Night Rounds

by Patrick Modiano

  At that moment – if I remember correctly – I had a sudden urge to cough. I saw Mama's face again. She was bending over me and whispering in my ear, just as she used to do every night before she turned off the light: "You'll end up on the gallows!" "To your health, Swing Troubadour!" murmured one of the Chapochnikoff brothers, and he touched my shoulder timidly. The others pressed around me, stuck to me, like flies.

  Avenue Kléber. Esmeralda is talking in her sleep. Coco Lacour is rubbing his eyes. It's time for them to go to bed. Neither of them has any idea how fragile their happiness is. Of the three of us, I'm the only one who's worried.

  "I'M SORRY you had to hear those screams, my boy," says the Khedive. "I don't like violence either, but that fool was passing out leaflets. It's a serious matter."

  Simone Bouquereau is gazing at herself once again in the mirror, touching up her face. The others, in a relaxed mood, lapse into a kind of easy conviviality wholly appropriate to the setting. We are in a middle-class living room, after dinner, when the liqueurs are handed round.

  "Have a drink to cheer you up," suggests the Khedive.

  "The 'confused period' we're living in," comments Ivanoff the Oracle, "acts as an aphrodisiac on women."

  "Most people must have forgotten the aroma of cognac, now that rationing's here to stay," sneers Lionel de Zieff. "Their tough luck!" "What do you expect" murmurs Ivanoff. "With the whole world out of kilter … but that doesn't mean I'm profiting from it, my dear fellow. Ideals are what count for me."

  "Calfskin …" begins Pols de Helder.

  "A carload of tungsten …" Baruzzi joins in.

  "And a 25 per cent rebate," Jean-Farouk de Méthode adds pointedly.

  Mr. Philibert, solemn-faced, enters the living room and approaches the Khedive.

  "We're leaving in fifteen minutes, Henri. First stop: the Lieutenant, Place du Châtelet. Then the other ring members at their respective addresses. A fine haul! The young man will go with us. Right, Swing Troubadour? Get ready! Fifteen minutes!" "A cognac for courage, Troubadour?" offers the Khedive. "And don't forget to come up with Lamballe's address," adds Mr. Philibert. "Understand?"

  One of the Chapochnikoff brothers – but how many of them are there, anyway? – stands in the center of the room, a violin poised under his chin. He clears his throat and begins to sing in a magnificent bass:

  Nur

  Nicht

  Aus Liebe weinen

  (Don't weep just for love's sake)

  The others clap to the beat. The player scrapes the strings ever so slowly, quickens his bowing, quickens it further…The music comes faster and faster.

  Aus Liebe

  (For love)

  Luminous circles are expanding as from a stone cast into the water. They began by spiraling out from the violinist's feet … now they have reached the living­room walls.

  Es gibt auf

  Erden…..

  (There is on earth)

  The singer is breathless and seems likely to choke after one last note. The bow races over the strings in a new burst of speed. Will they be able to keep the tempo much longer with their clapping?

  Auf dieser Welt…..

  (In this world)

  The living room is spinning round and round now. Only the violinist remains stationary.

  nicht nur den Einen…..

  (There is not just one)

  As a child, you were always frightened in those whirling contraptions that go faster and faster and are called "caterpillars." Remember…

  Es gibt so viele…..

  (There are so many)

  You used to howl, but it was no use. The caterpillar kept on whirling.

  Es gibt so viele…..

  You insisted on getting into those caterpillars. Why?

  Ich lüge auch…..

  (I lie too)

  They stand up, clapping … The living room is whirling, whirling. It almost seems to be tipping. They'll lose their balance. The vases of Bowers will be smashed on the Boor. The violinist sings in urgent tones.

  Ich lüge auch

  You howled, but it was no use. No one could hear you above the hubbub of the fair.

  Es muss ja Lüge sein

  (It has to be a lie)

  The Lieutenant's face. Ten, twenty other faces there's no time to identify. The living room is whirling much too fast, like the caterpillar called "Sirocco" in Luna Park.

  den ich gewählt…..

  (The one I chose)

  After five minutes it was whirling so fast you couldn't recognize the faces of those who stayed below, watching.

  Heute dir gehören…..

  (Today belongs to you)

  Still, as you swept past, occasionally you could pick out a nose, a hand, a laugh, a set of teeth, or a pair of staring eyes. The Lieutenant's deep blue eyes. Ten, twenty other faces. Those whose addresses you just gave and who will be arrested tonight. Luckily, they rush by in time with the music and you don't have a chance to assemble their features.

  und Liebe schwören…..

