After the Circus by Patrick Modiano

years later, when one afternoon I happened to find myself near theWinter Circus. I hadn’t been able to resist going into that café. It was around 1973.
    He was standing behind the bar, less elegant than the first time, features drawn and hair gone gray. A number of photos were glued to the wall, some of them signed, depicting performers from the Winter Circus who patronized the café.
    One of the photos, larger than the others, had caught my eye. It showed a whole group of people standing at the bar, around a blonde woman wearing a rider’s jacket. And among them, I recognized Gisèle.
    I had ordered a bottle of Vittel, like the first time.
    At that hour of the afternoon, he and I were the only ones there. I asked him point blank:
    â€œDid you know that girl?”
    I joined him behind the bar and pointed out Gisèle in the photo. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised by my actions.
    He leaned closer to the picture.
    â€œOh, sure, I knew her … She was really young … She used to spend her evenings here… Her husband worked for the circus … She would wait for him … She always looked bored … That must be a good ten years ago …”
    â€œBut what did her husband do, exactly?”
    â€œHe must have been part of the circus staff. He was older than her.”
    I sensed that he’d answer any question I asked. I was still young at the time and had a shy, polite air about me. And he, no doubt, wanted nothing better than to chat away the empty hours of that early summer afternoon.
    He seemed much more accessible than he had ten years earlier. He had lost his mystery, or rather the mystery I’d lent him. The slim man in the dark blue suit was nothing more today than a café proprietor on Rue Amelot, practically your basic barkeep.
    â€œDid you know Pierre Ansart?”
    He cast me a surprised glance and once again I saw on his face the disingenuous smile from before.
    â€œHow come? Did
you
know Pierre?”
    â€œThat girl introduced me to him about ten years ago.”
    He knitted his brow.
    â€œThe girl in the photo? … Pierre must have met her here … He often came to see me …”
    â€œAnd what about a younger man named Jacques de Bavière, does that ring a bell?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHe was a friend of Ansart’s.”
    â€œI didn’t know all of Pierre’s friends …”
    â€œYou don’t know what became of him, do you?”
    Again that smile.
    â€œPierre? No. He’s not in Paris anymore, that much I know.”
    I stopped talking. I was waiting for him to say what he’d told me the first time: They’re gone, but they will certainly be back.
    Through the half-open door, the sun threw bright spots on the walls and empty tables in back.
    â€œSo, you were a close friend of Ansart’s?”
    His eyes and face took on a sarcastic expression.
    â€œWe met in 1943. And that same year, we both got sent to Poissy prison … As you see, this all goes back a while …”
    I remained silent. He added:
    â€œBut don’t hold it against us. Anyone can make mistakes when they’re young …”
    I felt like telling him I’d already come here ten years earlier to ask for news of Ansart and that he hadn’t wanted to tell me. Back then, there were still secrets to keep.
    But now, these were all bygones, of no further importance.
    â€œAnd are you still in touch with the girl?”
    I was so startled by his question that I stammered a vague reply. Once alone, on the boulevard, I stupidly broke down in sobs.

We reached the Seine and followed the Quai des Célestins. Rummaging in my pocket for a pack of cigarettes, I realized I’d kept Ansart’s registration card.
    â€œCan you really depend on this guy we’re going to see?” asked Gisèle.
    â€œYes. I believe he genuinely cares about me.”
    Indeed, thinking about it today, I can better