whose smel l i mpregnated the wal l s of the aparment.
I told Savoundra I 'd corrected the French i n the section
of hi s script that was set i n Sai nt- Gcrmai n-dcs- Prcs. 'He was
worried. He was wondering whether Rachman was goi ng
to gi ,c hi m the money, and whether it might not be beter
to get in touch with some producers in Pari s. They were
ready to pl ace thei r fai th in 'young people' . . .
' But I hear Rachman l i kes young peopl e as wel l , ' I
observed.
92
And I l ooked at Jacquel i ne, who smi led. I .i nda repeated
penshcl y:
' I t's rme . . . . He l i kes young peopl e . . . .
A Jamai can in hi s thi rt ies, smal l , with the look of a jockey,
came to si t next to her. He put hi s arm around her shoul
ders. She i nt roduced hi m to us:
' Edgcrosc . . .
Al l these years J'yc remembered hi s name. Edgerose. He
sai d he was pleased to meet us. I recogni zed the qui et voice
of the man who had cal led to Li nda from behi nd the door to
her room.
And as Edgerose was expl ai ni ng to me that he was a mu
si ci an and that he' d j ust come back from a tour of Sweden,
Peter Rachman appeared. He wal ked toward our table, hi s
gaze too unwa\eri ng behi nd his toroise-shel l gl asses. Li nda
made a gestre of surprise.
He came and stood before her, and stmck her wi th the
back of his hand.
Edgerose stood up and took hol d of Rachman's l ef
check between hi s thumb and i ndex fnger. Rachman pul led
his head back to get free and lost his toroise-shel l gl asses.
Sa\oundra and I tried to separate them. The other Jamaican
customers were al ready gathered around our tabl e. Jacque
l i ne kept her cam. She seemed completel y i ndi ferent to this
scene. She had l i t a ci garete.
Edgcrosc wa hol ding Rachman by the check and pul l i ng
hi m toward the exi t, l i ke a teacher expel l i ng a troubl esome
smdent from the cl assroom. Rachman was tryi ng to escape,
and wi th a sudden mmement of his lef arm he ga,c Edge
rose a punch on the nose. Edgcrose let go. Rachman
93
opened the door to the cafe and stood motionless in the
mi ddl e of the si dewal k.
I went to j oi n hi m and hel d out hi s tortoise-shel l glasses,
whi ch I had pi cked up of the foor. He was suddenl y \'cry
cal m. He mbbcd his check.
'Thanks, old man,' he sai d. 'There's no poi nt maki ng a
fuss O\'Cr an Engl i sh whore . . . . '
He had taken his white handkerchi ef from the pocket
of his j acket and he was careful l y wi pi ng the lenses of hi s
gl asses. Then he ft them over hi s eyes wi th a ceremonious
gesture, one hand on each earpiece.
He got i nto the Jaguar. Reforc dri vi ng away, he lowered
the wi ndow:
' My one wish for you, old man, is that your fancee won't
turn out to be l i ke all these Engl i sh whores . . . . '
Sitti ng around the tabl e, e\'eryonc was quiet. Li nda and
Mi chael Sa\oundra seemed uneasy. Edgerose was calmly
smoking a ci garete. He had a drop of bl ood on one of his
nostri l s.
' Peter's goi ng to be i n a hel l of a mood,' sai d Savoundra.
' I t' l l l ast a few days,' sai d Li nda wi th a shmg. 'And then
i t' l l pass.'
Our eyes met, Jacquel i ne's and mi ne. I had the fee1i ng we
were aski ng oursel ves the same questi ons: Shoul d we stay
on at Chcpstows Vi l l as ? And what exactly were we doi ng
wi th these three people? Some Jamaican fri ends of Edge
rose came to say hel l o to hi m, and the cafe was fl l i ng up
with peopl e and noise. Closi ng your eyes, you mi ght ha\'e
thought you were in the Cafe Dante.
94
Michael Savoundra i nsi sted on wal ki ng us partway home.
\\'c had left Li nda, Edgcrsc, and thei r friends, who had
begun to i gnore us after a whi l e, as if we were in the way.
Savoundra was wal king between Jacquel i ne and me.
' You must miss Paris,' he said.
' 1ot really,' said Jacquel i ne.
' It's di ferent for me, ' I told hi m. ' E,ery mori ng, I'm i n
Paris.'
And I expl ai ned that I was workng on a novel and that
the begi nni ng of i t took pl ace i n the area of the Gare du
Nord.
' My i nspi ration came from Blackpol Sunday,' I admi tted
to hi m. 'Thi s i s also the story of t young people . . . .'
But he di dn't seem to hol d it agai nst me. He looked at us
both.
' Is it about the t of you? '
'Not exactly,' I sai d.
He was worried. He was wonderi ng i f thi ngs woul d be
sored out with Rachman. Rachman was perfectly capable
of gi vi ng him a sui tcase with the thi rty thousand pounds i n
cash tomorrow morning, wi thout havi ng read the scri pt. Or
he mi ght tel l hi m no, blowi ng a puf of ci gar smoke i n hi s
face.
Accordi ng to him, the scene we'd j ust wimcsed was a fre
quent occurrence. To tel l the truth, Rachman found i t all
\'cry enterai ni ng. I t was a way to take his mi nd of" hi s neu
rastheni a. His l i fe woul d have made a good subject for a
novel . Rachman had arrived in Lndon just after the war,
aong other refugees comi ng from the East. He was bor
somewhere in the middle of the tangled borders of Austri a-
95
Hungary, Pol and, and Russi a, i n one of those l i tle garri son
towns that had changed names more than once.
'You shoul d ask hi m some questions,' Sa\'oundra tol d me.
t aybe for you he woul d be wi l l i ng to answer. . . .
\Ve had arri\'ed at \Vestboure Gro\'e. Sa\'oundra hai led a
passi ng cab:
' Please forgi \'e me for not wal ki ng with you al l the
way . . . . But I 'm dead ti red . . . .
Before di sappeari ng i nto the tai , he wrote his address
and tel ephone number on an empty ci garette pack. He was
counti ng on my getti ng in touch with hi m as soon as pos
si ble so that together we could go O\'cr my corrections to
Rlackpol Sunda
y
.
\Ve were al one agai n, the to of us.
'We could take a wal k before we go home,' I sai d to
Jacquel i ne.
\Vhat was awai ti ng us at Chcpstows Vi l l as? Rachman
throwi ng the fur ni ture out the wi ndow, as Li nda had told
us ? Or maybe he was staking out the pl ace so that he could
catch her, her and her Jamaican fri ends.
\Vc came upon a l i tl e park whose name l '\'c forgoten. It
was ncar the aparment, and I'Y often looked at a map of
London tryi ng to fnd i t. Was i t Lad broke Square, or
\
vas
it farher along, ncar Bayswater? The fa<ades of the houses
around i t were dark, and if the streetl i ghts had been tured
of that night we woul d ha\'e been able to fnd our way by
the l ight of the ful l moon.
Someone had l ef the key in the l i ttle gri l lwork g.ue. I
opened it, we entered the park, and I tured the key from
96
the i nsi de. \Vc were locked i n here, and no one coul d e\'er
come in agai n. A cool ness came o\'er us, as if we were fol
lowi ng a path through the forest. The lea\es on the trees
abme us were so thick that they scarcely let the moonl i ght
through. The grass hadn't been cu for a l ong ti me. We di s
co\ered a wooden bench, with gra\'el spread around i t. \
sat down. My eyes grew accustomed to the dark and I coul d
make out, i n the mi ddl e of a square, a stone pedestal on
which stood the si l houete of an ani mal that had been lef
there, and I wondered i f i t was a l i on or a j aguar, or onl y a
dog.
' It's nice here,' sai d Jacquel i ne.
She rested her head on my shoulder. The l eaves hi d the
houses around the park. We no longer felt the sti fi ng heat
that for the last few days had been hanging mer London, a
ci ty where we onl y had to turn a corner to end up i n a forest.
97
Yes, as Savoundra sai d, I coul d ha\'e written a ml\'cl about
Rachman. A sentence that he had joki ngl y thrown out to
Jacquel i ne, that frst day, had worried me :
'I'm sure you'l l fnd some way to express your grati
tude . . . .
