After the Circus

by Patrick Modiano

  “You look like something’s bothering you …”

  He took her wrist with a tender gesture. She tried to free herself, but he held fast and she ended up giving in. He held her hand in his.

  “Have you known each other long?” I asked.

  “Hasn’t Gisèle ever mentioned me?”

  “My brother and I haven’t seen much of each other lately,” she said. “He’s been away a lot.”

  He gave me a smile.

  “Your sister was introduced to me about two weeks ago by a friend … Pierre Ansart … Do you know Pierre Ansart?”

  “No,” she said, “he hasn’t met him.”

  She seemed tired all of a sudden, ready to leave the table. But he was still holding on to her hand.

  “Don’t you know what’s going on in your sister’s life?”

  He had spoken this last sentence in a suspicious tone.

  She opened her handbag and took out a pair of sunglasses. She put them on.

  “Gisèle is very private,” I said casually. “She doesn’t confide much.”

  It felt odd to say her name for the first time. Since yesterday, she hadn’t even told me what it was. I turned toward her. Behind her shades, she seemed detached, distant, as if she hadn’t been following the conversation, which, in any event, didn’t concern her.

  He checked his wristwatch. It was ten-thirty.

  “Will your brother be coming with us to Ansart’s?”

  “Yes, but we won’t stay long,” she said. “I have to go back with him tonight to Saint-Leu-la-Forêt.”

  “In that case, I’ll drive you there, then come back to see Ansart.”

  “You don’t seem happy …”

  “Nonsense,” he said curtly. “I’m perfectly happy.”

  Perhaps he didn’t want to argue with her in front of me.

  “There’s no point in you having to go so far out of your way,” she said. “We can take a cab back to Saint-Leu.”

  We climbed into a navy blue car that was parked in the service lane of the Champs-Elysées. She sat in front.

  “Do you have a driver’s license?” he asked me.

  “No. Not yet.”

  She turned back toward me. I could sense her pale blue gaze behind the dark shades. She smiled.

  “It’s funny … I can’t imagine my brother behind the wheel …”

  He started up and drove slowly down the Champs-Elysées. She was still turned toward me. With an almost imperceptible movement of her lips, she blew me a kiss. I leaned my face closer to hers. I was on the verge of kissing her. The man’s presence didn’t deter me at all. I had such a desire to feel her lips on mine, to caress her, that he no longer mattered.

  “You should persuade your sister to use this car. It would save her having to take subways and taxis …”

  His voice made me jump and brought me back to reality. She turned away.

  “You can have the car whenever you like, Gisèle.”

  “Can I have it tonight to get home to Saint-Leu-la-Forêt?”

  “Tonight? If you insist …”

  “I’d like to have it tonight. I need to get used to driving it.”

  “As you wish.”

  We skirted the Bois de Boulogne. Porte de la Muette. Porte de Passy. I had lowered the window slightly and was breathing in a draft of fresh air, the smell of wet earth and leaves. I would have liked to go walking with her down the alleys of the Bois, along the lakes, around the Cascade or the Croix Catelan, where I often went by myself in the late afternoon, taking the metro to escape the center of Paris.

  He turned onto Rue Raffet and parked at the corner of Rue du Docteur-Blanche. I would come to know this area better several years later, and more than once I passed by the apartment house where we saw Ansart that evening. It was number 14, Rue Raffet. But topographical details have a strange effect on me: instead of clarifying and sharpening images from the past, they give me a harrowing sensation of emptiness and severed relationships.

  We crossed the courtyard of the apartment house. In back was a small, one-story outbuilding. He rang at the door. A stocky, dark-haired man of about forty appeared. He was wearing an open-throated shirt under a tan cardigan. He kissed Gisèle on the cheeks and gave Jacques a hug.

  We were in a white room. A blonde girl, twenty-something, was sitting on a red couch. Ansart held out his hand with a wide smile.

  “This is Gisèle’s brother,” Jacques said. “And this is Pierre Ansart.”

