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Authors: Patrick Modiano

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BOOK: Night Rounds
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"If we ran into this type of wise guy every day it would be pretty rough for us," declared Mr. Philibert. "Take it easy, Pierre. He'll end up talking." "I don't think so, Henri." "Then we'll make a martyr of him. There have to be martyrs, it seems." "Martyrs are sheer nonsense," declared Lionel de Zieff in a gummy voice. "You refuse to talk?" Mr. Philibert asked him. "We won't ask you much longer," murmured the Khedive. "If you don't answer it means you don't know anything." "But if you know something," said Mr. Philibert, "you'd better come out with it now."

He raised his head. A red stain on the Savonnerie carpet, where his head had lain. An ironic glint in his periwinkle-blue eyes (the same as Saint-Georges'). Or rather contempt. People have been known to die for their beliefs. The Khedive hit him three times. His eyes never moved. Violette Morris threw a glass of champagne in his face. "My dear fellow," whispered Ivanoff the Oracle, "won't you show me your left hand?" People die for their beliefs. The Lieutenant would keep saying to me: "All of us are ready to die for our beliefs. Are you, Lamballe?" I didn't dare tell him that my death could only result from disease, fear, or despair. "Catch!" shouted Zieff, and the cognac bottle hit him squarely in the face. "Your hand, your left hand," Ivanoff the Oracle implored. "He'll talk," sighed Frau Sultana, "he'll talk, I know he will," and she bared her shoulders with an inveigling smile. "All this blood …" mumbled Baroness Lydia Stahl. His head rested once more on the Savonnerie carpet. Danos lifted him up and dragged him out of the
living room. Moments later, Tony Breton announced in
a
hollow voice: "He's dead, he died without talking." Frau Sultana turned her back with
a
shrug. I van off was off in space, his eyes searching the ceiling. "You have to admit there are still a few gutsy guys around," commented Pols de Helder.

