Ansart caught me looking.
“It’s a former garage that I converted into an apartment.”
“It’s very nice,” I said.
“Would you like something to drink? Some herb tea?”
The blonde girl got up and walked to the kitchen.
“Four herb teas, Martine,” Ansart said with paternalistic authority.
His eyes were still fixed on me, as if he were trying to gauge whom he was dealing with.
“You’re very young …”
“I’m twenty-one.”
I repeated my lie from the day before. She had removed her sunglasses and was staring at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“He’s a student,” Jacques said, looking at me as well.
I was embarrassed to be the focus of their attention. I started wondering what I was doing there, amid these people I didn’t know. Even she — I didn’t know her any better than the others.
“A student of what?” Ansart asked.
“Literature,” said Jacques.
The blonde girl came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray that she set on the carpet among us. With graceful movements, she handed each of us a cup of tea.
“And when will you be finished with your studies?” Ansart asked me.
“In two or three years.”
“Meantime, I suppose it’s your parents who provide for you …”
His eyes were still fixed on me, as if I were some kind of curious specimen. I thought I discerned in Ansart’s voice an amused contempt.
“You’re lucky to have such good parents to help you out …”
He’d said it with a touch of bitterness and his gaze clouded over.
What could I reply? I briefly thought of my father and his escape to Switzerland, Grabley, the empty apartment, Dell’Aversano, my mother somewhere in southern Spain … All things considered, it was better to have him think of me as a nice young man being supported by his parents.
“You’re wrong,” she said suddenly. “Nobody’s helping him out. My brother’s making his own way …”
I was moved that she’d come to my rescue. I had forgotten we were brother and sister, and so naturally we had the same parents.
“Besides, we don’t have any family left. It simplifies things …”
Ansart gave us a wide smile.
“My poor children …”
The atmosphere relaxed. The blonde girl poured some more tea into our empty cups. She seemed very fond of Gisèle and called her tu.
“Are you going by the restaurant this evening?”Jacques asked.
“Yes,” said Ansart.
Gisèle turned to me.
“Pierre owns a small restaurant in the neighborhood.”
“Oh, it’s nothing much,” Ansart said. “The place was on the skids and I took it over, no good reason, just for fun …”
“We’ll take you for dinner there some evening,” said Jacques.
“I don’t know if my brother will come. He never goes out.”
She had used a firm tone of voice, as if she wanted to protect me from them.
“But it would be so nice to go out, just the four of us,” the blonde girl said.
She rested her candid gaze first on Gisèle, then on me. She seemed to wish us well.
“Lucien and I have to get back to Saint-Leu-la-Forêt,” Gisèle said.
“Can’t you stay just a little longer?” Jacques said.
I took a deep breath and said in a firm voice, “No, we really should be going. My sister and I have been having problems with the house …”
She had surely mentioned the house in Saint-Leu-la-Forêt. Perhaps she had told them details I didn’t know about.
“So, are you taking the car?” Jacques asked.
“Yes.”
He turned to Ansart.
“I’m lending her my car. You don’t mind if I borrow one of yours, do you?”
“Sure. We’ll go get one from the garage later on.”
We stood up, she and I. She gave the blonde girl a kiss. I shook hands with Ansart and Jacques.
“When will I see you again?” Jacques asked her.
“I’ll call you.”
He seemed dismayed that she was leaving.
“Take good care of your sister.”
He handed her the car keys.
“Careful on the road. If there’s no answer at my place tomorrow, call me at the restaurant.”
For his part, Ansart was looking me over carefully, as he’d done when we arrived.
“I’m very pleased to know you. If you ever need anything …”
I was surprised by his sudden solicitude.
“It can be hard, being your age. I know all too well — I’ve been there myself …”
His eyes wore a sad expression that clashed with his resonant voice and energetic bearing.
The blonde girl saw us to the door.
“We could get together tomorrow, if you like,” she said to Gisèle. “I’ll be home all day.”
On the threshold, in the dim light of the courtyard, the girl’s face looked even younger. It occurred to me that Ansart was old enough to be her father. We crossed the courtyard and she remained standing there, following us with her eyes. Her silhouette stood out against the lit doorway. She looked as if she wanted to come with us. She raised her arm in good-bye.
We had forgotten where the car was parked. We walked down the street, searching for it.
“What if we just take the metro?” she said. “That car is complicated to drive … and besides, I think I’ve lost the keys.”
Her casual tone made me break out in hysterical laughter, which then seized her as well. Soon we couldn’t control ourselves. Our howls echoed down the silent, empty street. When we reached the end of it, we started back up in the opposite direction, on the other sidewalk. We finally found the car.
She opened the door, after trying out all four keys on the keychain. We settled into the leather seats.
“Now we just have to get it moving,” she said.
She managed to start the engine. She made a sudden jerk backward, then braked just as the car had reversed onto the sidewalk and was about to ram into the door of a building.
She drove off in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne, bust rigid, face straining slightly forward, as if she’d never been behind a wheel before.
~ ~ ~
We reached the quays via Boulevard Murat. At the place where the street made a right angle, she said, “I used to live around here.”
I should have asked when that was and under what circumstances, but I let the moment pass. When you’re young, you neglect certain details that might become precious later. The boulevard made another sharp turn and headed toward the Seine.
“So, do you think I’m a good driver?”
“Very good.”
“You’re not afraid to be in the car with me?”
“Not at all.”
She pressed on the accelerator. At Quai Louis-Blériot, the road narrowed, but she sped up even more. A red light. I was afraid she would run it. But no, she screeched to a halt.
“I think I’m getting the hang of this car.”
Now she was driving at normal speed. We arrived at the gardens of Trocadéro. She crossed the river over the Pont d’Iéna, then skirted the Champ-de-Mars.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To my hotel. But first, I need to pick up something I forgot.”
We were on the deserted square of the Ecole Militaire. The huge edifice seemed abandoned. We could make out the Champ-de-Mars, like a prairie gently sloping toward the Seine. She continued straight ahead. The dark mass and surrounding wall of a barracks. At the end of the street, I saw the viaduct of the elevated metro. We stopped in front of a building on Rue Desaix.