He'd sai d it as she took the emclope wi th the hundred
pounds. One afernoon, I had gone for a walk alone i n the
Hampstead area because Jacquel i ne wanted to nm some er
rands wi th Li nda. I came back to the aparment around
seven o'clock at night. Jacqueli ne was al one. An emelope
was l yi ng on the bed, the same si ze and the same l ight bl ue
color as the frst, but thi s one had three hundred pounds i n
i t. Jacquel i ne seemed uncomfortabl e. She had wai ted for
Li nda al l afernoon, but Li nda hadn't shown up. Rachman
had come by. He had also waited for Li nda. He had gi ,en
her thi s emelope, whi ch she'd accepted. And I thought to
mysel f that e\'eni ng that she had found a way to expre
:
os her
grati tude.
There was a smel l of S\' nthol in the room. Rachman al
ways kept a bottle of that medi ci ne with hi m. Thanks to
Li nda, I had leared what hi s habits were. She'd told me
that when he went out to di nner at a restaurant he brought
al ong hi s own di shes and toured the kitchens before the
meal to be sure they were cl ean. He bathed three ti mes a
98
day, and rbbed his body with Synthol. In cafes he ordered
a botle of mineral water, which he insisted on opening him
self, and he drank fom the bottle so that his lips would not
touch a glass that hadn't been washed properly.
He kept girls much younger than he was, and he put
them up in aparents like the one in Chepstows Villas. He
came to see them in the aferon, and, without undressing,
with no preliminaies, ordering them to tm their back to
him, he tok them very quickly, as coldy and mechanicay
as if he were brushing his teeth. Then he woud play a game
of chess with tem on a litle chessboard he always carried
with him in his black briefcase.
99
From then on we were al one in the aparmenr. Li nda had
disappeared. We no longer heard Jamai can music and laugh
ter at ni ght. It fel t a l i tle strange to us, because we had be
come accustomed to the ray of light streami ng from under
Li nda's door. I tried se\eral ti mes to cal l Mi chael Savoun
dra, but the phone rang agai n and agai n wi th no answer.
It was as if we had ne\'er met them. They had faded i nto
the l andscape, and in the end we ourselves coul d no longer
real l y explai n what we were doing i n this room. We began
to feel as though we'd come here by breaki ng i nto the
bui l di ng.
Every morni ng I wrote one or two pages of my novel and
went by the Li do to see i fPeter Rachman mi ght be si tti ng
at the same table as the frst ti me, on the beach, beside the
Serpenti ne. No. And the man at the ti cket booth, whom I
had questioned, di dn't know anyone by the name of Peter
Rachman. I went by Mi chael Savoundra's pl ace, on \Yal ton
Street. I rang, but there was no answer, and I went i nto the
bakery on the ground foor, whose si gn bore the name of a
cerai n Justin de Bl ancke. Why has that name stayed in my
memory ? Thi s Justi n de Bl ancke was also unabl e to tel l me
anythi ng. He knew Samundra \'aguel y, by si ght. Yes, a
bl ond man who looked l i ke Joseph Coten. But he didn't
thi nk he was here \'en ofen.
100
Jacquel ine and I walked to the Ro, at the far end ofNot
ting Hill, and asked the Jamaican who ran it if he ke any
thing of Linda and Edgerose. He answered that he hadn't
heard from them for a few days, and he and the other cus
tomers seemed suspicious of us.
101
One mori ng as I was comi ng out of the house as usual with
my pad of tener paper, I recogni zd Rachman's Jaguar parked
at the corer ofChepsrows Vi l l as and Ledbur Road.
He pur his head our the lowered wi ndow.
'How arc you, old man? \Voul d you l i ke to go for a dri \'e
wi th me? '
He opened t he door for me and I sat down next t o hi m.
'We di dn't know what had become of you, ' I told hi m.
I di dnt dare menti on Li nda. Maybe he'd been si ti ng i n
his car for hours, lyi ng i n wai t.
' A l or of work . . . A l or of worries . . . Al ways the same
thi ng . . . '
He was looki ng at me with his cold eyes behi nd hi s tor-
toi se-shel l gl asses .
'What about you? Arc you happy? '
I answered wi th an embarrassed smi l e.
He had stopped the car i n a l i tl e street fu l l of hal f-rui ned
houses, looking as if they had j ust been through a bombard
ment.
' You sec? ' he sai d. 'Thi s i s the sort of pl ace I always
work in . . . .
Standi ng on the si dewalk, he pul l ed a ri ng of keys from a
bl ack bri efcase he was hol di ng, bur he changed hi s mi nd .md
stfed them i no the pocket of hi s jacket.
1 02
'There's no poi nt anyore . . . .
\Vith one kick he opened the door of one of the houses, a
door wi th peel i ng pai nt and nothi ng but a hole where the
lock should ha,e been. We went in. The foor was cmered
wi th debris. I was overcome by a smel l l i ke the one in the
hotel on Sussex Gardens, but stronger. I suddenl y fel t nau
seated. Rachman rummaged through his briefcase agai n and
pul led out a fashlight. He mmed the beam of l ight around
hi m, re\'eal i ng a rsty ol d stove at the far end of the room. A
steep stai rcase cl imbed to the second foor, and i ts wooden
bani ster was broken.
'Si nce you have paper and pen,' he sai d, 'you might take
notes . . . . '
He i nspected the nei ghboring houses, whi ch were in the
same state of abandonment, and as we went along he di c
tated i nformation for me to take down, afer looking i n a
l i tl e notebook he'd taken from hi s bl ack briefcase.
The next day I continued my no\'cl on the other si de of
the sheet where I 'd wri tten those notes, and I ha\'e kept
them to thi s day. Why did he di ctate them to me ? Maybe
he wanted there to be a copy of them somewhere.
The frst pl ace we had stopped, i n the Noting Hi l l nei gh
borhood, was cal led Powis Square, and i t l ed to Powi s Ter
race and Powis Gardens. Under Rachman's dictati on, I took
an i n\'entory of numbers s, 9, ro, r, and 12 on Powi s Terrace,
numbers 3, 4, 6, and 7 on Powis Gardens, and numbers 13,
+S, 46, and +7 on Powis Square. Rows of houses with por
ticoes from the 'Edwardi an' era, Rachman tol d me. They'd
been occupi ed by ]an1aicans si nce the end of the war, but
he, Rachman, had bought the lot of them just as they were
1 03
about to be tor down. And now that no one was l i \' i ng i n
them anymore, he had come up wi th the i dea of restoring
them.
He had found the names of the former occupants, the
ones before the Jamai cans. So at number 5 on Powi s Gar
dens, I wrote down one Lwis Jones, and at number 6, a
Miss Dudgeon; at number 13 on Powi s Square, a Charles
Edward Boden, at +6, an Anhur Phi l i p Chen, at number
+7, a Mi ss Mari e !\ lotto . . . .

aybe Rachman needed them
now, twenty years later, to sign a paper of some ki nd, but he
real l y di dn't thi nk so. In response to a question I had asked
about al l these peopl e. he had said that most of them had
probabl y di sappeared i n the Bl i t.
We crossed the Bayswater neighborhod, headi ng to
ward Paddi ngon Station. This ti me we ended up at Orsctt
Terrace, where the poni cocd houses, tal ler tha the l ast
ones, adj oined a rai l road track. The locks were sti l l fxed to
the front doors, and Rachman had to usc his ring of keys.
No debris, no mi l dewed wal lpaper, no broken stai rcases i n
si de, but the rooms showed no trace of human presence, as
if these houses were a fl m set they had forgoten to take
down.
'These used to be hotel s for tra\'clers,' Rachman told me.
What tra\cl ers ? I i magi ned shadows at night, emerging
from Paddi ngon Station just as the si rens began to blow.
At the end of Orsct Terrace, I was surprised to sec a m
i ned church that was bei ng demol i shed. I ts na\'e was already
open to the sky.
'I shoul d ha\'e bught that as wel l , ' sai d Rachman.
1 04
We passd by Hol land Park and arri \'cd at Hammersmi th. I
had ne\'cr been thi s far. Rachman stopped on Talgarh Road
i n tront of a row of abandoned houses that looked l i ke cot
tages or l i tl e ,i l l as by the seaside. We went into one and
cl i mbed to the second foor. The glass in the bow window
was broken. You coul d hear the roar of trafc. In one corner
of the room I saw a fol di ng cot, and on i t a suit wrapped in
cel l ophane as i f i t had just come from the cleaners, as wel l as
a paj ama top. Rachman noti ced that I was looki ng at i t:
'Someti mes I come here for a nap,' he told me.
' Doesn't the sound of the trafc bther you? '
He shrugged. Ten he picked up the cellophae-wrapped
sui t and we went downstai rs. He walked ahead of me, the
sui t folded over hi s right arm, hi s black briefcase i n hi s l ef
hand, looking l i ke a tra\'el i ng salesman leaving the house to
set out on a tour of the pro\'i nces.
