Patrick Modiano - The Night Watch

‘Perhaps a little drink would perk you up, mon petit ?’ suggests the Khedive.

‘This “murky chapter” of history we are living through,’ remarks Ivanoff the Oracle, ‘is like an aphrodisiac to women.’

‘People have probably forgotten the heady scent of cognac, what with the rationing these days,’ sneers Lionel de Zieff. ‘Their tough luck!’ ‘What do you expect?’ murmurs Ivanoff. ‘After all, the whole world is going to the dogs. . But that’s not to say I’m exploiting the situation, cher ami . Purity is what matters to me.’

‘Box caulk. .’ begins Pols de Helder.

‘A wagonload of tungsten. .’ Baruzzi joins in.

‘And a 25 per cent commission,’ Jean-Farouk de Méthode adds pointedly.

Solemn-faced, Monsieur Philibert has reappeared in the living room and is walking over to the Khedive.

‘We’re leaving in fifteen minutes, Henri. Our first target: the Lieutenant, Place du Châtelet. Then the other members of the network at their various addresses. A fine haul! The young man will come with us, won’t you Swing Troubadour? Get ready! Fifteen minutes!’ ‘A tot of cognac to steady your nerves, Troubadour?’ suggests the Khedive. ‘And don’t forget to come up with Lamballe’s address,’ adds Monsieur Philibert. ‘Understood?’

One of the Chapochnikoff brothers — how many of them are there, anyway? — stands in the centre of the room, a violin resting under his chin. He clears his throat and, in a magnificent bass, begins to sing:

Nur

Nicht

Aus Liebe weinen. .

The others clap their hands, beating time. Slowly, the bow scrapes across the strings, moves faster, then faster still. . The music picks up speed.

Aus Liebe. .

Bright rings ripple out as from a pebble cast on water. They began circling the violinist’s feet and now have reached the walls of the salon .

Es gibt auf Erden . .

The singer gasps for breath, it sounds as though another note might choke him. The bow skitters ever faster across the strings. How long will they be able to beat time with their clapping?

Auf dieser Welt. .

The whole room is spinning now; the violinist is the one still point.

nicht nur den Einen. .

As a child, you were always frightened of the fairground whirligigs French children call ‘caterpillars.’ Remember. .

Es gibt so viele. .

You shrieked and shrieked, but it was useless. The whirligig spun faster.

Es gibt so viele. .

And yet you were the one who insisted on riding the whirligigs. Why?

Ich lüge auch. .

They stand up, clapping. . The room is spinning, spinning. The floor seems almost to tilt. They will lose their balance, the vases of flowers will crash to the floor. The violinist sings, the words a headlong rush.

Ich lüge auch

You shrieked and shrieked, but it was useless. No one could hear you above the fairground roar.

Es muß ja Lüge sein . .

The face of the Lieutenant. Ten, twenty other faces it’s impossible to make out. The living room is spinning too fast, just like the whirligig ‘Sirocco’ long ago in Luna Park.

der mir gefällt . .

After five minutes it was spinning so fast you couldn’t recognize the blur of faces of the people below, watching.

heute Dir gehören . .

And yet, as you whirled past, you could recognise a nose, a hand, a laugh, a flash of teeth, a pair of staring eyes. The blue-black eyes of the Lieutenant. Ten, perhaps twenty other faces. The faces of those whose addresses you spat out, those who will be arrested tonight. Thankfully, they stream past quickly, in time with the music, and you don’t have a chance to piece together their features.

und Liebe schwören . .

The tenor’s voice sings faster, faster, he is clinging to the violin with the desperate look of a castaway. .

Ich liebe jeden . .

The others clap, clap, clap their hands, their cheeks are puffy, their eyes wild, they will all surely die of apoplexy. .

Ich lüge auch. .

The face of the Lieutenant. Ten, perhaps twenty other faces, their features recognisable now. They who will soon be rounded up. They seem to blame you. For a brief moment you have no regrets about giving up their addresses. Faced with the frank stare of these heroes, you are almost tempted to shout out loud just what you are: an informer. But, inch by inch, the glaze on their faces chips away, their arrogance pales, and the conviction that glistened in their eyes vanishes like the flame of a snuffed-out candle. A tear makes its way down the cheek of one of them. Another lowers his head and glances at you sadly. Still another stares at you dazedly, as if he didn’t expect that from you. .

Als ihr bleicher Leib im Wasser . . (As her pale corpse in the water)

Very slowly their faces turn, turn. They whisper faint reproaches as they pass. Then, as they turn, their features tense, they are no longer focussed on you, their eyes, their mouths are warped with terrible fear. They must be thinking of the fate that lies in store for them. Suddenly, they are like children crying for their mothers in the dark. .

Von den Bächen in die grösseren Flüsse . .

You remember all the favours they did you. One of them used to read his girlfriend’s letters to you.

Als ihr bleicher Leib im Wasser . .

Another wore black leather shoes. A third knew the names of every star. REMORSE. These faces will never stop turning and you will never sleep soundly again. But something the Lieutenant said comes back to you: ‘The men in my outfit are raring to go. They’ll die if they have to, but you won’t wring a word from them.’ So much the better. The faces are now harder still. The blue-black eyes of the Lieutenant. Ten, perhaps twenty other faces filled with contempt. Since they’re determined to go out with a flourish, let them die!

in Flüssen mit vielem Aas . .

He falls silent. He has set his violin on the mantelpiece. The others gradually become calm. Enveloped by a kind of languor. They slump onto the sofa, into wing chairs. ‘You’re pale as a sheet, mon petit ,’ murmurs the Khedive. ‘Don’t worry. Our little raid will be done by the book.’ It is nice to be out on a balcony in the fresh air and, for a moment, to forget that room where the heady scent of flowers, the prattle of voices, and the music left you light-headed. A summer night, so soft, so still, you think you’re in love.

‘Obviously, I realise that we have all the hallmarks of thugs. The men in my employ, our brutal tactics, the fact that we offered you, with your charming innocent face like the baby Jesus, a job as an informant; none of these things augurs well, alas. .’

The trees and the kiosk in the square below are bathed in a reddish glow. ‘And the curious souls who are drawn to what I call our little ‘HQ’: con-artists, women of ill repute, disgraced police officers, morphine addicts, nightclub owners, indeed all these marquises, counts, barons, and princesses that you won’t find in any almanac of high society. .’

Below, along the curb, a line of cars. Their cars. Inkblots in the darkness.

‘I’m only too aware that all this might seem rather distasteful to a well-bred young man. But. .’ — his voice takes on a savage tone — ‘the fact that you find yourself among such disreputable souls tonight means that, despite that choirboy face of yours,’ (Very tenderly) ‘we belong to the same world, Monsieur.’

The glare from the chandeliers burns them, eating away at their faces like acid. Their cheeks become gaunt, their skin wizened, their heads will soon be as shrunken as those prized by the Jivaro Indians. A scent of flowers and withered flesh. Soon, all that will remain of this gathering will be tiny bubbles popping on the surface of a pond. Already they are wading through a pinkish mud that has risen to their knees. They do not have long to live.