Night Rounds

by Patrick Modiano

  Now I'm here

  Now there's rhythm

  To wing you away…..

  Frau Sultana was enticing them with shrill cries. Ivanoff waved his "lighter-than-iron rod." They jostled each other, gasped for breath, their dancing grew spasmodic, they upset a vase of dahlias in their path, resumed their wild gesticulating.

  Music is

  the magic potion …..

  The door was flung open. Codébo and Danos held him up by the armpits. The handcuffs were still on him. His face dripped blood. He staggered, collapsed in the middle of the living room. The others remained motionless, waiting. Only the Chapochnikoff brothers moved about, as if nothing was happening, gathering up the fragments of a vase, straightening the flowers. One of them stole toward Baroness Lydia with an offering of orchids.

  "If we ran into this type of wise guy every day it would be pretty rough for us," declared Mr. Philibert. "Take it easy, Pierre. He'll end up talking." "I don't think so, Henri." "Then we'll make a martyr of him. There have to be martyrs, it seems." "Martyrs are sheer nonsense," declared Lionel de Zieff in a gummy voice. "You refuse to talk?" Mr. Philibert asked him. "We won't ask you much longer," murmured the Khedive. "If you don't answer it means you don't know anything." "But if you know something," said Mr. Philibert, "you'd better come out with it now."

  He raised his head. A red stain on the Savonnerie carpet, where his head had lain. An ironic glint in his periwinkle-blue eyes (the same as Saint-Georges'). Or rather contempt. People have been known to die for their beliefs. The Khedive hit him three times. His eyes never moved. Violette Morris threw a glass of champagne in his face. "My dear fellow," whispered Ivanoff the Oracle, "won't you show me your left hand?" People die for their beliefs. The Lieutenant would keep saying to me: "All of us are ready to die for our beliefs. Are you, Lamballe?" I didn't dare tell him that my death could only result from disease, fear, or despair. "Catch!" shouted Zieff, and the cognac bottle hit him squarely in the face. "Your hand, your left hand," Ivanoff the Oracle implored. "He'll talk," sighed Frau Sultana, "he'll talk, I know he will," and she bared her shoulders with an inveigling smile. "All this blood …" mumbled Baroness Lydia Stahl. His head rested once more on the Savonnerie carpet. Danos lifted him up and dragged him out of the living room. Moments later, Tony Breton announced in a hollow voice: "He's dead, he died without talking." Frau Sultana turned her back with a shrug. I van off was off in space, his eyes searching the ceiling. "You have to admit there are still a few gutsy guys around," commented Pols de Helder.

