After the Circus

by Patrick Modiano

  He imitated my father when he wanted to appear serious and responsible, but it rang even less true than the original.

  “And what sort of young lady is she?”

  His face took on the unctuous expression with which he suggested, every Sunday morning, that I go to Mass with him.

  “First of all, she’s not a young lady.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  I saw on his face the smug, flattering smile of the traveling salesman in some random station bar who over a beer tells you how he got lucky.

  “My girlfriend last night wasn’t too bad either …”

  His tone became aggressive, as if we were suddenly in competition. I no longer remember what I felt at the time, with that seated man, in the empty office that looked as if it had been vacated at a moment’s notice, its furniture and paintings pawned or repossessed. He was my father’s stand-in, his factotum. They had met when very young on a beach on the Atlantic coast, and my father had corrupted this petty bourgeois Frenchman. For thirty years, Grabley had lived in his shadow. The only habit he retained from his childhood and good upbringing was to attend Mass every Sunday.

  “Will you introduce me to your girlfriend?”

  He gave me a complicit wink.

  “We could even go out together, if you like … I’m fond of young couples.”

  I pictured us, her and me, in Grabley’s car as it crossed over the Seine and headed toward Pigalle. A young couple. One evening I’d accompanied him to the Deux Magots, before he headed off on his usual “rounds.” We were sitting near the windows. I had been surprised to see him greet in passing a couple of about twenty-five: the woman blonde and very graceful, the man dark and overly elegant. He had even gone to talk to them, standing next to their table, while I watched from my seat. Their age and appearance marked such a sharp contrast with Grabley’s old-world manners that I wondered what fluke could have brought them together. The man seemed amused by what Grabley was saying, but the woman was more detached. Taking his leave, Grabley had shaken the man’s hand and given the woman a ceremonious nod. When we left, he introduced them to me, but I’ve forgotten their names. Then he’d told me that the “young man” was a “very useful contact” and that he’d met him during his “rounds” in Pigalle.

  “You seem pensive, Obligado … Are you in love?”

  He had gotten up and was standing in front of me, hands in the pockets of his bathrobe.

  “I need to spend all day at the office. I have to sift through the paperwork from seventy-three and move it out.”

  That was an office my father had rented on Boulevard Haussmann. I often used to go meet him there at the end of the afternoon. A corner room with a very high ceiling. Daylight entered through four French windows overlooking the boulevard and Rue de l’Arcade. Filing cabinets against the walls and a massive desk with an assortment of inkwells, blotters, and a writing case.

  What did he do there? Each time, I would find him on the telephone. After thirty years, I happened across an envelope, on the back of which was printed the name of an ore refining company, the Société Civile d’Etudes et Traitements de Minerais, 73 Boulevard Haussmann, Paris 8.

  “You and your girlfriend can come pick me up at seventy-three. We’ll go have dinner together …”

  “I don’t think she’s free this evening.”

  He seemed disappointed. He lit a cigarette.

  “Well, anyway, call me at seventy-three to let me know your plans … I’d love to meet her …”

  I was thinking I had to keep a bit of distance, or else we’d have him on our backs nonstop. But I’ve never been very good at saying no.

  I remained in the office, reading and waiting for her call. She had said early afternoon. I’d set the phone beside me on the couch. When the clock hit three, I felt a vague disquiet that gradually worsened. I was afraid she’d never call. I tried to keep reading, in vain. Finally the telephone rang.

  She still hadn’t recovered the rest of her belongings in Saint-Leu-la-Forêt. We agreed to meet at six o’clock at the Tournon.

  I had time to stop in at Dell’Aversano’s to find out how much he intended to pay me for the fake Monticelli, little Chinese armoire, and chess pieces I’d left with him.

  I crossed over the Pont-Neuf and followed the quays. Dell’Aversano had an antiques shop on Rue François-Miron, behind the Hôtel de Ville. I had met him two months earlier while selecting some used books from the shelves near the shop entrance.

  He was a dark-haired man of about forty, with a Roman face and light-colored eyes. He spoke French with a slight accent. He had told me he imported antiques between France and Italy, but I didn’t ask too many questions about that.

  He was expecting me. He took me for coffee on the quay near the church of Saint-Gervais. He handed me an envelope, saying he’d buy the whole lot from me for seven thousand five hundred francs. I thanked him. I could live for a long time on that amount. Besides, I would soon have to leave the apartment and fend for myself.

  As if he were reading my thoughts, Dell’Aversano asked what I planned to do with my life.

  “You know, my offer still stands …”

  He smiled at me. The last time I’d visited, he had said he could find me a job in Rome, with a bookseller he knew who needed a French assistant.

  “Have you given it any thought? Could you see yourself living in Rome?”

  I said yes. After all, I had no reason to remain in Paris. I was sure Rome would suit me fine. It would be a new life over there. I had to buy a map of the city, study it every day, learn the names of all the streets and squares.

  “Do you know Rome well?” I asked him.

  “Yes. I was born there.”

