I got up and from the very top shelf of the cupboard I took down the navy-blue cardboard box in which I kept all the old pieces of paper that would later bear witness to my time on earth. A copy of my birth certificate, which I had just obtained from Boulogne-Billancourt Town Hall in order to obtain a passport; an academic certificate from Grenoble proving that I had passed the baccalauréat; a membership card for the Animal Protection Society; and in my military record book: my baptism certificate from Saint Martin’s Parish in Biarritz and the very old vaccination card. I opened it up and read for the first time the list of vaccinations and their dates: a certain Dr Valat had given one of them in Biarritz. Then, six months later, another vaccine, indicated by the stamp of a Dr Divoire, in Fossombronne-la-Forêt, Loir-et-Cher. Then another, many years later, in Paris… I had found a clue. It could have been a needle lost forever in a haystack, or, if I was lucky, a thread that I could trace back through time: Dr Divoire, Fossombronne-la-Forêt.
Then I re-read the report of the accident that the huge brown-haired man had given me outside the clinic, of which he had kept a copy. At the time I hadn’t realised that it was written in my own name and began: ‘I, the undersigned…’ And the terms used implied that I was responsible for the accident… ‘As I was crossing Place des Pyramides, alongside the arcades on Rue de Rivoli and going towards Place de la Concorde, I paid no attention to the approaching sea-green Fiat automobile, licence plate 3212FX75. The driver, Jacqueline Beausergent, tried to avoid me, resulting in a collision with one of the arcades of the square…’ Yes, that must be the truth of it. The car wasn’t going fast, and I should have looked left before crossing, but that night, I was in an altered state of mind. Jacqueline Beausergent. Directory enquiries had told me that there was no one by this name in Square de l’Alboni. But that was because she wasn’t in the phone book. I asked how many street numbers there were in the square. Thirteen. With a little patience, I would surely end up finding out which one was hers.
Later on, I left my room and called directory enquiries again. No Dr Divoire in Fossombronne-la-Forêt. I walked, limping slightly, as far as the small bookshop at the beginning of Boulevard Jourdan. I bought a Michelin map of Loir-et-Cher. I turned around and walked towards Babel Café. My leg hurt. I sat at one of the tables on the indoor terrace. I was surprised when I saw on the clock that it was only seven in the evening. I was filled with sadness that Hélène Navachine had left. I wanted to talk to someone. Should I walk up to Geneviève Dalame’s building, a little further down the road? But she would be with Dr Bouvière, unless he was still in Pigalle. You have to let people live their lives. And really, I wasn’t going to call at Geneviève Dalame’s place unannounced…So I unfolded the Michelin map and spent a long time poring over Fossombronne — it was really important to me, and it made me forget my loneliness. Square de l’Alboni. Fossombronne-la-Forêt. I was about to learn something important about myself that would perhaps change the course of my life.
~ ~ ~
ON THE QUAY at the beginning of Rue de l’Alboni were two cafés facing each other. The busier was the one on the right, which sold cigarettes and newspapers. I ended up asking the boss if he knew a certain Jacqueline Beausergent. No, the name didn’t ring a bell. A blonde woman who lived in the area. She’d had a car accident. No, he didn’t think so, but perhaps I could try at the big garage, further along the quay, before the Trocadéro Gardens, the one that specialised in American cars. They had a lot of clients in the area. She had injuries on her face? That kind of thing would stand out. Go and ask at the garage. He wasn’t surprised by my question and he had replied in a courteous, slightly weary voice, but I regretted having said Jacqueline Beausergent’s name in front of him. You have to let others approach at their own pace. No sudden movements. Remain still and silent and blend into the background. I always sat at the most secluded table. And I waited. I was the type of person who would stop at the edge of a pool at dusk and allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness until I could see all the agitation beneath the surface of the still water. Going around the neighbouring streets in the area, I became more and more convinced that I would be able to find her without asking anyone anything. I had to tread carefully in this zone. It had taken me a long time to gain access to it. All my journeys across Paris, the travels during my childhood from the Left Bank to the Bois de Vincennes and the Bois de Boulogne, from south to north, the meetings with my father, and my own wanderings over the years, all of it had led me to this neighbourhood on the side of a hill, right by the Seine, a neighbourhood you could characterise simply as ‘residential’ or ‘nondescript’. In a letter dated some fifteen years ago, but which I received only yesterday, someone had arranged to meet me here. But it wasn’t too late: there was still someone waiting for me behind one of these windows, all identical, on façades of apartment buildings that all looked the same.
*
One morning when I was sitting in the café on the right, at the corner of the quay and Rue de l’Alboni, two men came in and sat at the counter. I recognised the huge brown-haired man straightaway. He was wearing the same dark coat he’d worn on the night of the accident and when I left the Mirabeau Clinic.
I tried to keep calm. He hadn’t noticed me. I could see both of them from behind, sitting at the counter. They were speaking quietly. The other man was taking notes in a pad, nodding from time to time as he listened to the huge brown-haired man. I was at a table quite close to the counter, but I didn’t catch a word of what they said. Why had he seemed like a ‘huge brown-haired man’ the first time I’d seen him, when the woman and I were side by side on the sofa in the lobby and he’d walked towards us? The shock of the accident must have blurred my vision. And the other day, leaving the clinic, I still wasn’t quite feeling myself. In fact, he had a certain elegance, but his low hairline and features had something brutal about them and reminded me of an American actor whose name I’ve forgotten.
I hesitated for a few moments. But I couldn’t let the chance slip by. I got up and propped my elbows on the counter next to him. He half-turned his back to me and I leaned over to attract his attention. It was the other man who noticed that I wanted to talk to him. He tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at me. He turned to face me. I remained silent, but I don’t think it was only out of timidity. I was trying to find the right words, hoping he would recognise me. But he looked surprised and annoyed.
‘Good to see you again,’ I said and held out my hand.
He shook it distractedly. ‘Have we met before?’ he asked, frowning.
‘The last time was not far from here. At the Mirabeau Clinic.’
The other man stared at me coldly, too. ‘Excuse me? I don’t understand…’ There was a trace of a smile on his lips.