Missing Person

by Patrick Modiano

  "Not too well. But it was the gardener at Valbreuse who spoke to me about it..."

  "Pedro ... So you're alive, you're alive?"

  He clasped my hand very tight. It hurt.

  "Yes. Why?"

  "You're ... you're in Paris?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  He looked at me in horror. He had trouble believing that I was alive. So, what had happened? I wanted to know, but apparently he did not dare tackle this question head on.

  "I... live at Giverny... in the Oise," he said. "I... I very rarely come to Paris ... Would you like a drink, Pedro?"

  "A Marie Brizard," I said.

  "I'll have one too."

  He poured the drink himself into our glasses, slowly and he seemed to me to be playing for time.

  "Pedro ... What happened?"

  "When?"

  He finished his drink at one gulp.

  "When you tried to get over the Swiss border with Denise?..."

  What could I answer?

  "You never sent us any news. Freddie was very worried..."

  He filled his glass again.

  "We thought you'd got lost in all that snow ..."

  "You shouldn't have worried," I said.

  "And Denise?"

  I shrugged.

  "Do you remember Denise well?" I asked.

  "But Pedro, of course I do ... And anyway, why are you being so formal with me?"

  "I'm sorry, old man," I said. "I haven't been too well lately. I'm trying to remember that whole period... But it's so hazy..."

  "I know. It's a long time ago, all that... Do you remember Freddie's wedding?"

  He smiled.

  "Not too well."

  "In Nice ... When he married Gay..."

  "Gay Orlov?"

  "Of course, Gay Orlov . . . Whom else would he have married?"

  He looked very upset that this marriage no longer conveyed much to me.

  "In Nice . . . The Russian church ... A religious ceremony ... No civil marriage ..."

  "What Russian church?"

  "A little Russian church with a garden ..."

  Was it the one Hutte described in his letter? Sometimes there are the oddest coincidences.

  "Yes, of course," I said ... "Of course ... The little Russian church in Rue Longchamp, with the garden and the library..."

  "So, you remember? We were the four witnesses ... We held crowns over Freddie's and Gay's heads ..."

  "Four witnesses?"

  "Yes ... you, me, Gay's grandfather ..."

  "Old Giorgiadze?..."

  "That's it... Giorgiadze ..."

  The photograph where I appeared together with Gay Orlov and old Giorgiadze must have been taken on that occasion. I would show it to him.

  "And the fourth witness was your friend Rubirosa ..."

  "Who?"

  "Your friend Rubirosa ... Porfirio ... The Dominican diplomat..."

  He smiled at the memory of this Porfirio Rubirosa. A Dominican diplomat. Maybe he was the one I worked for at the legation.

  "Afterward we went to old Giorgiadze's ..."

  I could see us, around midday, walking along an avenue lined with plane-trees, in Nice. The sun shone.

  "And was Denise there?"

  He shrugged.

  "Of course she was ... You certainly have forgotten it all..."

  The seven of us walked carelessly along, the jockey, Denise, I, Gay Orlov and Freddie, Rubirosa and the old Giorgiadze. We were wearing white suits.

  "Giorgiadze lived in the apartment building on the corner of the Alsace-Lorraine Gardens."

  Palm-trees rising high into the sky. And children tobogganing. The white façade of the building, with its orange, canvas blinds. Our laughter on the staircase.

  "That evening, your friend Rubirosa took us out to dinner at Eden Roc, to celebrate the marriage ... So ... do you remember now?..."

  He breathed hard, as though he had just exerted himself physically. He seemed exhausted by the effort to call to mind that day when Freddie and Gay Orlov got married in church, that day of sun and carefreeness, which no doubt had been one of those privileged moments of youth.

  "In fact," I said, "you and I have known each other a long time then ..

  "Yes ... But I knew Freddie first ... Because I was his grandfather's jockey... Unfortunately, it didn't last long... The old man lost everything ..."

  "And Gay Orlov... Do you know that..."

