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Patrick Modiano: After the Circus

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Patrick Modiano After the Circus

After the Circus: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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One of the hallmarks of French author Patrick Modiano’s writing is a singular ability to revisit particular motifs and episodes, infusing each telling with new detail and emotional nuance. In this evocative novel the internationally acclaimed author takes up one of his most compelling themes: a love affair with a woman who disappears, and a narrator grappling with the mystery of a relationship stopped short. Set in mid-sixties Paris, After the Circus traces the relationship between the narrator, a young man not quite of legal age, and the slightly older, enigmatic woman he first glimpses at a police interrogation. The two lovers make their uncertain way into each other’s hearts, but the narrator soon finds himself in the unsettling, ominous presence of others. Who are these people? Are they real, or simply evoked? Part romance, part detective story, this mesmerizing book fully demonstrates Modiano’s signature use of atmosphere and suggestion as he investigates the perils and the exhilaration of young love.

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He turned onto Rue Raffet and parked at the corner of Rue du Docteur-Blanche. I would come to know this area better several years later, and more than once I passed by the apartment house where we saw Ansart that evening. It was number 14, Rue Raffet. But topographical details have a strange effect on me: instead of clarifying and sharpening images from the past, they give me a harrowing sensation of emptiness and severed relationships.

We crossed the courtyard of the apartment house. In back was a small, one-story outbuilding. He rang at the door. A stocky, dark-haired man of about forty appeared. He was wearing an open-throated shirt under a tan cardigan. He kissed Gisèle on the cheeks and gave Jacques a hug.

We were in a white room. A blonde girl, twenty-something, was sitting on a red couch. Ansart held out his hand with a wide smile.

“This is Gisèle’s brother,” Jacques said. “And this is Pierre Ansart.”

“Pleased to know you,” Ansart said to me.

He spoke in a deep voice, with a slight working-class accent. The blonde girl stood up and went to kiss Gisèle.

“This is Martine,” Ansart said to me.

The blonde greeted me with a slight nod and a shy smile.

“So, you’ve been hiding this brother of yours from us?” said Ansart.

He gazed at the two of us, at her and me, with a sharp eye. Was he taken in by the ruse? All three of us sat in armchairs colored the same red as the couch. Ansart sat on the couch and put his arm around the blonde girl’s shoulder.

“Did you have dinner on Rue Washington?”

Jacques nodded. A staircase spiraled up at the back of the room. Via the closed trap door, one could access what was probably the bedroom. To the left, the living room communicated with a large kitchen that must also have served as dining room, in which I noticed, from my chair, the whiteness of the gleaming new appliances.

Ansart caught me looking.

“It’s a former garage that I converted into an apartment.”

“It’s very nice,” I said.

“Would you like something to drink? Some herb tea?”

The blonde girl got up and walked to the kitchen.

“Four herb teas, Martine,” Ansart said with paternalistic authority.

His eyes were still fixed on me, as if he were trying to gauge whom he was dealing with.

“You’re very young …”

“I’m twenty-one.”

I repeated my lie from the day before. She had removed her sunglasses and was staring at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“He’s a student,” Jacques said, looking at me as well.

I was embarrassed to be the focus of their attention. I started wondering what I was doing there, amid these people I didn’t know. Even she — I didn’t know her any better than the others.

“A student of what?” Ansart asked.

“Literature,” said Jacques.

The blonde girl came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray that she set on the carpet among us. With graceful movements, she handed each of us a cup of tea.

“And when will you be finished with your studies?” Ansart asked me.

“In two or three years.”

“Meantime, I suppose it’s your parents who provide for you …”

His eyes were still fixed on me, as if I were some kind of curious specimen. I thought I discerned in Ansart’s voice an amused contempt.

“You’re lucky to have such good parents to help you out …”

He’d said it with a touch of bitterness and his gaze clouded over.

What could I reply? I briefly thought of my father and his escape to Switzerland, Grabley, the empty apartment, Dell’Aversano, my mother somewhere in southern Spain … All things considered, it was better to have him think of me as a nice young man being supported by his parents.

“You’re wrong,” she said suddenly. “Nobody’s helping him out. My brother’s making his own way …”

I was moved that she’d come to my rescue. I had forgotten we were brother and sister, and so naturally we had the same parents.

“Besides, we don’t have any family left. It simplifies things …”

Ansart gave us a wide smile.

“My poor children …”

The atmosphere relaxed. The blonde girl poured some more tea into our empty cups. She seemed very fond of Gisèle and called her tu.

“Are you going by the restaurant this evening?”Jacques asked.

“Yes,” said Ansart.

Gisèle turned to me.

“Pierre owns a small restaurant in the neighborhood.”

“Oh, it’s nothing much,” Ansart said. “The place was on the skids and I took it over, no good reason, just for fun …”

“We’ll take you for dinner there some evening,” said Jacques.

“I don’t know if my brother will come. He never goes out.”

She had used a firm tone of voice, as if she wanted to protect me from them.

“But it would be so nice to go out, just the four of us,” the blonde girl said.

She rested her candid gaze first on Gisèle, then on me. She seemed to wish us well.

“Lucien and I have to get back to Saint-Leu-la-Forêt,” Gisèle said.

“Can’t you stay just a little longer?” Jacques said.

I took a deep breath and said in a firm voice, “No, we really should be going. My sister and I have been having problems with the house …”

She had surely mentioned the house in Saint-Leu-la-Forêt. Perhaps she had told them details I didn’t know about.

“So, are you taking the car?” Jacques asked.

“Yes.”

He turned to Ansart.

“I’m lending her my car. You don’t mind if I borrow one of yours, do you?”

“Sure. We’ll go get one from the garage later on.”

We stood up, she and I. She gave the blonde girl a kiss. I shook hands with Ansart and Jacques.

“When will I see you again?” Jacques asked her.

“I’ll call you.”

He seemed dismayed that she was leaving.

“Take good care of your sister.”

He handed her the car keys.

“Careful on the road. If there’s no answer at my place tomorrow, call me at the restaurant.”

For his part, Ansart was looking me over carefully, as he’d done when we arrived.

“I’m very pleased to know you. If you ever need anything …”

I was surprised by his sudden solicitude.

“It can be hard, being your age. I know all too well — I’ve been there myself …”

His eyes wore a sad expression that clashed with his resonant voice and energetic bearing.

The blonde girl saw us to the door.

“We could get together tomorrow, if you like,” she said to Gisèle. “I’ll be home all day.”

On the threshold, in the dim light of the courtyard, the girl’s face looked even younger. It occurred to me that Ansart was old enough to be her father. We crossed the courtyard and she remained standing there, following us with her eyes. Her silhouette stood out against the lit doorway. She looked as if she wanted to come with us. She raised her arm in good-bye.

We had forgotten where the car was parked. We walked down the street, searching for it.

“What if we just take the metro?” she said. “That car is complicated to drive … and besides, I think I’ve lost the keys.”

Her casual tone made me break out in hysterical laughter, which then seized her as well. Soon we couldn’t control ourselves. Our howls echoed down the silent, empty street. When we reached the end of it, we started back up in the opposite direction, on the other sidewalk. We finally found the car.

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