Patrick Modiano: After the Circus

“And what about a younger man named Jacques de Bavière, does that ring a bell?”

“No.”

“He was a friend of Ansart’s.”

“I didn’t know all of Pierre’s friends …”

“You don’t know what became of him, do you?”

Again that smile.

“Pierre? No. He’s not in Paris anymore, that much I know.”

I stopped talking. I was waiting for him to say what he’d told me the first time: They’re gone, but they will certainly be back.

Through the half-open door, the sun threw bright spots on the walls and empty tables in back.

“So, you were a close friend of Ansart’s?”

His eyes and face took on a sarcastic expression.

“We met in 1943. And that same year, we both got sent to Poissy prison … As you see, this all goes back a while …”

I remained silent. He added:

“But don’t hold it against us. Anyone can make mistakes when they’re young …”

I felt like telling him I’d already come here ten years earlier to ask for news of Ansart and that he hadn’t wanted to tell me. Back then, there were still secrets to keep.

But now, these were all bygones, of no further importance.

“And are you still in touch with the girl?”

I was so startled by his question that I stammered a vague reply. Once alone, on the boulevard, I stupidly broke down in sobs.

We reached the Seine and followed the Quai des Célestins. Rummaging in my pocket for a pack of cigarettes, I realized I’d kept Ansart’s registration card.

“Can you really depend on this guy we’re going to see?” asked Gisèle.

“Yes. I believe he genuinely cares about me.”

Indeed, thinking about it today, I can better appreciate Dell’Aversano’s kindness toward me. He had been moved by my family situation, if such an adjective can be used when your parents completely neglect you. The first time I’d visited him, he had asked some questions about my studies and counseled me to keep at them, no doubt judging that a teenager left to his own devices would come to a bad end. According to him, I deserved better than to fence stolen furniture to some Saint-Paul junk dealer. I had admitted that I dreamed of becoming a writer and had favorably impressed him when I said my bedside companion was a volume of Stendhal’s correspondence called To the Happy Few.

He was sitting at his desk at the back of the shop. He looked at Gisèle and the dog in surprise.

I introduced Gisèle as my sister.

“I have all your information for you,” he said.

My job in Rome with his fellow bookseller didn’t start for another two months.

“Why, had you wanted to leave right away?”

I didn’t dare tell him that we had use of a car, or I’d have had to show him Ansart’s registration and explain the whole story. Perhaps another time … But I did admit that I wanted to go there with Gisèle. Did he really believe she was my sister? I didn’t read any sign of disapproval on his face. He simply turned to her:

“Are you prepared to find work in Rome?”

He asked her age. She told him she was twenty-one. He knew how old I was, and I dug my nails into my palms for fear he’d mention it in front of Gisèle.

“I even know your new address down there … If you like, I’ll ask my friend if you can move in early …”

I thanked him. Would it be possible for my sister to live there with me?

He looked at the two of us more closely. I guessed that he was trying to find a physical resemblance between us and couldn’t.

“That depends,” he said. “Does your sister know how to type?”

“Yes,” said Gisèle.

I was sure she was lying. I really couldn’t picture her sitting at a typewriter.

“My friend will need someone who can type in French … I’ll call him this evening to find out more about it.”

He stood up and invited us to go have coffee. We walked by the car, but I didn’t say anything and Gisèle was my accomplice in silence. Tomorrow, without fail, I’d tell him everything that had happened. I didn’t have the right to hide anything from this man who had been so good to us.

He asked how much longer I could stay in the Quai de Conti apartment.

“Not more than three weeks …”

He couldn’t understand how a father and mother could abandon a boy who was so passionate about literature and whose bedside book was called To the Happy Few. And what astounded him even more was that I considered my parents’ attitude entirely natural, and that it had never even occurred to me to expect any help from them.

“So, you have to be settled in Rome three weeks from now and your sister has to be able to live with you …”

From the way he had pronounced the words your sister, I could tell he wasn’t fooled.

“Does your sister like literature as much as you?”

Gisèle looked embarrassed. In the time we’d known each other, we had never once talked about books.

“I’m making her read To the Happy Few” I said.

“And do you like it?” Dell’Aversano asked.

“Very much.”

She flashed him a winning smile. It was sunny out and the air was warm for the season. We sat at the only sidewalk table left at the café. The clock on the church of Saint-Gervais chimed noon.

“So you know our future address in Rome?” I asked.

Dell’Aversano pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“It’s number 7 on Via Frescobaldi.”

He turned to Gisèle:

“Do you know Rome?”

“No,” Gisèle said.

“So then you weren’t with your brother when he celebrated New Year’s Eve there at age fifteen?”

He smiled at her and she smiled back.

“And this Via Frescobaldi,” I asked, “what neighborhood is it in?”

“Here, I’ll show you.”

Using a ballpoint pen, he drew two parallel lines on the envelope.

“This is the Via Veneto … You do know the Via Veneto …”

I had told him the story of how, on my father’s orders, I’d tried to catch the woman with straw-blond hair and too much foundation who was running away from us.

“You follow Via Pinciana past the gardens of the Villa Borghese …”

He continued drawing lines on the envelope and with the tip of his pen he showed us the way.

“You make a left, still skirting the Villa Borghese, and you come to Via Frescobaldi … And there it is …”

He drew a cross.

“The great thing about the neighborhood is that you’re surrounded by green … Your street is right near the botanical gardens …”

Neither of us could take our eyes off the map he’d just sketched. I was walking with Gisèle, in summer, beneath the shade trees of Via Frescobaldi.

At Quai de Conti, Grabley had left a note on the office couch:

My dear Obligado,

Someone called for you around 2 p.m. A man claiming to be from the police. He left his name, Samson, and a number where you can reach him: TURBIOO 92–00.

I hope you haven’t done something foolish.

Last night, the evening ended better than I expected and we were sorry you weren’t with us. Would you like to join us again this evening, at the Tomate, for the 10:30 show?

Yours, Grabley

I asked Gisèle whether I should phone right away to find out what the man wanted. But we decided he should be the one to call back.

The afternoon was spent waiting, and the two of us did our best to overcome our nervousness. I had crumpled and torn up Grabley’s note on which he’d written, “I hope you haven’t done something foolish.”

“You think they could know what we did yesterday afternoon?”

Gisèle shrugged and smiled at me. She seemed calmer than I was. We spread out the map of Rome on the floor and tried to familiarize ourselves with our new neighborhood, memorizing the names of the streets, monuments, and churches that were near our new home: Porta Pinciana, Santa Teresa, the Temple of Aesculapius, the Colonial Museum … No one would ever find us there.