So You Don't Get Lost in the Neighborhood

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AT ABOUT TWO O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, THE TELEPHONE rang. He had fallen asleep on the sofa.

“Hello. . Monsieur Daragane? This is Chantal Grippay. .”

He hesitated for a moment. He had just had a dream in which Annie Astrand’s face had appeared to him, and that had not happened to him for more than thirty or so years.

“You’ve read the photocopies?”

“Yes.”

“Forgive me for phoning so late. . but I was so eager for you to give me your opinion. . Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“We must see one another before Gilles returns. May I call at your home?”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

He told her the address, the entry code, the floor. Had he surfaced from his dream? Annie Astrand’s face had seemed so close a moment ago. . She was at the wheel of her car, outside the house at Saint-Leu-la-Forêt, he was sitting on the front seat beside her, and she was speaking to him, but he could not hear the sound of her voice.

On his desk, the photocopies, in a muddle. He had forgotten that he had scored blue lines through them. And the name: Annie Astrand, which leapt out at you, because it was circled in red. . He would have to avoid showing that to Gilles Ottolini. This red circle might give him a lead. Any cop would have put the question if he had come across it, after slowly leafing through the pages.

“Why have you highlighted this name?”

He glanced over at the hornbeam whose leaves were motionless, and this reassured him. This tree was a sentry, the only person who watched over him. He went and stood at the window overlooking the street. No cars went by at this time and the streetlamps gleamed pointlessly. He saw Chantal Grippay who was walking along the pavement on the opposite side, and she seemed to be looking at the numbers of the buildings. She was holding a plastic bag in her hand. He wondered whether she had walked here from rue de Charonne. He heard the porte cochère shutting suddenly and her footsteps on the staircase, a very slow footstep, as though she were hesitating to come up. Before she rang the bell, he opened the door and she gave a start. She was still wearing a black blouse and black trousers. She seemed to him as shy as she had been the first time, at the café on rue de l’Arcade.

“I didn’t want to disturb you so late. .”

She stood at the doorstep with an apologetic air, not moving. He took her arm to lead her in. Otherwise, he had the feeling that she would have done an about-turn. In the room he used as a study, he pointed her to the sofa where she sat down, and she placed her plastic bag beside her.

“So, have you read it?”

She had asked the question in an anxious tone of voice. Why did she attach such importance to it?

“I’ve read it, but I can’t really be of any help to your friend. I don’t know these people.”

“Even Torstel?”

She looked him straight in the eyes.

The interrogation would start again, without interruption, until the morning. Then, at about eight o’clock, the doorbell would ring. It would be Gilles Ottolini, back from Lyon, who would come and take over from her.

“Yes, even Torstel.”

“Why use this name in a book, if you hadn’t known him?”

She had adopted a falsely naive tone.

“I choose names at random, by looking at the telephone directory.”

“So, you can’t help Gilles.”

He came and sat down beside her on the sofa and brought his face closer to hers. Once again, he saw the scar on her left cheekbone.

“He wants you to help him write. . He thought that you were very closely involved with everything noted down in these papers. .”

At that moment, he had the feeling that the roles were being reversed and that it would not take much to “crack” her, according to the expression he had once heard among a particular milieu. Beneath the glow of the lamp, he noticed the rings under her eyes and the quivering of her hands. She seemed to him paler than she had a moment ago, when he had opened the door to her.

On his desk, the pages that he had struck through in blue pencil were clearly visible. But for the time being she had not noticed anything.

“Gilles has read all your books and he has made enquiries about you. .”

These words made him feel slightly uneasy. He had had the misfortune to attract the attention of someone who would not let go of him from now on. Rather like certain people whose eyes meet yours. They can suddenly be hostile without the slightest reason, or else they come up and speak to you, and it is very difficult to get rid of them. He always tried to lower his gaze in the street.

“And then, they’re intending to make him redundant at the Sweerts agency. . He’s going to find himself unemployed once again. .”

Daragane was struck by the weary tone her voice had taken on. He thought he could detect a note of exasperation in this weariness, and even a slight contempt.

“He thought you were going to help him. . He has the feeling that he’s known you for a long time. . He knows a lot about you. .”

She seemed to want to say more. It would soon be the time of night when the make-up starts to run and you are on the brink of revealing secrets.

“Would you care for something to drink?”

“Oh yes. . something strong. . I need a fillip. .” Daragane was amazed that at her age she should use this outmoded expression. He had not heard the word “fillip” for a long time. Perhaps Annie Astrand used it in the old days. She held her hands clasped together, as though she were trying to stop them shaking.

In the kitchen cupboard, all he could find was a half-empty bottle of vodka and he wondered who could possibly have left it there. She had settled herself on the sofa, her legs outstretched, her back leaning against the big orange cushion. “I’m sorry, but I’m feeling a bit tired. .”