  "Yes, I know... I lived quite close to her ... Square des Aliscamps..."

  The large apartment building and the windows from which Gay Orlov must have had a fine view of the Auteuil race course. Waldo Blunt, her first husband, had told me that she killed herself because she was afraid of growing old. I suppose that she often watched the races from her window. Each day, several times in the afternoon, ten or so horses leap forward, fly over the course and smash into obstacles. And the ones that make it over the jumps show up again and again for several months and then they too vanish like the others. New horses are needed endlessly, and are successively replaced. And each time the same burst of energy ends in disaster . . . Such a spectacle cannot fail to depress and disenchant and it was perhaps because she lived next to a race course that Gay Orlov... I felt like asking André Wildmer what he thought of this. He should understand. He was a jockey.

  "It's really sad," he said. "Gay was a swell girl..."

  He leaned forward and brought his face up close to mine. His skin was red and pock-marked and he had dark brown eyes. A diagonal scar scored his right cheek, extending all the way to the point of his chin. His hair, too, was brown, except for a white streak over his brow.

  "And you, Pedro ..."

  But I did not let him finish his sentence.

  "Did you know me when I lived in Rue Julien-Potin, at Neuilly?" I said on the off chance, remembering the address on "Pedro McEvoy's" form.

  "When you lived at Rubirosa's ... Of course ..."

  Rubirosa again.

  "Freddie and I often came ... It was high jinks every night..."

  He burst out laughing.

  "Your friend Rubirosa used to hire musicians... it went on all night... Do you remember those two tunes he always played on the guitar?"

  "No ..."

  "'El Reloj' and 'Tu me acostumbraste'... Especially 'Tu me acostumbraste'..."

  He whistled a few bars of the tune.

  "Well?"

  "Yes ... yes ... It's coming back," I said.

  "You got me a Dominican passport... It wasn't much use to me ..."

  "You'd already been to see me at the legation?" I asked.

  "Yes ... When you gave me the Dominican passport."

  "I never understood what I was supposed to be doing at that legation."

  "I don't know... You told me once that you acted more or less as Rubirosa's secretary and that it was a good spot for you ... It was sad that Rubi got himself killed in that car accident..."

  Yes, sad. Another witness I would not be able to question.

  "Tell me, Pedro ... What was your real name? It always intrigued me. Freddie told me your name wasn't Pedro McEvoy . . . But that it was Rubi who had got you false papers..."

  "My real name? I wish I knew."

  And I smiled, so that he could take it as a joke.

  "Freddie knew it, since you were school friends . . . You would drive me crazy with your stories about the Luiza School..."

  "What school?"

  "Luiza... You know perfectly well... Don't play games... That day your father came to fetch the two of you by car... He let Freddie drive, though he didn't have a license yet... You told me the story at least a hundred times ..."

  He shook his head. So, I had had a father who came to fetch me at "Luiza School." An interesting piece of information.

  "And you?" I said. "Do you still work with horses?"

  "I've found a job as instructor in a riding-school at Giverny..."

  He adopted a solemn tone that impressed me with its force.

  "As you know
, from the time of my accident it's been downhill..."

  What accident? I did not dare ask him ...

  "When I accompanied you, Denise, Freddie, and Gay to Megève, things were already not going too well... I'd lost my trainer's job ... They lost their nerve because I was English ... They only wanted French ..."

  English? Yes. He spoke with a slight accent that I had hardly noticed up to then. My heart started beating a little harder when he uttered the word: Megève.

  "A funny idea, don't you think, that journey to Megève," I ventured.

  "Why funny? What else could we have done?..."

  "You think so?"

  "It was a safe place... Paris was getting too dangerous..."

  "Do you really think so?"

  "But Pedro, just remember ... There were checks more and more often... I was English... Freddie had an English passport..."

  "English?"

  "Of course... Freddie's family was from Mauritius... And your position wasn't too wonderful either... And our bogus Dominican passports couldn't really protect us any longer ... Just remember ... Your friend Rubirosa himself..."