  (And vows his love)

  His voice races on even faster, he clutches his violin with the haggard look of a castaway...

  Ich liebe jeden…..

  (I love them all)

  The others clap, clap, clap. Their cheeks are distended, their eyes wild, they will all surely die of a stroke . . .

  Ich lüge auch…..

  (I lie too)

  The Lieutenant's face. Ten, twenty other faces whose features are now discernible. They are about to be arrested. They seem to be calling you to account. For a few minutes you aren't the least bit sorry for giving their addresses. Caught in the fearless stare of these heroes, you're even tempted to scream out at the top of your lungs just what you are: a stool pigeon. But, inch by inch, the glaze on their faces chips away, their arrogance pales, and the conviction that glistened in their eyes vanishes like the flame of a snuffed-out candle. A tear makes its way down the cheek of one of them. Another lowers his head and glances at you sadly. Still another stares at you dazedly, as if he didn't expect that from you….

  Als ihr bleicher Leib im Wasser…..

  (As her pale corpse in the water)

  Their faces rotate, very slowly. They murmur gentle reproaches as they pass. Then, while they're still turning, their faces contract, they ignore you now, and their eyes and their mouths convey a hideous fear. Surely they're thinking of what's in store for them. They've become like those children who cry out for mama in the dark…

  Von den Bächen in die grösseren Flüsse…..

  (From the brooks into the greater streams)

  You recall all the nice things they did for you. One of them used to read you his girl's letters.

  Als ihr bleicher Leib im Wasser…..

  (As her pale corpse in the water)

  Another wore black leather shoes. Another could name every star in the sky. REMORSE. These faces will go on turning forever and you'll never sleep soundly again. But something the Lieutenant said comes back to you: "The guys in my outfit are tough as they come. They'll die if they have to, but you won't wring a word from them." All the better. Once more their faces turn to stone. The Lieutenant's deep blue eyes. Ten, twenty other faces laden with scorn. If they want to die like heroes, let them die!

  Aus der Flüssen in das Meer…..

  (From the rivers to the sea)

  He is silent. He has propped his violin against the mantel. The others gradually quiet down. A kind of languor envelops them. They sprawl over the sofa and arm-chairs. "You're white as a sheet, son," murmurs the Khedive. "Don't worry. The roundup will be handled in a perfectly tidy way."

  It's pleasant to be out on a balcony in the open air and, for a moment, to forget that room where the scent of flowers, the chatter, and the music were making your head churn. A summer night, so soft and still that you think you're in love.

  "Of course, we have all the earmarks of gangsters. The men I use, the brutal tactics, the fact that we took you on as an informer, you with
your pretty little Christ Child dimples; none of this speaks well for us, unfortunately …"

  The trees and the kiosk in the square are bathed in a reddish glow. "And this odd segment of humanity that gravitates toward what I call our little 'drugstore': swindlers, demimondaines, cashiered police officers, drug addicts, nightclub owners, in short, this whole string of marquises, counts, barons, and princesses that you won't find in the social register ..."

  Down below, edging the curb, a line of cars. Theirs. Dark blots in the night.

  "I'm well aware that all this could be rather distasteful to a well-bred young man. But" – his voice takes on a savage edge – "if you're among people as disreputable as these tonight, it means, in spite of your little choir-boy mug …" (Very tenderly.) "It simply means, dear fellow, that we're cut from the same cloth."

  The light from the chandeliers is burning their faces, corroding them like acid. Their features grow cavernous, their skin shrivels, their heads will surely shrink to miniature, like those the Jívaro Indians prize. An odor of flowers and withered flesh. Soon, the only trace of this gathering will be the tiny bubbles that burst on the surface of a pond. They're already wallowing in muddy-pink sludge, and it's rising, it's knee-deep. They don't have long to live.

  "This party's getting dull," announces Lionel de Zieff. "It's time to go," says Mr. Philibert. "First stop: Place du Châtelet. The Lieutenant!"

  "Coming, son?" asks the Khedive. Outside, the blackout, as usual. They split up at random and enter the cars. "Place du Châtelet!" "Place du Châtelet!" The doors slam. They're off like a shot. "No passing, Eddy!" orders the Khedive. "The sight of all these fine fellows cheers me up."

  "And to think that we're keeping this pack of riff-raff!" sighs Mr. Philibert. "Bear with it, Pierre. We're in business with them. They're our partners. For better or worse."