He gently draped the sui t over the rear seat of the car and
sat down behi nd the wheel agai n. He n1rned the car around,
toward Kensi ngton Gardens.
' I've slept i n much less comforable places . . . . '
He looked me mer with hi s cold eyes.
'I was about your age . . .
We were fol lowing Hol l and Park A\enue ad would soon
pass by the cafeteri a where I was usually si ti ng and working
on my novel at this ti me of day . . . .
'At the end of the war, I'd escaped from a camp . . . . I
slept in the basement of an aparment buil di ng . . . . There
were rats c\'erywhcrc . . . . I thought they'd cat me i f l fel l
asleep . . . '
He laughed thi nly.
105
'I fel t l i ke a rat mysel f . . . . Besides, for the past four years
they'd been tryi ng to corwi ncc me that I was a rat . . . .
We had left the cafeteri a behi nd us. Yes, I could put
Rachman i nto my no\'el . ,\t y two heroes woul d run i nto
Rachman ncar the Gare du Nord.
'Were you born i n Engl and? ' I asked hi m.
' No. I n L\'o\', i n Poland.'
He had answered curtl y, and I kew I woul d get nothi ng
more out of hi m.
Now we were dri \' i ng along Hyde Park, headi ng toward
Marbl e Arch.
' I'm try i ng to write a book,' I told hi m ti mi dl y, to get the
con\'crsation goi ng agai n.
'A book?'
Si nce he was bor i n Lo\', Pol and, before the war, and
had survived i t, there was no reason why he coul dn't be in
the Gare du Nord nei ghborhood now. I t was onl y a matter
of chance.
He sl owed down by Marylebone Stati on, and I thought we
were goi ng to vi si t another set of rn-down houses by the
rai l road tracks. But we trned down a narrow street and fol
l owed i t to Regent's Park.
'A rich neighborhood at l ast."
He let out a laugh l i ke a whi nny.
He had me wri te down the addresses : 125, 127, and 129
Park Road, at the corer of Lorne Close, three pale green
houses with bow wi ndows, the last one half ru i ned.
Afer checki ng the tags attached to the keys on the ri ng,
he opened the door of the middle house. We found our-
1 06
scl \'es on the second foor, i n a room more spacious than the
one on Talganh Road. The gl ass in the wi ndow was i ntact.
At the end of the room, a fol di ng cot l i ke the one on Tal
garh Road. He sat down on i t wi th hi s black briefcase next
to hi m. Then he mopped his forehead with his whi te hand
kerchief.
The wal lpaper was comi ng away in spots and there were
foorboards mi ssi ng.
'You shoul d ha\"e a l ook out the wi ndow,' he told me. ' It's
wonh i t.'
It was tme. I coul d see the l awns of Regent's Park and the
monumental fa<ades al l around. Thei r whi te stcco and the
green of the lawns gave me a feel i ng of peace and security.
'Now I'm goi ng to show you somethi ng else . . . . '
He stood up. We walked down a hal l way with old wi res
hanging from the cei l i ng and emerged into a smal room at
the back of the house. I ts wi ndow O\'erl ooked the rai l road
tracks leadi ng from Marylebone Stati on.
' Both si des have thei r charm,' Rachman sai d. 'Wouldn't
you say, ol d man? '
Then we went back to the bedroom, on the Regent's
Park si de.
He sat down on the cot agai n and opened hi s bl ack brief
case. He took out two sandwiches wrapped in foi l . He of
fered me one. I sat down on the foor, faci ng hi m.
' I thi nk I might l eave thi s house as i t i s and move i n here
permanentl y . . . .
He bi t i nto hi s sandwi ch. I thought of the cel lophane
wrapped suit. The one he was wearing now was badl y
mmpl ed. There was a button missi ng from the coat as wel l ,
1 07
and his shos were spatered with mud. Despite his ma
niaca atention to cleaniness and his tireless battle against
germs, some days he gave the ipression that he was giving
up the fght, and that litle by litle he wa going to become
a derelict.
He fnished gping down his sandwich. He stretched
out on the cot. He reached over ad rmaged in his black
briefcase, which he'd set on the foor next to the bed. He
pulled out a key ring and removed one of the keys.
'Here ... Take it .... Ad wae me in an hou. You ca
go for a wal i Regent's Park.'
He rolled onto his side, facing the wa, and let out a long
sigh.
'I recommend a visit to the w. It's quite close.'
I stoo motioness at the window for a moment, in a
patch of suight, before I notced that he'd falen asleep.
108
One night as Jacquel i ne and I were comi ng back to Chep
stows Vi l l as, there was a ray of light shi ni ng from under
Li nda's door. The Jamaican musi c played once agai n unti l
\'cry l ate, and the odor of marij uana i nvaded the aparment,
as i t had i n our frst days here.
Peter Rachman used to throw paries i n hi s bachelor
apartment on Dol phi n Square, a block of bui l di ngs by the
Thames, and Linda brought us along. There we saw Mi
chael Savoundra, who had been out of town, meeting with
producers i n Pari s. Pi erre Roustang had read the script and
found i t i nteresti ng. Pi erre Roustang. Another faceless
name foati ng in my memory, but whose syll ables have kept
a cerai n resonance, l i ke all the names you hear when you're
rwenty years ol d.
There were many di ferent ki nds of people at Rachman's
pari es . I n a few months, a fresh wi nd woul d blow over
London, wi th new music and bright clothes. And I bcl ie\'e
that on Dolphi n Square I met a few of the people who were
soon to become i mporant personal i ties in a ci ty suddenl y
grown young.
I never wrote i n the mori ng anymore, onl y from mi d
night on. I wasn't tryi ng to take advantage of the tranqui l
l i ty and si l ence. I was onl y putti ng of the moment when I
woul d have to begi n work. And I managed to mercome my
1 09
l azi ness e\'Cf' ri me. I had another reason for choosi ng that
hour to write: I was terri fed rhar the pani c I had so often
fel t those frst few da,s we were in London would come
back.
Jacquel i ne undoubtedl y had rhe same fear, bur she
needed people and noi se around her.
Ar mi dni ght, she would l ca,e the aparment with Li nda.
They woul d go to Rachman's pari es or to our-of-the-way
spots around Nori ng Hi l l . At Rachman's you coul d meet
great numbers of people who woul d i 1wire you to thei r par
ries a wel l . For rhe frst rime i n Lndon - said Samundra
you di dn't feel rhar you were our in the pro\'i nces. There was
electri ci ty in rhe ai r, they sai d.
I remember our l ast walks together. I accompani ed her to
Rachma's house on Dolphi n Square. I di dn't want to go i n
and fnd myself among al l those peopl e. The i dea of retr
i ng ro the apartment fri ghtened me a l i ttle. I woul d ha,e ro
star puri ng the sentences down on the whi te page agai n,
bur I had no choi ce.
Those eveni ngs, we'd ask the tai dri\'er to stop at Vi cto
ria Station. And from there we woul d wal k ro the Thaes
through the streets of Pi ml ico. It was Jul y. The hear was suf
focati ng, bur whene,er we wal ked along the i ron fences of a
park, a breeze washed mer us, smel l i ng of pri\'et or l i hden.
We would say goodnight under the pori co. The cl usters
of aparment bui l di ngs on Dolphi n Square stod out
agai nst the moonl ight. The shadows of the trees were cast
onto the si dewal k, and the l ea,es stood motionless. There
was nor a breath of ai r. Across the quai , beside the Tames,
there was a neon sign ad,eri si ng a restaurant on a barge,
1 1 0
and the dorman stod at the edge of the gagplan. But
apparendy no one ever went into that restaurant. I used to
watch the man standing still for hours in his uniform. There
were no more cars driving along the quai at that hour, and
I had fnally arrived at the tranquil, desolate hear of the
sumer.
Back i Chepstows Villas I wrote, stretched out on the bed.
Then I tured of the light and wated in the dark.
She woud come in abut three o'clok in the moring,
always alone. Linda had dsappeared again, sometime
before.
She would sofly open the door. I pretended to be
sleeping.
Ad then, afer a few days, I would stay awake util
dawn, but I never again heard her footsteps in the staray.
111
Yesterday, Saturday the frst of October 199+, I took the
metro back to my apartment from the Pl ace d'I tal i c. I had
gone looking for videos i n a shop that was supposed to ha\'C
a better selection than the others. I hadn't seen the Pl ace
d' I tal i c for a long ti me, and it seemed \'cry di ferent because
of the skyscrapers.