  I could not catch the rest of his sentence. I think his voice failed him.

  He sipped his drink and at that moment four people came in, regular customers, all of them ex-jockeys. I recognized them, I had often heard them talking. One of them still wore an old pair of riding breeches and a suede jacket stained all over. They tapped Wildmer on the shoulder. They were all speaking at once, roaring with laughter, and it made much too much noise. Wildmer did not introduce them to me.

  They sat down on barstools and continued talking in very loud voices.

  "Pedro ..."

  Wildmer leaned toward me. His face was only a few inches from mine. He grimaced as though he were about to make a superhuman effort to utter a few words.

  "Pedro ... What happened to Denise when you tried to cross the border?..."

  "I no longer know," I said.

  He looked at me fixedly. He must have been a bit drunk.

  "Pedro . . . Before you left I told you you ought to be careful with that fellow..."

  "What fellow?"

  "The fellow who was going to get you across into Switzerland ... The Russian with the face of a gigolo ..."

  He was purple-faced. He swallowed some of the liqueur.

  "Don't you remember... I told you you shouldn't listen to that other one either ... The ski instructor ..."

  "What ski instructor?"

  "The one who was going to be your guide... You know... That Bob something... Bob Besson... Why did you go? ... You were all right with us at the chalet..."

  What could I say to him? I nodded. He emptied his glass in a single gulp.

  "His name was Bob Besson?" I asked.

  "Yes, Bob Besson ..."

  "And the Russian?"

  He frowned.

  "I don't remember now..."

  His concentration was drifting. He had made a mighty effort to speak to me of the past, but it was over. Just like an exhausted swimmer who raises his head a last time above the waves and then lets himself sink slowly . .. After all, I hadn't been much help in this seance.

  He rose and joined the others. He was slipping back into his routine. I heard him giving his opinion in a loud voice about a race which had taken place that afternoon at Vincennes. The man in riding breeches stood a round of drinks. Wildmer had found his voice again and was so vehement, so impassioned that he had forgotten to light his cigarette. It hung from his lips. If I had stood in front of him, he would not have recognized me now.

  As I left, I said goodbye to him and waved, but he ignored me. He was wrapped up in another subject.

  34

  VICHY. An American car stops by the Parc des Sources, opposite the Hôtel de la Paix. Its bodywork is spattered with mud. Two men and a woman get out and walk toward the hotel entrance. The two men are unshaven and one of the two, the taller, holds the woman by the arm. In front of the hotel, a row of wicker armchairs in which people sleep, their heads lolling, seemingly indifferent to the July sun which beats down upon them.

  In the hotel lounge, the three of them have difficulty making their way through to the reception desk. They have to walk around armchairs and even camp beds where other sleepers sprawl, some of them in military uniform. Tight little groups of five or ten people huddle in the lounge at the back, call out to each other, and the hubbub is even more oppressive than the heat and humidity outside. Finally they reach the desk, and one of the men, the taller, hands the porter their three passports. Two are passports issued by the Legation of the Dominican Republic in Paris, one in the name of "Porfirio Rubirosa," the other in that of "Pedro McEvoy"; the third is a French passport in the name of "Denise, Yvette, Coudreuse."

  The porter, his face bathed in sweat which drips from his chin, returns their passports, with a helpless gesture. No, there is not a single free hotel room in the whole of Vichy, "seeing how things are"... At a pinch, there might be a couple of armchairs which one might be able to take up to a laundry-room or put in a toilet on the ground floor... His voice is submerged in the confused hullabaloo of conversations, the metallic banging of the elevator door, the ringing of the telephone, the messages coming over the loudspeaker hanging above the reception desk.

