Exchange Place

La Charade

Freddy Gabriel, said the man. John Kilmore, I presume? Kilpatrick nodded. Another coffee? said Gabriel. Kilpatrick felt trapped but there was something in Gabriel’s manner that made him think he would not take no for an answer. Gabriel gestured to the waiter. Deux cafés, s’il vous plaît, Marcel, said Gabriel. Ah, Monsieur Freddy, said the waiter, and they embarked on some small talk about the weather. Gabriel’s accent was impressive and the waiter laughed when Gabriel made a joke. Kilpatrick felt an urge to come clean. He had not had any kind of conversation with anyone for many days and he felt the need to talk like a normal human being. Actually, you know, he said, when we met the other day, I told you a bit of a fib. And he told Gabriel of how when you were abroad you felt you could be anyone, he knew it was silly, but he had momentarily succumbed to that urge to be someone else. His real name was not John Kilmore, it was John Kilpatrick.

Gabriel nodded understandingly. Of course, of course, old man, he said. Done the same thing myself. You’re staying in a nice hotel somewhere, let’s say Bratislava, ever been to Bratislava? Fascinating place. All go since the Soviet break-up. You’re in this nice hotel in Bratislava, Hotel Arcadia, but no company, you’re sitting at the bar late at night staring at yourself in the bar mirror, you’ve drunk a few glasses of the local schnapps, and there’s a young woman sitting two stools away from you, attractive, well-dressed, you buy her a drink and you start talking, she’s got fluent English, educated, you talk about music and art, this and that. That piece we heard just now, Glenn Gould? Art of the Fugue? You think she might be on the game, but she knows Glenn Gould, and you think, she can’t be on the game, she’s too intelligent for that, but then after a while there’s something in her body language, and you know what? she is on the game, and one thing leads to another, though you have a great conversation before you get down to business, of course you don’t tell her your real name, not that she expects you to, and you give her this story that you’re a writer, you’re thinking of setting a thriller in Eastern Europe, you know, it was half-true, I wanted to be a writer when I was younger, I wanted to be the next John Le Carré, I used to write awful pastiches of him when I was at Balliol, and we got into a pretty interesting conversation about the politics of the place, fascinating as you can imagine, and of course for all I know she doesn’t believe a bit of what I’m telling her, but she goes along with the charade, and here are the both of you acting out your parts, and no one’s the worse off for it. Kilpatrick nodded. He had been there himself, though all he wanted to do was talk, and he ended up paying for two hours’ conversation.

We need to step into someone else’s shoes occasionally, said Gabriel, or imagine that we do so. Kind of learning process. An enquiry into being. What is our nature? Why are we here? How can we attain virtue? How do we remember what we are? What is it Socrates says? All enquiry, all learning is recollection. You already know what seems unknown; you have been here before, but only when you were someone else. Platonic forms, and all that, we are but shadows of our real selves. And you, John, might I call you John? What do you do? I mean in real life? he said, tilting his head and smiling comically. Kilpatrick found himself taken by him.

Kilpatrick told him about his project, his Paris book that would include passages from French writers living and dead, matched to the relevant locations. He mentioned his interest in Patrick Modiano. Modiano? said Gabriel, wonderful writer. Villa triste. Fleurs de ruine. Quartier perdu. La ronde de nuit. Rue des boutiques obscures. Funny one, that, you know there is no Rue des Boutiques Obscures in Paris, though you think there should be, it’s a translation of Via della Botteghe Oscure in Rome, not that Rome really features in it, so far as I remember. Kilpatrick told him he hadn’t got that far, he had only begun the book yesterday, but it was certainly an interesting point, a typical piece of Modiano misdirection. And they talked about how Modiano’s novels were often written in French policier mode, with a protagonist who might be a detective, and if not, behaved like one, except the subject of the investigation was himself. Not that there ever was a solution, or a resolution to the puzzle. But isn’t that the way it is in life itself? said Gabriel, our lives have no resolution, there’s no neat ending to whatever plot we think there is. There is no plot, you live, you die, and then others make up a posthumous story for you, that you won’t know anything about, and if you did, you might not recognize yourself in it, you are not the man they say you are, you are someone else. Yes, said Gabriel, we live, we die. We do not know what happens next, in fact we never know what will happen next, living or dead. But we enjoy ourselves along the way, do we not? Every day contains a surprise, an unexpected pleasure. And you know what? Our meeting is indeed serendipitous. Unexpected, in the manner of all serendipity. We are two Princes of Serendip, you and I, he said in a mock-pompous voice.

And Gabriel announced to Kilpatrick that in his capacity as Cultural Attaché to the British Council he had organised a small soirée that evening, invitation only, at which the great man himself, Modiano, would be guest of honour. Would Kilpatrick like to come along? Do say you’ll come, said Gabriel, I really won’t take no for an answer, this meeting was meant to be, written in the stars, if you believe that kind of thing. At any rate it’s happened. You’ll enjoy the crowd. There’ll be some Irish writers there, you know we in the Council like to maintain good relations with our Irish brethren. You’ll find them good craic, isn’t that what they say? He unbuttoned his coat and took a Mont Blanc pen from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He scribbled an address on the back of a beer-mat. The suit was a navy pinstripe worsted, nice cut, Savile Row, thought Kilpatrick, maybe Huntsman. You will come? said Gabriel. Kilpatrick hesitated. But then, what had he got to lose? He longed for company. He smiled at Gabriel. I’m indebted to you, Mr Gabriel, I’d be honoured. Do call me Freddy, said Gabriel, must dash, one of those damn meetings, but yes, our paths will cross again tonight, 57 Rue du Bac, doorbell marked Vitrier, say you’re with me, ta-ra! And with that he was off. He turned and waved his briefcase at Kilpatrick as he went out the door. Kilpatrick waved back. Kilpatrick took out his notebook to write down the address. It fell open at a quotation from Jean Cocteau. He couldn’t remember which book of Cocteau’s he had taken it from; in fact, he couldn’t remember writing it, or where he was when he wrote it, but there it was, indisputably in his own hand: Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking towards me, without hurrying.

Kilpatrick was disconcerted. But he could not dispute the truth of Cocteau’s words. He walked out on to Rue Daguerre wondering what the rest of the day would bring.