Modiano, Patrick Honeymoon (Godine, 1995)

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when did you know him?"
"
"In 1942.
"Did he live here alone?"
"No. With a young lady."
"I'd very much like to visit the flat."
"Are you interested in it?"
"It's a real coincidence. I thought a Monsieur Rigaud rented
our a flat here . . . I must have read the name and address
wrongly in the advertisements in the paper."
"Do you want to rent a flat in the district?"
"Yes."
"And you'd be interested in gaud's flat?"
"Why not?"
"Would you be prepared to rent it until February? I can't
let you have it for a shorter period . . . I always rent it for a
minimum of six months . . . "
"Until February, then. "
"Would you pay cash?"
"I would. "
The Kabyle in the blue dungarees had offered me a ciga�
rette, before lighting one himself. He was following the con�
versation absent-mindedly. Perhaps he had long been used to
such discussions about the rent of Rigaud's flat.
"I want cash, of course . . . How much would you be pre�
pared to pay?"
"Whatever you ask," I said.
He screwed up his blue eyes. He gripped his shi collar
with both hands:
"Mention a figure . . ."
"
77
The flat was on the second floor of the front building and its
windows overlooked the Boulevard Soult. A corridor led to
the kitchen, a corner of which had been converted into a
shower, then to a small empty bedroom whose metal shutters
were closed, and finally to what might be called the back
bedroom, a fairly spacious room containing twin copper bed�
steads pulled close together. Against the opposite wall, a mir�
rored wardrobe.
The concierge had shut the front door and I was on my
own. He had promised to come back later and bring me an oil
lamp, because the electricity had been cut off long ago. The
phone too. But he would get them reconnected very soon.
The heat was stifling, and I opened the window. The sound
of the cars in the boulevard and the sunlight flooding into the
room projected this flat into the present. I leaned out of the
window. Down below, the cars and lorries were stopping at
the traffic lights. A Boulevard Soult different from the one
Rigaud and Ingrid had known, and yet the same, on summer
evenings or on Sundays, when it was deserted. Yes indeed, I
was certain they'd lived here for a time, before they left for
Juan-les-Pins. Ingrid had mentioned it the last time I had seen
her on her own in Paris. We talked about these outlying
districts that I used to frequent at the time - I believe she
asked me where I lived - and she told me that she too knew
them well, because she'd lived there with her father in the Rue
de I'Atlas, near the Buttes-Chaumont. And even with Rigaud,
in a small flat. She had got the address wrong. She'd told me
Boulevard Davout, instead of Boulevard Soult.
One after the other I opened the wardrobe doors, but there
was nothing in it but some hangers. The sunlight reflected in
the mirrors made me blink. There was nothing on the walls,
whose beige paint was peeling here and there, except a mark
above the beds which showed that a painting or a mirror had
once hung there. On either side of the beds there was a small
78
table in light-coloured wood covered with a marble slab, like
those in hotel rooms. The cu ains were wine coloured.
I tried to open the drawer of one of the bedside tables but it
resisted. I managed to force the lock with the key to my Cite
Veron flat. There was an old brown envelope in the drawer. It
was stamped: French State. The address was written in blue ink:
M. Rigaud, 3, Rue de Tilsitt, Paris se, but this was crossed out
and someone had added in black ink: 20, Boulevard Soult, Paris
1 2e. The envelope contained a typewritten sheet.
r 8 January 1 2
94
NOTICE TO TENANTS
The town house at present let out as flats, in the Place
de !'Etoile with an entrance at , Rue de Tilsitt, will
3
shortly be sold at auction.
For fu her information, tenants are requested to apply
to Maitre Giry, solicitor, Boulevard Malesherbes,
78,
and to the State Prope y Bureau, , Rue de Ia Banque,
9
Paris.
Once again I had the impression that I was in a dream. I
held the envelope, I reread the address, I stared and stared at
the name: Rigaud, whose letters remained the same. Then I
went to the window to make sure that the cars were still going
past along the Boulevard Soult, the cars and the Boulevard
Soult of today. I felt an urge to phone Annette, just to hear
her voice. As I picked up the phone, though, I remembered
that it wasn't connected.
There were identical tartan rugs on the twin beds. I sat
down on the end of one of them, facing the window. I was
holding the envelope. Yes, that was what Ingrid had told me.
But you often dream of places and situations someone has told
you about, and other details get added. This envelope, for
instance. Had it existed in reality? Or was it only an object
that was part of my dream? In any case, 3, Rue de Tilsitt had
been Rigaud's mother's house, and it was where Rigaud was
living when he met Ingrid: she had told me how surprised she'd
been when Rigaud had taken her to that flat, where he lived
alone, and where he would remain for a few more weeks, and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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