Читать книгу Missing Person - Patrick Modiano - Страница 7

HELLO. Is this Mr. Paul Sonachidze?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Guy Roland . . . You know, the . . .”

“Yes, of course! I know. Can we meet?”

“If you will . . .”

“What about . . . this evening, around nine, Rue Anatole-de-la-Forge? . . . Is that all right?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll expect you. See you later!”

He hung up abruptly and the sweat was running down my temples. I had drunk a glass of cognac to steady myself. Why did a harmless act like dialing a phone number cause me so much anguish?

There were no customers in the bar, in Rue Anatole-de-la-Forge, and he was standing behind the counter, dressed in his outdoor clothes.

“You’re in luck,” he said. “I have every Wednesday evening off.”

He approached me and put his hand on my shoulder.

“I’ve thought a lot about you.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s really been on my mind, you know . . .”

I wanted to tell him not to worry, but the words failed me.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that you must have been a friend of someone I used to see a lot of at one time . . . But who?”

He shook his head.

“You can’t give me a clue?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t remember.”

He thought I was joking and, as if this were a game or a riddle, he said:

“All right. I’ll manage on my own. But can I have a free hand?”

“As you wish.”

“This evening, then, I’m taking you out to dinner at a friend’s.”

Before leaving, he pulled down the lever of an electric meter firmly and closed the heavy wooden door, turning the key several times in the lock.

His car was parked on the other side of the street. It was black and new. He opened the door for me courteously.

“This friend of mine manages a very pleasant restaurant on the edge of Ville-d’Avray and Saint-Cloud.”

“So far?”

“Yes.”

From Rue Anatole-de-la-Forge, we emerged into Avenue de la Grande-Armée and I was tempted to jump out. Ville-d’Avray seemed impossibly far to me. But I held myself back.

Until we reached Porte de Saint-Cloud, I had to struggle with the panicky fear that gripped me. I hardly knew this Sonachidze. Wasn’t he drawing me into a trap? But gradually, as I listened to his talk, I grew calmer. He told me about the different stages of his professional life. First he had worked in the Russian night clubs, then at Langer’s, a restaurant on the Champs-Elysées, then at the Hôtel Castille, Rue Cambon, and he had worked in other establishments too, before taking over the bar in Rue Anatole-de-la-Forge. Every time he would run into Jean Heurteur, the friend we were going to see, so that, over twenty years, the two of them had teamed up. Heurteur too remembered things. Together, they would certainly solve the “riddle” I was posing.

Sonachidze drove with extreme caution and it took us almost three-quarters of an hour to arrive at our destination.

A kind of bungalow, a weeping willow masking its left side. On the right, I could see a jumble of bushes. The interior of the restaurant was huge. A man came striding toward us from the back, where a bright light shone. He held out his hand to me.

“Glad to meet you, sir. I am Jean Heurteur.”

Then addressing Sonachidze:

“Hello, Paul.”

He led us toward the back of the room. There was a table, laid for three, with flowers in the middle.

He pointed to one of the french windows:

“I’ve got customers in the other bungalow. A wedding party.”

“You’ve never been here before?” Sonachidze asked me.

“No.”

“Show him the view, then, Jean.”

Heurteur preceded me on to a veranda which overlooked a pond. To the left, a small hump-back bridge, in the Chinese style, led to another bungalow, on the other side of the pond. The french windows were brilliantly lit up and I could see couples moving behind them. They were dancing. Snatches of music reached us.

“It’s not a large crowd,” he said, “and I have the feeling this wedding party is going to end in an orgy.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“You should come here in summer. We dine out on the veranda. It’s pleasant.”

We went back inside the restaurant and Heurteur closed the french windows.

“I’ve prepared a simple little meal.”

He motioned to us to be seated. They sat side by side, facing me.

“What would you like to drink?” Heurteur asked me.

“You choose.”

“Château-Petrus?”

“An excellent choice, Jean,” said Sonachidze.

A young man in a white jacket waited on us. The light from the bracket lamp fell directly on me and dazzled me. The others were in shadow, but no doubt they had seated me there so as to be able to study me better.

“Well, Jean?”

Heurteur had started on his galantine and from time to time cast a sharp glance at me. He was dark-skinned, like Sonachidze, and like the latter dyed his hair. Blotchy, flabby cheeks and the thin lips of a gourmet.

“Yes, yes . . .,” he murmured.