  "Obstinate, you mean," retorted "Count" Baruzzi. "I almost admire him," declared Mr. Philibert. "He's the first I've seen put up such resistance." The Khedive: "Fellows like that one, Pierre, are SABOTAGING our work." Midnight. A kind of torpor gripped them. They settled themselves on the sofas, on the hassocks, in the armchairs. Simone Bouquereau touched up her make-up in the large Venetian mirror. Ivanoff was intently studying Baroness Lydia Stahl's left hand. The others launched into trivial chatter. About that time the Khedive took me over to the window to talk of his appointment as "police commissioner," which he felt certain was imminent. He thought about it constantly. Childhood in the prison colony of Eysses. Then the penal battalion in Africa and Fresnes prison. Pointing to the portrait of M. de Bel-Respiro, he named every single decoration on the man's chest. "Just substitute my head for his. Find me a good painter. As of now, my name is Henri de Bel-Respiro." He repeated, marveling: "Commissioner Henri de Bel-Respiro." Such a thirst for respectability astounded me, for I had recognized it once before in my father, Alexander Stavisky. I always keep with me the letter he wrote my mother before taking his own life: "What I ask above all is that you bring up our son to value honor and integrity; and, when he has reached the awkward age of fifteen, that you supervise his activities and associations so he may get a healthy start in life and become an honest man." I believe he would have chosen to end his days in some small provincial city. In peace and tranquility after years of tumult, agitation, mirages and bewildering turmoil. My poor father! "You'll see, when I'm police commissioner everything will be fine." The others were chatting in low voices. One of the Chapochnikoff brothers brought in a tray of orangeades. Were it not for the bloodstain in the middle of the living room and the array of gaudy clothes, the scene might have passed for a highly respectable gathering. Mr. Philibert was straightening his files and sat down at the piano. He dusted off the keyboard with his handkerchief and opened a piece of music. He played the Adagio from the Moonlight Sonata. 'Melomaniac," whispered the Khedive. "An artist to the fingertips. I sometimes wonder why he spends any time with us. Such a talented fellow! Listen to him!" I felt my eyes swelling uncontrollably because of an intense despair that had drained every tear, a weariness so overwhelming that it sparked my senses. I felt I had always walked in darkness to the rhythm of that throbbing and persistent music. Shadows gripped the lapels of my jacket, pulling me in opposite directions, calling me first "Lamballe," then "Swing Troubadour," pushing me from Passy to Sèvres-Lecourbe, from Sèvres-Lecourbe to Passy, and all the while I hadn't the faintest idea what it was all about. The world was filled indeed with sound and fury. No matter. I went straight through the heart of this turbulence, wooden as a sleepwalker. Eyes wide open. Things would quiet down in the end. The slow melody Philibert was playing would gradually invade everyone and everything. Of that I was absolutely certain. They had left the living room. A note from the Khedive on the console table: "Try to deliver Lamballe as quickly as possible. We must have him." The sound of their motors grew fainter. Then, standing in front of the Venetian mirror, I pronounced ever so distinctly: I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE. I looked myself squarely in the eye, pressed my forehead to the mirror: I am the Princess de Lamballe. Killers trail you in the dark. They grope about, brush against you, stumble over the furniture. The seconds seem interminable. You hold your breath. Will they find the light switch? Let's get it over with. I won't be able to hold out much longer against the dizziness. I'll walk up to the Khedive with my eyes wide open and stick my face right under his nose: I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE, head of the R.K.S. Unless Lieutenant Dominique gets up suddenly. In a somber voice: "There's an informer among us. Someone named 'Swing Troubadour.'" "It's I, Lieutenant.'' I looked up. A moth circled from one light bulb to the next, and to keep his wings from being scorched I turned out the chandelier. No one would ever exhibit such thoughtfulness on my behalf. I had to fend for myself. Mama was faraway: Lausanne. A good thing, too. My poor father, Alexander Stavisky, was dead. Lili Marlene had forgotten me. Alone. I didn't belong anywhere. At either the Rue Boisrobert or Cimarosa Square. On the Left Bank, I concealed my job as informer from those brave boys of the R.K.S.; on the Right Bank, the "Princess de Lamballe" title created some serious problems for me. Who was I really? My papers? A Nansen false passport. Universally unwelcome. My precarious situation kept me from sleeping. No matter. In addition to my secondary job of "recouping" valuable objects, I acted as night watchman at No. 3 bis. After Mr. Philibert and the guests had left, I could have enjoyed the privacy of M. de Bel-Respiro's bedroom, but I stayed in the living room. The lamp under its mauve shade cast deep bands of twilight around me. I opened a book: The Mysterious Knight of Eon. After a few minutes it slipped from my hand. A sudden realization struck me: I would never get out of this mess alive. The wistful harmonies of the Adagio echoed in my ears. The flowers in the living room were losing their petals and I was growing old at an alarming rate. Standing for the last time in front of the Venetian mirror, I saw there the face of Philippe Pétain. I found him far too bright-eyed, too rosy-cheeked, and so I changed into King Lear. Perfectly understandable. Here's the reason: ever since childhood I had been storing up vast reservoirs of tears which I had never been able to release from my body. Tears, they say, are a great comfort, and despite daily efforts, I never experienced this pleasure. So the tears ate out my insides, like an acid, which accounts for my rapid aging. The doctor had warned me: At twenty, you'll be able to double
for King Lear. An incurable disease. In medical terms it's known as PROGERIA. I should have liked to paint a more dashing picture of myself. Am I to blame? I started out with impeccable health and indestructible morals, but I've known great sorrow. So painful that I couldn't sleep. From staying open so long, my eyes became extraordinarily enlarged. They reach down to my jaw. One other thing: this PROGERIA of mine is contagious. If I so much as glance at or touch an object it crumbles to dust. In the living room the flowers were withering. The champagne glasses scattered over the console table, the desk, and the mantel suggested some celebration far in the past. Perhaps the ball on June 20, 1896, that M. de Bel-Respiro gave in honor of Camille du Gast, the cakewalk dancer. A forgotten umbrella, Turkish cigarette stubs, a half-finished orangeade. Was that Philibert playing the piano just a while ago? Or Mlle Mylo d'Arcille, who had died some sixty years before? The bloodstain brought me back to more current problems. I didn't know the poor devil's name. He looked like Saint-Georges. While they were working him over he had lost his pen and a handkerchief with the initials C.F.: the only traces of his presence on earth. …