"Obstinate, you mean," retorted "Count" Baruzzi. "I almost admire him," declared Mr. Philibert. "He's the first I've seen put up such resistance." The Khedive: "Fellows like that one, Pierre, are
SABOTAGING
our work." Midnight. A kind of torpor gripped them. They settled themselves on the sofas, on the hassocks, in the armchairs. Simone Bouquereau touched up her make-up in the large Venetian mirror. Ivanoff was intently studying Baroness Lydia Stahl's left hand. The others launched into trivial chatter. About that time the Khedive took me over to the window to talk of his appointment as "police commissioner," which he felt certain was imminent. He thought about it constantly. Childhood in the prison colony of Eysses. Then the penal battalion in Africa and Fresnes prison. Pointing to the portrait of M. de Bel-Respiro, he named every single decoration on the man's chest. "Just substitute my head for his. Find me a good painter. As of now, my name is Henri de Bel-Respiro." He repeated, marveling: "Commissioner Henri de Bel-Respiro." Such
a
thirst for respectability astounded me, for I had recognized it once before in my father, Alexander Stavisky. I always keep with me the letter he wrote my mother
before taking his own life: "What I ask above all is that you bring up our son to value honor and integrity; and, when he has reached the awkward age of fifteen, that you supervise his activities and associations so he may get a healthy start in life and become an honest man." I believe he would have chosen to end his days in some small provincial city. In peace and tranquility after years of tumult, agitation, mirages and bewildering turmoil. My poor father! "You'll see, when I'm police commissioner everything will be fine." The others were chatting in low voices. One of the Chapochnikoff brothers brought in
a
tray of orangeades. Were it not for the bloodstain in the middle of the living room and the array of gaudy clothes, the scene might have passed for a highly respectable gathering. Mr. Philibert was straightening his files and sat down at the piano. He dusted off the keyboard with his handkerchief and opened a piece of music. He played the Adagio from the
Moonlight Sonata
. 'Melomaniac," whispered the Khedive. "An artist to the fingertips. I sometimes wonder why he spends any time with us. Such a talented fellow! Listen to him!" I felt my eyes swelling uncontrollably because of an intense despair that had drained every tear, a weariness so overwhelming that it sparked my senses. I felt I had always walked in darkness to the rhythm of that throbbing and persistent music. Shadows gripped the lapels of my jacket, pulling me in opposite directions, calling me first "Lamballe," then "Swing Troubadour," pushing me from Passy to Sèvres-
Lecourbe, from Sèvres-Lecourbe to Passy, and all the while I hadn't the faintest idea what it was all about. The world was filled indeed with sound and fury. No matter. I went straight through the heart of this turbulence, wooden as a sleepwalker. Eyes wide open. Things would quiet down in the end. The slow melody Philibert was playing would gradually invade everyone and everything. Of that I was absolutely certain. They had left the living room. A note from the Khedive on the console table: "Try to deliver Lamballe as quickly as possible. We must have him." The sound of their motors grew fainter. Then, standing in front of the Venetian mirror, I pronounced ever so distinctly:
I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE
. I looked myself squarely in the eye, pressed my forehead to the mirror: I am the Princess de Lamballe. Killers trail you in the dark. They grope about, brush against you, stumble over the furniture. The seconds seem interminable. You hold your breath. Will they find the light switch? Let's get it over with. I won't be able to hold out much longer against the dizziness. I'll walk up to the Khedive with my eyes wide open and stick my face right under his nose:
I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE
, head of the R.K.S. Unless Lieutenant Dominique gets up suddenly. In a somber voice: "There's an informer among us. Someone named 'Swing Troubadour.'" "It's I, Lieutenant.'' I looked up. A moth circled from one light bulb to the next, and to keep his wings from being scorched I turned out the chandelier. No one would ever
exhibit such thoughtfulness on my behalf. I had to fend for myself. Mama was faraway: Lausanne. A good thing, too. My poor father, Alexander Stavisky, was dead. Lili Marlene had forgotten me. Alone. I didn't belong anywhere. At either the Rue Boisrobert or Cimarosa Square. On the Left Bank, I concealed my job as informer from those brave boys of the R.K.S.; on the Right Bank, the "Princess de Lamballe" title created some serious problems for me. Who was I really? My papers? A Nansen false passport. Universally unwelcome. My precarious situation kept me from sleeping. No matter. In addition to my secondary job of "recouping" valuable objects, I acted as night watchman at No.
3
bis
. After Mr. Philibert and the guests had left, I could have enjoyed the privacy of M. de Bel-Respiro's bedroom, but I stayed in the living room. The lamp under its mauve shade cast deep bands of twilight around me. I opened a book:
The Mysterious Knight of Eon
. After a few minutes it slipped from my hand. A sudden realization struck me: I would never get out of this mess alive. The wistful harmonies of the Adagio echoed in my ears. The flowers in the living room were losing their petals and I was growing old at an alarming rate. Standing for the last time in front of the Venetian mirror, I saw there the face of Philippe Pétain. I found him far too bright-eyed, too rosy-cheeked, and so I changed into King Lear. Perfectly understandable. Here's the reason: ever since childhood I had been storing up vast reservoirs of tears which I had never been
able to release from my body. Tears, they say, are a great comfort, and despite daily efforts, I never experienced this pleasure. So the tears ate out my insides, like an acid, which accounts for my rapid aging. The doctor had warned me: At twenty, you'll be able to double for King Lear. An incurable disease. In medical terms it's known as
PROGERIA
. I should have liked to paint a more dashing picture of myself. Am I to blame? I started out with impeccable health and indestructible morals, but I've known great sorrow. So painful that I couldn't sleep. From staying open so long, my eyes became extraordinarily enlarged. They reach down to my jaw. One other thing: this
PROGERIA
of mine is contagious. If I so much as glance at or touch an object it crumbles to dust. In the living room the flowers were withering. The champagne glasses scattered over the console table, the desk, and the mantel suggested some celebration far in the past. Perhaps the ball on June
20
,
1896
, that M. de Bel-Respiro gave in honor of Camille du Gast, the cakewalk dancer. A forgotten umbrella, Turkish cigarette stubs,
a
half-finished orangeade. Was that Philibert playing the piano just a while ago? Or Mlle Mylo d'Arcille, who had died some sixty years before? The bloodstain brought me back to more current problems. I didn't know the poor devil's name. He looked like Saint-Georges. While they were working him over he had lost his pen and a handkerchief with the initials C.F.: the only traces of his presence on earth. …

