PATRICK MODIANO
MISSING PERSON
translated from the French by Daniel Weissbort
First published in Great Britain 1980
First published in French 1978, under the title Rue des Boutiques Obscures © Éditions Gallimard, 1978
Modiano, Patrick, 1945-
[Rue des boutiques obscures. English]
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
For Rudy
For my father
1
I AM NOTHING. Nothing but a pale shape, silhouetted that evening against the café terrace, waiting for the rain to stop; the shower had started when Hutte left me.
Some hours before, we had met again for the last time on the premises of the Agency. Hutte, as usual, sat at his massive desk, but with his coat on, so that there was really an air of departure about it. I sat opposite him, in the leather armchair we kept for clients. The opaline lamp shed a bright light which dazzled me.
"Well, there we are, Guy . . . That's it . . .," said Hutte, with a sigh.
A stray file lay on the desk. Maybe it was the one belonging to the dark little man with the frightened expression and the puffy face, who had hired us to follow his wife. In the afternoon, she met another dark little man with a puffy face, at a residential hotel, in Rue Vital, close to Avenue Paul-Doumer.
Thoughtfully, Hutte stroked his beard, a grizzly, close- cut beard, but one which spread out over his cheeks. His large, limpid eyes stared dreamily ahead. To the left of the desk, the wicker chair where I sat during working hours. Behind Hutte, dark wooden shelves covered half the wall: there were rows of street-and-trade directories and yearbooks of all kinds, going back over the last fifty years. Hutte had often told me that these were the essential tools of the trade and that he would never part with them. And that these directories and year-books constituted the most valuable and moving library you could imagine, as their pages listed people, things, vanished worlds, to which they alone bore witness.
"What will you do with all these directories?" I asked Hutte, taking in the shelves with a sweeping gesture.
"I'm leaving them here, Guy. I'm keeping the lease on the apartment."
He cast a swift glance around. The double door leading into the small adjoining room was open and one could see the worn, velvet-covered sofa, the fire-place, and the mirror in which the rows of year-books and directories and Hutte's face were reflected. Our clients often waited in this room. A Persian carpet protected the parquet floor. An icon hung on the wall, near the window.
"What are you thinking about, Guy?"
"Nothing. So, you're keeping the lease?"
"Yes. I'll be coming back to Paris from time to time and the Agency will be my pied-à-terre"
He held out his cigarette case.
"I think it's less sad if I keep the place as it is."
We had been working together for over eight years. He himself had started this private detective agency in 1947 and had worked with quite a number of other people before me. Our business was supplying clients with what Hutte called "society information." It was all, as he was fond of repeating, a matter of dealings between "society folk."
"Do you think you'll be able to live in Nice?"
"Of course."
"You won't get bored?"
He blew out some smoke.
"One has to retire eventually, Guy."
He rose heavily. Hutte must be over six feet tall and weigh more than 200 pounds.
"My train's at 10:55. We have time for a drink."
He walked ahead of me into the corridor that leads to the entrance hall, an odd, oval-shaped room with pale-beige- colored walls. A black portfolio, so full that it would not close, was standing on the floor. Hutte picked it up. He carried it, one hand underneath.
"You don't have any luggage?"
"I sent everything on ahead."
Hutte opened the front door and I switched off the hall light. On the landing, Hutte paused a moment before shutting the door and the metallic sound cut me to the quick. It marked the end of a long period in my life.
"It is a crying shame, isn't it Guy?" said Hutte, and he took a large handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his brow.
The black marble rectangular plaque, with its gilt and pailletted lettering, was still there:
C. M. HUTTE Private Enquiries
"I'm leaving it," said Hutte.
Then he turned the key in the lock.
We walked along Avenue Niel as far as Place Pereire. It was dark and, though winter was not far off, the air was still mild. In Place Pereire, we sat down on the terrace of the Hortensias. Hutte liked this café, because of the caned chairs - "just like the old days."
"And what about you, Guy, what are you going to do?" he asked, after he had gulped down some brandy and soda.
"Me? I'm following something up."
"Following something up?"
"Yes. My past."
I had said this rather portentously and it made him smile.
"I always thought that one day youd try to find your past again."
Now he was serious and I was touched by it.
"But look here, Guy, I wonder if it's really worth it."
He fell silent. What was he thinking of? His own past?
"I'll give you a key to the agency. You can go there from time to time. I'd like that."
He held out a key, which I slid into my trouser pocket.
"And call me in Nice. Let me know what's happening, how you're getting on ... with your past..."
He rose and clasped my hand.
"Shall I go with you to the station?"
"No, no ... It's so sad..."
With a single stride he was out of the café, not turning around, and I felt an emptiness all of a sudden. This man had meant a lot to me. Without him, without his help, I wonder what would have become of me, ten years back, when I was struck by amnesia and was groping about in a fog. He had been moved by my case and, through his many contacts, had even managed to procure me a legal identity record.