The light made me blink. He poured us some wine.

“Yes . . . I do believe I have seen this gentleman before . . .”

“It’s a real puzzle,” said Sonachidze. “He won’t give us any clues . . .”

A thought suddenly seemed to strike him.

“But perhaps you’d rather we didn’t talk about it any more? Would you prefer to remain incognito?”

“Not at all,” I said with a smile.

The young man brought us a serving of sweetbreads.

“What business are you in?” asked Heurteur.

“For eight years I’ve been working in a private detective agency, the C.M. Hutte Agency.”

They stared at me in amazement.

“But I’m sure that’s got nothing to do with my previous life. So, don’t worry about it.”

“Strange,” announced Heurteur, gazing at me, “it’s hard to tell your age.”

“Because of the moustache, no doubt.”

“Without your moustache,” said Sonachidze, “perhaps we’d know you right away.”

And he held out his arm, placed the open palm of his hand just under my nose to hide the moustache and screwed up his eyes like a portrait painter in front of his model.

“The more I see of this gentleman, the more it seems to me he was in that crowd . . .” said Heurteur.

“But when?” asked Sonachidze.

“Oh . . . a long time ago . . . It’s ages since we’ve worked in the night clubs, Paul . . .”

“Do you think it goes back to the time we worked at the Tanagra?”

Heurteur stared at me more and more intently.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but would you stand up for a moment?”

I did as he asked. He looked me up and down a couple of times.

“Yes, you do remind me of a certain customer. Your height . . . Just a moment . . .”

He had raised his hand and was sitting quite still, as if trying to hold on to some fleeting memory.

“Just one moment . . . Just one moment . . . I have it, Paul . . .”

He smiled triumphantly.

“You can sit down . . .”

He was jubilant. He was sure of the effect of what he was about to say. Ceremoniously he poured out some wine for Sonachidze and me.

“You were always with a man, as tall as yourself . . . perhaps even taller . . . Do you remember, Paul?”

“What period are we talking about, though?” asked Sonachidze.

“The Tanagra, of course . . .”

“A man as tall as himself?” Sonachidze repeated. “At the Tanagra? . . .”

“Don’t you see?”

Heurteur shrugged his shoulders.

Now it was Sonachidze’s turn to smile triumphantly. He nodded.

“I do see . . .”

“Well?”

“Styoppa.”

“Yes, of course, Styoppa . . .”

Sonachidze had turned to me.

“Did you know Styoppa?”

“Perhaps,” I said carefully.

“Of course you did . . .,” said Heurteur. “You were often with Styoppa . . . I’m sure of it . . .”

“Styoppa . . .”

Judging from the way Sonachidze pronounced it, evidently a Russian name.

“He was the one who always asked the band to play ‘Alaverdi’ . . .” said Heurteur. “A Caucasian song . . .”

“Do you remember?” said Sonachidze, gripping my wrist very hard. “‘Alaverdi’ . . .”

He whistled the tune, his eyes shining. Suddenly, I too was moved. The tune seemed familiar to me.

Just then, the waiter who had served us approached Heurteur and indicated something at the far end of the room.

A woman was seated alone at one of the tables, in semi-darkness. She was wearing a pale blue dress and her chin was cupped in the palms of her hands. What was she dreaming of?

“The bride.”

“What is she doing there?” asked Heurteur.

“I don’t know,” said the waiter.

“Did you ask her if she wanted anything?”

“No. No. She doesn’t want anything.”

“And the others?”

“They ordered another dozen bottles of Krug.”

Heurteur shrugged.

“It’s none of my business.”

And Sonachidze, who had taken no notice of “the bride,” or of what they were saying, kept repeating:

“Yes . . . Styoppa . . . Do you remember Styoppa?”

He was so excited that I ended up answering, with a smile that was intended to be enigmatic:

“Yes, yes. A little . . .”

He turned to Heurteur and said in a grave tone:

“He remembers Styoppa.”

“Just as I thought.”

The white-coated waiter stood quite still in front of Heurteur, looking embarrassed.

“I think they’re going to use the rooms, sir . . . What should I do?”

“I knew this wedding party would end badly,” said Heurteur. “Well, old chap, they can do what they like. It’s none of our business.”

The bride sat motionless at the table. She had crossed her arms.

“I wonder why she’s sitting there on her own,” said Heurteur. “Anyway, it’s got absolutely nothing to do with us . . .”

And he flicked his hand, as though brushing a fly away.

“Let’s get back to business,” he said. “You admit then you knew Styoppa?”

“Yes,” I sighed.

“In other words, you were in the same crowd . . . They were quite a crowd too, weren’t they, Paul . . .?”

“Oh . . .! They’ve all gone now,” said Sonachidze gloomily. “Except for you, sir . . . I’m delighted to have been able to . . . to place you . . . You were in Styoppa’s crowd . . . You were lucky! . . . Those were much better times than now, and people were better class too . . .”

“And what’s more, we were younger,” said Heurteur, laughing.

“When are you talking about?” I asked them, my heart pounding.

“We’re not good at dates,” said Sonachidze. “But, in any case, it goes back to the beginning of time, all that . . .”

Suddenly he seemed exhausted.

“There certainly are some strange coincidences,” said Heurteur.

And he got up, went over to a little bar in a corner of the room, and brought back a newspaper, turning over the pages. Finally, he handed me the paper, pointing to the following notice:

The death is announced of Marie de Rosen, on October 25th, in her ninety-second year.

On behalf of her daughter, her son, her grandsons, nephews and grand-nephews.

And on behalf of her friends, Georges Sacher and Styoppa de Dzhagorev.

A service, followed by the interment in the Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois Cemetery, will take place, on November 4th, at 4:00 P.M. in the cemetery chapel.

Ninth Day Divine Service will be held on November 5th, in the Russian Orthodox Church, 19 Rue Claude-Lorrain, 75016, Paris.

“Please take this announcement as the only notification.”

“So, Styoppa is alive?” said Sonachidze. “Do you still see him?”

“No,” I said.

“You’re right. One must live in the present. Jean, how about a brandy?”

“Good idea.”

From then on, they seemed completely to lose interest in Styoppa and my past. But it made no difference, since at last I was on the track.

“Can I keep the paper?” I asked casually.

“Certainly,” said Heurteur.

We clinked glasses. All that was left of what I had once been, then, was a dim shape in the minds of two bartenders, and even that was almost obliterated by the memory of a certain Styoppa de Dzhagorev. And they had heard nothing of this Styoppa since “the beginning of time,” as Sonachidze said.

“So, you’re a private detective?” Heurteur asked me.

“Not any more. My employer has just retired.”

“And are you carrying on?”

I shrugged and did not answer.

“Anyway, I should be delighted to see you again. Come back any time.”

He had got to his feet and held out his hand to us.

“Excuse me for showing you out now, but I still have my accounts to do . . . And those others with their . . . orgy.”

He gestured in the direction of the pond.

“Good-bye, Jean.”

“Good-bye, Paul.”

Heurteur looked at me thoughtfully. Speaking very softly:

“Now that you’re standing, you remind me of something else . . .”

“What does he remind you of?” asked Sonachidze.

“A customer who used to come every evening, very late, when we worked at the Hôtel Castille . . .”

Sonachidze, in his turn, looked me up and down.

“It’s possible,” he said, “that you’re an old customer from the Hôtel Castille after all . . .”

I gave an embarrassed smile.

Sonachidze took my arm and we crossed the restaurant, which was even darker than when we had arrived. The bride in the pale blue dress was no longer at her table. Outside, we heard blasts of music and laughter coming from across the pond.

“Could you please remind me what that song was that this . . . this . . .”

“Styoppa?” asked Sonachidze.

“Yes, which he always asked for . . .”

He started whistling the first few bars. Then he stopped.

“Will you see Styoppa again?”

“Perhaps.”

He gripped my arm very hard.

“Tell him Sonachidze still thinks of him a lot.”

His gaze lingered on me:

“Maybe Jean’s right after all. You were a customer at the Hôtel Castille . . . Try to remember . . . The Hôtel Castille, Rue Cambon . . .”

I turned away and opened the car door. Someone was huddled up on the front seat, leaning against the window. I bent down and recognized the bride. She was asleep, her pale blue dress drawn up to the middle of her thighs.

“We’ll have to get her out of there,” said Sonachidze.

I shook her gently but she went on sleeping. So, I took her by the waist and managed to pull her out of the car.

“We can’t just leave her on the ground,” I said.

I carried her in my arms to the restaurant. Her head lay against my shoulder and her fair hair caressed my neck. She was wearing some highly pungent perfume which reminded me of something. But what?