Patrick Modiano - Little Jewel

I was seized by vertigo. I stepped away as far as I could from the handrail and flattened myself against the wall. But I was determined to climb the whole way. In the back of my mind was the voice of Madame Valadier — Véra — telling me about the little girl: ‘I often send her round the block at night…She wants to practise so she’s not frightened anymore.’ Well, it was the same for me. I would continue on up, I would go right to Death Cheater’s door, and I would ring the buzzer in bursts until she opened. And, just as the door opened, I would compose myself and say coolly, ‘You shouldn’t use an electric blanket. It’s a really stupid thing to do.’ And I’d watch dispassionately as her face grew pale and distorted with anger. I remembered that she was not keen on people talking to her about mundane details. But that was back when we were in the big apartment, when she wanted to remain mysterious.

I had reached the fourth floor. There were three doors there, too, but the dirty beige paintwork on the doors and walls was flaking off. A light bulb hung from the ceiling. A piece of graph paper was sticky-taped to the left-hand door. In black ink, in messy handwriting, was the word BORÉ.

Rather than climbing a staircase, the impression I had was of having descended into a well. It had taken twelve years for the white door with two panels to become this old flaking door, in the weak light of the bulb, and for the little gold plaque, engraved with the name COMTESSE SONIA O’DAUYÉ, to become nothing more than a scrap of paper from a schoolbook with that unprepossessing name scrawled across it: BORÉ.

I stood in front of the door, without ringing the buzzer. When I used to come home alone to the big apartment near the Bois de Boulogne and ring the buzzer, often no one answered. So I’d go down the staircase and telephone from a café not far along the avenue. The bar owner was kind to me, as were the customers. They seemed to know who I was. They must have found out. One day, one of them said, ‘It’s the little girl from 129.’ I didn’t have any money and they didn’t make me pay for the call. I went into the booth. The phone was too high for me and I had to stand on tiptoes to dial the number: PASSY 15 28. But no one answered at the residence of Comtesse Sonia O’Dauyé.

For a second, I was tempted to ring. I was almost certain she would come to the door. First of all, the apartment was too small for the noise of the buzzer to fade away as it had in the succession of rooms at PASSY 15 28. And also her visitors were so few that she would be on the lookout for any break in her monotonous solitude. Or was she still hoping for a visit from that man who hadn’t come for a while — the one who looked North African…But perhaps her periodic bouts of antisocial behaviour — when she’d lock herself in her room or disappear for several days — had got worse after twelve years.

I placed the envelope on the doormat. Then I scuttled down the stairs. At each landing, I felt lighter, as if I had dodged danger. In the courtyard, I was surprised to be able to breathe again. What a relief to be able to walk on firm ground, the security of the pavement…Just now, in front of that door, it would only have been a matter of a gesture, a step, and I would have been sucked down into the slime.

I had enough change left to take the metro. In the carriage, I dropped onto a seat. After the euphoria of fleeing the apartment block, I was now overwhelmed with exhaustion and despair. As much as I told myself that this woman they called Death Cheater no longer had anything at all to do with me, and wouldn’t even recognise me if we happened to run into each other, I still couldn’t banish my unease. I didn’t get off at Nation, where I should have changed lines, but I was having trouble breathing again, so I left the metro and went up for some fresh air.

I was in front of the Gare de Lyon. It was already dark and the hands on the giant clock showed five o’clock. I would have liked to jump on a train and arrive very early the next morning in the Midi. It wasn’t enough to have left the apartment block without ringing the buzzer on her door. I had to get out of Paris as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I had no more money for a train ticket. I’d given the concierge just about everything in my pouch. What possessed me to pay Death Cheater’s debts? But I did remember that in the big apartment near the Bois de Boulogne I was the only one she’d call on when she didn’t feel well. After disappearing for several days, she would turn up again with her face all puffy, a crazed look in her eyes. Always at the same time of day, five in the afternoon. And always in the same place, in the living room, on the three steps covered in white plush, which made a sort of dais where she had arranged cushions. She would be lying on the cushions, her face hidden in her hands. And when she heard me coming, she always said the same thing, ‘Massage my ankles.’ Later, at Fossombronne-la-Forêt, I used to wake up with a start. In my dreams I heard her hoarse voice telling me, ‘Massage my ankles.’ And, for a few seconds, I thought I was still in the big apartment. It was all going to start happening again.

I didn’t feel brave enough to go back down into the metro. I decided to walk home. But I headed off aimlessly, caught up in my own thoughts. I soon realised that I was going round and round the same few connecting streets, all with huge apartment blocks, just beyond the station. Then, at the end of one of those streets, I came out on Boulevard Diderot, from where you can see the passengers coming and going around the station, as well as the illuminated signs: Café Européen.

And Hotel Terminus. I told myself that I should have rented a room in that neighbourhood. Life is completely different when you live near a railway station. It feels as if you’re just passing through. Everything is temporary. One day or another, you’ll hop on a train. In those neighbourhoods, the future is at your doorstep. All the same, the giant clock face brought back something buried in my past. I think I learned how to tell the time from that clock, back when I was called Little Jewel. I’d already started taking the metro then. It was a direct line from Porte Maillot to Gare de Lyon. I counted the fourteen stations as they passed, so I wouldn’t make a mistake. And I would get off at Gare de Lyon, just as I had done earlier today. When I arrived at the top of the steps, I used to check the giant clock face to see that I wasn’t late. He would wait for me at the entrance to the metro. Or sometimes at an outside table at the Café Européen. He was my uncle, my mother’s brother, or half-brother. At least that’s how she introduced him to me. And I often heard her say on the phone, ‘My brother will take care of that…I’ll send my brother over to you…’ Sometimes he looked after me while my mother was away. He would sleep over at the apartment, and take me to school in the morning. Soon I went by myself, then less and less often…On Thursdays and Sundays, I took the metro to the Gare de Lyon to meet him. In the beginning, he would come and pick me up from the apartment in the morning. My mother had told him that he didn’t need to go out of his way for me and that I could catch the metro by myself…I don’t think he dared defy her wishes, but sometimes, without telling her, he’d wait for me downstairs, outside the apartment block.

It was the first time in ages that I’d walked in that neighbourhood. Was he still living around here? We used to head away from the Gare de Lyon, then turn left into one of the little streets I’d been wandering earlier. At the end of the street, we’d arrive at a tree-lined avenue, where we went into a garage that was always empty. We climbed a staircase to an apartment. We crossed a lobby that opened into a room, in the middle of which was a dining-room table. He didn’t have the same last name as my mother, even though they were — apparently — brother and sister. His name was Jean Borand. There was a photo of him in the biscuit tin and I had recognised him immediately. His name was written in pencil on the back of the photo.