I opened the window. A summer night so blue, so warm, that it seemed unreal and suddenly brought to my mind phrases like "give up the ghost" and "breathe one last sigh." The world was dying of consumption. A very mild, lingering death. The sirens wailed announcing an air raid. After that I could hear only a muffled drumroll. It lasted two or three hours. Phosphorus bombs. By dawn Paris would be a mass of debris. Too bad. Everything I loved about my city had long since ceased to exist: the Petite Ceinture railway, the Ternes balloon, the Pompeian Villa, and the Chinese Baths. You end up taking the disappearance of things for granted. The bombers would spare nothing. On the desk I arranged the playing pieces from a mah-jongg set that belonged to the son of the house. The walls trembled. They'd collapse any minute. But I hadn't finished what I was saying. From this old age and solitude of mine, something would blossom, like a bubble on the tip of a straw. I waited. It took shape all at once: a red-headed giant, unquestionably blind, since he wore dark glasses. A little girl with a wrinkled face. I called them Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. Wretched. Sickly. Always silent. A word, a gesture would have been enough to break them. What would have happened to them without me? I found at last the best of reasons to go on living. I loved my poor monsters. I would take care of them … No one would be able to harm them. The money I earned at Cimarosa Square for informing and looting assured them a comfortable life. Coco Lacour.
 Esmeralda. I chose the two most miserable creatures on earth, but there was no sentimentality in my love. I would have bashed in the face of anyone who dared to make the slightest disparaging remark about them. The mere thought of it threw me into a murderous rage. Clusters of searing sparks scorched my eyes. I was choking. No one would lay a finger on my two children. My pent-up grief burst in a towering wave, and my love took strength from it. No living thing could resist its erosive power. A love so devastating that kings, conquerors, and "great men" changed into sick children before my eyes. Attila, Napoleon, Tamerlane, Genghis Khan, Harun alRashid, and others of whose fabled feats I had heard. How puny and pitiful they seemed, these so-called titans. Absolutely harmless. To such a degree that as I bent over Esmeralda's face I wondered whether I wasn't gazing at Hitler. A slip of a girl, abandoned. She was blowing soap bubbles with a gadget I had just given her. Coco Lacour was lighting his cigar. From the very first time I met them they had never said a word. Mutes, undoubtedly. Esmeralda stared in disbelief at the bubbles bursting against the chandelier. Coco Lacour was totally absorbed in blowing smoke rings. Humble pleasures. I loved these sickly charges of mine. I enjoyed their company. Not that I found these two creatures any more moving or defenseless than the majority of mankind.
EVERY HUMAN BEING
left me with a sense of maternal and hopeless compassion. But Coco Lacour and Esmeralda
at least kept silent. They never moved. Silence, immobility, after having to put up with so many pointless exclamations and gesticulations. I felt no need to speak to them. What would be the purpose? They were deaf. And that was all to the good. Were I to confide my grief to a fellow man, he would desert me on the spot. I don't blame him. And anyway, my physical appearance discourages "soul mates." A bearded centenarian with eyes that are consuming his face. Who can comfort King Lear? One day during a nervous breakdown – as the English Jews put it – I was looking for a shoulder to lean on. Knowing the weight of my sadness, I thought the Colossus of Rhodes was in order. Well, it wasn't. No sooner did I step toward it than it crumbled to dust. No matter. I was soon cheerful again. The important thing was Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. At Cimarosa Square we lived together as a family. I forgot the Khedive and the Lieutenant. Gangsters or heroes, those fellows had worn me out. I never could get interested in what they had to talk about. I was planning for the future. Esmeralda would take piano lessons. Coco Lacour would play mah-jongg with me and learn jazz steps. I wanted to spoil them utterly, my two gazelles, my deafmutes. Give them the best education. I couldn't stop looking at them. My love was like my feeling for Mama: she, too, was such a tender thing. Shouldn't do that. It leaves you vulnerable to all the pain of life. Men behave in one of two ways: like flunkeys when they're afraid of you, like murderers when they're free to prey on the defenseless. In any event, Mama was safe:
LAUSANNE
. As for Coco Lacour and Esmeralda, I was their shield. We would live in a cheerful house. It had always been mine. My papers? Maxime de Bel-Respiro was my name. In front of me, my father's self-portrait. In addition:

Memories

BOOK: Night Rounds
11.65Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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