After the Circus

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There was bright sunshine all afternoon, but we were in that time of year when night falls at around five o’clock. Ansart proposed that we all go have lunch in his restaurant. It was located a bit farther north in the 16th arrondissement, on Rue des Belles-Feuilles. Ansart, Jacques de Bavière, and Martine got into a black automobile, and we followed them down the empty Saturday streets.

“Do you think we should do his favor for him?” I asked Gisèle.

“It doesn’t commit us to anything …”

“But aside from this restaurant, you don’t really know what he does for a living, do you?”

“No.”

“It would be useful to know …”

“You think so?”

She shrugged. We caught up with them at a red light on Boulevard Suchet. The two cars waited side by side. Martine was sitting in back and smiled at us. Ansart and Jacques de Bavière were absorbed in a serious conversation. With a tap of his index finger, Jacques de Bavière flicked the ash from his cigarette through the half-open window.

“Have you ever been to his restaurant?”

“Yes, two or three times. You know, I haven’t known them all that long myself …”

In fact, she had known them for only three weeks. There was nothing binding us to them, unless she was hiding something from me. I asked if she intended to keep seeing them. She explained that Jacques de Bavière had been very nice to her and had done her a huge favor the first time they’d met. He had even lent her some money.

“They’re not the reason the police called you in the other day, are they?”

The idea had suddenly occurred to me.

“No, no, of course not …”

She knitted her brow and shot me a wary look.

“Listen, they absolutely can’t find out that I was questioned …”

She had already urged the same thing the night before, without adding any details.

“Why? Will they get in trouble because of it?”

She had pressed on the gas pedal. The dog sat up on the back seat and leaned his head in the crook of my shoulder.

“They called me in because they found my name on a hotel register. But in any event, I would have gone to see them on my own …”

“How come?”

We had passed Ansart and Jacques de Bavière’s car. We were driving very fast, and it seemed to me we had run a red light. I could feel the dog’s breath on my neck.

“I left my husband and he’s looking for me. The last months I was with him, he was constantly threatening me … I told the whole story to the police.”

“Were you living with him in Saint-Leu-la-Forêt?”

“No.”

She had answered curtly. She was already regretting having taken me into her confidence. I ventured another question:

“What kind of man is your husband?”

“Oh … Average …”

I realized I’d get nothing more out of her for now. The others had caught up with us. Jacques de Bavière leaned out of the open window and shouted:

“You think you’re racing at Le Mans?”

And they sped past us, then slowed down. She did too. We were now driving behind them, so close that our bumpers were nearly touching.

“After lunch, can we go for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne?” I asked.

“Of course. We’re not obliged to stay with them …”

I was happy to hear her say it. I felt dependent on adults and their whims. The boarding school existence I’d known for six years and the threat of an impending departure for the army made me feel as if I were stealing every instant of freedom and leading a sham life.

“That’s true … It’s not like we owe them anything …”

My remark made her laugh. The dog was still breathing on my neck, and now and again he ran his coarse tongue over my ear.