  “Pleased to know you,” Ansart said to me.

  He spoke in a deep voice, with a slight working-class accent. The blonde girl stood up and went to kiss Gisèle.

  “This is Martine,” Ansart said to me.

  The blonde greeted me with a slight nod and a shy smile.

  “So, you’ve been hiding this brother of yours from us?” said Ansart.

  He gazed at the two of us, at her and me, with a sharp eye. Was he taken in by the ruse? All three of us sat in armchairs colored the same red as the couch. Ansart sat on the couch and put his arm around the blonde girl’s shoulder.

  “Did you have dinner on Rue Washington?”

  Jacques nodded. A staircase spiraled up at the back of the room. Via the closed trap door, one could access what was probably the bedroom. To the left, the living room communicated with a large kitchen that must also have served as dining room, in which I noticed, from my chair, the whiteness of the gleaming new appliances.

  Ansart caught me looking.

  “It’s a former garage that I converted into an apartment.”

  “It’s very nice,” I said.

  “Would you like something to drink? Some herb tea?”

  The blonde girl got up and walked to the kitchen.

  “Four herb teas, Martine,” Ansart said with paternalistic authority.

  His eyes were still fixed on me, as if he were trying to gauge whom he was dealing with.

  “You’re very young …”

  “I’m twenty-one.”

  I repeated my lie from the day before. She had removed her sunglasses and was staring at me as if seeing me for the first time.

  “He’s a student,” Jacques said, looking at me as well.

  I was embarrassed to be the focus of their attention. I started wondering what I was doing there, amid these people I didn’t know. Even she—I didn’t know her any better than the others.

  “A student of what?” Ansart asked.

  “Literature,” said Jacques.

  The blonde girl came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray that she set on the carpet among us. With graceful movements, she handed each of us a cup of tea.

  “And when will you be finished with your studies?” Ansart asked me.

  “In two or three years.”

  “Meantime, I suppose it’s your parents who provide for you …”

  His eyes were still fixed on me, as if I were some kind of curious specimen. I thought I discerned in Ansart’s voice an amused contempt.

  “You’re lucky to have such good parents to help you out …”

  He’d said it with a touch of bitterness and his gaze clouded over.

  What could I reply? I briefly thought of my father and his escape to Switzerland, Grabley, the empty apartment, Dell’Aversano, my mother somewhere in southern Spain … All things considered, it was better to have him think of me as a nice young man being supported by his parents.

  “You’re wrong,” she said suddenly. “Nobody’s helping him out. My brother’s making his own way …”

  I was moved that she’d come to my rescue. I had forgotten we were brother and sister, and so naturally we had the same parents.

  “Besides, we don’t have any family left. It simplifies things …”

  Ansart gave us a wide smile.

  “My poor children …”

  The atmosphere relaxed. The blonde girl poured some more tea into our empty cups. She seemed very fond of Gisèle and called her tu.

  “Are you going by the restaurant this eveni
ng?”Jacques asked.

  “Yes,” said Ansart.

  Gisèle turned to me.

  “Pierre owns a small restaurant in the neighborhood.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing much,” Ansart said. “The place was on the skids and I took it over, no good reason, just for fun …”

  “We’ll take you for dinner there some evening,” said Jacques.

  “I don’t know if my brother will come. He never goes out.”

  She had used a firm tone of voice, as if she wanted to protect me from them.

  “But it would be so nice to go out, just the four of us,” the blonde girl said.

  She rested her candid gaze first on Gisèle, then on me. She seemed to wish us well.

  “Lucien and I have to get back to Saint-Leu-la-Forêt,” Gisèle said.

  “Can’t you stay just a little longer?” Jacques said.

  I took a deep breath and said in a firm voice, “No, we really should be going. My sister and I have been having problems with the house …”

  She had surely mentioned the house in Saint-Leu-la-Forêt. Perhaps she had told them details I didn’t know about.

