Patrick Modiano - The Night Watch

Sitting at the piano, Monsieur Philibert pensively fingers a few notes.

‘And yet, mon petit ,’ the Khedive resumes his tale, ‘I’ve always longed for respectability. Please don’t confuse me with the characters you see here. .’

Simone Bouquereau is in front of the mirror, putting on her make-up. Violette Morris and Frau Sultana have their eyes closed. The Oracle, it would appear, is calling upon the celestial bodies. The Chapochnikoff brothers hover around the piano. One of them is winding up the metronome, the other hands Monsieur Philibert a book of sheet music.

‘Take Lionel de Zieff for example,’ hisses the Khedive. ‘The stories I could tell you about that shark! And about Baruzzi! Or Hayakawa! Every last one of them! Ivanoff? A sleazy blackmailer! And Baroness Lydia Stahl is nothing but a whore!’

Monsieur Philibert riffles through the sheet music. From time to time he drums out the rhythm. The Chapochnikoff brothers glance at him fearfully.

‘So you see, mon petit ,’ the Khedive continues, ‘the rats have made the most of recent ‘events’ to come out into the open. Indeed, I myself. . But that’s another story. Appearances can be deceptive. Before long, I will be welcoming the most respectable people in Paris. They will address me as Monsieur le Préfet! MONSIEUR LE PRÉFET DE POLICE, do you understand?’ He turns around and points to the full-length portrait. ‘Me! In my Spahi officer’s uniform! Look at those decorations! The Légion d’honneur . The Order of the Holy Sepulchre, the Order of Saint George from Russia, the Order of Prince Danilo from Montenegro, the Order of the Tower and Sword from Portugal. Why should I envy Monsieur de Bel-Respiro? I could give him a run for his money!’

He clicks his heels.

Suddenly, silence.

Monsieur Philibert is playing a waltz. The cascade of notes hesitates, unfolds, then breaks like a wave over the dahlias and the orchids. He sits ramrod straight. His eyes are closed.

‘Hear that, mon petit ?’ asks the Khedive. ‘Just look at his hands! Pierre can play for hours. He never gets cramp. The man is an artist!’

Frau Sultana is nodding gently. The opening chords roused her from her torpor. Violette Morris gets to her feet and all alone she waltzes the length of the living room. Paulo Hayakawa and Baruzzi have fallen silent. The Chapochnikoff brothers listen, mouths agape. Even Zieff seems mesmerized by Monsieur Philibert’s hands as they flutter feverishly over the keyboard. Ivanoff juts his chin, stares at the ceiling. Only Simone Bouquereau carries on as if nothing has happened, putting the finishing touches to her make-up in the Venetian mirror.

Hunched low over the keys, his eyes squeezed shut, Monsieur Philibert pounds the chords with all of his strength. His playing becomes more and more impassioned.

‘Like it, mon petit ?’ asks the Khedive.

Monsieur Philibert has slammed the lid of the piano shut. He gets to his feet, rubbing his hands, and strides over to the Khedive. After a pause:

‘We just brought someone in, Henri. Distributing leaflets. We caught him red-handed. Breton and Reocreux are in the cellar giving him a good going over.’

The others are still dazed from the waltz. Silent, motionless, they stand precisely where the music left them.

‘I was just telling the boy about you, Pierre,’ murmurs the Khedive. ‘Telling him what a sensitive boy you are, a terpsichorean, a virtuoso, an artist. .’

‘Thank you, Henri. It’s all true, but you know how I despise big words. You should have told this young man that I am a policeman, no more, no less.’

‘The finest flatfoot in France! And I’m quoting a cabinet minister!’

‘That was a long time ago, Henri.’

‘In those days, Pierre, I would have been afraid of you. Inspector Philibert! Fearsome! When they make me préfet de police , I’ll appoint you commissaire , my darling.’

‘Shut up!’

‘But you love me all the same?’

