It’s a strange idea, really, to go stirring up all these dead things.
The wedding was to take place the following day, but there was no news of Annie. Murraille tried desperately to reach her by telephone. Sylviane Quimphe consulted her diary and gave him the numbers of nightclubs where ‘that little fool’ was likely to be found. Chez Tonton: Trinite 87.42, Au Bosphore: Richelieu 94.03, El Garron: Vintimille 30.54, L’Etincelle. . Marcheret, silent, swallowed glass after glass of brandy. Between frantic calls, Murraille begged him to be patient. He had just been told that Annie had been at the Monte-Cristo at about eleven. With a bit of luck they’d ‘corner’ her at Djiguite or at L’Armorial. But Marcheret had lost heart. No, it was pointless. And you, on your pouffe, did your best to look devastated. Eventually you muttered:
‘Try Poisson d’Or, Odeon 90.95. .’
Marcheret looked up:
‘Nobody asked for your advice, Chalva. .’
You held your breath so as not to attract attention. You wished the ground would swallow you. Murraille, increasingly frantic, went on telephoning: Le Doge: Opéra 95.78, Chez Carrère: Balzac 59.60, Les Trois Valses: Vernet 15.27, Au Grand Large. .
You repeated timidly:
‘What about the Poisson d’Or: Odeon 90.95. .’.
Murraille roared:
‘Just shut up, Chalva, will you?’
He was brandishing the telephone like a club, his knuckles white. Marcheret sipped his cognac slowly, then:
‘If he makes another sound, I’ll cut his tongue out with my razor. .! Yes, I mean you, Chalva. .’
I seized the opportunity to slip out on to the veranda. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs. The silence, the cool of the night. Alone at last. I looked thoughtfully at Marcheret’s Talbot, parked by the gate. The bodywork gleamed in the moonlight. He always left his keys on the dashboard. Neither he nor Murraille would have heard the sound of the engine. In twenty minutes, I could be in Paris. I would go back to my little room on the Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr. I would not set foot outside again, until times were better. I would stop sticking my nose into things that didn’t concern me, stop taking unnecessary risks. You would have to fend for yourself. Every man for himself. But at the thought of leaving you alone with them I felt a painful spasm on the left-hand side of my chest. No, this was no time to desert you.
Behind me, someone pushed open the French window and came and sat on one of the veranda chairs. I turned and recognised your shadow in the half-light. I honestly hadn’t expected you to join me out here. I walked over to you cautiously like a butterfly catcher stalking a rare specimen that might take wing at any minute. It was I who broke the silence:
‘So, have they found Annie?’
‘Not yet.’
You stifled a laugh. Through the window I saw Murraille standing there, the telephone receiver wedged between cheek and shoulder. Sylviane Quimphe was putting a record on the gramophone. Marcheret, like an automaton, was pouring another drink.
‘They’re strange, your friends,’ I said.
‘They’re not my friends, they’re. . business acquaintances.’
You fumbled for something to light a cigarette and I found myself handing you the platinum lighter Sylviane Quimphe had given me.
‘You’re in business?’ I asked.
‘Have to do something.’
Again, a stifled laugh.
‘You work with Murraille?’
After a moment’s hesitation:
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s going well?’
‘Fair to middling.’
We had the whole night ahead of us to talk. The ‘initial contact’ I had long hoped for was finally about to happen. I was sure of it. From the drawing-room drifted the muted voice of a tango singer:
A la luz del candil. .
‘Shall we stretch our legs a little?’
‘Why not?’ you replied.
I gave a last glance towards the French window. The panes were misted and I could see only three large blots bathed in a yellowish fog. Perhaps they had fallen asleep. .
A la luz del candil. .
That song, snatches of which still reached me on the breeze at the far end of the driveway, puzzled me. Were we really in Seine-et-Marne or in some tropical country? San Salvador? Bahia Blanca? I opened the gate, tapped the bonnet of the Talbot. We had no need of it. In one stride, one great bound, we could be back in Paris. We floated along the main road, weightless.
‘Suppose they notice that you’ve given them the slip?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Coming from you, always so timid, so servile towards them, the remark astonished me. . For the first time, you appeared relaxed. We had turned up the Chemin du Bornage. You were whistling and you even attempted a tango step; and I was fast succumbing to a suspicious state of euphoria. You said: ‘Come and take a tour of my house,’ as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
At this point, I realise I’m dreaming, and so I avoid any sudden gestures for fear of waking. We cross the overgrown garden, step into the hall and you double-lock the door. You nod towards various overcoats lying on the floor.
‘Put one on, it’s freezing here.’
It’s true. My teeth are chattering. You still don’t really know your way around because you have difficulty in finding the light-switch. A sofa, a few wing chairs, armchairs covered with dustsheets. There are several bulbs missing from the ceiling light. On a chest of drawers, between the two windows, a bunch of dried flowers. I presume that you usually avoid this room, but that tonight you wanted to do honour me. We stand there, both of us embarrassed. Finally you say:
‘Sit down, I’ll go and make some tea.’
I sit on one of the armchairs. The problem with dust covers is that you have to balance carefully so as not to slip. In front of me, three engravings of pastoral scenes in the eighteenth-century style. I can’t make out the details behind the dusty glass. I wait, and the faded décor reminds me of the dentist’s living room on the Rue de Penthièvre where I once sought refuge to avoid an identity check. The furniture was covered with dustsheets, like this. From the window, I watched the police cordon off the street, the police van was parked a little farther on. Neither the dentist nor the old woman who had opened the door to me showed any sign of life. Towards eleven o’clock that night, I crept out on tiptoe, and ran down the deserted street.
Now, we are sitting facing each other, and you are pouring me a cup of tea.
‘Earl Grey,’ you whisper.
We look very strange in our overcoats. Mine is a sort of camel-hair caftan, much too big. On the lapel of yours, I notice the rosette of the Légion d’honneur. It must have belonged to the owner of the house.
‘Perhaps you’d like some biscuits? I think there are some left.’
You open one of the dresser drawers.
‘Here, have one of these. .’
Cream wafers called ‘Ploum-Plouvier’. You used to love these sickly pastries and we would buy them regularly at a baker’s on the Rue Vivienne. Nothing has really changed. Remember. We used to spend long evenings together in places just as bleak as this. The ‘living-room’ of 64 Avenue Félix-Faure with its cherry-wood furniture. .
‘A little more tea?’
‘I’d love some.’
‘I’m so sorry, I haven’t got any lemon. Another Ploum?’
It’s a pity that, wrapped in our enormous overcoats, we insist on making polite conversation. We have so much to say to each other! What have you been doing, ‘papa’, these last ten years? Life hasn’t been easy, for me, you know. I went on forging dedications for a little longer. Until the day the customer to whom I offered a love letter from Abel Bonnard to Henry Bordeaux realised it was a fake and tried to have me dragged off to court. Naturally I thought it better to disappear. A job as a monitor in a school in Sarthe. Greyness. The pettiness of colleagues. The classes of stubborn, sneering adolescents. The night wandering around of the bars with the gym teacher, who tried to convert me to Hebert’s ‘natural method’ of physical education and told me about the Olympic Games in Berlin. .