Ring Roads

by Patrick Modiano

  Of what I did, at this time, I have only the vaguest memory. I think I was ‘assistant’ to a certain Doctor S. who recruited his patients from among drug addicts and gave them prescriptions for vast sums of money.

  I had tout for him. I seem to remember that I also worked as ‘secretary’ to an English poetess, a passionate admirer of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Such details seem irrelevant.

  I remember only perambulations across Paris, and that centre of gravity, that magnet to which I was invariably drawn: the préfecture de police. Try as I might to stay away, within a few short hours my steps would lead me back. One night when I was more depressed than usual, I almost asked the sentries guarding the main door on the Boulevard du Palais, if I could go in. I could not understand the fascination the police exerted over me. At first I thought it was like the urge to jump you feel when you leaning over the parapet of a bridge, but there was something else. To disoriented boys like me, policemen represented something solid and dignified. I dreamed of being an officer. I confided this to Sieffer, an inspector in the vice squad I was lucky enough to meet. He heard me out, a smile playing on his lips, but with paternal solicitude, and offered to let me work for him. For several months, I shadowed people on a voluntary basis. I had to tail a wide variety of people and note how they spent their time. In the course of these missions, I uncovered many poignant secrets . . . Such-and-such a lawyer from La Plaine Monceau, you encounter on the Place Pigalle wearing a blonde wig and satin dress. I witnessed insignificant people suddenly transformed into nightmarish figures or tragic heroes. By the end I thought I was going insane. I identified with all these strangers. It was myself that I was hunting down so relentlessly. I was the old man in the mackintosh or the woman in the beige suit. I talked about this to Sieffer.

  ‘No point carrying on. You’re an amateur, son,’

  He walked me to the door of his office.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll see each other again.’

  He added in a gloomy voice:

  ‘Sooner or later, unfortunately, everyone ends up in the cells . . .’

  I had a genuine affection for this man and felt I could trust him. When I told him how I felt, he enveloped me with a sad, caring look. What became of him? Perhaps he could help us, now? This interlude working for the police did little to boost my morale. I no longer dared leave my room on the Boulevard Magenta. Menace loomed everywhere. I thought of you. I had the feeling that somewhere you were in danger. Every night between three and four in the morning, I would hear you calling to me for help. Little by little, an idea formed in my mind, I would set off in search of you.

  I did not have very happy memories of you, but, after ten years, that sort of thing doesn’t seem so important and I’d forgiven you for the ‘unfortunate incident in the George V métro’. Let’s deal with that subject once more, for the last time. There are two possibilities: 1) I wrongly suspected you. In which case, please forgive me and put the mistake down to my own madness. 2) If you did try to push me under the train, I freely admit there were extenuating circumstances. No, there’s nothing unusual about your case. A father wanting to kill his son or to be rid of him seems to me to be symptomatic of the huge upheaval in our moral values today. Not long ago, the converse phenomenon could be observed: sons killed their father to prove their strength. But now, who is there for us to lash out at? Orphans that we are, we are doomed to track ghosts in our search for fatherhood. We never find it. It always slips away. It’s exhausting, old man. Shall I tell you the feats of imagination I’ve accomplished? Tonight, you sit facing me, your eyes starting from your head. You look like a black market trafficker, and the title ‘Baron’ is unlikely to throw the hunters off the scent. You chose it, I imagine, in the hope that it would set you up, make you respectable. Such play-acting doesn’t work on me. I’ve known you too long. Remember our Sunday walks, Baron? From the centre of Paris, we drifted on a mysterious current all the way to the ring roads. Here the city unloads its refuse and silt. Soult, Massena, Davout, Kellermann. Why did they give the names of conquering heroes to these murky places? But this was ours, this was our homeland.

