Patrick Modiano: Little Jewel

Unhappy in September . That was probably the summer when, out of the blue, I found myself alone in the country. The train was packed. I was wearing a label around my neck with an address written on it. What is lost will never be found . In the country, not long after, I received a postcard. It’s in the bottom of the biscuit tin. Casablanca. La Place de France. ‘Lots of love.’ Not even a signature. Large handwriting, the same as in the diary and the address book. In the past, girls of my mother’s age were taught to write in large script. Falling for a non-Frenchman —but which one? Several names that are not French feature in the address book. Be careful at the end of July . That was the month I was sent off to the country, to Fossombronne-la-Forêt. The painting by Tola Soungouroff was hanging on the wall of my bedroom so that, every morning when I woke up, my mother’s eyes were staring at me. After receiving the postcard, I never heard another thing. All that was left was that gaze in the morning, and at night when I was in bed reading, or when I was sick. After a while, it dawned on me that she was staring not at me but into space.

No danger, but exercise caution all the same. The journey will end well . Words you repeat to yourself in the dark for reassurance. The day she went to see the clairvoyant, she probably knew that she was bound to leave for Morocco. And, anyway, it was there in the cards or in the lines of her hand. A journey. She left after I did: she was the one who took me to the Gare d’Austerlitz. I remember driving there, along the Seine. The station was next to the river. Many years later, I noticed that, if I happened to be near the Gare d’Austerlitz, I experienced an odd sensation. Everything suddenly felt colder and darker.

I had no idea where the painting could possibly be. Had they left it in my old room in Fossombronne-la-Forêt? Or else, after all this time, had it turned up, as I’d imagined, in some flea market on the outskirts of Paris? She had written the details of the painter, Tola Soungouroff, in her address book. It was the first name under S. The colour of the ink was different from the other names, the writing was smaller, as if she had wanted to make an effort. I presume Tola Soungouroff was one of the first people she met in Paris. One evening during her childhood, she had arrived at the Gare d’Austerlitz: I was almost certain about that. The journey will end well . I think the fortune teller made a mistake, but perhaps she disguised some of the truth so that her customers wouldn’t be disheartened.

I would have liked to know what my mother was wearing that day at the Gare d’Austerlitz when she arrived in Paris. Not the yellow coat. And I wished I hadn’t lost the picture book called The Old Circus Horse . It was given to me in the country, at Fossombronne-la-Forêt. No, that’s wrong: I think I already had it in the apartment in Paris. And the painting was also hanging on the wall of one of the rooms in that apartment, the huge room with the three steps covered in white plush. The cover of the book featured a black horse. It was doing a lap, it looked like its last, its head bowed; it seemed exhausted, as if about to collapse. Yes, when I saw her crossing the courtyard of the apartment block, the image of the black horse came back to me. The horse was walking around the track and the harness seemed like a huge weight for it to bear. The harness was the same colour as the coat. Yellow.

SOMETIME BEFORE THE evening when I thought I recognised my mother in the metro, I had met a person called Moreau or Badmaev at the Mattei bookshop on Boulevard de Clichy. It stayed open late. I was looking for a detective novel. At midnight, we were the only customers, and he recommended a title on the Noir list. Then we talked as we walked together along the median strip down the boulevard. Occasionally, his voice had an odd intonation that made me think he was a foreigner. Later, he explained that Badmaev was the name of his father, whom he had hardly known. A Russian. But his mother was French. At that first meeting, he wrote his address on a piece of paper, under the name Moreau-Badmaev.

We chatted about this and that. He didn’t tell me much about himself that night, except that he lived near the Porte d’Orléans and that he was only in the neighbourhood by accident. A lucky accident, he said, because he had met me. He wanted to know if I read anything besides detective novels. I accompanied him to the Pigalle metro station. He asked me if we could see each other again. And he said, with a smile, ‘That way, we’ll get to see things more clearly.’

Those words made a strong impression on me. It was as if he had read my thoughts. Yes. I had reached a time in my life when I wanted to see things more clearly.

Everything seemed so confusing from the beginning, from my earliest childhood memories…Sometimes, the memories appeared around five in the morning, at that dangerous time when you can’t get back to sleep. So I waited before going out, to make sure the first cafés would be open. I knew perfectly well that, as soon as I stepped outside, the memories would dissolve like remnants of a bad dream. It’s the same all year round. On winter mornings when it’s dark and the air is crisp, the lights are still shining and the first customers are gathered at the counter like conspirators. They give you the illusion that the day will be a new adventure. And that illusion stays with you for at least some of the morning. In summer, when it’s hot first thing and there’s no traffic, I was always sitting on the terrace of whichever café was already open, and I imagined that all I’d have to do would be to head down Rue Blanche and I would come out at the beach. On those mornings, too, the bad memories dissolved.

The Moreau-Badmaev fellow had arranged for us to meet in a café called Le Corentin, near the Porte d’Orléans. I arrived first. It was seven in the evening and already dark. He’d told me that he couldn’t get there any earlier because he worked in an office. A tall brown-haired fellow came in, about twenty-five, wearing a leather jacket. He spotted me immediately and sat down opposite. I’d been worried that he might not recognise me. He would never know that I was once called Little Jewel. Who still knew, apart from me? And my mother? Perhaps I should tell him, one of these days. In order to try to see things more clearly.

He smiled, and said that he had been worried about missing our meeting. That evening, he had been held up at work later than usual. He told me that his shifts changed from week to week. For now, he was working during the day, but the following week it would be from ten in the evening until seven in the morning. I asked him what his job was. He told me that he tuned into radio broadcasts in foreign languages and wrote up translations and summaries. It was for an organisation, but I didn’t really grasp whether it was connected to a news service or some branch of government. He had got the job because he knew twenty-odd languages. I was very impressed, especially as I only spoke French. But he said it wasn’t that difficult. Once you’ve learned two or three languages, you just need to maintain the momentum. Anyone could do it. And so, what did I do? he asked. Well, at the moment, I survived on occasional part-time jobs, but I still hoped to settle on something. I felt the need of a regular job — especially for my morale.

He leaned over me and lowered his voice. ‘Why? Are you feeling depressed?’

I wasn’t shocked by his question. I hardly knew him, but I felt at ease with him.

‘What exactly are you looking for in life?’ He seemed apologetic about asking such an abstract and earnest question. He stared at me with his bright eyes. I noticed that they were blue-grey. He also had beautiful hands.