She gulped a mouthful down. Then another.

“That’s better. They’re dreadful, these kinds of parties. .” She looked at Daragane, as though she wished to call him as a witness. He paused for a moment before asking her the question.

“What parties?”

“The one I’ve just come from. .”

Then, in a brusque voice:

“I’m paid to go to these ‘parties’. . it’s because of Gilles. . He needs money. .”

She lowered her head. She seemed to regret her remarks. She turned to Daragane, sitting opposite her on the green velvet stool.

“It’s not him you should be helping. . it’s me. .”

She shot him a smile that could have been described as weak or wan.

“I’m a decent girl, all the same. . So, I ought to warn you about Gilles. .”

She adjusted her position and sat on the edge of the sofa so as to be right in front of him.

“He’s learnt some things about you. . through this friend in the police. . So, he was trying to get in touch with you. .”

Tiredness? Daragane no longer understood what she was saying. What could the “things” that this person had learnt about him from the police actually be? In any case, the pages from the “dossier” were not very conclusive. And he scarcely knew any of the names cited. Apart from his mother, Torstel, Bugnand and Perrin de Lara. But from so long ago. . They had mattered so little in his life. . Walk-on parts, long since dead. Of course, Annie Astrand was mentioned. Briefly. Her name went completely unnoticed, it was lost among the others. And on one occasion, with a spelling mistake: Astran.

“Don’t worry on my behalf,” Daragane said. “I’m not frightened of anyone. And especially not blackmailers.”

She seemed surprised that he should have used this term: blackmailer, but as though it were something obvious that she had not thought of.

“I always wondered whether he hadn’t stolen your address book from you. .”

She smiled, and Daragane thought that she had meant this as a joke.

“Sometimes, Gilles frightens me. . That’s why I stay with him. . We’ve known each other for such a long time. .”

The voice was more and more hoarse, and he feared that this confiding of secrets might go on until morning. Could he maintain his attention and listen until it was over?

“He didn’t go to Lyon for his work, but to gamble at the casino. .”

“The casino at Charbonnières?”

The phrase had come to his lips very quickly, and he was surprised by the word “Charbonnières”, which he had forgotten and which now came back again from the past. When they had set off to go gambling at the casino at Charbonnières, Paul and the others left on the Friday in the early afternoon, and they returned to Paris on the Monday. So, that meant almost three days spent with Chantal at the room in square du Graisivaudan.

“Yes, he went to the casino at Charbonnières. He knows a croupier down there. . He always returns from the casino at Charbonnières with a little more money than usual.”

“And you don’t go with him?”

“Never. Except at the beginning, when we first knew one another. . I used to wait for him for hours at the Cercle Gaillon. . There was a waiting room for the women. .”

Had Daragane misunderstood? “Gaillon”—like “Charbonnières”—was a name that he was familiar with in the past. Chantal used to join him unexpectedly in the room in square du Graisivaudan and would say to him: “Paul’s at the Cercle Gaillon. . We can spend the evening together. . And even the night. .”

So, did the Cercle Gaillon still exist? Unless the same ridiculous words that you have heard in your youth return like an old tune or a stammer, many years later and towards the end of your life?

“When I am on my own in Paris, they make me join in slightly unusual parties. . I accept because of Gilles. . He always needs money. . And now it will be worse because he’ll find himself without a job. .”

Yet how had he come to be on close terms with Gilles Ottolini and this Chantal Grippay? In the past, new encounters were often blunt and frank — two people who collide with one another in the street, like the bumper cars of his childhood. Here, everything had happened gently, a lost address book, voices on the telephone, a meeting in a café. . Yes, it all had the lightness of a dream. And the pages of the “dossier” had also given him a strange sensation: because of certain names, and especially that of Annie Astrand, and all those words piled on top of each other without double-spacing, he suddenly found himself confronted with certain details of his life, but reflected in a distorting mirror, with those disjointed details that pursue you on nights when you have a temperature.

“He’s coming back from Charbonnières tomorrow. . at about midday. . He’ll be pestering you again. . Whatever you do, don’t tell him we’ve seen each other.”

Daragane wondered whether she was being honest and whether she might not let Ottolini know about her visit to him that night. Unless it could have been Ottolini who had asked her to carry out this assignment. In any case, he was sure of being able to get rid of them sooner or later, as he had done with many people during the course of his life.

“In short,” he said cheerfully, “you’re a couple of criminals.”

She appeared astounded by these words. He regretted them immediately. She was hunched up and for a moment he thought she was about to dissolve into tears. He leant over towards her, but she avoided his gaze.