I stood ncar the doors i n the metro car. A woman was sit
ting on the bench in the back of the car, on my lef, and I 'd
noticed her because she was weari ng sungl asses, a scarf tied
under her chi n, and an ol d beige raincoat. She looked l i ke
Jacquel i ne. The ele,atcd metro fol l owed along the Boul c
''ard Auguste- Bi anqui . Her face seemed thi nner i n the day
l i ght. I coul d cl earl y make out the shape of her mouth and
her nose. It was her, I gradual l y became convinced of it.
She di dn't sec me. Her eyes were hi dden behi nd the sun
gl asses.
She stood up at the Cor. i sart station and I fol lowed her
onto the pl atform. She was hol ding a shopping bag i n her
l eft hand and wal ki ng weari l y, al most staggering, not at al l
the way she used to. I don't know why, but I 'd dreamt of her
ofen latel y: I saw her i n a l i ttl e fshi ng por on the Medi ter
ranean, si tti ng on the ground, kn i tti ng endlessl y i n the sun
l i ght. Next to her, a saucer where passers-by l ef coi ns.
She crossed the Boulevard Augustc- Bi anqui and tured
1 1 2
onto the Rue Corv i sart. I fol l owed her along the street,
downhi l l . She stepped i nt o a grocery store. Wen she came
out, I coul d tell by the way she was walki ng that her shop
pi ng bag was heavi er.
On the l ittle square you come to before the park there
was a cafe wi th the nae Lc Muscadct Junior. I watched her
through the front wi ndow. She was standi ng at the bar, her
shoppi ng bag at her feet, and pouri ng hersel f a glass of beer.
I di dn't want to speak to her, or fol low her any farther and
lear her address. Afer all these years, I was afraid she
woul dn' t remember me.
And today, the frst Sunday offal l , I'm i n the metro
agai n, on the same l i ne. The trai n passes above the trees on
the Boul evard Sai nt-Jacques. Thei r l ca\cs hang over the
tracks. I feel as though I'm foating between heaven and
earh, and escapi ng my current l i fe. Nothi ng holds me to
anythi ng now. In a moment, as I walk out of the Cori sart
stati on, wi th i ts gl ass canopy l i ke the ones in provi nci al train
stati ons, i t wil l be as ifl were sl i ppi ng through a crack in
ti me, and I wi l l di sappear once and for al l . I wi l l follow the
street downhi l l , and maybe I will happen to rn i nto her.
She must l i \e somewhere in thi s nei ghborhood.
Fi feen years ago, I remember, I had thi s san1e feel i ng. One
August afernoon, I had gone to the town hal l of Boulogne
Bi l l ancourt to pick up a bi rth certifcate. I had wal ked back
by way of the Porte d'Autcui l and the a\enues that nm
alongsi de the horse track and the Boi s de Boulogne. For the
moment, I was l i vi ng i n a hotel room ncar the quai , just be
yond the Trocadcro gardens. I di dn't know whether I would
1 1 3
stay on permanent l y in Pari s or, to conti nue the book I had
begu n on seaport poets and no\'cl i sts,' spend some time in
Buenos Ai res l ooki ng for the Argenti ne poet Hector Pedro
Blomberg. I had been intri gued by a few l i nes of his verse:
Schnei der was ki l led l ast night
I n the Paraguayan woman's bar
He had bl ue eyes and a ,cry pale face . . .
A sunny l ate afernoon. Just before the Pore de Ia Mucttc,
I 'd sat down on a bench in a small park. Thi s neighborhood
brought back chi l dhood memories. Bus 63, which I used to
catch at Sai nt-Germai n-des- Pres, stopped at the Pore de I a
Muette, and you had to wai t for i t about si x o'clock at night
after spendi ng the day i n the Boi s de Boulogne. But there
was no poi nt in summoni ng up other more recent memo
ries. They belonged to a previous l i fe I wasn't sure I'd ever
l i \'cd.
I had taken my bi rth certi fcate from my pocket. I was
bor duri ng the summer ofi9+5, and one afernoon, about
f\'e o'clock, my father had gone to the town hal l to sign the
papers . I coul d sec hi s si gnamre on the photocopy they'd
gi\'en me, an i l l egi bl e si gnamre. Then he had rent rned home
on foot through the deserted streets of that summcr,
_
with
the crystal l i ne sound of bi cycl e bel ls i n the si l ence. And i t
was the same season as today, the same sunny l ate aferoon.
I 'd put the bi rth certi fcate back i n my pocket. I was i n a
dream, and I had to wake up. The tics connecting me to the
present were stretchi ng. It woul d real l y ha\'C been too bad
if I'd ended up on thi s bench in a sor of amnesia, progres
si nl y l osi ng my i denti t, unabl e to gi ,e my address to
1 1 4
passers-by . . . . Fortunately I had that bi rt h certi fcate in my
pocket, l i ke dogs that become lost in Paris but carry thei r
0\11er's address and phone number on thei r col l ar . . . . And
I tried to expl ai n to mysel f why I was feel i ng so unfxed. I
hadn't seen anyone for sc\eral weeks. No one I had tried to
cal l was back from vacation yet. And I was wrong to choose
a hotel so far from the center of town. At the begi nni ng of
the summer I had onl y pl anned to stay there a very shor
time, and then to rent a smal l apartment or studio. Doubt
had crept i nto my mi nd: Did I real l y have any desi re to stay
i n Pari s? As long as the summer l asted I woul d be able to
feel as if I were onl y a tourist, but at the beginni ng of fal l the
streets, the peopl e, and the thi ngs woul d revert to thei r ev
eryday col or: gray. And I wasn't sure I sti l l had the courage
to fade i nto that color once agai n.
I t woul d seem that I had come to the end of a period of
my l i fe. I t had l asted ffeen years, and now I was goi ng
through a sl ack time before begi nni ng agai n. I tried to
transport myself back ffeen years earl ier. Then, too, some
thi ng had come to an end. I was dri fi ng away from my par
ents. My father used to meet me in back rooms of cafes, in
hotel lobbies, or in train station bufets, as i f he were choos
ing these transitory pl aces to get rid of me and to run away
wi th hi s secrets. We woul d si t sil entl y, faci ng each other.
From time to time he woul d gi,e me a sidelong glace. As
for my mother, she spoke to me louder and louder. I coul d
tel l by the abrupt way her l i ps moved, because there was a
pane of gl ass between us, muti ng her voi ce.
And then the next ffeen years fel l apart : a few bl urry
faces, a few vague memories, ashes . . . . I fel t no sadness
1 1 5
about thi s. On the contrar I was rcl i e\'ed in a way. I woul d
start again from zero. Of that whol e gri m succession of
days, the onl y ones that stil l stood out were from when I
knew Jacquel i ne and Van Re\'er. \Vhy that epi sode rather
than another? Mavbe because it had remai ned unfni shed.
The bench I was si tti ng on was i n the shade now. I
crossed the l i tle lawn and sat down in the sun. I felt l i ght. I
was responsi bl e to no one, I had no need to mumbl e excuses
or l i es. I woul d become someone else, and my metamorpho
si s woul d be so complete that no one I'd met o\'er the past
ffeen years would be able to recogni ze me.
I heard the sound of an engi ne behi nd me. Someone was
parking a car at the corer of the park and the a\'enue. The
engine shut of The sound of a car door closi ng. A woman
was wal ki ng past the i ron fence that surrounded the park.
She was weari ng a yel l ow summer dress and sungl asses. She
had l i ght brown hai r. I hadn't qui te made out her face, but I
i mmedi ately recogni zed her walk, a l azy wal k. She sl owed
down, as if unsure of whi ch di recti on to take. And then she
seemed to fnd her way. It was Jacquel i ne.
I l ef the park and fol lowed her. I di dn't dare catch up
wi th her. Maybe she wouldn't remember me clearly. ter
hai r was shorer than ffeen years before, but that wal k
coul dn't bel ong to anyone el se.
She went i nto one of the aparment bui ldi ngs. It was
too late to speak to her. And in any case, what would I have
sai d? Thi s a\cnuc is so far from the Quai de I a Tourncl l e and
the Cafe Dante . . . .
I wal ked by the enrryway to the apartment bui l di ng and
1 1 6
made a note of the number. Was thi s really where she l i ved?
Or was she payi ng a cal l on some friends ? I began ro wonder
i f i t was possi bl e to recogni ze people from behi nd by the
way they wal k. I n1 rned around and headed back toward the
park. Her car was there. I was tempted to leave a note on the
wi ndshi el d wi th the tel ephone number of my hotel .