  “So, are you taking the car?” Jacques asked.

  “Yes.”

  He turned to Ansart.

  “I’m lending her my car. You don’t mind if I borrow one of yours, do you?”

  “Sure. We’ll go get one from the garage later on.”

  We stood up, she and I. She gave the blonde girl a kiss. I shook hands with Ansart and Jacques.

  “When will I see you again?” Jacques asked her.

  “I’ll call you.”

  He seemed dismayed that she was leaving.

  “Take good care of your sister.”

  He handed her the car keys.

  “Careful on the road. If there’s no answer at my place tomorrow, call me at the restaurant.”

  For his part, Ansart was looking me over carefully, as he’d done when we arrived.

  “I’m very pleased to know you. If you ever need anything …”

  I was surprised by his sudden solicitude.

  “It can be hard, being your age. I know all too well—I’ve been there myself …”

  His eyes wore a sad expression that clashed with his resonant voice and energetic bearing.

  The blonde girl saw us to the door.

  “We could get together tomorrow, if you like,” she said to Gisèle. “I’ll be home all day.”

  On the threshold, in the dim light of the courtyard, the girl’s face looked even younger. It occurred to me that Ansart was old enough to be her father. We crossed the courtyard and she remained standing there, following us with her eyes. Her silhouette stood out against the lit doorway. She looked as if she wanted to come with us. She raised her arm in good-bye.

  We had forgotten where the car was parked. We walked down the street, searching for it.

  “What if we just take the metro?” she said. “That car is complicated to drive … and besides, I think I’ve lost the keys.”

  Her casual tone made me break out in hysterical laughter, which then seized her as well. Soon we couldn’t control ourselves. Our howls echoed down the silent, empty street. When we reached the end of it, we started back up in the opposite direction, on the other sidewalk. We finally found the car.

  She opened the door, after trying out all four keys on the keychain. We settled into the leather seats.

  “Now we just have to get it moving,” she said.

  She managed to start the engine. She made a sudden jerk backward, then braked just as the car had reversed onto the sidewalk and was about to ram into the door of a building.

  She drove off in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne, bust rigid, face straining slightly forward, as if she’d never been behind a wheel before.

  We reached the quays via Boulevard Murat. At the place where the street made a right angle, she said, “I used to live around here.”

  I should have asked when that was and under what circumstances, but I let the moment pass. When you’re young, you neglect certain details that might become precious later. The boulevard made another sharp turn and headed toward the Seine.

  “So, do you think I’m a good driver?”

  “Very good.”

  “You’re not afraid to be in the car with me?”

  “Not at all.”

  She pressed on the accelerator. At Quai Louis-Blériot, the road narrowed, but she sped up even more. A red light. I was afraid she would run it. But no, she screeched to a halt.

  “I think I’m getting the hang of this car.”

  Now she was driving at normal speed. We arrived at the gardens of Trocadéro. She crossed the river over the Pont d’Iéna, then skirted the Champ-de-Mars.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “To my hotel. But first, I need to pick up something I forgot.”

  We were on the deserted square of the Ecole Militaire. The huge edifice seemed abandoned. We could make out the Champ-de-Mars, like a prairie gently sloping toward the Seine. She continued straight ahead. The dark mass and surrounding wall of a barracks. At the end of the street, I saw the viaduct of the elevated metro. We stopped in front of a building on Rue Desaix.

  “Will you wait for me? I won’t be long.”

  She had left the key on the dashboard. She disappeared into the building. I wondered whether she’d ever return. After a while, I got out of the car and planted myself in front of the entrance, a glass door with wrought iron. There might have been a rear exit. She would vanish, leaving me with this useless automobile. I tried to talk sense to myself. Even if she did give me the slip, I had several reference points: the café on Rue Washington where Jacques was a regular, Ansart’s apartment, and especially the suitcases. Why was I so afraid she might disappear? I had met her only twenty-four hours ago and knew almost nothing about her. Even her name I’d learned through others. She couldn’t keep still; she flitted from place to place as if running from some danger. I didn’t think I could hold on to her.