  The two men and the woman have left the hotel, walking somewhat unsteadily. The sky has suddenly grown overcast, with purplish gray clouds. They cross the Parc des Sources. On the lawns, under the covered walks, obstructing the paved lanes, stand groups of people, huddling closer together even than in the hotel. They all talk in very loud voices among themselves, some people run to and fro between groups, others gather in twos or threes on a bench or on the park's iron seats before rejoining the others ... It looks like a huge school playground and one finds oneself waiting impatiently for the bell to put an end to all this agitation and to the din of voices swelling from moment to moment. But no bell sounds.

  The tall, dark man still holds the woman by the arm, while the other one has taken off his jacket. They walk and are jostled as they go by people running in all directions to find some person or some group which they have left for a moment, which has instantly dissolved and whose members have been snapped up by other groups.

  The three of them find themselves in front of the terrace of the Café de la Restauration. The terrace is packed, but by a miracle five people have just left one of the tables, and the two men and woman drop into the wicker chairs. Somewhat dazed, they look over toward the casino.

  A haze has enveloped the entire park and the arching foliage keeps it from dissipating, making it stagnate there. It is like the steam in a Turkish bath. It invades your throat, finally it blurs the groups standing in front of the casino, it muffles the din of their voices. At a neighboring table, an old lady bursts into sobs and says over and over that the border at Hendaye is closed.

  The woman's head has toppled over on to the tall, dark man's shoulder. She has closed her eyes. She sleeps like a child. The two men exchange smiles. Then, again, they look at all the groups in front of the casino.

  There is a sudden shower. Monsoon rainfall. It penetrates the cover of plane-trees and chestnuts, in spite of the density of the foliage. Over there, people are jostling each other, seeking shelter under the casino's glass canopy, while others hastily leave the terrace and enter the café, trampling on each other.

  Only the two men and the woman have not moved, as the parasol over their table protects them from the rain. The woman still sleeps, her cheek resting on the tall, dark man's shoulder. He looks straight ahead vacantly, while his companion absentmindedly whistles the tune of "Tu me acostumbraste."

  35

  FROM THE WINDOW could be seen the expanse of lawn, with a gravel path skirting it. It sloped very gently upward toward the building where I was and which had reminded me of one of those white hotels on the shores of the Mediterranean. But when I had climbed the steps, my eyes had fallen on the inscription in silver lettering adorning t
he door: "Luiza and Albany School."

  At the far end of the lawn, a tennis court. To the right, a row of birch trees and a swimming pool which had been emptied. The diving board had half collapsed.

  He rejoined me in the window recess.

  "Yes, as I thought... I am very sorry ... All the school records were burnt... There is nothing left..

  A man of about sixty, who wore glasses with pale tortoise- shell frames and a tweed jacket.

  "And in any case, Mrs. Jeanschmidt would not have authorized it... Since her husband's death, she won't discuss Luiza School at all..."

  "Aren't there any old class photographs around the place?" I asked.

  "No. As I said, everything has been burnt..."

  "Have you worked here long?"

  "The two last years of Luiza School. Then, our director, Mr. Jeanschmidt, died ... But the school was no longer the same as it used to be ..."

  He looked out of the window with a pensive air.

  "As a former student, I'd have liked to find some souvenirs," I said.

  "I understand. Unfortunately..."

  "And what will become of the school?"

  "Oh, they'll auction everything off."

  And with a listless gesture, he took in the lawn, the tennis court, the swimming pool.

  "Would you like a last look at the dormitories and the class rooms?"

  "There's no point."

  He took a pipe from his jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth. He did not leave the window recess.

  "What was that wooden building on the left?"

  "The changing rooms. They changed there for sports ..."

  "Oh, yes, that's right..."

  He filled his pipe.

  "I've forgotten everything... Did we wear uniforms?"

  "No, sir. A navy blue blazer was only required for dinner and on days off."

  I approached the window. My forehead practically touched the glass. Below, in front of the white building, was a gravel-covered esplanade, with weeds already coming through. I could see us, Freddie and me, in our blazers. And I tried to imagine what he might have looked like, that man who came for us on one of the days out, who left his car and walked toward us, who was my father.

  36

  Mrs. E. Kahan