“All this, it’s because of Gilles. . I had nothing to do with it. .”

Then, after a moment’s hesitation:

“Be careful of him. . He’ll want to see you every day. . He won’t give you a moment’s peace. . The guy is. .”

“. . clinging?”

“Yes. Very clinging.”

And she seemed to give this term a more worrying significance than he had first intended.

“I don’t know what he has learnt about you. . Perhaps something in the dossier. . I haven’t read it. . He’ll use it as a means of putting pressure. .”

The words she had just used sounded false coming from her. It was doubtless Ottolini who had spoken to her about a “means of putting pressure”.

“He wants you to help him write a book. . That’s what he told me. .”

“Are you sure he doesn’t want anything else?”

She hesitated for a moment.

“No.”

“Perhaps ask me for money?”

“It’s possible. . Gamblers need money. . Yes, of course he’s going to ask you for money. .”

They must have discussed the matter after the meeting in rue de l’Arcade. They probably had their backs to the wall — an expression that Chantal used to employ in the past, when she spoke about Paul. But he always thought he would recover thanks to his doubling up on his losses.

“Soon, he won’t even be able to pay the rent for his room in square du Graisivaudan. .”

Yes, rents had certainly increased over forty-five years in square du Graisivaudan. Daragane occupied the room illegally, thanks to a friend to whom the owner had entrusted the keys. There was a telephone in this room, with a padlock on the dial so that no-one could use it. But he succeeded in dialling certain numbers all the same.

“I, too,” he said, “lived in square du Graisivaudan. .”

She looked at him in surprise, as if she were discovering links between them. He was on the point of adding that the girl who occasionally came to join him in this room was also called Chantal. But what was the point? She said to him:

“Well, perhaps it’s the same room that Gilles has. . An attic room. . you take the lift and then go up a small staircase. .”

Yes, that was right, the lift did not go to the top floor — a corridor with a succession of rooms along it, each with a partially faded number on the door. His was number 5. He remembered because of Paul, who often tried to explain to him one of his formulas for doubling up on his losses “around the neutral five”.

“And I had a friend who gambled at the races, and also went to the casino at Charbonnières. .”

She seemed reassured by these words and she gave him a faint smile. She must have thought that even though there were a few dozen years between them they came from the same world. But which one?

“So, you were coming back from one of your parties?”

He immediately regretted asking her the question. But she evidently felt she could trust him:

“Yes. . It’s a couple who organise rather special parties in their apartment. . Gilles worked for them for a while as chauffeur. . They used to phone me from time to time to get me to come. . It’s Gilles who wants me to go. . They pay me. . I can’t do anything else. .”

He listened to her without daring to interrupt. Perhaps her remarks were not meant for him and she had forgotten he was there. It must be very late. Five in the morning? Daybreak would soon come and would scatter the shadows. He would find himself alone in his study after a bad dream. No, he had never lost this address book. Neither Gilles Ottolini nor Joséphine Grippay who called herself Chantal had ever existed.

“It’s going to be very difficult for you, too, to get rid of Gilles now. . He won’t let you go. . I wouldn’t put it past him to wait for you at the door of your building. .”

A threat or a warning? With dreams, thought Daragane, one is never really certain what they’re to do with. A dream? All would become clear at daybreak. And yet sitting here, opposite him, there was nothing ghostly about her. He was not sure whether voices could be heard in dreams, but he could hear Chantal Grippay’s husky voice very clearly.

“I’ve got one piece of advice for you: don’t answer his phone calls anymore. .”

She was leaning towards him and speaking in a very low voice, as though Gilles Ottolini were standing behind the door.

“You must leave messages for me on my mobile. . When he’s no longer there, I’ll call you back. . I’ll keep you informed about what he’s planning to do. In that way, you’ll be able to avoid him. .”

This girl was clearly very considerate, but Daragane would have liked to explain to her that he could cope on his own. He had come across other Ottolinis in his life. He knew a great many buildings in Paris that had two entrances, and thanks to them he was able to shake people off. And so as to make people think that he had gone out, he often kept the lights switched off at home, because of the two windows that overlooked the street.

“I lent you a book and told you that Gilles had written it. . Le Flâneur hippique. .”

He had forgotten the existence of this book. He had left it in the orange cardboard folder when he took out the photocopies.

“It’s not true. . Gilles makes people think he wrote this book because its author has the same name as him. . but not the same first name. . And, what’s more, the guy’s dead. .”

She rummaged in the plastic bag that she had put down beside her on the sofa. From it, she brought out the black satin dress with two yellow swallows that Daragane had noticed in her room in rue de Charonne.

“I forgot my pair of high-heeled shoes at these people’s place. .”

“I know that dress,” Daragane said.

