Patrick Modiano: Paris Nocturne

ON THE QUAY at the beginning of Rue de l’Alboni were two cafés facing each other. The busier was the one on the right, which sold cigarettes and newspapers. I ended up asking the boss if he knew a certain Jacqueline Beausergent. No, the name didn’t ring a bell. A blonde woman who lived in the area. She’d had a car accident. No, he didn’t think so, but perhaps I could try at the big garage, further along the quay, before the Trocadéro Gardens, the one that specialised in American cars. They had a lot of clients in the area. She had injuries on her face? That kind of thing would stand out. Go and ask at the garage. He wasn’t surprised by my question and he had replied in a courteous, slightly weary voice, but I regretted having said Jacqueline Beausergent’s name in front of him. You have to let others approach at their own pace. No sudden movements. Remain still and silent and blend into the background. I always sat at the most secluded table. And I waited. I was the type of person who would stop at the edge of a pool at dusk and allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness until I could see all the agitation beneath the surface of the still water. Going around the neighbouring streets in the area, I became more and more convinced that I would be able to find her without asking anyone anything. I had to tread carefully in this zone. It had taken me a long time to gain access to it. All my journeys across Paris, the travels during my childhood from the Left Bank to the Bois de Vincennes and the Bois de Boulogne, from south to north, the meetings with my father, and my own wanderings over the years, all of it had led me to this neighbourhood on the side of a hill, right by the Seine, a neighbourhood you could characterise simply as ‘residential’ or ‘nondescript’. In a letter dated some fifteen years ago, but which I received only yesterday, someone had arranged to meet me here. But it wasn’t too late: there was still someone waiting for me behind one of these windows, all identical, on façades of apartment buildings that all looked the same.

*

One morning when I was sitting in the café on the right, at the corner of the quay and Rue de l’Alboni, two men came in and sat at the counter. I recognised the huge brown-haired man straightaway. He was wearing the same dark coat he’d worn on the night of the accident and when I left the Mirabeau Clinic.

I tried to keep calm. He hadn’t noticed me. I could see both of them from behind, sitting at the counter. They were speaking quietly. The other man was taking notes in a pad, nodding from time to time as he listened to the huge brown-haired man. I was at a table quite close to the counter, but I didn’t catch a word of what they said. Why had he seemed like a ‘huge brown-haired man’ the first time I’d seen him, when the woman and I were side by side on the sofa in the lobby and he’d walked towards us? The shock of the accident must have blurred my vision. And the other day, leaving the clinic, I still wasn’t quite feeling myself. In fact, he had a certain elegance, but his low hairline and features had something brutal about them and reminded me of an American actor whose name I’ve forgotten.

I hesitated for a few moments. But I couldn’t let the chance slip by. I got up and propped my elbows on the counter next to him. He half-turned his back to me and I leaned over to attract his attention. It was the other man who noticed that I wanted to talk to him. He tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at me. He turned to face me. I remained silent, but I don’t think it was only out of timidity. I was trying to find the right words, hoping he would recognise me. But he looked surprised and annoyed.

‘Good to see you again,’ I said and held out my hand.

He shook it distractedly. ‘Have we met before?’ he asked, frowning.

‘The last time was not far from here. At the Mirabeau Clinic.’

The other man stared at me coldly, too. ‘Excuse me? I don’t understand…’ There was a trace of a smile on his lips.

‘Where did you say?’

‘The Mirabeau Clinic.’

‘You must be mistaken.’

He looked me up and down, perhaps to gauge the threat I posed. He noticed my left shoe. I had widened the split in my moccasin — for the bandage. If I remember correctly, I had even cut away most of the leather to free my ankle and I wore it without a sock, like the bandages that thoroughbreds sometimes have wrapped around their ankles because of their fragility.

‘It was the accident,’ I said. But he didn’t seem to understand. ‘Yes, the accident the other night…Place des Pyramides…’ He looked at me in silence. I got the impression he was taunting me. ‘Speaking of which,’ I said, ‘I wanted to know if there’s been any news from Jacqueline Beausergent…’

He put a cigarette in his mouth and the other man held out a lighter, without taking his eyes off me either. ‘I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying, sir.’ His tone was quite contemptuous, the way you’d address a homeless person or a drunk.

The boss of the café came over, surprised at the way I was behaving with a customer he seemed to respect — even fear. And it was true that there was something unsettling about this man’s face and his low, dark hairline. And even the tone of his slightly hoarse voice. But he didn’t scare me. Ever since I was a child, I’d seen so many strange men in my father’s company…This man was no more fearsome than the others.

‘I also wanted to let you know…I really don’t need all this money.’ And from the inside pocket of my sheepskin jacket I took out the large wad of notes he had given me when I left the Mirabeau Clinic and which I was still carrying with me. He gave a disdainful flick of the hand.

‘Sorry, sir…That’s quite enough.’ Then he turned back to the man next to him. They continued their conversation in hushed tones, ignoring my presence. I went and sat back down at my table. Behind the counter, the boss stared at me, shaking his head as if to say that my behaviour had been inappropriate and that I had got off lightly. Why? I would have loved to know.

When they left the café, they didn’t even glance over at me. Through the window, I watched them walk along the pavement next to the quay. I thought about following them. No, it was better not to rush things. And already I regretted having lost my composure in front of him. I ought to have stayed in my corner, without attracting his attention, and waited until he left to follow him. And then find out who he was and see if he could lead me to her. But having wasted this chance, I feared I had burned my bridges.

From behind the counter, the boss continued to look at me somewhat disapprovingly.

‘I must have mistaken him for someone else,’ I said.

‘Do you know that man’s name?’ He seemed reluctant and hesitated a moment, then he blurted it out, as if despite himself.

‘Solière.’

He said that I was lucky Solière hadn’t taken offence at my bad manners. What bad manners? A car had knocked me over the other night and I was simply trying to identify and find the driver. Was that unreasonable of me? I think I managed to convince him.

‘I understand…’ He smiled.

‘And who exactly is this Solière?’ I asked.

His smile broadened. My question seemed to amuse him. ‘He’s no choirboy,’ he said. ‘No, he’s no choirboy…’ I could tell from his evasive tone that I wouldn’t get any more out of him.

‘Does he live in the neighbourhood?’

‘He used to live around here, but not any more, I don’t think,’ he said.

‘And do you know if he’s married?’

‘I couldn’t tell you.’

Other customers arrived and interrupted our conversation. He had forgotten about me, anyway. It was presumptuous of me to think he gave a second thought to my exchange with Solière. Customers come and go, they whisper among themselves. There’s shouting too. Sometimes, very late at night, the police have to be called. In all the commotion, the comings and goings, a few faces, a few names stand out. But not for very long.