  I was pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. Behind me, I heard the entrance door open and close. She walked up quickly. She was no longer wearing her raincoat, which she had folded over her arm, but a full-length fur.

  “Were you going to leave?” she asked. “Had you gotten tired of waiting?”

  She gave me a worried smile.

  “Not at all. I thought you’d skipped out on me.”

  She shrugged.

  “That’s ridiculous … Whatever made you think that?”

  We walked to the car. I had taken her raincoat and was carrying it over my shoulder.

  “That’s a nice coat,” I said.

  She seemed embarrassed.

  “Oh, yes … It’s a lady I know … She lives here … a seamstress … I’d given her the coat so she could resew the hem.”

  “Did you tell her you’d be coming over so late?”

  “It was no bother … She works at night …”

  She was hiding the truth from me and I was tempted to ask more specific questions, but I held back. She would eventually get used to me. Little by little she’d learn to trust me and tell me everything.

  We were back in the car. I laid her raincoat on the back seat. She pulled away from the curb, gently this time.

  “My hotel is right near here …”

  Why had she chosen a hotel in this neighborhood? It wasn’t just chance. Something must have kept her around here, like an anchor point. Perhaps the presence of that mysterious seamstress?

  We took one of the streets that led from Avenue de Suffren toward Grenelle, on the border of the 7th and 15th arrondissements. We stopped in front of a hotel, its façade bathing in the glow from the lit sign of a garage at a bend in the road. She rang at the door, and the night porter came to open for us. We followed him to the reception desk. She asked for the key to her room. He shot me a suspicious glance.

  “Can you fill out a registration? I’ll need to see some ID.”

  I di
dn’t have my papers on me. In any case, I was still a minor.

  He had put the key on the reception desk. She picked it up nervously.

  “This is my brother …”

  The other hesitated for a moment.

  “Well, you’ll have to show me some proof. I need to see his papers.”

  “I forgot to bring them,” I said.

  “In that case, I can’t let you go up with the young lady.”

  “Why not? He’s my brother …”

  Staring at the two of us in silence, he reminded me of the detective from the day before. The light accentuated his square jaw and balding head. A telephone sat on the counter. At any moment, I was expecting him to pick up the receiver and alert the nearest police station to our presence.

  We made an odd couple and we must have looked rather suspicious, she and I. I remember the man’s strong jaw, his lipless mouth, the calm contempt with which he stared at us. We were at his mercy. We were nothing.

  I turned toward her:

  “I must have left my ID when we had dinner with mom,” I said in a timid voice. “Maybe mom has found it.”

  I stressed the word mom to give him a more reassuring impression of us. She, on the other hand, seemed quite prepared to have it out with the night porter.

  She was holding the key. I plucked it from her hand and set it down gently on the desk.

  “Come on … We’ll go try to find that ID …”

  I dragged her out by the arm. It was about thirty feet to the hotel exit. I was sure the man was watching us. Walk as naturally as possible. Especially don’t make it look like we’re running away. And what if he locked the door, and we were caught in a trap? But no.

  Once outside, I felt relieved. That night porter was no longer a threat.

  “Would you like to go back to the hotel alone?”

  “No. But I’m sure that if we’d insisted, he would have given in.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Were you scared of him?”

  She looked at me with a mocking smile. I wished I could have confessed to her that I’d lied about my age, that I was only eighteen.

  “So, where to now?” she asked.

  “My place. We’ll be much better off there than at the hotel.”

  In the car, as we followed Avenue de Suffren toward the quays, I felt the same apprehension as with the night porter. I wondered whether this car and that fur coat she was wearing wouldn’t draw even more attention to us. I was afraid that at the next intersection, we might be stopped by one of those police roadblocks that were common in Paris at the time, when they checked for unaccompanied minors after midnight.