"Here," he had said, handing me a large envelope which contained an identity card and a passport. "Your name is 'Guy Roland' now."
And this private detective whose professional services I had sought in uncovering witnesses or traces of my past, had added:
"My dear 'Guy Roland,' from here on don't look back, think only of the present and the future. How about working with me?..."
If he felt drawn to me, it was because he too - I learned later - had lost track of himself and a whole section of his life had been engulfed without leaving the slightest trace, the slightest connection that could still link him with the past. Because what was there in common between this tired old man whom I watched moving off into the night in his threadbare coat and carrying a big black portfolio, and the handsome tennis player of days gone by, the flaxen-haired Baltic Baro
n, Constantin von Hutte?
2
HELLO. Is this Mr. Paul Sonachidze?"
"Speaking."
"This is Guy Roland ... You know, the ..."
"Yes, of course! I know. Can we meet?"
"If you will..."
"What about... this evening, around nine, Rue Anatole- de-la-Forge?... Is that all right?"
"Yes."
"I'll expect you. See you later!"
He hung up abruptly and the sweat was running down my temples. I had drunk a glass of cognac to steady myself. Why did a harmless act like dialing a phone number cause me so much anguish?
There were no customers in the bar, in Rue Anatole-de-la-Forge, and he was standing behind the counter, dressed in his outdoor clothes.
"You're in luck," he said. "I have every Wednesday evening off."
He approached me and put his hand on my shoulder.
"I've thought a lot about you."
"Thanks."
"It's really been on my mind, you know..."
I wanted to tell him not to worry, but the words failed me.
"I've come to the conclusion that you must have been a friend of someone I used to see a lot of at one time ... But who?"
He shook his head.
"You can't give me a clue?" he asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't remember."
He thought I was joking and, as if this were a game or a riddle, he said:
"All right. I'll manage on my own. But can I have a free hand?"
"As you wish."
"This evening, then, I'm taking you out to dinner at a friend's."
Before leaving, he pulled down the lever of an electric meter firmly and closed the heavy wooden door, turning the key several times in the lock.
His car was parked on the other side of the street. It was black and new. He opened the door for me courteously.
"This friend of mine manages a very pleasant restaurant on the edge of Ville-d'Avray and Saint-Cloud."
"So far?"
"Yes."
From Rue Anatole-de-la-Forge, we emerged into Avenue de la Grande-Armée and I was tempted to jump out. Ville- d'Avray seemed impossibly far to me. But I held myself back.
Until we reached Porte de Saint-Cloud, I had to struggle with the panicky fear that gripped me. I hardly knew this Sonachidze. Wasn't he drawing me into a trap? But gradually, as I listened to his talk, I grew calmer. He told me about the different stages of his professional life. First he had worked in the Russian night clubs, then at Langer's, a restaurant on the Champs-Elysées, then at the Hôtel Castille, Rue Cambon, and he had worked in other establishments too, before taking over the bar in Rue Anatole-de-la-Forge. Every time he would run into Jean Heurteur, the friend we were going to see, so that, over twenty years, the two of them had teamed up. Heurteur too remembered things. Together, they would certainly solve the "riddle" I was posing.
Sonachidze drove with extreme caution and it took us almost three-quarters of an hour to arrive at our destination.
A kind of bungalow, a weeping willow masking its left side. On the right, I could see a jumble of bushes. The interior of the restaurant was huge. A man came striding toward us from the back, where a bright light shone. He held out his hand to me.
"Glad to meet you, sir. I am Jean Heurteur."
Then addressing Sonachidze:
"Hello, Paul."
He led us toward the back of the room. There was a table, laid for three, with flowers in the middle.
He pointed to one of the french windows:
"I've got customers in the other bungalow. A wedding party."
"You've never been here before?" Sonachidze asked me.
"No."
"Show him the view, then, Jean."
Heurteur preceded me on to a veranda which overlooked a pond. To the left, a small hump-back bridge, in the Chinese style, led to another bungalow, on the other side of the pond. The french windows were brilliantly lit up and I could see couples moving behind them. They were dancing. Snatches of music reached us.
"It's not a large crowd," he said, "and I have the feeling this wedding party is going to end in an orgy."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"You should come here in summer. We dine out on the veranda. It's pleasant."
We went back inside the restaurant and Heurteur closed the french windows.
"I've prepared a simple little meal."
He motioned to us to be seated. They sat side by side, facing me.
"What would you like to drink?" Heurteur asked me.
"You choose."
"Château-Petrus?"
"An excellent choice, Jean," said Sonachidze.
A young man in a white jacket waited on us. The light from the bracket lamp fell directly on me and dazzled me. The others were in shadow, but no doubt they had seated me there so as to be able to study me better.
