Night Rounds (11 page)

in every drawer

perfume

in every closet …

We really had nothing to fear. The confusion and savagery of the world vanished on the doorstep of No.
3
bis
. The hours passed, silently. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda would go up to bed. They'd fall asleep quickly. Of all the bubbles Esmeralda had blown, one alone still floated in the air. It rose, hesitantly, toward the ceiling. I held my breath. It broke against the chandelier. So everything was over. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda had never existed. I was alone in the living room listening to the downpour of phosphorus. One last wistful prayer for the quays along the Seine, the Gare d'Orsay, and the Petite Ceinture. Then I found myself at life's end in a part of Siberia called Kamchatka. Its soil bears no life. A bleak and arid region. Nights so endless they bring no rest. Man cannot exist in such latitudes, and the biologists have observed that the human body decomposes into a thousand bursts of laughter: raucous, piercing like the fragments of shattered bottles. Here's the reason: in the midst of this polar desert you feel released from every link you ever had with the world. Death is all that awaits you. Death from laughter. Five in the morning. Or perhaps the close of day. A layer of ashes covered the living-room furniture. I was looking at the kiosk in the square and the statue of Toussaint L'Ouverture. There seemed to be a daguerreotype in front of my eyes. Then I walked through the house, floor by floor. Suitcases scattered about in every room. There hadn't been time to close them. One contained a hat from Kronstadt, a slate-gray tweed suit, the yellowed playbill from a show at the Ventadour theater,
a
photo autographed by the ice-skating team of Goodrich and Curtis, two keepsakes, a few old toys. I didn't have the courage to rummage through the others. They kept multiplying all around me: in iron, wicker, glass, Russia leather. Several wardrobe trunks lined the corridor. No.
3
bis
was becoming a colossal railway baggage depot. Forgotten. This luggage was of no interest to anyone. It held the ghosts of many things: two or three walks in the Batignolles district with Lili Marlene, a kaleidoscope someone gave me for my seventh birthday, a cup of verbena Mama handed me one evening I don't recall how long ago… The small details of a lifetime.

I would have liked to itemize them all minutely. What good would it do?

Time hurries by

and the years run out…..

One day …..

My name was Marcel Petiot. Alone with these piles of luggage. No use waiting. The train wasn't coming. I was a young man with no future. What had I done with my youth? The days went by and I heaped them up in utter confusion. Enough to fill some fifty-odd suitcases. Their bittersweet odor made me nauseous. I'll leave them here. They'll mildew right where they are. Get out of this house as fast as possible. Already the walls are starting to crumble and the self-portrait of M. de Bel-Respiro is moldering. Spiders diligently spin their webs among the chandeliers; smoke rises from the cellar. Some human remains are probably burning. Who am I? Petiot? Landru? In the hallway, a reeking green vapor clings to the wardrobe trunks. Get away. I'll take the wheel of the Bentley I left in front of the entrance last night. A last look up at No.
3
bis
. One of those houses you dream of settling down in. Unfortunately, I entered it illegally. There was no place there for me. No matter. I turn on the radio:

Pauvre Swing Troubadour
…..

Avenue de Malakoff. The motor is silent. I glide over calm seas. Leaves are rustling. For the first time in my life I feel absolutely weightless.

Ton destin, Swing Troubadour …..

I stop at the corner of Place Victor Hugo and the Rue Copernic. From my inside pocket I take the ivory-handled pistol studded with emeralds that I found in Mme de Bel-Respiro's nightstand.

Plus de printemps, Swing Troubadour …..

I place the weapon on the seat. I wait. The cafés along the square are closed. Not a soul in the streets. A black, light
II
-hp car, then two, then three, then four are coming down Victor Hugo. My heart beats wildly. They approach me and slow down. The first draws alongside the Bentley. The Khedive. His face is just a breath from mine, behind the window glass. He stares at me with gentle eyes. Then I feel as if my lips are curling into a horrible leer. Vertigo. I articulate very carefully so they can read my lips:
I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE
.
I AM THE PRIN-CESS DE LAM-BALLE
. I grab the pistol and lower the window. He watches me, smiling, as if he had always known. I pull the trigger. I've wounded his left shoulder. Now they're following me at a distance, but I know I shan't escape them. Their autos are advancing four
abreast. The strongarms of Cimarosa Square are in one of them: Breton, Reocreux, Codébo, Robert le Pâle, Danos, Gouari… Vital-Léca is driving the Khedive's
II
-hp. I caught sight of Lionel de Zieff, Helder, and Rosenheim in the back seat. I'm back on the Avenue de Malakoff headed for the Trocadéro. A blue-gray Talbot emerges from the Rue Lauriston: Philibert's. Then the Delahaye Labourdette that belongs to ex-Commandant Costantini. They've all gathered at the appointed place. The hunt is on. I drive very slowly. They keep to my speed. It must look like a funeral procession. I'm not hanging on
any
hopes: double agents die sooner or later after delaying the deadline by countless trips and returns, maneuvers, lies, and acrobatics. Exhaustion takes hold
very quickly
. There's nothing left to do but lie down on the ground, panting for breath, and wait for the final reckoning. You can't escape men. Avenue Henri-Martin. Boulevard Lannes. I drive at random. The others are about fifty yards behind me. How will they finish me off? Will Breton give me the shock treatment? They consider me an important catch: the "Princess de Lamballe," ringleader of the R.K.S. What's more, I've just taken a shot at the Khedive. My actions must strike them as very peculiar: haven't I delivered over to them all the "Knights of the Shadows"? I'll have to explain that. Will I have the strength? Boulevard Pereire. Who knows? Maybe a few years from now some lunatic will take an interest in this story. He'll give a lot of weight to the
"troubled period" we lived through, he'll read over old newspapers. He'll have a hard time analyzing my personality. What was my role at Cimarosa Square, core of one of the most notorious arms of the French Gestapo? And at the Rue Boisrobert among the patriots of the R.K.S.? I myself don't know. Avenue de Wagram.