“Each time I go to these people’s parties, they want me to wear it.”

“Odd sort of dress. .”

“I found it at the bottom of an old cupboard in my room. . There’s a label on the back.”

She handed him the dress and on the label he read: “Silvy-Rosa. Fashion design. Rue Estelle. Marseille.”

“Perhaps you wore it in an earlier life. .”

He had said the same thing to her, yesterday afternoon, in the room in rue de Charonne.

“Do you think so?”

“A feeling. . because of the label, which is very old. .”

She in turn looked at the label suspiciously. Then she put down the dress, beside her, on the sofa.

“Wait. . I’m coming back. .”

He left the study to ascertain whether he had left the light on in the kitchen. The window there overlooked the street. Yes, he had left the light on. He switched it off and stood by the window. A moment ago, he had imagined that Ottolini was keeping watch outside. Such thoughts come to you very late, when you have not slept, thoughts that you once had long ago, as a child, that frighten you. No-one. But he could be hiding behind the fountain or, on the right, behind one of the trees in the square.

He stood there for a long time, very upright, his arms folded. He saw nobody in the street. No cars went by. Had he opened the window, he would have heard the murmur of the fountain and he would have wondered whether he was not in Rome rather than Paris. Rome, from where a long time ago he had received a postcard from Annie Astrand, the last sign of life he had had of her.

When he returned to his study, she was stretched out on the sofa, clad in that strange black satin dress with two yellow swallows. He was confused for a moment. Was she wearing that dress when he had opened the door to her? No, she was not. Her shirt and black trousers were rolled up in a ball on the floor, next to her slip-on shoes. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing steadily. Was she pretending to be asleep?

She had left at about midday and Daragane was alone, as usual, in his study. She was worried that Gilles Ottolini might be back already. When he went to the casino in Charbonnières, he sometimes caught the train for Paris very early on the Monday morning. Through the window, he had watched her walk away wearing her shirt and her black trousers. She was not carrying the plastic bag. She had left it behind on the sofa along with the dress. It took Daragane a long time before he found the visiting card she had given him, a faded paper visiting card. But the mobile telephone number did not answer. She would surely ring him back in due course, as soon as she noticed that she had forgotten the dress.

He took it out of the bag and looked at the label again: “Silvy-Rosa. Fashion design. Rue Estelle. Marseille”. This reminded him of something, even though he had never been to Marseille. He had read this address before, or else heard the name. When he was younger, this type of apparently insignificant mystery could keep him busy for several days during which he searched stubbornly for a solution. Even if it were a matter of a tiny detail, he experienced a feeling of anxiety and privation for as long as he failed to make the connection, rather like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that has been lost. Sometimes, it was a phrase or a line of verse for which he wanted to find the author, sometimes, a simple name. “Silvy-Rosa. Fashion design. Rue Estelle. Marseille”. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Two words came to mind that seemed to be associated with this label: “La Chinoise”. It would require the patience of a deep-sea diver to discover the link between “Silvy-Rosa” and “La Chinoise”, but for several years he had no longer had the strength to devote himself to this type of exploit. No, he was too old, he preferred to float along calmly. . “La Chinoise”. . Was it on account of this Chantal Grippay’s black hair and slightly slanted eyes?

He sat down at his desk. That night, she had not noticed the scattered pages and the deletions in blue pencil. He opened the cardboard folder that he had left by the telephone and took out the book that was inside it. He started to leaf through Le Flâneur hippique. It was a recent reprint of a book whose copyright dated from before the war. How could Gilles Ottolini have the cheek, or the naivety, to claim to be its author? He closed the book and glanced at the sheets of paper in front of him. During his first reading, he had skipped sentences because the letters were too cramped together.

Once again, the words danced. There were clearly other details relating to Annie Astrand, but he felt too tired to take them in. He would do so later, in the afternoon, when he had had a rest. Or else he might decide to tear up the pages, one by one. Yes, he would see about that later.

Just as he was putting the “dossier” back in its cardboard folder, his eyes fell on the photograph of the child, which he had forgotten about. On the back of it, he read: “3 passport photos. Unidentified child. Search and arrest Astrand, Annie. Customs post Ventimiglia. Monday, 21 July 1952.” Yes, it was indeed the enlargement of a passport photograph, as he had thought yesterday afternoon in the room in rue de Charonne.

He could not keep his eyes off this photograph and he wondered why he had forgotten it among the sheets in the “dossier”. Was it something that embarrassed him, an exhibit, to use the legal language, and which he, Daragane, had wanted to erase from his memory? He experienced a sort of giddiness, a tingling sensation at the roots of his hair. This child, so detached from him over such a very long time to the extent that he had become a stranger, was, he was forced to acknowledge, himself.