  I opened the window. A summer night so blue, so warm, that it seemed unreal and suddenly brought to my mind phrases like "give up the ghost" and "breathe one last sigh." The world was dying of consumption. A very mild, lingering death. The sirens wailed announcing an air raid. After that I could hear only a muffled drumroll. It lasted two or three hours. Phosphorus bombs. By dawn Paris would be a mass of debris. Too bad. Everything I loved about my city had long since ceased to exist: the Petite Ceinture railway, the Ternes balloon, the Pompeian Villa, and the Chinese Baths. You end up taking the disappearance of things for granted. The bombers would spare nothing. On the desk I arranged the playing pieces from a mah-jongg set that belonged to the son of the house. The walls trembled. They'd collapse any minute. But I hadn't finished what I was saying. From this old age and solitude of mine, something would blossom, like a bubble on the tip of a straw. I waited. It took shape all at once: a red-headed giant, unquestionably blind, since he wore dark glasses. A little girl with a wrinkled face. I called them Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. Wretched. Sickly. Always silent. A word, a gesture would have been enough to break them. What would have happened to them without me? I found at last the best of reasons to go on living. I loved my poor monsters. I would take care of them … No one would be able to harm them. The money I earned at Cimarosa Square for informing and looting assured them a comfortable life. Coco Lacour. Esmeralda. I chose the two most miserable creatures on earth, but there was no sentimentality in my love. I would have bashed in the face of anyone who dared to make the slightest disparaging remark about them. The mere thought of it threw me into a murderous rage. Clusters of searing sparks scorched my eyes. I was choking. No one would lay a finger on my two children. My pent-up grief burst in a towering wave, and my love took strength from it. No living thing could resist its erosive power. A love so devastating that kings, conquerors, and "great men" changed into sick children before my eyes. Attila, Napoleon, Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, Harun al­Rashid, and others of whose fabled feats I had heard. How puny and pitiful they seemed, these so-called titans. Absolutely harmless. To such a degree that as I bent over Esmeralda's face I wondered whether I wasn't gazing at Hitler. A slip of a girl, abandoned. She was blowing soap bubbles with a gadget I had just given her. Coco Lacour was lighting his cigar. From the very first time I met them they had never said a word. Mutes, undoubtedly. Esmeralda stared in disbelief at the bubbles bursting against the chandelier. Coco Lacour was totally absorbed in blowing smoke rings. Humble pleasures. I loved these sickly charges of mine. I enjoyed their company. Not that I found these two creatures any more moving or defenseless than the majority of mankind. EVERY HUMAN BEING left me with a sense of maternal and hopeless compassion. But Coco Lacour and Esmeralda at least kept silent. They never moved. Silence, immobility, after having to put up with so many pointless exclamations and gesticulations. I felt no need to speak to them. What would be the purpose? They were deaf. And that was all to the good. Were I to confide my grief to a fellow man, he would desert me on the spot. I don't blame him. And anyway, my physical appearance discourages "soul mates." A bearded centenarian with eyes that are consuming his face. Who can comfort King Lear? One day during a nervous breakdown – as the English Jews put it – I was looking for a shoulder to lean on. Knowing the weight of my sadness, I thought the Colossus of Rhodes was in order. Well, it wasn't. No sooner did I step toward it than it crumbled to dust. No matter. I was soon cheerful again. The important thing was Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. At Cimarosa Square we lived together as a family. I forgot the Khedive and the Lieutenant. Gangsters or heroes, those fellows had worn me out. I never could get interested in what they had to talk about. I was planning for the future. Esmeralda would take piano lessons. Coco Lacour would play mah-jongg with me and learn jazz steps. I wanted to spoil them utterly, my two gazelles, my deaf­mutes. Give them the best education. I couldn't stop looking at them. My love was like my feeling for Mama: she, too, was such a tender thing. Shouldn't do that. It leaves you vulnerable to all the pain of life. Men behave in one of two ways: like flunkeys when they're afraid of you, like murderers when they're free to prey on the defenseless. In any event, Mama was safe: LAUSANNE. As for Coco Lacour and Esmeralda, I was their shield. We would live in a cheerful house. It had always been mine. My papers? Maxime de Bel-Respiro was my name. In front of me, my father's self-portrait. In addition:

  Memories

  in every drawer

  perfume

  in every closet …

  We really had nothing to fear. The confusion and savagery of the world vanished on the doorstep of No. 3 bis. The hours passed, silently. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda would go up to bed. They'd fall asleep quickly. Of all the bubbles Esmeralda had blown, one alone still floated in the air. It rose, hesitantly, toward the ceiling. I held my breath. It broke against the chandelier. So everything was over. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda had never existed. I was alone in the living room listening to the downpour of phosphorus. One last wistful prayer for the quays along the Seine, the Gare d'Orsay, and the Petite Ceinture. Then I found myself at life's end in a part of Siberia called Kamchatka. Its soil bears no life. A bleak and arid region. Nights so endless they bring no rest. Man cannot exist in such latitudes, and the biologists have observed that the human body decomposes into a thousand bursts of laughter: raucous, piercing like the fragments of shattered bottles. Here's the reason: in the midst of this polar desert you feel released from every link you ever had with the world. Death is all that awaits you. Death from laughter. Five in the morning. Or perhaps the close of day. A layer of ashes covered the living-room furniture. I was looking at the kiosk in the square and the statue of Toussaint L'Ouverture. There seemed to be a daguerreotype in front of my eyes. Then I walked through the house, floor by floor. Suitcases scattered about in every room. There hadn't been time to close them. One contained a hat from Kronstadt, a slate-gray tweed suit, the yellowed playbill from a show at the Ventadour theater, a photo autographed by the ice-skating team of Goodrich and Curtis, two keepsakes, a few old toys. I didn't have the courage to rummage through the others. They kept multiplying all around me: in iron, wicker, glass, Russia leather. Several wardrobe trunks lined the corridor. No. 3 bis was becoming a colossal railway baggage depot. Forgotten. This luggage was of no interest to anyone. It held the ghosts of many things: two or three walks in the Batignolles district with Lili Marlene, a kaleidoscope someone gave me for my seventh birthday, a cup of verbena Mama handed me one evening I don't recall how long ago… The small details of a lifetime.