La ville est comme un grand manège

dont chaque tour

nous vieillit un peu…..

I was taking in the sights of Paris for the last time. Each street, each intersection brought back memories. Graff, where I met Lili Marlene. The Claridge Hotel, where my father stayed before he fled to Chamonix. The Mabille dance hall where I used to take Rosita Sergent. The others were letting me continue my odyssey. When would they decide to kill me? Their cars kept at a steady distance of about .fifty yards behind me. We're on the boulevards. A summer evening such as I've never seen. Snatches of music from open windows. People sit at sidewalk cafés or stroll casually in groups. The street lights flicker and go on. A thousand Japanese lanterns glow amid the foliage. Laughter bursting all around. Confetti and waltzes on the accordion. To the east, a firework spraying pink and blue streamers. I feel that I'm living these moments in the past. We're wandering along the
quays of the Seine. The Left Bank, the apartment I lived in with my mother. The shutters are drawn.

Elle est partie

changement d'adresse …

We cross the Place du Châtelet. I see the Lieutenant and Saint-Georges struck down again, on the corner of the Avenue Victoria. I'll meet the same end before the night is over. Each in his own turn. Across the Seine, a dark mass: Austerlitz station. The trains haven't been running for ages. Quai de la Rapée. Quai de Bercy. We're coming into completely deserted sections. Why don't they take advantage of it? Any one of these warehouses would do – it seems to me – for the payoff. The moon is so bright that we all have the same idea of driving without lights. Charenton-le-Pont. We've left Paris. I cry a little. I loved that city. My native ground. My Inferno. My aging mistress with too much make-up. Champigny-sur-Marne. When will they make up their minds? I want to get it over with. The faces of those I love appear for the last time. Pernety: what happened to his pipe and his black leather shoes? Corvisart: he moved me, that blockhead. Jasmin: one evening we were crossing the Place Adolphe Chérioux and he pointed to a star overhead: "That's Betelgeuse." He lent me a biography of Henri de Bournazel. As I turned its pages I came across an old photo of him in a sailor suit. Obligado: his mournful face. He would often read me excerpts from his political journal. Those pages are now rotting in some drawer. Picpus: his fiancée? Saint-Georges, Marbeuf, and Pelleport. Their solid handshakes and loyal eyes. The walks around Vaugirard. Our first meeting in front of Joan of Arc's statue. The Lieutenant's commanding voice. We've just passed Villeneuve-le-Roi. Other faces loom: my father, Alexander Stavisky. He would be ashamed of me. He wanted me to get into Saint-Cyr. Mama. She's in Lausanne, and I can join her. I step on the gas. I'm shaking off my murderers. I've plenty of cash on me. Enough to close the eyes of the most alert Swiss border guards. But I'm far too worn out. I long for rest. The real kind. Lausanne wouldn't do. Have they come to a decision? In the mirror I see the Khedive's
II
-hp
coming closer, closer. No. It slows down abruptly. They're playing cat and mouse. I listened to the radio to pass the time.

Je suis seul ce soir

avec ma peine …..

Coco Lacour and Esmeralda did not exist. I had thrown over Lili Marlene. Denounced the brave boys of the R.K.S. Lots of people perish on the highways. All those faces should be preserved, engagements kept, promises upheld. Impossible. I walked out instantly. Fleeing the
scene of a crime. That kind of game can destroy you. Anyway, I've never known who I was. I authorize my biographer to simply call me "a man," and I wish him luck. I've been unable to lengthen my stride, my breath, or my sentences. He won't understand the first thing about this story. Neither do I. We're even.

L'Hay-les-Roses. We've gone through other townships. Now and then the Khedive's
II
-hp would pass me. ExCommandant Costantini and Philibert drove along flanking me for about a mile. I thought my time was up. Not yet. They were letting me gain ground. My head bumps against the steering wheel. There are poplars lining the road. One slip will do it. I keep going, half asleep.

A Note About the Author

Patrick Modiano was born in 1947 in Paris, where he still lives. He received his secondary education at various colleges: Biarritz, Versailles, Chamonix, and Paris. His first novel,
LA PLACE DE L'ÉTOILE
, published in France in 1961, won the Prix Roger Nimier. This novel, his first to be published in English, has won the Prix Felix Fénéon, 1969, and the Prix de la plume de diamant, also 1969.