“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.
I had arrived at the Tournon at six o’clock, and by six-thirty she still wasn’t there. Chester Himes was sitting on the bench next to the window, in the company of two women. One of them was wearing sunglasses. They were having a lively conversation in English. Customers drank their drinks, standing at the bar. To calm my nerves, I tried to follow the conversation between Himes and his friends, but they were talking too fast, except for the woman with a Scandinavian accent whom I could understand a little. She wanted to change hotels and was asking Himes the name of the place where he’d stayed when he’d first arrived in Paris.