At the garage on the Avenue de New- York, the car I had
rented the day before was wai ti ng for me. I had come up
wi th this idea in my hotel room. The nei ghborhood seemed
so empty thi s August in Paris, and I fel t so alone when I
went out on foot or in the metro that I found the idea of
havi ng a car at my di sposal comfori ng. I would feel as
though I could l ca\'e Paris at any moment, i fl wanted to.
For the past ffeen years I'd fel t l i ke a captive of others and
mysel f, and all my dreams were the same: dreams of escape,
of depari ng trains that, unfornmatcly, I al ways mi ssed. I
ne\'er made it to the station. I was lost in the corri dors of the
metro, and when I reached the platform the metro never
came. I also dreamt of wal ki ng out my door and cl i mbi ng
i nto a bi g American car that gl i ded through desered streets
toward the Rois de Roulogne, i ts engi ne nmni ng si lently,
and I fel t a sensation of l ightness and \\el l - bei ng.
The attendant ga\e me the key, and I saw his surprise
when I stared out in reverse and nearly ran i nto one of the
gasol i ne pumps. I was afrai d I wouldn't be able to stop at
the next red l i ght. That was how i t happened i n my dreams :
the brakes had gi ven out, and I was mnni ng al l the red l ights
and dri ,i ng down one-way streets i n the wrong di recti on.
I managed to park the car i n front of the hotel and asked
the conci erge for a di rectory. I looked up her address, but
1 1 7
there was no Jacquel i ne at that number. She'd probably got
married i n the past ffeen years. Rut whose wife was she?
Del orme ( P. )
Di nti l lac
Jones ( E. Ceci l )
Lacoste ( Rene)
Walter ( J . )
Sanchez-Ci rcs
Vi dal
I onl y had to cal l each of these names.
In the phone booth I di aled the frst number. It rang for a
l ong ti me. Then someone answered. A man's \'oi ce:
' Yes . . . Hel l o? '
'Could I speak to Jacquel i ne? '
' You must be mi staken, monsi eur.'
I hung up. I no l onger had the ner\'e to di al the other
numbers.
I waited for ni ght to fall before l ea\i ng the hotel . I sat down
behi nd the wheel and stared the car. I knew Pari s wel l , and
I woul d ha,e taken the most di rect route to the Pore de I a
Muette i f l'd been on foot, but i n this car I was na,i

ati ng
blind. I hadn't dri\"en for a long ti me, and I di dn't know
whi ch streets were one-way. I decided to dri ,e straight
ahead.
I went far out of my way along the Quai de Passy and the
A\"enue de Versai l les. Then I mrncd onto the desered Rou
le\ard Murat. I could ha\"e nm the red l ights, but i t plcasld
me to obey them. I dro\"e slowly, unhurriedl y, l i ke someone
l l 8
em i si ng along a seaside parkway on a summer ni ght. The
stopl i ghts were speaki ng onl y to me, with thei r mysterious
and fri endl y si gnals.
I stopped in from of the entrance to the apartment bui l d
i ng, on the other si de of the a\'enue, under the branches of
the frst trees i n the Boi s de Boul ogne, where the streetl i ghts
created an area of semidarkness. The rwo swinging doors of
the entray, with thei r i ronwork and gl ass, were l it up. So
were the wi ndows on the top foor. They were open wide,
and I could make our a few si l houettes on one of the balco
ni es. I heard music and the murmur of comersati on. Se\'eral
cars came and parked on the street in front of the bui l di ng,
and I was sure that the people getting out of them and step
pi ng i nto the enrryway were al l headed for the top foor. At
one poi nt, someone leaned O\'er the balcony and cal l ed out
to two si l houettes walki ng toward the bui l di ng. A woman's
\"oi ce. She was tel l i ng the other two the foor number. Bur i t
wasn't Jacquel i ne's \'oi ce, or at least I di dn't recogni ze i t. I
decided nor to stay there any longer spyi ng on them, and to
go upstai rs. I f it was Jacquel i ne's par I di dn't know how
she woul d react to the si ght of someone she hadn't heard
from i n ffeen years wal kng i nto her apartment unan
nounced. \Ve'd onl y known each other for a short whi l e:
three or four months. Not much compared to ffeen years.
Bur surely she hadn't forgotten those days . . . . Unless her
present l i fe had erased them, i n the same way that the bl i nd
ing beam from a spotl ight throws everhi ng outside irs
path i nto the deepest shadows.
I wai ted for more guests to arri \'e. This rime there were
three of them. One of them wa\ed toward the balconies on
l l 9
the top foor. I caught up with them just as they entered the
bui l di ng. Two men and a woman. I said hello. It seemed
cl ear to them that I was al so i nvi ted upstairs.
\\'e went up i n the cJ e,ator. The two men spoke with an ac
cent, but the woman was French. They were a l i tl e older
tha me.
I forced nwscl f to smile. I sai d to the woman :
' I t's goi ng to be a very nice ti me, up there . . . .'
She smi led as wel l .
'Are you a fri end of Dari us ? ' she asked me.
'No. I 'm a fri end of Jacquel i ne.'
She seemed not to understand.
'I ha,en't seen Jacquel i ne for a long time,' I sai d. ' I s she
wel l ? '
The woman frowned.
' I don't know her.'
Then she exchanged a few words i n Engl i sh with the two
others . The el evator stopped.
One of the men rang the doorbel l . My hands were sweat
i ng. The door opened and from i nsi de I heard a hum of con
versation ad musi c. A man wi th brown, swept-back hai r
and a dusky compl exi on was smi l i ng at us. He was wc1ring
a beige suit of heavy cotton.
The woman kissed hi m on both checks .
' Hel l o, Dari us.'
' Hel lo, my dear. '
He had a deep voice and a sl ight accent. Te two men al s
greeted hi m wi th a ' Hel lo, Dari us.' I shook his hand with
out speaki ng, but he di dn't seem surpri sed by my presence.
1 20
He led us through the entr.ty md i nto a l i \' i ng room
wi th open bay wi ndows. There were guests standi ng here
and there in sm.tl l groups. Dari us and the three people I had
come up with in the elevator were headi ng toward one of
the balconi es. I fol l owed close behi nd them. The\' were
stopped by a couple at the edge of the bakony, and a con
versation started up.
I stood back. They'd torgotten me. I retreated to the
other side of the room and sat down at one end of a couch.
At the other end, two young peopl e, pressed together, were
speaki ng qui etl y to each other. No one was payi ng any at
tention to me. I tried to spot Jacquel i ne among the crowd.
About tent peopl e. I looked at the man they cal led
Dari us, O\"Cr by the threshold of the balcony, a slender si l
houette i n a beige sui t. I thought he must be about for
years ol d. Coul d Darius be Jacquel i ne's husband? The
clamor of the conversati ons was drowned out by music,
whi ch seemed to be comi ng from the balconies.
I exami ned the face of one woman afer another, but in
\"ai n; I di dn't sec Jacquel i ne. This was the wrong foor. I
wasn't even sure she l hcd i n thi s bui l di ng. Now Darius was
i n the mi ddle of the room, a few meters from me, standi ng
wi th a \'cry el egant bl onde woman who was l i steni ng to hi m
i ntentl y. From ti me to ti me she l aughed. I tried to make out
what l anguage he was speaking, but the music cmcrcd hi s
\'Oicc. \Vhy not wal k up to the man and ask hi m where Jac
quel i ne was ? In hi s deep, courtly mice he woul d reveal the
solution to this mystery, which was not real l y a mystery at
al l : i f he kew Jacquel i ne, i fJacqucl i nc was hi s wi fe, or what
for she l i ved on. It was as si mpl e as that. He was facing in
1 21
my di recti on. !ow be was l i steni ng to the bl onde woman
and by chance his gaze had come to rest on me. At frst, I
had the i mpression that he di dn't sec me. And then be ga\'c
me a fri endl y l i nl c wa\'c with his hand. He seemed surpri sed
that I was si ni ng al one on the couch, speaki ng to no one,
but I was much more comfortable now than when I came
i nto the aparment, and a memory from ffeen years earl i er
came back to me. \Vc had arri ,cd i n London, Jacquel i ne and
I, at Chari ng Cross Stati on, about f\'e o'clock i n the afer
noon. We had taken a ta.xi to get to the hotel , which we'd
chosen at random from a gui debook. Nei ther of us knew
London. \Vhen the taxi mred onto the Mal l and that
shady, tree-l i ned avenue opened up before me, the frst
twent years of my l i fe fel l to dust, l i ke a wei ght, l i ke hand
cufc or a haress that I ne\er thought I would be free of.
J ust l i ke that, nothi ng remai ned of al l those years. And i f
happi ness was the feeti ng euphori a I felt that aferoon,
then for the frst time i n my exi stence I was happy.