A scream. Then two. Then three. Loud and shrill. Monsieur Philibert glances at his watch. ‘Three quarters of an hour already. He’s bound to crack soon. I’ll go and check.’ The Chapochnikoff brothers follow close on his heels. The others — it would appear — heard nothing.

‘You are truly divine,’ Paulo Hayakawa tells Baroness Lydia, proffering a glass of champagne. ‘Really?’ Frau Sultana and Ivanoff are gazing into each other’s eyes. Baruzzi is creeping wolfishly towards Simone Bouquereau, but Zieff trips him up. Baruzzi upsets a vase of dahlias as he falls. ‘So you’ve decided to play the ladies’ man? Ignoring your beloved Lionel?’ He bursts out laughing and fans himself with his light-blue handkerchief.

‘It’s the guy they arrested,’ murmurs the Khedive, ‘the one handing out pamphlets. They’re working him over. He’s bound to crack soon, mon petit . Would you like to watch?’ ‘A toast to the Khedive!’ roars Lionel de Zieff. ‘To Inspector Philibert!’ adds Paulo Hayakawa, idly caressing the Baroness’ neck. A scream. Then two. A lingering sob.

‘Talk or die!’ bellows the Khedive.

The others pay no attention. Excepting Simone Bouquereau, still touching up her make-up in the mirror. She turns, her great violet eyes devouring her face. A streak of lipstick across her chin.

We could still make out the music for a few minutes more. It faded as we reached the junction at Cascades. I was driving. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda were huddled together in the passenger seat. We glided along the Route des Lacs. Hell begins as we leave the Bois de Boulogne: Boulevard Lannes, Boulevard Flandrin, Avenue Henri-Martin. This is the most fearsome residential section in the whole of Paris. The silence that once upon a time reigned here after eight o’clock, was almost reassuring. A bourgeois silence of plush velvet and propriety. One could almost see the families gathered in the drawing room after dinner. These days, there’s no knowing what goes on behind the high dark walls. Once in a while, a car passed, its headlights out. I was afraid it might stop and block our way.

We took the Avenue Henri-Martin. Esmeralda was half-asleep. After eleven o’clock, little girls have a hard time keeping their eyes open. Coco Lacour was toying with the dashboard, turning the radio dial. Neither of them had any idea just how fragile was their happiness. I was the only one who worried about it. We were three children making our way through ominous shadows in a huge automobile. And if there happened to be a light at any window, I wouldn’t rely on it. I know the district well. The Khedive used to have me raid private houses and confiscate objects of art: Second Empire hôtels particuliers , eighteenth-century ‘follies’, turn-of-the-century buildings with stained-glass windows, faux-châteaux in the gothic style. These days, their sole occupant was a terrified caretaker, overlooked by the owner in his flight. I’d ring the doorbell, flash my warrant card and search the premises. I remember long walks: Ranelagh-La Muette-Auteuil, this was my route. I’d sit on a bench in the shade of the chestnut trees. Not a soul on the streets. I could enter any house in the area. The city was mine.

Place du Trocadéro. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda at my side, those two staunch companions. Maman used to tell me: ‘You get the friends you deserve.’ To which I’d always reply that men are much too garrulous for my taste, that I can’t stand the babble of blowflies that stream out of their mouths. It gives me a headache. Takes my breath away — and I’m short enough of breath already. The Lieutenant, for example, could talk the hind legs off a donkey. Every time I step into his office, he gets to his feet and with an ‘Ah, my young friend,’ or ‘Ah, mon petit’ he starts his spiel. After that, words come tumbling in a torrent so swift he scarcely has time to articulate them. The verbal torrent briefly abates, only to wash over me again a minute later. His voice grows increasingly shrill. Before long he’s chirping, the words choking in his throat. He taps his foot, waves his arms, twitches, hiccups, then suddenly becomes morose and lapses back into a monotone. He invariably concludes with: ‘Balls, my boy!’ uttered in an exhausted whisper.