Patrick Modiano - In the Café of Lost Youth

“And how about you, are you back in Paris now?”

De Vere smiled at me and shot me a wry look.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Roland. You still answer a question with another question.”

He hadn’t forgotten that, either. He had often teased me about it. He had told me that if I had been a boxer, I would have been a master of the feint and parry.

“I haven’t lived in Paris for quite some time now, Roland. I’ve been living in Mexico. I ought to give you my address.”

The day I had gone to verify whether or not there was ivy on the ground floor of his former building, I had asked the concierge for Guy de Vere’s new address, on the slim chance that she had it. She had simply replied, “Gone with no forwarding address.” I told him about that pilgrimage to Lowendal Square.

“You’re incorrigible, Roland, you and your ivy. You were pretty young back when I knew you, weren’t you? How old would you have been?”

“Twenty.”

“Well, it seems to me that even at that age, you were off in search of lost ivy. Am I right?”

His gaze never left me and a cloud of sadness passed across it. We were likely thinking the same thing, but I didn’t dare mention Louki’s name.

“It’s strange,” I told him. “Back when we used to have our lectures, I went to this café quite often, although it isn’t a café anymore.”

And I motioned to the leather shop a few yards away from us, The Prince de Condé.

“Of course,” he said to me, “Paris has changed a lot over the last few years.”

He studied me, his brows furrowed, as if he were trying to access a distant memory.

“Are you still working on the neutral zones?”

The question came out of nowhere and I didn’t understand what he was referring to at first.

“It was pretty interesting, your text on neutral zones.”

My God, what a memory. I had forgotten that I made him read that text. One evening after one of the lectures at his place, Louki and I had been the last to leave. I had asked him if he might have a book on the Eternal Return. We were in his office and he hunted through a few of the shelves in his library. He finally found a book with a black and white cover, Nietzsche’s Philosophy of the Eternal Recurrence of the Same , which he gave to me, and I spent the following several days reading it attentively. The few typed pages about the neutral zones had been in the pocket of my jacket. I wanted to give them to him in order to get his opinion, but I was hesitant. It was only as we were leaving, on the landing outside his door, that I abruptly made up my mind to hand him the envelope I had filled with the scant pages — all without saying a word.

“You were also very interested in astronomy,” he said. “By dark matter, in particular.”

I never would have dreamed that he would remember that. I was aware that he had always paid close attention to others, but when it was happening, you didn’t really notice.

“It’s too bad,” I told him, “that there isn’t a lecture at Lowendal Square tonight, like there used to be…”

My words seemed to surprise him. He smiled at me.

“And there’s your old obsession with the Eternal Return.”

By this point we were walking up and down that length of sidewalk, and each time, our path led us past the Prince de Condé leather shop.

“Do you remember the night the power was out at your place and you gave your lecture in the dark?” I asked him.

“No.”

“I’ve got to admit something to you. I was inches away from having a crazy laughing fit that night.”

“You should have let it out,” he chided me. “Laughter is infectious. We all would have had a laugh in the dark.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get going. I have to pack my suitcases. I’m leaving again tomorrow. And I haven’t even had time to find out what you’re doing with yourself these days.”

He took a day planner from the inside pocket of his jacket and tore a page from it.

“I’m giving you my address in Mexico. You really should come see me.”

He had suddenly adopted a peremptory tone, as if he wanted to take me along with him and save me from myself. And from the present.

“And what’s more, I’m still giving my lectures over there. Come. I’ll be expecting you.”

He held out the sheet of paper to me.

“You’ve got my phone number there as well. This time, let’s not lose touch.”

Back in the car, he once again leaned his head out the window.

“Tell me… I often think of Louki… I never understood why…”

He was overwhelmed by emotion. This man who always spoke without hesitation, so clearly, he was at a loss for words.

“What I just said is ridiculous. There’s nothing to understand. When we really love someone, we’ve got to accept their role in the mystery. And that’s why we love them. Isn’t it, Roland?”

He drove off abruptly, most likely to cut short his emotions. And my own. He had time only to say, “See you soon, Roland!”

I was left on my own in front of the Prince de Condé leather shop. I pressed my forehead to the window in an effort to see if any trace whatsoever remained of the café: a section of wall, the rear door that led to the telephone, the spiral staircase that led to Madame Chadly’s little apartment. Nothing. Everything was stark and featureless, covered with an orange fabric. And the whole neighborhood was like that. At least there was no longer any reason to worry about running into ghosts. The ghosts themselves were dead. No need for concern on the way out of the Métro at Mabillon. No more La Pergola and no more Mocellini lurking in the window.

I walked with a spring in my step, as if I had arrived in a foreign town on some July evening. I began whistling a Mexican tune, but this fictitious carefree attitude was short-lived. I made my way along the wrought-iron fence that rings the Luxembourg, and the melody from “Ay Jalisco no te rajes” vanished from my lips. A notice was attached to the trunk of one of the great trees whose leaves offer shelter on the way to the entrance to the gardens further along at Saint-Michel. “DANGER. This tree will be cut down soon. It will be replaced by a new one this coming winter.” For a brief second, I thought I was having a bad dream. I stood there, frozen, reading and rereading that death warrant. Someone came over to me and said, “Are you all right, sir?” then he continued on, likely thrown by my blank stare. In this world where I felt more and more like a holdover, the trees were on death row, too. I continued on my way, trying to think of other things, but it was easier said than done. The image of that notice and that tree, condemned to death, was burned into my brain. I tried to picture the faces of the jury and the executioner. I regained my composure. To comfort myself, I pictured Guy de Vere walking along beside me, repeating in his soft voice, “Of course not, Roland, it’s just a bad dream. People don’t murder trees.”

I had passed the entrance gate that led to the gardens and was following the boulevard towards Port-Royal. One night, Louki and I had accompanied a boy of about our age along this stretch, someone we had gotten to know a bit at the Condé. He had pointed out the École des Mines buildings on our right, informing us in a sad voice, as if the admission had been weighing heavily on him, that he went to school there.

“Do you think it’s worth the effort?”

I had felt that he was seeking encouragement from us to pull the plug. I had told him, “Of course not, my friend, don’t bother with it. Time to get on with your life.”

He had turned towards Louki. He was waiting for her advice as well. She had explained to him that ever since she had been refused admission to the Lycée Jules-Ferry, she hadn’t put much stock in schools. I think that had managed to convince him. The next day, back at the Condé, he had told us that he was finished with the École des Mines.