Later, it was dark, and we were walking ai ml essl y i n the
area of Ennismore Gardens. \Ve wal ked along the i ron fence
surroundi ng an abandoned garden. There was l aughter,
music, and the hum ofcomersation comi ng from the top
foor of one of the houses. The windows were wide oen,
and a group of si l houenes stood out agai nst the l ight. \\'e
stayed there, leani ng on the garden fence. One of the guests
sini ng on the edge of the balcony had noticed us and had
moti oned for us to come up. I n big citi es, in summerti me,
people who ha,e long si nce lost track of each other or who
don't e\'cn know each other meet one e\eni ng on a terrace,
then lose each other agai n. And none of it real l y mancrs.
1 22
Dari us had come O\'er to me:
'Ha,e you lost your friends ? ' he sai d wi th a smi l e.
It took me a moment to understand who he meant : the
three people i n the el e\'ator.
'They're not real l y my friends.'
But I i mmedi ately wished I hadn't said that. I didn't want
hi m aski ng hi mself what I was doing here.
'I ha\cn't known them long,' I told hi m. 'And they had
the idea of bri ngi ng me here . . . . '
He smiled agai n.
'The friends of my friends arc my friends. '
But he was uncomfortable because he di dn't know who I
was. To put hi m at hi s case, I said, as qui etly as possi bl e:
' Do you ofen throw such ni ce parties? '
'Yes. In August. And always when my wi fe i s away.'
Most of the guests had lef the living room. How could
they all ft on the balconies ?
'I feel so l onel y when my wi fe is away . . . .'
Hi s eyes had taken on a melancholy expression. He was
sti l l smi l i ng at me. This was the time to ask hi m if his wi fe's
name was Jacquel i ne, but I di dn't dare risk i t yet.
'And you, do you Ji ,e i n Pari s? '
He was probably asking j ust to be polite. Afer al l , I was
his guest, and he di dn't want me to be si tti ng alone on a
couch away from al the others.
'Yes, but I don't know i f l'm goi ng to stay . . . .
Suddenl y I fel t a need to confde in hi m. It had been three
months, more or less, si nce I had spoken to anyone.
'My work is somethi ng I can do anywhere, as long as I
have a pen and a sheet of paper . . . .'
1 23
' You're a writer? '
' I f you can cal l i t that . . . .'
He wanted me to tell hi m ti tl es of my books. Maybe he'd
read one.
' I don't thi nk so,' I tol d hi m.
' I t must be exci ti ng to write, hmm? '
He must not ha,e had much practice wi th one-to-one
conversations on such serious matters.
' I 'm keepi ng you from your gests,' I tol d hi m. ' For that
matter, I thi nk I might have dri ven them al l away.'
There was al most no one lef in the l i\'i ng room or on the
bal coni es.
He l aughed l i ghtl y:
'Not at al l . . . Everyone's gone up to the terrace . . . .'
There were stil l a few guests lef in the l i vi ng room, en-
sconced on a couch across the room, a whi te couch l i ke the
one where I was si ti ng next to Dari us.
' I t's been a pl easure to make your acquai ntace,' he tol d
me.
Then he mo\ed toward the others, among them the
bl onde woma he had been speakng with a few moments
before and the man in the bl aer from the el evator.
' Don't you thi nk we need some musi c here? ' he aed
them, very loudly, as if he were only there to keep the party
goi ng. ' I' l l go put on a record.'
He di sappeared i nto the next room. Afer a moment, the
voice of a cbttmse came forh.
He sat down wi th the others on the couch. He had al
ready forgotten me.
I t was ti me for me to leave, but I coul dn't tear mysel f
1 24
away from the sound of con\'ersation and laughter comi ng
from the terr.1ce and, from the couch, the voices of Dari us
and hi s guests occasi onal l y breaking through the musi c. I
coul dn't qui te make out what they were sayi ng, and I let
mysel f be l ul l ed by the song.
Someone was ri ngi ng the doorbel l . Darius stood up and
walked toward the front door. He smi l ed at me as he passed
by. The others went on tal ki ng, and in the heat of the di scus
si on the man i n the bl azer was making broad gesmres, as if
he were tryi ng to c01wince them of somethi ng.
Voi ces i n the entryway. They were comi ng nearer. I heard
Dari us and a woma speaing in low tones. I mmed around.
Dari us was standi ng wi th a coupl e, and al l three of them
were at the threshol d of the l i vi ng room. The man was tal l ,
brown-hai rt'(i, weari ng a gray sui t, wi th rather heav fea
tures, his bl ue eyes shal low-set. The woman was weari ng
a yell ow summer dress that lef her shoulders bare.
'\Ve've come too l ate,' the man said. ' E,ei'One has al-
ready lef . . . . '
He had a sl i ght accent.
'No, no,' sai d Dari us. 'They're wai ti ng for us upstai rs.'
He took each of them by the arm.
The woman, whom I had seen i n three-quarters profl e,
mrned around. My heart j umped. I recognized Jacquel i ne.
They were wal ki ng toward me. I stood up, l i ke a robot.
Dari us i ntroduced them to me:
'George and Therese Caisley.'
I greeted them wi th a nod. I l ooked the so-cal l ed Therese
Caisl ey squarel y in the eyes, but she di dn't bl i nk. Apparently
1 25
she di dn't recogni ze me. Dari us seemed embarrassed not
to be able to i ntroduce me by name.
'These arc my downstai rs nei ghbors,' he tol d me. ' I 'm
happy they came . . . . And i n any case, they woul dn't ha\'c
been abl e to sl eep because of the noise . . . '
Cai sley shmggcd:
'Sl eep? . . . But it's sti l l earl y,' he sai d. 'The day is onl y
begi nni ng. '
I tri ed to make eye contact with her. Her gaze was ab
sent. She di dn't sec me, or else she was del i berately i gnori ng
my presence. Dari us led them across the room to the couch
where the others were si tti ng. The man in the bl azer stood
up to greet Therese Cai sl cy. The con\'ersation started up
agai n. Caisley was \'cry talkati \'e. She hung back a l i ttl e, with
a sul l en or bored l ook. I wanted to wal k toward her, take her
aside, and qui etl y say to her:
'Hello, Jacquel i ne. '
But I stood there petri fed, tryi ng to fnd some common
thread connecti ng the Cafe Dante or the Hotel de I a Tour
nelle ffeen years ago to thi s l i ving room with i ts bay wi n
dows open onto the Boi s de Boul ognc. There was none. I 'd
fal len prey to a mi rage. And yet, now that I thought abou
i t, these pl aces were al l in the same ci ty, not so far fro111 each
other. I tried to imagine the shorest possi ble route to the
Cafe Dante : fol low the Boul c\'ard Peri phcriquc as far as the
Left Bank, enter the ci ty at the Pore d'Orleans, then drhe
strai ght ahead toward the Boufe,ard Sai nt - Mi chel . . . . At
that hour, i n August, it woul d hardly ha\'c taken a quarer of
an hour.
The man i n the bl azer was speaki ng to her, and she was
1 26
l i steni ng to hi m i ndi ferently. She'd sat down on one of the
arms of the couch and lit a ci garete. I saw her i n profl e.
What had she done to her hai r? Fi feen years ago it came
down to her waist, and now she wore it a l i ttle abo\'e the
shoulder. And she was smoki ng, but she wasn't coughi ng.
'Wi l l you come up wi th us ? ' Dari us asked me.
He had lef the others on the couch and was standing
wi th George and Therese Caislcy. Therese. Why had she
changed her name?
I fol l owed them onto one of the bal conies.
'You j ust haYe to climb the deck l adder,' said Darius.
He poi nted to a stairay with concrete steps at the end of
the balcom.
'And where arc we seti ng sai l for, captai n? ' asked Caisley,
sl appi ng Dari us's shoulder fami l i arly.
We were behi nd them, side by side, Therese Caisley and
L She smi l ed. But i t was a pol i te smile, the ki nd used for
strangers.
' Ha\e you e\'er been up here? ' she asked me.
'No. NeYer. This is the frst time.'
'The ,icw must be beauti fl .'
She had said these words so col dl y and impersonal ly that
I wasn't eYen sure she was speaking to me.
A l arge terrace. Most of the guests were si tting in beige
canYas chai rs.
Darius stopped at one of the groups as he passed by.
They were si ti ng in a ci rcl e. I was wal ki ng behi nd Caisley
and his wife, who seemed to ha,c forgoten I was there.
