Patrick Modiano - Ring Roads

Grève steered a trolley loaded with aperitifs towards us. We drank vermouth. Murraille told me that I could read a ‘sensational’ article by Alin-Laubreaux in his magazine the following week. His voice took on a confidential tone, as if he had known me ages. Twilight was drawing in. We both agreed that this was the most pleasant time of the day.

The hulking form of Marcheret’s back. Standing behind the bar, Maud Gallas waved to Murraille as we came in. Marcheret turned.

‘How are things, Jean-Jean?’

‘Good,’ Murraille answered. ‘I brought a guest. Actually. .’ he looked at me, frowning ‘. . I don’t even know your name.’

‘Serge Alexandre.’

This was the name I had signed in the hotel register.

‘Well, Monsieur. . Alexandre,’ Marcheret announced in a drawling voice, ‘I suggest you have a porto-flip.’

‘I don’t really drink’ — the vermouth we had had was making me feel queasy.

‘That’s a mistake,’ Marcheret said.

‘This is a friend of mine,’ Murraille said. ‘Guy de Marcheret.’

‘Comte Guy de Marcheret d’Eu,’ corrected the other. Then he turned to me: ‘He has a horror of aristocratic titles! Monsieur likes to think he’s a republican!’

‘And you? A journalist?’

‘No,’ said Murraille, ‘he’s a novelist.’

‘Are you indeed! I should have guessed. With a name like yours! Alexandre. . Alexandre Dumas! But you look miserable, I’m sure a little drink would do you good!’

He held out his glass, almost pushing it under my nose, laughing for no apparent reason.

‘Have no fear,’ Murraille said. ‘Guy is always the life and soul of the party.’

‘Is Monsieur Alexandre dining with us? I’ll tell him stories he can put in his novels. Maud, tell our young friend about the stir I created when I walked into the Beaulieu in my uniform. A very dashing entrance, don’t you think, Maud?’

She didn’t answer. He glared at her sourly, but she didn’t look away. He snorted:

‘Oh well, that’s all in the past, eh, Jean-Jean? Are we eating up at the villa?’

‘Yes,’ Murraille said curtly.

‘With the Fat Man?’

‘With the Fat Man.’

So this is what they called my father?

Marcheret got up. To Maud Gallas: ‘If you feel like a drink later on up at the house, ma chère , don’t hesitate.’

She smiled and shot me a brief glance. We were still very much at the politeness stage. Once I managed to get her alone, I wanted to ask her about Murraille, about Marcheret, about my father. Start by chatting to her about the weather. Then gradually inch towards the true heart of the matter. But I was worried about seeming too obvious. Had she noticed me prowling round them? In the dining-room, I always chose the table next to theirs. Whenever they were in the bar, I would sit in one of the leather armchairs and pretend to be asleep. I kept my back to them so as not to attract their attention, but, after a minute or two, I worried they were pointing at me.

‘Goodnight, Maud,’ Murraille said.

I gave her a deep bow, and said:

‘Goodnight, madame.’

My heart begins to pound as we reach the main road. It’s deserted.

‘I do hope you will like the “Villa Mektoub”,’ Murraille says to me.

‘It’s the finest historic building in the area,’ pronounces Marcheret. ‘We got it dirt cheap.’

They stroll at a leisurely pace. I have the sudden feeling that I am walking into a trap. There is still time to run, to shake them off. I keep my eyes fixed on the trees at the edge of the forest, a hundred yards ahead. If I make a dash for it I can reach them.

‘After you,’ Murraille says, half-ironic, half-obsequious.

I glimpse of a familiar figure standing in the middle of the veranda.

‘Well, well!’ says Marcheret. ‘The Fat Man is here already.’

He was leaning idly against the balustrade. She, lounging in one of the whitewashed wooden chairs, was wearing jodhpurs.

Murraille introduced us.

‘Madame Sylviane Quimphe. . Serge Alexandre. . Baron Deyckecaire.’

He offered me a limp hand and I looked him straight in the eye. No, he didn’t recognize me.

She told us she had just been for a long ride in the forest and hadn’t had the energy to change for dinner.

‘No matter, my dear,’ said Marcheret. ‘I find women much more attractive in riding gear!’

The conversation immediately turned to horse riding. She couldn’t speak too highly of the local stable master, a former jockey named Dédé Wildmer.

I’d already met the man at the bar of the Clos-Foucré; bulldog face, crimson complexion, checked cap, suede jacket and an evident fondness for Dubonnet.

‘We must invite him to dinner. Remind me, Sylviane,’ Murraille said.

Turning to me:

‘You should meet him, he’s a real character!’

‘Yes, a real character,’ my father repeated nervously.

She talked about her horse. She had put it through some jumps on her afternoon ride, something she had found ‘an eye-opener’.

‘You mustn’t go easy on him,’ Marcheret said, with the air of an expert. ‘A horse only responds to the whip and the spurs!’

He reminisced about his childhood: an elderly Basque uncle had forced him to ride in the rain for seven hours at a stretch. ‘If you fall,’ he had said, ‘you’ll get nothing to eat for three days!’

‘And I didn’t fall.’ His voice was grave suddenly ‘. .That’s how you train a horseman!’

My father let out a little whistle of admiration. The conversation returned to Dédé Wildmer.

‘I don’t understand how that little runt has such success with women,’ Marcheret said.

‘Oh I do,’ Sylviane Quimphe smirked, ‘I find him very attractive!’

‘I could tell you a thing or two,’ Marcheret replied nastily. ‘It appears Wildmer’s developed a taste for “coke”. .’

A banal conversation. Wasted words. Lifeless characters. Yet there I stood with my ghosts, and, if I closed my eyes, I can still picture the old woman in a white apron who came to tell us that dinner was served.

‘Why don’t we eat out on the veranda,’ suggested Sylviane Quimphe. ‘It’s such a lovely evening. .’

Marcheret would have preferred to dine by candlelight, himself, but eventually accepted that ‘the purple glow of twilight has its charm’. Murraille poured the drinks. I gathered it was a distinguished vintage.

‘First-rate!’ exclaimed Marcheret, smacking his lips, a gesture my father echoed.

I had been seated between Murraille and Sylviane Quimphe, who asked whether I was on holiday.

‘I’ve seen you at the Clos-Foucré.’

‘I’ve seen you there, too.’

‘In fact I think we have adjoining rooms.’

And she gave me a curious look.

‘M. Alexandre is very impressed by my magazine,’ Murraille said.

‘You don’t say!’ Marcheret was amazed. ‘Well, you’re the only one. If you saw the anonymous letters Jean-Jean gets. . The most recent one accuses him of being a pornographer and gangster!’

‘I don’t give a damn,’ said Murraille. ‘You know,’ he went on, lowering his voice, ‘the press have slandered me. I was even accused of taking bribes, before the war! Small men have always been jealous of me!’

He snarled the words, his face turning puce. Dessert was being served.

‘And what do you do with yourself?’ Sylviane Quimphe asked.

‘Novelist,’ I said briefly.

I was regretting introducing myself to Murraille in this curious guise.

‘You write novels?’

‘You write novels?’ echoed my father.

It was the first time he had spoken to me since we sat down to dinner.

‘Yes. So what do you do?’