"Well, Jean?"
Heurteur had started on his galantine and from time to time cast a sharp glance at me. He was dark-skinned, like Sonachidze, and like the latter dyed his hair. Blotchy, flabby cheeks and the thin lips of a gourmet.
"Yes, yes ...," he murmured.
The light made me blink. He poured us some wine.
"Yes ... I do believe I have seen this gentleman before..."
"It's a real puzzle," said Sonachidze. "He won't give us any clues ..."
A thought suddenly seemed to strike him.
"But perhaps you'd rather we didn't talk about it any more? Would you prefer to remain incognito?"
"Not at all," I said with a smile.
The young man brought us a serving of sweetbreads.
"What business are you in?" asked Heurteur.
"For eight years I've been working in a private detective agency, the C. M. Hutte Agency."
They stared at me in amazement.
"But I'm sure that's got nothing to do with my previous life. So, don't worry about it."
"Strange," announced Heurteur, gazing at me, "it's hard to tell your age."
"Because of the moustache, no doubt."
"Without your moustache," said Sonachidze, "perhaps we'd know you right away."
And he held out his arm, placed the open palm of his hand just under my nose to hide the moustache and screwed up his eyes like a portrait painter in front of his model.
"The more I see of this gentleman, the more it seems to me he was in that crowd ..." said Heurteur.
"But when?" asked Sonachidze.
"Oh ... a long time ago ... It's ages since we've worked in the night clubs, Paul..."
"Do you think it goes back to the time we worked at the Tanagra?"
Heurteur stared at me more and more intently.
"Excuse me," he said, "but would you stand up for a moment?"
I did as he asked. He looked me up and down a couple of times.
"Yes, you do remind me of a certain customer. Your height... Just a moment..
He had raised his hand and was sitting quite still, as if trying to hold on to some fleeting memory.
"Just one moment ... Just one moment ... I have it, Paul..."
He smiled triumphantly.
"You can sit down ..
He was jubilant. He was sure of the effect of what he was about to say. Ceremoniously he poured out some wine for Sonachidze and me.
"You were always with a man, as tall as yourself... perhaps even taller ... Do you remember, Paul?"
"What period are we talking about, though?" asked Sonachidze.
"The Tanagra, of course ..."
"A man as tall as himself?" Sonachidze repeated. "At the Tanagra?..."
"Don't you see?"
Heurteur shrugged his shoulders.
Now it was Sonachidze's turn to smile triumphantly. He nodded.
"I do see ..."
"Well?"
"Styoppa."
"Yes, of course, Styoppa ..."
Sonachidze had turned to me.
"Did you know Styoppa?"
/>
"Perhaps," I said carefully.
"Of course you did ..." said Heurteur. "You were often with Styoppa ... I'm sure of it..."
"Styoppa..."
Judging from the way Sonachidze pronounced it, evidently a Russian name.
"He was the one who always asked the band to play 'Alaverdi' ..said Heurteur. "A Caucasian song …"
"Do you remember?" said Sonachidze, gripping my wrist very hard. "'Alaverdi' …"
He whistled the tune, his eyes shining. Suddenly, I too was moved. The tune seemed familiar to me.
Just then, the waiter who had served us approached Heurteur and indicated something at the far end of the room.
A woman was seated alone at one of the tables, in semi- darkness. She was wearing a pale blue dress and her chin was cupped in the palms of her hands. What was she dreaming of?
"The bride."
"What is she doing there?" asked Heurteur.
"I don't know," said the waiter.
"Did you ask her if she wanted anything?"
"No. No. She doesn't want anything."
"And the others?"
"They ordered another dozen bottles of Krug."
Heurteur shrugged.
"It's none of my business."
And Sonachidze, who had taken no notice of "the bride," or of what they were saying, kept repeating:
"Yes ... Styoppa ... Do you remember Styoppa?"
He was so excited that I ended up answering, with a smile that was intended to be enigmatic:
"Yes, yes. A little ..."
He turned to Heurteur and said in a grave tone:
"He remembers Styoppa."
"Just as I thought."
The white-coated waiter stood quite still in front of Heurteur, looking embarrassed.
"I think they're going to use the rooms, sir . . . What should I do?"
"I knew this wedding party would end badly," said Heurteur. "Well, old chap, they can do what they like. It's none of our business."
The bride sat motionless at the table. She had crossed her arms.
"I wonder why she's sitting there on her own," said Heurteur. "Anyway, it's got absolutely nothing to do with us ..."
And he flicked his hand, as though brushing a fly away.
"Let's get back to business," he said. "You admit then you knew Styoppa?"
"Yes," I sighed.
"In other words, you were in the same crowd ... They were quite a crowd too, weren't they, Paul... ?"
Missing Person Page 1