They met another couple at the edge of the terrace. The four
1 27
of them stod sti I I ad bgan to tal k. she and Caisley l ean
i ng agai nst the balustrade. Cai sl cy and the t others were
speakng Engl i sh. From time to rme she punctated the
comersation with a shor sentence i n French. I can1e and
rested my el bws on the parapet of the terrace a wel l . She
wa j ust behi nd me. The other three were sti l l speang i n
Engl i sh. Te si nger's ,oice drowned out the murmur of the
comersations ad I bga to whi stle the re
f
rai n o
f
the song.
She tured around.
' Excue me,' I sai d.
'That's all right.'
She smiled at me. te sae ncant smi l e as bfre. And
si nce she wa si l ent agai n. I had no choice but to add:
'LO\el y e\eni ng . . o'
The di scussi on beteen Casle\ ad the to others was
growi ng more ani mated. Caisley had a sl ightl y naal mice.
'\at's epcialy pleasat.' I told her. i s the col breee
coming from the Bois de Boulogne . . . .'
'Yes.'
She got out a pack o
f
cigarettes. rok one. ad ofered me
the pack:
'an ,en much. I don't smoke.'
'You're smar . . . .
She l i t a cigarette with a lighter.
' I\e tried to qui t se,eral rimes,' she tol d me. 'but I j ust
ca't do i t . . . . '
' Dosn't i t mae you cough? '
She seemed surrised by my question.
' I stopped smoki ng. I tol d her. 'bcaue i t made me
cough:
1 28
There was no reaction. She real l y di dn't seem to rccog
mze me.
'
I t's <l shame you can hear the noi se of the Pcriphcriquc
frm here,' I sai d.
' Do you thi nk so? I can't hear it from my aparmen . . . .
And I l i ve on the founh foor.'
'Sti l l , the Pcriphcriquc is a very useful thi ng,' I told her.
'It took me no more than ten mi nutes to drive here from the
Quai de I a Tourcl l c tonight. '
Rut my words had no efect on her. She was sti l l smi l i ng
her col d smi l e.
'Arc vou a fri end of Dari us? '
I t was the same question the woman had asked me i n the
elevator.
'No,' I told her. ' I 'm a friend of a friend of Darius . . .
Jacquel i ne . . . .'
I a\oi dcd makng eye contact with her. I was staring at
one of the streetli ghts below us, beneath the trees.
'I don't know her.'
' Do you spend summers in Pari s? ' I asked.
'My husband and I arc leavi ng for Majorca next week.'
I remembered our frst meeti ng, that wi nter aferoon
on the Pl ace Sai nt-Mi chel , and the l eter she was carryi ng,
whose envelope said: Majorca.
' Your husband doesn't wri te detecti ve newel s, docs he? '
She gave a sudden l augh. I t was strange, because Jac
quel i ne had never l aughed l i ke that.
'\hat on eanh would make you thi nk he writes detective
novel s? '
Fi feen years ago, she had told me the name of an Amcri -
1 29
can \\' ho wrote detecti \'C no\'els and who mi ght be abl e to
hel p us get to Majorca: "IcGi \'cr. Later, I had come across
a tcw of hi s books, and I 'd e\en thought of searchi ng hi m
out and aski ng hi m i f he knew Jacquel i ne by any chance, and
what had become of her.
' I had hi m mi xed up wi th someone else who l i \'cs in
Spai n . . . Wi l l i am "kGi \'Cr e . . .'
For the frst ti me she l ooked straight i nto my eyes, and I
thought I could sec somethi ng conspi ratorial in her smi l e.
' What about you? ' she asked me. ' Do you l i \e i n Pari s ? '
' For now. I don't know i f I ' m goi ng t o stay . . . .'
Behi nd us Caisley was sti l l speaki ng i n hi s nasal \'oice,
and now he was at the center of a \'cry l arge group.
' I can work anyhere,' I tol d her. ' I write books.'
Agai n, her pol i te smi l e, her di stant voi ce:
'Oh real l y? . . . How i nteresting . . . . I 'd very much l i ke
to read your books . . . .'
' I'd be afrai d they might bore you a . e .
'Not at all . . . You' l l ha\'C to bring them to me one day
when \' OU come back to Dari us's . . . . '
'With pl easure.'
Caisley had let his gaze fal l on me. He was probably won
deri ng who I was and why I was tal ki ng to hi s wi tc. He .
came to her and put hi s arm around her shoulders. Hi s shal
low blue eyes never left me.
'Thi s genleman i s a fri end of Darius and he wri tes
books.'
I should ha\'e i nt roduced myself, but I al ways tccl un
comforable speaking my own name.
' I di dn't know Darius had any writer fri ends.'
1 30
He smi led at me. He was about ten wars older than us.
\\"here could she haw met hi m? I n London, maybe. Yes, she
had undoubtedl y stayed on i n London afer we l ost contact
wi th each other.
'He thought you were a writer as wel l ; she sai d.
Cai sl ey was shaken by a l oud burst of l aughter. Then he
stood up straight. j ust as he was before: hi s shoulders stif:
his head hi gh.
' Real ly, that's what you thought ? You thi nk I look l i ke a
wri ter? '
I hadn't ghen the mater any thought. I di dn't care what
this Cai sl ey person di d for a J i , ing. No matter how many
ti mes I tol d mysel f he was her husband, he was i ndisti n
gishable from e\erone el se standi ng on the terrace. We
were lost, she and I , i n a crowd of extras on a mmie set. She
was pretendi ng to kow her par, but I woul dn't be able to
amid gi vi ng myself away. They woul d soon notice that I
di dn' t belong here. I sti l l hadn't spoken, and Cai sley was
looki ng at me cl osely. It was essenti al that I fnd somethi ng
to sa\ :
' I had you mi xed up wi th a American writer who l hes i n
Spai n . . . Wi l l i am lcGhern . . . .
ow I'd bught mysel f some ti me. But it wouldn't be
enough. I urgently needed to fnd other rejoi nders, and to
speak them in a nan1ral and rcl axed tone of ,oi ce so as not to
attract attenti on. My head was spi nni ng. I was afrai d I was
goi ng to be i l l . I was sweati ng. The night seemed sti fi ngly
close, unless i t was only the harsh i l l umi nation of the spot
l i ghts, the loud chatter of the conversations, the laughter.
' Do you kow Spain wel l ? ' Cai sley asked me.
1 3 1
She had l i t another ci garete, and she was sti l l stari ng at
me with her col d gaze. I was scarcely abl e to stammer out :
:o. ot at al l .'
'\\'e ha\"e a house on l ajorca. \\'c spnd more than three
months a war there. '
And the comcrsation woul d go on for hours on thi s ter
race. Empty words, hol low sentences, as i f she and I had
outl i ,ed ourschcs and could no l onger mae e\ cn the
sl i ghtest al l usi on to the past. She was perectly comforable
i n her par. And I di dn't bl ame her: As I went al ong I to
had forgoten nearl y e\crhi ng about my l i fe, and each
time whole stretches of it had fal l en to dust I'd fel t a pleasant
sensati on of l ighmcss.
'And what's your famrite time of year i n fajorca? ' I
asked Cai sl e\'.
I was feel i ng beter now, the ai r was coler, the guests
around us l ess noi sy, and the si nger's \'oicc \cry sweet.
Cai sl cy shrugged.
' E\'cry season has i ts charms i n f ajorca.'
I rrned to her:
'And do \"OU feel the sa1e wa\' ? '
o
She smi led as she had a moment bfore, when I thought I
had gl i mpsed somethi ng conspi ratori al .
'I feel cxactl\' as nw husband docs.'
And then a sor of gi ddi ness came mcr me, and I said to
her:
' I t's fnny. You don' t cough when you smoke anymore.'
Cai sl ey hadn't heard me. Someone had sl apped hi m on
the back and he had rred around. She frowned.
o need to take ether for your cough an111ore . . . .'
1 32
I 'd sai d it l ightl y, as if only maki ng corwersation. She
ga\"e me a look of surpri se. Rut she was as poised as c\er. As
fix Cai slcy, he was tal ki ng to the person next to hi m.
' I di dn't understand what you sai d . . . .
Now she was lookng away, and her gaze had lost i ts ex
pression. I shook my head briskly, try i ng to look l i ke some
one waki ng up suddenl y.
' Excuse me . . . . I was thi nki ng of the book I'm wri ting at
the moment . . . .
'A dctccti \'c no\"cl ? ' she asked me, pol i tely but distrac
tedly.
'Not exactly.'
It was no usc. The surface remai ned untroubled. Sti l l wa
ters. Or rather a thi ck sheet of i cc, i mpossi ble to penetrate
afer ffeen years.
' Shal l we be goi ng? ' asked Caisl cy.