  Avenue Kléber. Their horns are blaring, their arms hang out the car windows, waving, flapping. They weave and tailgate, their bumpers grazing. They're out to see who'll take the wildest risks, make the loudest noise in the blackout. Champs Élysées. Concorde. Rue de Rivoli. "We're headed for a section I know like a book," says the Khedive. "Les Halles, where I spent my teens unloading vegetable carts."

  The others have disappeared. The Khedive smiles and lights a cigarette with his solid gold lighter. Rue de Castiglione. The Obelisk in the Place Vendôme, just barely visible on the left. Place des Pyramides. The car slows down gradually, as if approaching the border. Beyond the Rue du Louvre, the city suddenly seems to cave in.

  "We're entering the 'belly of Paris,'" comments the Khedive. Though the car windows are shut, a stench, unbearable at first and then by degrees more tolerable, makes you want to retch. They must have converted Les Hai les into a slaughterhouse.

  "The belly of Paris," repeats the Khedive.

  The car glides along slippery pavements. The hood is getting all spattered. Mud? Blood? Whatever it is, it's something warm.

  We cross Boulevard Sébastopol and come onto a vast open tract. All the surrounding houses have been razed; the only vestiges are wall beams with shreds of wallpaper. From the little left standing, you can picture the location of the stairs, the fireplaces, the closets. And the size of the rooms. Where the bed stood. Here's where a boiler used to be. There, a sink. Some people preferred flowered wallpaper, others a version of toile de Jouy. I even thought I saw a colored print still hanging on the wall.