  Nothing has changed. Ten years later, here you are the same as ever: glancing at the living room door like a terrified rat. And here I am gripping the arm of the sofa for fear of slipping off the dustsheet. Try though we might, we will never know peace, the sweet stillness of things. We will walk on quicksand to the end. You’re sweating with fear. Get a grip, old boy. I’m here beside you, holding your hand in the darkness. Whatever happens, I will share your fate. In the meantime, let’s take a tour of this place. Through the door on the left, we come to a small room. The sort of leather armchairs I love. A mahogany desk. Have you ransacked the drawers yet? We’ll comb though the owners’ private life and gradually begin to feel as though we are part of the family: are there more drawers, more chests, more pockets upstairs that we can rifle through? We have a few hours to spare. This room is cosier than the living room. Smell of tweed and Dutch tobacco. On the shelves, neat rows of books: the complete works of Anatole France and crime novels published by Masque, recognizable by their yellow spines. Sit behind the desk. Sit up straight. There’s no reason we can’t dream about the course our lives might have taken in such a setting. Whole days spent reading or talking. A German shepherd on guard to deter visitors. In the evenings, my fiancée and I would play a few games of manille.

  The telephone rings. You jump up, your face haggard. I must admit that this jingling, in the middle of the night, is not encouraging. They’re making sure you’re here so they can arrest you at dawn. The ringing will stop before you have time to answer. Sieffer often used such ruses. We take the stairs four at a time, tripping, falling over each other, pulling, scrabbling to our feet. There is a whole warren of rooms and you don’t know where the light-switches are. I stumble against a piece of furniture, you feel around for the telephone. It’s Marcheret. He and Murraille wondered why we had disappeared.

  His voice echoes strangely in the darkness. They have just found Annie, at the Grand Ermitage moscovite, in the Rue Caumartin. She was drunk, but promised to be at the town-hall tomorrow, on the dot of three.

  When it came to exchanging rings, she took hers and threw it in Marcheret’s face. The mayor pretended not to notice. Guy tried to save the situation by roaring with laughter.

  A rushed, impromptu wedding. Perhaps, a few brief references might be found in the newspapers of the day. I remember that Annie Murraille wore a fur coat and that her outfit, in mid-August, added to the uneasiness.

  On the way back, they didn’t say a word. She walked arm in arm with her witness, Lucien Remy, a ‘variety artiste’ (according to what I gathered from the marriage certificate); and you, Marcheret’s witness, appeared there described as: ‘Baron Chalva Henri Deyckecaire, industrialist.’

  Murraille weaved between Marcheret and his niece cracking jokes to lighten the mood. Without success. He eventually grew tired and didn’t say another word. You and I brought up the rear of this strange cortège.

  Lunch had been arranged at the Clos-Foucré. Towards five, some close friends, who had come down from Paris, gathered with their champagne glasses. Grève had set out the buffet in the garden.

  We both hung back. And I observed. Many years have passed, but their faces, their gestures, their voices are seared on to my memory. There was Georges Lestandi, whose malicious ‘gossip’ and denunciations graced the front page of Murraille’s magazine every week. Fat, stentorian voice, a faint Bordeaux accent. Robert Delvale, director of the théâtre de l’Avenue, silver haired, a well preserved sixty, priding himself on being a ‘citizen’ of Montmartre, whose mythology he cultivated. Francois Gerbère, another of Murraille’s columnists, who specialized in frenzied editorials and calls for murder. Gerbère belonged to that school of hypersensitive boys who lisp and are happy to play the passionate militant or the brutal fascist. He had been bitten by the political bug shortly after graduating from the École Normale Supérieure. He
had remained true to the – deeply provincial – spirit of his alma mater on the rue d’Ulm, indeed it was amazing that this thirty-eight-year-old student could be so savage.

  Lucien Remy, the witness from the registry office. Physically, a charming thug, white teeth, hair gleaming with Bakerfix. He could sometimes be heard singing on Radio-Paris. He lived on the fringes of the underworld and the music-hall. And finally, Monique Joyce. Twenty-six, blonde, a deceptively innocent look. She had played a few roles on stage, but never made her mark. Murraille had a soft spot for her and her photograph often appeared on the cover of C’est la vie. There were articles about her. One such informed us she was ‘The most elegant Parisienne on the Côte d’Azur’. Sylviane Quimphe, Maud Gallas and Wildmer were, of course, among the guests.

  Surrounded by all these people, Annie Murraille’s good-humour returned. She kissed Marcheret and said she was sorry and he slipped her wedding ring on her finger with a ceremonial air. Applause. The champagne glasses clinked. People called to each other and formed little groups. Lestandi, Delvale and Gerbère congratulated the bridegroom. In a corner, Murraille gossiped with Monique Joyce. Lucien Remy was a big hit with the women, if Sylviane Quimphe’s reactions were anything to go by. But he reserved his smile for Annie Murraille, who pressed against him assiduously. It was obvious they were very close. As the hosts, Maud Gallas and Wildmer brought round the drinks and the petits fours. I’ve got all the photographs of the ceremony here, in a little wallet, and I’ve looked at them a million times, until my eyes glaze over with tiredness, or tears.

  We had been forgotten. We lay low, standing a little way off, and no one paid us any attention. I felt as if we’d stumbled into this strange garden-party by mistake. You seemed as much at a loss as I was. We should have left as soon as possible and I still don’t understand what came over me. I left you standing there and mechanically walked towards them.

  Someone prodded me in the back. It was Murraille. He dragged me off and I found myself with Gerbère and Lestandi. Murraille introduced me as ‘a talented young journalist he had just commissioned’. At which Lestandi, half-patronising, half-ironic, favoured me with an ‘enchanté, my dear colleague’.

  ‘And what splendid things are you writing?’ Gerbère asked me.

  ‘Short stories.’

  ‘Short stories are a fine idea,’ put in Lestandi. ‘One doesn’t have to commit oneself. Neutral ground. What do you think, François?’

  Murraille had slipped away. I would have liked to do the same.

  ‘Between ourselves,’ Gerbère said, ‘do you think we’re living at a time when one can still write short stories? I personally have no imagination.’

  ‘But a caustic wit!’ cried Lestandi.

  ‘Because I’m not afraid of stating the obvious. I give it to them good and hard, that’s all.’

  ‘And it’s terrific, François. Tell me, what are you cooking up for your next editorial?’

  Gerbère took off his heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. He wiped the lenses, very slowly, with a handkerchief. Confident of the effect he was making.

  ‘A delightful little piece. It’s called: “Anyone for Jewish tennis?” I explain the rules of the game in three columns.’

  ‘And what exactly is “Jewish tennis”?’ asked Lestandi, grinning.

  Gerbère gave the details. From what I gathered, it was a game for two players and could be played while strolling, or sitting outside a cafe. The first to spot a Jew, called out. Fifteen love. If his opponent should spot one, the score was fifteen-all. And so on. The winner was the one who notched up the most Jews. Points were calculated as they were in tennis. Nothing like it, according to Gerbère, for sharpening the reflexes of the French.

  ‘Believe it or not,’ he added dreamily, ‘I don’t even need to see THEIR faces. I can recognize THEM from behind! I swear!’

  Other points were discussed. One thing nauseated him, Lestandi said: that those ‘bastards’ could still live it up on Côte d’Azur, sipping apéritifs in the Cintras of Cannes, Nice or Marseilles. He was preparing a series of ‘Rumour & Innuendo’ stories on the subject. He would name names. It was a civic duty to alert the relevant authorities. I turned round. You hadn’t moved. I wanted to give you a friendly wave. But they might notice and ask me who the fat man was, over there, at the bottom of the garden.

  ‘I’ve just come back from Nice,’ Lestandi said. ‘Not a single human face. Nothing but Blochs and Hirschfelds. It makes you sick . . .’

  ‘Actually . . .’ Gerbère suggested, ‘You’d only have to give their room numbers to the Ruhl Hotel . . . It would make the work of the police easier . . .’

  They grew animated. Heated. I listened politely. I have to say I found them tedious. Two utterly ordinary men, of middling height, like millions of others in the streets. Lestandi wore braces. Someone else would probably have told them to shut up. But I’m a coward.

  We drank several glasses of champagne. Lestandi was now entertaining us with an account of a certain Schlossblau, a cinema producer, ‘a frightful red-haired, purple-faced Jew’, he had recognized on the Promenade des Anglais. There was one, he promised, that he would definitely get to. The light was failing. The celebrations drifted from the garden into the bar. You followed the rest and came and sat next to me . . . Then, as though hit with a jolt of electricity, the party came to life. A nervous jollity. At Marcheret’s request, Delvale gave us his impersonation of Aristide Bruant. But Montmartre was not his only source of inspiration. He had played farce and light comedy and had us in stitches with his puns and witticisms. I can see his spaniel eyes, his thin moustache. The way he waited eagerly for the audience to laugh which nauseated me. When he scored a hit he would shrug as though he did not care.