He had hi s arm around her shoulders. He was a masshc
fgre, and she seemed \'cry smal l next to hi m.
' I'm l ca\' i ng too,' I sai d.
'We must say good-ni ght to Darius.'
\ looked for him wi thout success among the dusters of
guests on the terrace. Then we went downstairs to the l i \i ng
room. At the far end of the room, four people were si tti ng
around a table pl aying cards i n si lence. Darius was one of
them.
'\Vei l , ' sai d Cai sl ey, ' i t's ob\'ious that nothi ng can com
pete wi th poker . . . .'
He shook Dari us's hand. Darius stood up and kissed her
hand. I shook hands with Darius i n mrn.
1 33
'Come back whenever you l i ke, ' he told me. 'The door is
always open for you. '
On the l andi ng. I wai ted to take the cl e,ator.
'We' l l s;ty god- bye to you here,' said Caisl ey. '\\'c l i ,c j ust
downstai rs. '
' I l ef my purse i n the car thi s aferoon, ' she tol d hi m.
' I' l l be right b.tck up. '
'\Yel l , good-bye; said Caislcy, with a nonchal ant wa,c of
the am1. 'And i t was very nice meeti ng you.'
He went down the stairs. I heard a door shut. Te to of
us were i n the el c,ator. She l i fed her face toward me:
ly car is down the street a l i tl e, near the park . . . .'
'I know,' I told her.
She was looking at me, her eyes wide.
'Why? Arc you spyi ng on me? '
' I saw you by chance thi s afernoon, geting our of your
car.'
The clcntor stopped, the double doors sl i d open, but she
di dn't mmc. She was sti l l looki ng at me with a sl ightly sur
prised expression.
'You haven't changed much,' she told me.
Te doubl e doors dosed agai n with a metallic sound. She
lowered her head as i f she were tryi ng to shi el d hersel f fom
the l i ght of the cei l i ng l amp in the elc\aror.
'Ad me? Do you think I've changed?'
Her ,oicc was not the same as i t was a whi le ago. on the
terrace; i t was the sl i ghtl y hoarse, sl i ghtl y gra,el l y voice she
used to ha,e.
' Ko . . . Except your hai r and your name . . . .'
134
Te a,enue was si l ent. You coul d hear the trees rstl i ng.
'Do you know thi s neighborhood? ' she asked me.
'Yes.'
I was no longer very sure I di d. ow that she was walk
i ng next to me, I fel t as though I had come to this a\enue for
te frst time. But I wasn't dreaing. The car was sti ll there,
under the trees. I gestred toward it:
' I rented a car. . . . And I hardlv know how to dri,e . . . . '
'I'm not surpri sed . . . +
She had taen my a. She stopped and gave me a smile:
'Knowing you, you probably get the brake mixed up
wi th the accelerator . . . .'
I also fel t as though I knew her wel l , e,en i f l hadn't seen
her for ffeen years ad knew nothing of her l i fe. Of all the
people I'd met up to now, she was the one who had stayed
in my mind the most. As we waked, her ann in mine, I be
gan to convince mysel f that we had last seen each other the
day before.
We came to the park.
' I think i t would be beter i fl drove you home . . . .'
'Fine with me, but your husbad wi l l be expecti ng
you . . . .'
The moment I spoke those words I thought to myself
tat tey rag false.
'No . . . He's probably asleep aready.'
We were si ti ng side by side in the car.
'\\bere do vou l i ve? '
'Not far from here. In a hotel near the Quai de Passy.'
She rook the Boulevard Sucher in the di rection of the
Pore .Mai llot. It was completely the wrong di recti on.
1 35
' I f we sec each other C\'Cr' ffeen \'Cars ' she sai d \ou

,
<
mi ght not recogni ze me next ti meo
What age woul d we be then? Fi f years ol d. And that
seemed so strange to me that I coul dn't hel p murmuri ngg
' Fi f . . +
as a way of gi \ i ng the number some sembl ance of real i t.
She dro\'c, si ti ng a l i tle sti fy, her head hi gh, sl owi ng
down at the i ntersecti ons. E,crhi ng around us was si l ent.
Except the mstl i ng of the trees.
We entered the Rois de Boul ogne. She stopped the car
under the trees, ncar the booth where you board the l i tl e
trai n that runs between the Pone Mai l lot and the Jardi n
dAccl i matation. \ were i n the shadows, besi de the path,
and ahead of us the l ampposts cast a whi te l i ght on the mi n
i anJ re train stati on, the deserted pl atform@ the ti ny wagons
standi ng sti l l .
She brought her face ncar mi ne and bmshed my check
with her hand, as if she wanted to be sure that I was real l y
there, al i \'e, next to her
' It was strange, j ust now,' she sai d, 'when I walked in and
saw you i n the l i \i ng room . . . .'
I fel t her l i ps on my neck. I stroked her hai r. It wasn't as
l ong as i t used to be, but nothi ng had real l y changed. Ti le
had stopped Or rather, it had retured to the hour shown
by the hands of the clock in the Cafe Dante the ni ght we
met there j ust before cl osi ng.
1 36
The next afernoon I came to pick up the car, whi ch I 'd l ef
i n front of the Cai sleys' bui l di ng. Just as I was si tti ng down
behi nd the wheel I saw Darius walking along the a\enue
i n the bright sunl i ght. He was weari ng beige shors, a red
pol o shirt, and sungl asses. I wa\'ed my arm at hi m. He
didn't seem at al l surprised to fnd me there.
'Hot day, i sn't it? . . . Would you l i ke to come up for a
drink? '
I turned down t he ofer on t he pretext that I was meeti ng
someone.
' E\'eryone's abandoni ng me . . . . The Caisleys l ef thi s
morni ng for Majorca . . . . They're smar . . . . It's ri di culous
to spend August i n Paris . . . . '
Yesterday, she'd told me she woul dn't be lea\i ng unti l
next week. Once agai n she'd sl ipped away from me. I was
expecti ng i t.
He leaned mer the door of the car:
'Al l the same, drop by some e\'eni ng . . . . \Ve\e got to
sti ck together i n August . . . .'
Despi te hi s smi l e, he seemed \'agucly anxi ous. Somethi ng
i n hi s \'oi ce.
'I'l l come,' I tol d hi m.
' Promise? '
' I promi se.'
1 37
I stared the car, but I accelerated too fast in re\'erse. The
car hit the trunk of one of the plane trees. Darius spread his
arms i n a gesture of commi serati on.
I set of toward the Pone d'Auteui l . I was pl anni ng to re
tur to the hotel by way of the quai s along the Sei ne. The
rear fender was probably damaged, and one of the ti res was
rubbi ng agai nst i t. I went as sl owly as possi bl e.
I began to feel a strange sensation, probably because of
the desered sidewal ks, the summer haze, and the si l ence
around me. As I dro\'C down the Boulevard Mur at, my un
easi ness took shape: I had fnal ly di scmercd the nei ghbor
hood where I used to wal k with Jacquel i ne in my dreams.
But we'd nc\'er real l y wal ked together i n this area, or el se i t
was i n another l i fe. My hear beat faster, l i ke a pendul um
ncar a magnetic fel d, unti l I came out onto the Pl ace de I a
Pore-de-Sai nt-Cl oud. I recogni zed the fountai ns i n the
mi ddl e of the square. I was sure that Jacquel i ne and I usual l y
tured down a street to the ri ght, behi nd the church, but I
coul dn't fnd it thi s aferoon.
1 38
Another ffeen years have gone by, al l rnni ng together i n
the fog, and 1\c heard nothi ng from Therese Caislcy. There
was no answer at the tel ephone number she'd given me, as i f
the Caisleys had ne\cr come back from Majorca.
She mi ght ha,e di ed someti me in the past year. Maybe I
woul d fnd her one Sundav on the Rue Con isar.
It's cl e\en o'clock at night, i n August, and the train has
slowed down to pass through the frst suburban stati ons.
Desered pl atforms under the mauw fuorescent l ights,
\\" here they used to dream of deparures for Majorca and
mari ngal es around the neutral f,e.
Brnoy. Montgeron. Athis-Mons. Jacquel i ne was born
somewhere ncar here.
The rhythmic sounds of the wagons fel l si l ent, and the
trai n stopped for a moment at Vi l l cncuvc-Sai nt- Georges,
before the marshal i ng yard. The fa<adcs on the Rue de
Paris, alongside the tracks, arc dark and shabby. Once there
was a successi on of cafes, movie theaters, and garages along
here. You can sti l l make out thei r signs. One of them i s sti l l
l i t, l i ke a ni ght-l ight, for nothi ng.
1 39