After the Circus (2 page)

“Are you getting sleepy?”

I intended to give her the upstairs bedroom. I would sleep on the office couch.

I led the way, suitcase in hand, up the small inner staircase to the fifth floor. The room was as sparsely furnished as the office. A bed shoved against the back wall. The nightstand and bedside lamp were gone. I switched on the fluorescent lights in the two display cases, on either side of the fireplace, where my father kept his collection of chess pieces, although these had disappeared, along with the small Chinese armoire and the fake Monticelli canvas that had left a discoloration on the sky-blue paneling. I had consigned those three objects to an antiques dealer, a certain Dell'Aversano, for him to sell.

“Is this your room?” she asked.

“Yes.”

I had set the suitcase in front of the fireplace. She went to the window, like before, in the office.

“If you look all the way to the right,” I told her, “you can see the statue of Henri IV and the Tour Saint-Jacques.”

She gazed distractedly at the rows of books between the two windows. Then she lay down on the bed and removed her shoes with a casual flick of her foot. She asked where I was going to sleep.

“Downstairs on the couch.”

“Stay here,” she said. “I don't mind.”

She had kept on her raincoat. I turned off the lights in the display cases. I lay down next to her.

“Doesn't it feel cold to you?”

She moved closer and gently rested her head on my shoulder. Lights and shadows shaped like window grates slid across the walls and ceiling.

“What's that?” she asked.

“The tour boat passing by.”

I awoke with a start. The front door had slammed.

She was lying against me, nude inside her raincoat. It was seven in the morning. I heard Grabley's footsteps. He was making a phone call in the office. His voice grew louder and louder, as if he was arguing with someone. Then he left the office and went into his room.

She woke up as well and asked what time it was. She told me she had to be going. She had left some belongings in the house in Saint-Leu-la-Forêt and wanted to collect them as soon as possible.

I offered her breakfast. There was still some instant coffee in the kitchen and one of the boxes of Choco BN biscuits that Grabley always bought. When I returned to the fifth floor with the tray, she was in the large bathroom. She emerged, dressed in her black skirt and pullover sweater.

She said she would call me early that afternoon. She didn't have any paper on which to
jot down my number. I took a book from the shelves and tore out the flyleaf, on which I wrote my name, address, and phone number:
DANTON
55-61. She folded the paper in four and shoved it in one of her raincoat pockets. Then her lips brushed mine and she said in a low voice that she was grateful and was looking forward to seeing me again.

She walked along the quay toward the Pont des Arts.

I stood at the window for a few minutes, watching her distant silhouette cross the bridge.

I stashed the suitcase in the storage closet at the top of the stairs. I laid it flat on the floor. It was locked. I lay down again and breathed in her scent from the hollow of one of the pillows. She would eventually tell me why they'd questioned her yesterday afternoon. I tried to recall the names of the two people the detective had mentioned, asking whether I knew them. One of them sounded something like “Beaufort” or
“Bousquet.” In whose address book had they found my name? Was he just trying to get information about my father? He'd asked which foreign country my father had gone to. I had covered his tracks by answering Belgium.

The week before, I had accompanied my father to the Gare de Lyon. He was wearing his old navy blue overcoat and his only luggage was a leather bag. We were early, and we waited for the Geneva train in the large restaurant on the upper level, from which we overlooked the lobby and railway tracks. Was it the late afternoon light? The golden hue on the ceiling? The chandeliers that shone down on us? My father suddenly seemed old and tired, like someone who has been playing “cat and mouse” for far too long and is about to give up.

The only book he brought with him for the trip was called
The Hunt.
He had recommended it to me several times, because the author mentioned our apartment, where he'd lived twenty years earlier. What a strange coincidence …
Hadn't my father's life, in certain periods, resembled a hunt in which he was the prey? But so far, he'd managed to elude his captors.

We were facing each other over our coffee. He was smoking, cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. He talked about my “schooling” and my future. As he saw it, it was all well and good to want to write novels, as I intended, but it was safer to earn a few “diplomas.” I kept quiet, listening to him. Words like “diplomas,” “stable situation,” “profession” sounded odd in his mouth. He pronounced them with respect and a kind of nostalgia. After a while, he fell silent, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and shrugged.

We didn't exchange another word until he climbed onto the train and leaned out the lowered window. I had remained on the platform.

“Grabley will live with you in the apartment. Afterward, we'll make a determination. You'll have to rent someplace else.”

But he had said it without any conviction. The train for Geneva lurched forward, and at
that moment it felt as if I were seeing that face and that navy blue coat pull away forever.

At around nine o'clock, I went down to the fourth floor. I had heard Grabley's footsteps. He was sitting on the office couch in his plaid bathrobe. Next to him was a tray carrying a cup of tea and a Choco BN. He hadn't shaved and his features were drawn.

“Good morning, Obligado …”

He called me by that nickname because of a friendly wager we'd had. One evening, we had arranged to meet in front of a cinema on Avenue de la Grande-Armée. He had told me to get off at the Obligado metro stop. The stop was really called Argentine, but he refused to believe it. We had made a bet, which I'd won.

“I only got two hours' sleep last night. I made my ‘rounds.'”

He stroked his blond mustache and squinted.

“Same places as usual?”

“The very ones.”

His “rounds” invariably started at eight
o'clock at the Café des Deux Magots, where he had an aperitif. Then he crossed over to the Right Bank and stopped at Place Pigalle. He stayed in that neighborhood until dawn.

“And what about you, Obligado?”

“I put a girlfriend up last night.”

“Does your father know?”

“No.”

“You should ask him if it's all right. I'm sure I'll be getting a call.”

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.