  Lucien Remy sang us a sweet little song, very popular that year: ‘Je n’en connais pas la fin’. Annie Murraille and Sylviane Quimphe were eying him hungrily. And I was studying him carefully. The lower half of his face particularly frightened me. There was something strangely spineless about it. I sensed he was even more dangerous than the others. Never trust the Brylcreemed types who tend to appear in ‘troubled times’. We were graced with a song from Lestandi, a cabaret song of the kind known back then as ‘chansonnier’. Lestandi took great pride in showing us that he knew all the songs in La Lune Rousse and Deux Anes by heart. We all have our little weaknesses, our little hobbies.

  Dédé Wildmer stood on a chair and toasted the health of the bride and groom. Annie Murraille pressed her cheek against Lucien Remy’s shoulder and Marcheret didn’t seem to mind. Sylviane Quimphe, however, was using all her wiles to attract the attention of the ‘crooner’, as was Maud Gallas. By the bar, Delvale was talking to Monique Joyce. He was getting more and more eager and was calling her his ‘poppet’. She greeted his advances with throaty laughter, tossing her hair as if she were rehearsing a role in front of an invisible camera. Murraille, Gerbère and Lestandi were carrying on a conversation fuelled by alcohol. It was a case of organizing a meeting, in the Salle Wagram, at which the contributors to C’est la vie would speak. Murraille proposed his favourite theme: ‘We’re not pusillanimous’; but Lestandi wittily corrected him: ‘We’re not Jewsillanimous’.

  It was a stormy afternoon and thunder rolled ominously in the distance. Today all these people have disappeared or have been shot. I suppose they’re no longer of any interest to anyone. Is it my fault that I am still a prisoner of my memories?

  But when Marcheret came towards us and flung the contents of a champagne glass in your face, I thought I’d lose control. You flinched. He said crisply:

  ‘That’ll freshen up your ideas, won’t it, Chalva?’

  He stood in front of us, his arms crossed. ‘It’s better than water,’ stuttered Wildmer. ‘It’s sparkling!’ You fumbled for a handkerchief to dry yourself with. Delvale and Lucien Remy made some cutting remarks about you which reduced the women to hysterics. Lestandi and Gerbère studied you curiously and suddenly realized they didn’t like the look of your fa
ce.

  ‘A sudden shower, eh, Chalva?’ said Marcheret, patting the back of your head as though you were a dog. You gave a feeble smile. ‘Yes, a nice shower . . .’ you muttered.

  The saddest thing was that you seemed to be apologizing. They went on with their conversations. Went on drinking. Laughing. How did it happen that, over the general hubbub, I overheard Lestandi say: ‘Excuse me, I’m going for a short stroll’? Before he had left the bar, I was on the steps in front of the auberge. And there we ran into each other. When he mentioned that he was going to stretch his legs a little, I asked, as casually as possible, whether I could go with him.

  We followed the bridle path. And then we moved into the undergrowth. A grove of beech trees, where the early evening sunlight spread a nostalgic glow as in the paintings of Claude Lorrain. He said it was sensible of us to be out in the open air. He was very fond of the Forest of Fontainebleau. We talked about this and that. About the deep hush, about the magnificent trees.

  ‘Mature trees . . . They must be about 120 years old.’ He laughed. ‘I bet you I won’t reach that age . . .’

  ‘You never know . . .’

  He pointed to a squirrel scampering across the path twenty yards ahead. My palms were sweaty. I told him I enjoyed reading his weekly ‘gossip column’ in C’est la vie, that, in my opinion, what he was doing was a public work. Oh, he could hardly take any credit, he replied, he simply hated Jews, and Murraille’s magazine offered him the chance to express his views on the matter frankly. So different from the degenerate pre-war press. True, Murraille had a penchant for racketeering and easy money, and he was probably ‘half-Jewish’ but very soon Muraille would be ‘eliminated’ in favour of a ‘pure’ editorial team. People like Alin-Laubreaux, Zeitschel, Sayzille, Darquier, himself. And particularly Gerbère, the most talented of them. Comrades in arms.