  I would have liked to itemize them all minutely. What good would it do?

  Time hurries by

  and the years run out…..

  One day …..

  My name was Marcel Petiot. Alone with these piles of luggage. No use waiting. The train wasn't coming. I was a young man with no future. What had I done with my youth? The days went by a
nd I heaped them up in utter confusion. Enough to fill some fifty-odd suitcases. Their bittersweet odor made me nauseous. I'll leave them here. They'll mildew right where they are. Get out of this house as fast as possible. Already the walls are starting to crumble and the self-portrait of M. de Bel-Respiro is moldering. Spiders diligently spin their webs among the chandeliers; smoke rises from the cellar. Some human remains are probably burning. Who am I? Petiot? Landru? In the hallway, a reeking green vapor clings to the wardrobe trunks. Get away. I'll take the wheel of the Bentley I left in front of the entrance last night. A last look up at No. 3 bis. One of those houses you dream of settling down in. Unfortunately, I entered it illegally. There was no place there for me. No matter. I turn on the radio:

  Pauvre Swing Troubadour …..

  Avenue de Malakoff. The motor is silent. I glide over calm seas. Leaves are rustling. For the first time in my life I feel absolutely weightless.

  Ton destin, Swing Troubadour …..

  I stop at the corner of Place Victor Hugo and the Rue Copernic. From my inside pocket I take the ivory-handled pistol studded with emeralds that I found in Mme de Bel-Respiro's nightstand.

  Plus de printemps, Swing Troubadour …..

  I place the weapon on the seat. I wait. The cafés along the square are closed. Not a soul in the streets. A black, light II-hp car, then two, then three, then four are coming down Victor Hugo. My heart beats wildly. They approach me and slow down. The first draws alongside the Bentley. The Khedive. His face is just a breath from mine, behind the window glass. He stares at me with gentle eyes. Then I feel as if my lips are curling into a horrible leer. Vertigo. I articulate very carefully so they can read my lips: I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE. I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE. I grab the pistol and lower the window. He watches me, smiling, as if he had always known. I pull the trigger. I've wounded his left shoulder. Now they're following me at a distance, but I know I shan't escape them. Their autos are advancing four abreast. The strongarms of Cimarosa Square are in one of them: Breton, Reocreux, Codébo, Robert le Pâle, Danos, Gouari… Vital-Léca is driving the Khedive's II-hp. I caught sight of Lionel de Zieff, Helder, and Rosenheim in the back seat. I'm back on the Avenue de Malakoff headed for the Trocadéro. A blue-gray Talbot emerges from the Rue Lauriston: Philibert's. Then the Delahaye Labourdette that belongs to ex-Commandant Costantini. They've all gathered at the appointed place. The hunt is on. I drive very slowly. They keep to my speed. It must look like a funeral procession. I'm not hanging on any hopes: double agents die sooner or later after delaying the deadline by countless trips and returns, maneuvers, lies, and acrobatics. Exhaustion takes hold very quickly. There's nothing left to do but lie down on the ground, panting for breath, and wait for the final reckoning. You can't escape men. Avenue Henri-Martin. Boulevard Lannes. I drive at random. The others are about fifty yards behind me. How will they finish me off? Will Breton give me the shock treatment? They consider me an important catch: the "Princess de Lamballe," ringleader of the R.K.S. What's more, I've just taken a shot at the Khedive. My actions must strike them as very peculiar: haven't I delivered over to them all the "Knights of the Shadows"? I'll have to explain that. Will I have the strength? Boulevard Pereire. Who knows? Maybe a few years from now some lunatic will take an interest in this story. He'll give a lot of weight to the "troubled period" we lived through, he'll read over old newspapers. He'll have a hard time analyzing my personality. What was my role at Cimarosa Square, core of one of the most notorious arms of the French Gestapo? And at the Rue Boisrobert among the patriots of the R.K.S.? I myself don't know. Avenue de Wagram.