  Place du Châtelet. Zelly's, the bar where the Lieutenant and Saint-Georges are supposed to meet me at midnight. What kind of expression shall I put on when they come walking up to me? The others are already seated at tables as the Khedive, Philibert, and I enter. They swarm around us, each trying to be the first to shake our hands. They clutch at us, squeeze and shake us. Some of them smother us with kisses, others caress our necks, still others tug playfully at our lapels. I recognize Jean-Farouk de Méthode, Violette Morris, and Frau Sultana. "How are you?" Costachesco asks me. We push our way through the crowd that has gathered. Baroness Lydia pulls me over to a table occupied by Rachid von Rosenheim, Pols de Helder, Count Baruzzi, and Lionel de Zieff. "Have a cognac?" offers Pols de Helder. "You can't get any more of it in Paris, it sells for a hundred thousand francs a half-pint. Drink up!" He crams the neck of the bottle into my mouth. Then von Rosenheim shoves a cigarette between my lips and flourishes a platinum lighter set with emeralds. The light grows dim, their gestures and voices fade into soft, shadowy stillness, whereupon surging up before me with vivid clarity comes the face of the Princess de Lamballe, a devoted friend of Marie Antoinette's whom a company of "garde nationale" has come to fetch from La Force prison: "Rise, Madam, you must go to the Abbaye." Their pikes and leering faces are right in front of me. Why didn't she shout "LONG LIVE THE NATION!" just as they wanted her to? It would have kept her head from decorating a pike beneath the Queen's window. If one of them pricks my forehead with his pike-head (Zieff? Hayakawa? Rosenheim? Philibert? the Khedive?), that single drop of blood is all it will take to bring the sharks rushing in. Don't move a muscle. Shout it as many times as they want: "LONG LIVE THE NATION!" Strip off your clothes if necessary. Whatever they want! One more minute, Headsman. No matter what the price. Rosenheim shoves another cigarette into my mouth. The condemned man's last? Apparently the execution is not set for tonight. Costachesco, Zieff, Helder, and Baruzzi are exceedingly friendly. They're worried about my health. Have I enough cash? Of course I do. The act of delivering over the Lieutenant and his whole ring will net me about a hundred thousand francs, and with that I'll buy a few foulards at Charvet and a vicuña coat for the winter. Unless they settle my hash in the meantime. It seems that cowards invariably die a degrading death. The doctor used to tell me that every person about to die becomes a music box playing the melody that best describes his life, his character, and his hopes. For some, it's a popular waltz; for others, a march. Still another wails a gypsy air trailing off in a sob or a cry of panic. When it's YOUR turn, precious boy, it will be the clang of a trash can clattering into the blackness of no man's land. And just a while back, when we were crossing that open space on the far side of the Boulevard Sébastopol, I thought: "Here's where your story will end." I remember the gentle slope of the road that brought me to the spot, one of the most desolate in Paris. Everything begins in the Bois de Boulogne. Remember? You were rolling your hoop on the lawn in the Pré Catelan. The years pass, you skirt the Avenue Henri-Martin and wind up in the Trocadéro. Then Place de l'Étoile. An avenue stretches out, lined with glittering street lights. Like a vision of the future, you think: full of promise – as the saying goes. You're breathless with exhilaration on the threshold of this vast thoroughfare, but it's only the Champs-Élysées with its cosmopolitan bars, its call girls and the Claridge, a caravansary haunted by the specter of Stavisky. Dreariness of the Lido. Dismal ports of call, Fouquet and the Colisée. Everything was phony from the start. Place de la Concorde, you're sporting lizard shoes, a polka-dot tie, and the smug assurance of a little gigolo. After turning off into the Madeleine­Opéra district, just as tawdry as the Champs-Élysées, you continue your journey and what the doctor calls your MOR-AL DIS-IN-TE-GRA-TION beneath the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli. The Continental, the Meurice, the Saint­James et d'Albany, where I work as a hotel thief. The wealthy guests occasionally have me up to their rooms. Before it's light, I rifle their handbags and lift a few pieces of jewelry. Farther along. Rumpelmayer's, with its odors of withered flesh. The fags you assault at night in the Carrousel gardens just to filch suspenders and wallets. But the vision suddenly looms clearer: I'm right in the belly of Paris. Where exactly are its borders? All you have to do is cross the Rue du Louvre or the Place du Palais Royal. You head toward Les Hailes down narrow, fetid streets. The belly of Paris is a jungle striped with motley neon signs. All around you, overturned vegetable crates and ghostly figures wheeling giant haunches of carcass. A cluster of wan and weirdly painted faces surge up, then vanish. From here on, anything is possible. They'll rope you into the dirtie
st jobs before letting you have the final payoff. And if, by some desperate, cunning subterfuge, one more last-ditch act of cowardice, you wriggle clear of this horde of foul-mouthed fishwives and butchers lurking in the shadows, you'll go on to die just up the street, on the far side of the Boulevard Sébastopol, right there in that vacant lot. That wasteland. The doctor said so. You've reached your journey's end, and there's no turning back. Too late. The trains aren't running. Our Sunday walks along the Petite Ceinture, the railway line that's idle now … It took us in full circle around Paris. Porte de Clignancourt. Boulevard Pereire. Porte Dauphine. Farther on, Javel…..The stations along the loop had been converted into depots or bars. Some of them had been left intact, and I could almost picture a train coming by any minute, yet for the last fifty years the hands of the clock have never moved. I've always had a special feeling about the Gare d'Orsay, to the point that I wait there for the pale blue Pullmans that speed you to the Promised Land. And since they never appear, I walk across the Pont Solferino whistling a waltz tune. Then I take from my wallet a photograph of Dr. Marcel Petiot in the defense box and, behind him, that whole pile of suitcases crammed with hopes and thwarted plans, while the judge, pointing to them, asks me: "What have you made of your youth?" and my attorney (my mother, as it happened, for no one else would undertake my defense) tries to convince him and the jury that I was "nonetheless a promising youngster," "an ambitious lad," slated for a "brilliant career," so everyone said. "The proof, Your Honor, is that the luggage, over there behind him, is impeccable. Russia leather, Your Honor." "Why should I give a damn about those suitcases, Madame, since they never went anywhere?" And every last one of them condemned me to death. Tonight, you must go to bed early. Tomorrow the whorehouse will be packed solid. Don't forget your make-up and lipstick. Rehearse it once more in the mirror: you must wink your eye with velvety smoothness. You'll run across a lot of perverts who'll want you to do unspeakable things. Those depraved creatures frighten me. If I don't satisfy them, they'll wipe me out. Why didn't she shout: "LONG LIVE THE NATION"? When it's my turn, I'll repeat it as often as they want. I'm the most accommodating whore. "Come on now, drink up," Zieff pleads with me. "Some music?" suggests Violette Morris. The Khedive comes over to me, smiling: "The Lieutenant will be here in ten minutes. Say hello to him as if nothing were up." "Something romantic," Frau Sultana requests. "RO-MAN-TIC" shouts Baroness Lydia. "Then try to take him outside the bar." "Negra noche, please," asks Frau Sultana. "So we can arrest him more easily. Then we'll pick up the others at their homes." "Five Feet Two," simpers Frau Sultana. "That's my favorite song." "Looks like a good haul. Thanks for the information, son." "Well, it's not mine," declares Violette Morris. "I want to hear Swing Troubadour!" One of the Chapochnikoff brothers winds the victrola. The record is scratched. The singer sounds as if his voice is about to crack. Violette Morris beats time, murmuring the words: