After the Circus by Patrick Modiano Page A

appreciate Dell’Aversano’s kindness toward me. He had been moved by my family situation, if such an adjective can be used when your parents completely neglect you. The first time I’d visited him, he had asked some questions about my studies and counseled me to keep at them, no doubt judging that a teenager left to his own devices would come to a bad end. According to him, I deserved better than to fence stolen furniture to some Saint-Paul junk dealer. I had admitted that I dreamed of becoming a writer and had favorably impressed him when I said my bedside companion was a volume of Stendhal’s correspondence called
To the Happy Few.
    He was sitting at his desk at the back of the shop. He looked at Gisèle and the dog in surprise.
    I introduced Gisèle as my sister.
    â€œI have all your information for you,” he said.
    My job in Rome with his fellow bookseller didn’t start for another two months.
    â€œWhy, had you wanted to leave right away?”
    I didn’t dare tell him that we had use of a car, or I’d have had to show him Ansart’s registration and explain the whole story. Perhaps another time … But I did admit that I wanted to go there with Gisèle. Did he really believe she was my sister? I didn’t read any sign of disapproval on his face. He simply turned to her:
    â€œAre you prepared to find work in Rome?”
    He asked her age. She told him she was twenty-one. He knew how old I was, and I dug my nails into my palms for fear he’d mention it in front of Gisèle.
    â€œI even know your new address down there … If you like, I’ll ask my friend if you can move in early …”
    I thanked him. Would it be possible for my sister to live there with me?
    He looked at the two of us more closely. I guessed that he was trying to find a physical resemblance between us and couldn’t.
    â€œThat depends,” he said. “Does your sister know how to type?”
    â€œYes,” said Gisèle.
    I was sure she was lying. I really couldn’t picture her sitting at a typewriter.
    â€œMy friend will need someone who can type in French … I’ll call him this evening to find out more about it.”
    He stood up and invited us to go have coffee. We walked by the car, but I didn’t say anything and Gisèle was my accomplice in silence. Tomorrow, without fail, I’d tell him everything that had happened. I didn’t have the right to hide anything from this man who had been so good to us.
    He asked how much longer I could stay in the Quai de Conti apartment.
    â€œNot more than three weeks …”
    He couldn’t understand how a father and mother could abandon a boy who was so passionate about literature and whose bedside book was called
To the Happy Few.
And what astounded him even more was that I considered my parents’ attitude entirely natural, and that it had never even occurred to me to expect any help from them.
    â€œSo, you have to be settled in Rome three weeks from now and your sister has to be able to live with you …”
    From the way he had pronounced the words
your sister,
I could tell he wasn’t fooled.
    â€œDoes your sister like literature as much as you?”
    Gisèle looked embarrassed. In the time we’d known each other, we had never once talked about books.
    â€œI’m making her read
To the Happy Few”
I said.
    â€œAnd do you like it?” Dell’Aversano asked.
    â€œVery much.”
    She flashed him a winning smile. It was sunnyout and the air was warm for the season. We sat at the only sidewalk table left at the café. The clock on the church of Saint-Gervais chimed noon.
    â€œSo you know our future address in Rome?” I asked.
    Dell’Aversano pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket.
    â€œIt’s number 7 on Via Frescobaldi.”
    He turned to Gisèle:
    â€œDo you know Rome?”
    â€œNo,” Gisèle