Patrick Modiano - So You Don't Get Lost in the Neighborhood

Daragane listened to her carefully. It was strange to enter into people’s lives so quickly. . He had thought that this would be unlikely to happen to him any longer at his age, through weariness on his part and because of the feeling that other people slowly grow away from you.

“He used to take me to race meetings. . He taught me to gamble. . It’s a drug, you know. .”

All of a sudden, she seemed sad. Daragane wondered whether she might be seeking some sort of support from him, material or moral. And the solemnity of these words that had just crossed his mind made him want to laugh.

“And do you still go and place bets at race meetings?”

“Less and less since he’s been working at Sweerts.”

Her voice had dropped. Perhaps she feared that Gilles Ottolini might walk into the room unexpectedly and catch them both by surprise.

“I’ll show you the notes that he put together for his article. . Perhaps you’ve known all these people. .”

“What people?”

“For instance, the person whom he spoke to you about. . Guy Torstel. .”

Once again, she leant back on the bed and took from beneath the bedside table a sky-blue cardboard folder which she opened. It contained typewritten pages and a book which she handed to him: Le Noir de l’été .

“I’d prefer you to keep it,” he said brusquely.

“He marked the page where you mention this Guy Torstel. .”

“I’ll ask him to photocopy it. That will save me from having to reread the book. .”

She seemed astonished that he should not want to reread his book.

“In a moment, we’ll also go and make a photocopy of the notes he made so that you can take them with you.”

And she pointed to the typewritten notes.

“But all this must remain between ourselves. .” Daragane was feeling slightly uncomfortable sitting on his chair and, so as to appear more composed, he leafed through Gilles Ottolini’s book. In the chapter on “Racecourses”, he came across two words printed in capital letters: LE TREMBLAY. And these words triggered something in him, without him quite knowing why, as though he was gradually being reminded of a detail that he had forgotten.

“You’ll see. . It’s an interesting book. .”

She looked up at him and smiled.

“Have you lived here long?”

“Two years.”

The beige walls that had certainly not been repainted for years, the small desk, and the two windows that overlooked a courtyard. . He had lived in identical rooms, at the age of this Chantal Grippay, and when he was younger than her. But at the time it was not in the eastern districts of the city. Rather more to the south, on the outskirts of the 14th or the 15th arrondissement. And towards the north-east, square du Graisivaudan, which by a mysterious coincidence she had mentioned earlier. And also, at the foot of the butte Montmartre, between Pigalle and Blanche.

“I know that Gilles called you this morning before setting off for Lyon. Did he say anything in particular?”

“Just that we would be seeing one another again.”

“He was frightened that you might be angry. .”

Perhaps Gilles Ottolini was aware of their meeting today. He was reckoning that she would be more persuasive than he at encouraging him to talk, like those police inspectors who take over from one another during an interrogation. No, he had not left for Lyon and he was listening to their conversation behind the door. This thought made him smile.

“I’m being inquisitive, but I wonder why you’ve changed your first name.”

“I reckoned that Chantal was simpler than Joséphine.” She had said this seriously, as if this change of names had been carefully considered.

“I have the impression that there are no Chantals at all nowadays. How did you come across this name?”

“I chose it from the almanac.”

She had placed the sky-blue folder on the bed, beside her. A large photograph was half protruding from it, in between the copy of Le Noir de l’été and the typewritten pages.

“What’s this photograph?”

“A photo of a child. . you’ll see. . It belonged in the dossier. .”

He did not care for this word “dossier”.

“Gilles was able to get some information from the police about the news item that interests him. . We knew a cop who used to bet on horses. . He searched around in the archives. . He came across the photo as well. .”

Once again she was speaking in that same husky voice, surprising in someone of her age, that she had used the other day in the café.

“Do you mind?” asked Daragane. “I’m too high up in this chair.”

He came and sat on the floor, at the foot of the bed. Now they were on the same level.

“Not at all. . you’re uncomfortable there. . Come onto the bed. .”

She leant over to him, and her face was so close to his that he noticed a tiny scar on her left cheek. Le Tremblay. Chantal. Square du Graisivaudan. These words had travelled a long way. An insect bite, very slight to begin with, and it causes you an increasingly sharp pain, and very soon a feeling of being torn apart. The present and the past merge together, and that seems quite natural because they were only separated by a cellophane partition. An insect bite was all it took to pierce the cellophane. He could not be sure of the year, but he was very young, in a room as small as this one with a girl called Chantal — a fairly common name at the time. The husband of this Chantal, one Paul, and other friends of theirs had set off as they always did on Saturdays to gamble in the casinos on the outskirts of Paris: Enghien, Forges-les-Eaux. . and they came back the following day with a bit of money. He, Daragane, and this Chantal, spent the entire night together in this room in square du Graisivaudan until the others returned. Paul, the husband, also used to go to race meetings. A gambler. With him it was not merely a matter of doubling up on your losses.

The other Chantal — the present-day one — stood up and opened one of the two windows. It was beginning to get very hot in this room.

“I’m waiting for a phone call from Gilles. I’m not going to tell him you’re here. You promise me that you’re going to help him?”

Once again he had the feeling that they had agreed, she and Gilles Ottolini, not to allow him any breathing space and to make appointments with him each in turn. But to what purpose? And to help in what way, precisely? To write his article on this old news item about which he, Daragane, still knew nothing? Perhaps the “dossier”—as she had said a moment ago — that file, there, beside her on the bed in its open cardboard folder, would provide him with some explanations. “You promise me you’ll help him?”

She was more persistent and was shaking her index finger. He was not sure whether this gesture was a threat.

“On condition that he informs me exactly what it is he wants from me.”

A loud ringing sound came from the bathroom. Then, a few notes of music.

“My mobile. . That must be Gilles. .”

She went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her, as though she did not want Daragane to hear her talking. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He had not noticed a hat stand, on the wall by the entrance, from which hung a dress that looked to him as though it was made of black satin. A gold lamé swallow had been sewn on either side, beneath the shoulders. Zips shone from the hip and at the wrists. An old dress, probably picked up at the flea market. He imagined her in this black satin dress, with the two yellow swallows.

Behind the bathroom door, long periods of silence and, each time, Daragane thought the conversation was over. But he heard her say in her husky voice: “No, I promise you. .” and this phrase was repeated two or three times. He also heard her say “No, it’s not true” and “It’s much simpler than you think. .” Apparently, Gilles Ottolini was blaming her for something or telling her about his anxieties. And she wanted to reassure him.