La ville est comme un grand manège
dont chaque tour
nous vieillit un peu. .
I was making the most of Paris one last time. Every street, every junction brought back memories. Graff, where I met Lili Marlene. The Claridge, where my father stayed before he fled to Chamonix. The Bal Mabille where I used to dance with Rosita Sergent. The others were letting me continue on my journey. When would they decide to kill me? Their cars kept a steady distance of fifty metres. We turn on to the grands boulevards. A summer evening such as I have never seen. Snatches of music drift from open windows. People are sitting at pavement cafes or strolling in groups. Street lights flicker on. A thousand paper lanterns glow amid the leaves. Laughter erupts from everywhere. Confetti and accordion waltzes. To the east, a firework sprays pink and blue streamers. I feel that I’m living these moments in the past. We are wandering along the quays of the Seine. The Left Bank, the apartment I lived in with my mother. The shutters are closed.
Elle est partie
changement d’adresse. .
We cross the Place du Châtelet. I watch the Lieutenant and Saint-Georges being gunned down again on the corner of the Avenue Victoria. Before the night is over, I will meet the same end. Everyone’s turn comes eventually. Across the Seine, a dark hulking mass: the Gare d’Austerlitz. The trains have not run now for an age. Quai de la Rapée. Quai de Bercy. We turn into a deserted district. Why don’t they make the most of it? Any of these warehouses would make an ideal place — it seems to me — for them to settle their scores. The full moon is so bright that, with one accord, we switch off our headlights. Charenton-le-Pont. We are leaving Paris behind. I shed a few tears. I loved the city. She was my stamping ground. My private hell. My aging, over made-up mistress. Champigny-sur-Marne. When will they do it? I want this to be over. The faces of those I love appear for the last time. Pernety: what became of his pipe and his black leather shoes? Corvisart: he moved me, that big meathead. Jasmin: one night as we were crossing the Place Adolphe Cherioux, and he pointed to a star: ‘That’s Betelgeuse.’ He lent me a biography of Henri de Bournazel. Turning the 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. The pages are now rotting in some drawer. Picpus: his fiancée? Saint-Georges, Marbeuf, and Pelleport. Their firm handshakes and loyal eyes. The walks around Vaugirard. Our first meeting in front of the statue of Joan of Arc. The Lieutenant’s commanding voice. We have just passed Villeneuve-le-Roi. Other faces loom: my father, Alexander Stavisky. He would be ashamed of me. He wanted me to apply to the academy at Saint-Cyr. Maman. She’s in Lausanne, and I can join her. I could floor the accelerator, shake off my would-be assassins. I have plenty of cash on me. Enough for even the most diligent Swiss border guard to turn a blind eye. But I’m too exhausted. All I want is rest. Real rest. Lausanne would not be enough. Have they come to a decision? In the mirror I see the Khedive’s 11 CV closing, closing. No. It slows down abruptly. They’re playing cat and mouse. I was listening to the radio to pass the time.
Je suis seul
ce soir
avec ma peine. .
Coco Lacour and Esmeralda did not exist. I had jilted Lili Marlene. Denounced the brave boys of the CKS. You lose a lot of people along the way. All those faces need to be remembered, all those meetings honoured, all the promises kept. Impossible. I quickly drove on. Fleeing the scene of a crime. In a game like this you can lose yourself. Not that I’ve never known who I was. I hereby authorise my biographer to refer to me simply as ‘a man’, and 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 suburbs. Now and then the Khedive’s 11 CV would overtake me. Ex-Commandant Costantini and Philibert drove alongside me for about a kilometre. I thought my time had come. Not yet. They let me gain ground again. My head bangs against the steering wheel. The road is lined with poplar trees. A single slip would be enough. I drive on, half asleep.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
PATRICK MODIANO was born in Paris in 1945 in the immediate aftermath of World War Two and the Nazi occupation of France, a dark period which continues to haunt him. After passing his baccalauréat, he left full-time education and dedicated himself to writing, encouraged by the French writer Raymond Queneau. From his very first book to his most recent, Modiano has pursued a quest for identity and some form of reconciliation with the past. His books have been published in forty languages and among the many prizes they have won are the Grand Prix du Roman de l’Académie française (1972), the Prix Goncourt (1978) and the Austrian State Prize for European Literature (2012). In 2014 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.