  I could drop in on him from time to time with my map and ask him about the various neighborhoods. That way, when I arrived in the city, I wouldn’t feel disoriented.

  Would she agree to come with me? I’d talk to her about it that evening. This might solve her problems as well.

  “Did you live in Rome?”

  “Of course,” he said. “For twenty-five years.”

  “On what street?”

  “I was born in the San Lorenzo district, and my last address was on Via Euclide.”

  I wanted to jot down the names of the district and the street, but I would try to remember them and look them up on the map.

  “You can leave next month,” he said. “My friend will find you a place to live. I don’t think the work is very strenuous. You’ll be dealing with French books.”

  He took a long drag on his cigarette, then, with a graceful gesture, as if in slow motion, he brought the coffee cup to his lips.

  He told me that in Rome, when he was younger, he and his friends used to sit in a café and compete to see who could take the longest to drink an orangeade. It often lasted all afternoon.

  I was early for our appointment, so I strolled along the alleys of the Jardin du Luxembourg. For the first time, it felt as if winter were approaching. Up until then, the autumn days had been sunny.

  When I left the park, darkness was falling and the guards were preparing to lock the gates.

  I chose a table at the back of the Tournon. The previous year, this café had been a refuge for me when I frequented the Lycée Henri-IV, the public library in the 6th arrondissement, and the Bonaparte cinema. I would often see a regular patron, the writer Chester Himes, always surrounded by jazz musicians and very pretty blonde women.

  I had arrived at the Tournon at six o’clock, and by six-thirty she still wasn’t there. Chester Himes was sitting on the bench next to the window, in the company of two women. One of them was wearing sunglasses. They were having a lively conversation in English. Customers drank their drinks, standing at the bar. To calm my nerves, I tried to follow the conversation between Himes and his friends, but they were talking too fast, except for the woman with a Scandinavian accent whom I could understand a little. She wanted to change hotels and was asking Himes the name of the place where he’d
stayed when he’d first arrived in Paris.

  I watched for her through the window. It was dark outside. A taxi halted in front of the Tour-non. She got out. She was wearing her raincoat. The driver got out as well. He opened the trunk and handed her a suitcase, smaller than the one from last night.

  She came toward me, suitcase in hand. She seemed glad to see me. She was just back from Saint-Leu-la-Forêt, where she’d been able to recover the rest of her effects. She had found a hotel room for the night. She asked me only to bring the suitcase back to my apartment. She preferred to leave it there, “in a safe place,” with the other one. Again I told her these suitcases must be full of gold bricks. But she answered that they were merely objects of no particular value to anyone, except her.

  I stated, trying to be persuasive, that she had been wrong to take a hotel room, since I could easily put her up at the apartment for as long as she liked.

  “I’m better off at a hotel.”

  I sensed a certain reserve. She was hiding something from me, and I wondered whether it was because she didn’t fully trust me or because she was afraid I’d be shocked if she told me the truth.

  “And what about you, what have you been up to?”

  “Nothing much. I sold some furniture from the apartment to get some money.”

  “Did it work out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you need money?”

  Her pale blue eyes stared at me.

  “That’s stupid. I could lend you some, if you like.”

  She smiled. The waiter came to take our order. She asked for a grenadine, and I followed suit.

  “I’ve put some money aside,” she said. “You can have it.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I think I’ve found a job.”

  I told her about Dell’Aversano’s offer: to work in a bookstore in Rome. I hesitated a moment, then took the plunge:

  “You could come with me …”

  She didn’t seem surprised by my suggestion.

  “Yes … That might be a good idea. Do you know where you’d be living in Rome?”

  “The bookseller I’ll be working for is finding me a place.”

  She took a sip of grenadine. Its color went very well with the pale blue of her eyes.

  “And when are you leaving?”

  “In a month.”

  Silence fell between us. Like yesterday, in the café on Ile de la Cité, I had the impression she’d forgotten my presence and that she might just stand up and leave.

  “I’ve always dreamed of going to live in London or Rome,” she said.

  Her gaze rested on me once more.

  “You can feel safe in a foreign city … No one would know us …”

  She had already made a similar remark in the metro yesterday evening. I asked if there was someone in Paris out to harm her.

  “Not really. It’s because of that interrogation yesterday … I feel like I’m being watched. They ask so many questions … They questioned me about people I used to know, but haven’t seen in ages.”

  She shrugged.

  “The problem is they didn’t believe me. They must figure I still see those people …”

  Some patrons sat down at the table next to ours. She leaned toward me.

  “What about you? How many were there when you were questioned?”

  “Just one. The one who was there when you went in …”

  “I had two. The second one came in later. He pretended just to be dropping by, but he started in with his own questions. The other kept on as well. I felt like a ping-pong ball.”

  “But who are these people you used to know?”

  “I never knew them very well. I just met them once or twice.”

  She could see her answer didn’t satisfy me.

  “It’s like you, when they told you your name was in an address book. You didn’t even know whose it was …”

  “So now you feel like you’re being watched?”

  She knitted her brow and gave me a strange look, as if she’d had a flicker of suspicion. I could guess what she was thinking: she had first seen me coming out of a detective’s office, and three hours later I was still in the neighborhood, sitting at that café table.

  “Do you think I’ve been assigned to keep an eye on you?” I asked with a smile.

  “No. You don’t look like a cop. And you’re too young.”

  She didn’t take her eyes off me. Then her face relaxed and we both burst out laughing.

  This suitcase wasn’t as heavy as the first. Following Rue de Tournon and Rue de Seine, we returned to the river. No lights on in the windows of the apartment. It was about seven-thirty, and Grabley, in the office at 73 Boulevard Haussmann, must still have been organizing those “papers” whose existence I hadn’t even suspected. I had always thought the premises were as empty as the inkwells on the desk and that my father occupied them like a waiting room. And so I’d been surprised, thirty years later, to discover a tangible trace of his presence on Boulevard Haussmann, in the form of that envelope with the name of the ore refining company. But it’s true that a name on the back of an envelope doesn’t prove much of anything: you can read it over and over, and you’re still in the dark.

  I wanted to show her where I had stashed the first suitcase and we climbed the small stairway to the fifth floor. The door of the storage closet opened on the left, just before the bedroom. The closet smelled faintly of leather and sandalwood. I set the suitcase I’d been carrying next to the other and turned off the light. The key to the storage closet was in the lock. I gave it two turns and held the key out to her.

  “You keep it,” she said.

  We went down to the office. She wanted to make a phone call. She dialed a number but there was no answer.

  She hung up, looking disappointed.

  “I’m supposed to have dinner with someone tonight. Would you mind coming along?”

  “If you like.” I had called her by the familiar tu without realizing it.

  She started to add something, but was visibly embarrassed.

  “Could I ask you a big favor? I’d rather you didn’t mention yesterday’s interrogation. And also say you’re my brother.”

  I wasn’t surprised by her request. I was prepared to do anything she asked.

  “Do you actually have a brother?”

  “No.”

  But that was unimportant. The “someone” we were meeting for dinner was not a longtime acquaintance, and it was plausible that she hadn’t yet told him about this brother who lived not far from Paris. Let’s say in Montmorency, right near Saint-Leu-la-Forêt.

  The telephone rang. She jumped. I answered. Grabley. He was still at 73 Boulevard Haussmann and he had put a lot of “files” in order. He had just had my father “on the line” and the latter had instructed him to get rid of all those papers as quickly as possible. He was hesitating between two possible alternatives: either wait until the concierge at number 73 put the building’s garbage out on the curb and then stuff the “files” into the cans, or else simply chuck them down a manhole he’d spotted on Rue de l’Arcade. But in either case, he was afraid of attracting attention.

  “My poor Obligado, I feel like I have to dispose of a corpse …”

  He asked for news of my “girlfriend.” No, the three of us couldn’t get together this evening. She was having dinner at her brother’s, somewhere between Montmorency and Saint-Leu-la-Forêt.

  The taxi dropped us off at the corner of Avenue des Champs-Elysées and Rue Washington. She insisted on paying the fare.

  We walked up Rue Washington on the left-hand side, then entered the first café we came to. Patrons were clustered around the pinball machine near the window, and while one of them was playing, the others chattered noisily.

  We crossed the room. In the back, it narrowed to the dimensions of a corridor, along which, as in the restaurant car of a train, was a row of tables and benches in reddish imitation leather. A brown-haired man of barely thirty stood up as we approache
d.

  She made the introductions.

  “Jacques … My brother, Lucien …”

  With a wave of his hand, he invited us to take the bench, facing him.

  “We could eat here, if you like …”

  And without even waiting for a reply, he raised his arm toward the waiter, who came to take our order. He chose the daily special for us. She seemed not to care about what she would eat.

  He stared at me curiously.

  “I wasn’t aware that you existed … I’m very glad to know you …”

  He stared at her in turn, then turned back toward me.

  “It’s true … I can see the resemblance …”

  But I sensed some doubt in his remark.

  “Ansart couldn’t make it. We’ll see him after dinner.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m feeling a bit tired, and we have to go all the way back to Saint-Leu-la-Forêt.”

  “No problem. I can drive you back in my car.”

  He had a pleasant face and a gentle voice. And there was a certain elegance to his dark flannel suit.

  “So, what do you do for a living, Lucien?”

  “He’s still a student,” she said. “Literature.”

  “I was a student, too. But in medicine.”

  He said this with a note of sadness in his voice, as if it were a painful memory. We were served a plate of smoked salmon and other fish.

  “The owner is Danish,” he said to me. “Perhaps you don’t like Scandinavian food?”

  “No, no, I like it very much.”

  She burst out laughing. He turned toward her.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He used the familiar tu with her. How long had he known her and under what circumstances had they met?

  “Lucien is what’s funny.”

  She jerked her head at me. What exactly was their relationship? And why was she passing me off as her brother?

  “I would gladly have had you over to my place,” he said. “But I had nothing in the kitchen.”

  Having eaten only a few bites, she pushed away her plate.

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “No, not right now.”