After the Circus by Patrick Modiano Page B

said.
    â€œSo then you weren’t with your brother when he celebrated New Year’s Eve there at age fifteen?”
    He smiled at her and she smiled back.
    â€œAnd this Via Frescobaldi,” I asked, “what neighborhood is it in?”
    â€œHere, I’ll show you.”
    Using a ballpoint pen, he drew two parallel lines on the envelope.
    â€œThis is the Via Veneto … You do know the Via Veneto …”
    I had told him the story of how, on my father’s orders, I’d tried to catch the woman with straw-blond hair and too much foundation who was running away from us.
    â€œYou follow Via Pinciana past the gardens of the Villa Borghese …”
    He continued drawing lines on the envelope and with the tip of his pen he showed us the way.
    â€œYou make a left, still skirting the Villa Borghese, and you come to Via Frescobaldi … And there it is …”
    He drew a cross.
    â€œThe great thing about the neighborhood is that you’re surrounded by green … Your street is right near the botanical gardens …”
    Neither of us could take our eyes off the map he’d just sketched. I was walking with Gisèle, in summer, beneath the shade trees of Via Frescobaldi.

At Quai de Conti, Grabley had left a note on the office couch:
    My dear Obligado,
    Someone called for you around 2 p.m. A man claiming to be from the police. He left his name, Samson, and a number where you can reach him: TURBIOO 92-00.
    I hope you haven’t done something foolish.
    Last night, the evening ended better than I expected and we were sorry you weren’t with us. Would you like to join us again this evening, at the Tomate, for the 10:30 show?
    Yours, Grabley
    I asked Gisèle whether I should phone right away to find out what the man wanted. But we decided he should be the one to call back.
    The afternoon was spent waiting, and the two of us did our best to overcome our nervousness. I had crumpled and torn up Grabley’s note on which he’d written, “I hope you haven’t done something foolish.”
    â€œYou think they could know what we did yesterday afternoon?”
    Gisèle shrugged and smiled at me. She seemed calmer than I was. We spread out the map of Rome on the floor and tried to familiarize ourselves with our new neighborhood, memorizing the names of the streets, monuments, and churches that were near our new home: Porta Pinciana, Santa Teresa, the Temple of Aesculapius, the Colonial Museum … No one would ever find us there.
    Later, darkness began to fall and we were lying on the couch. She got up and put on her black skirt and pullover.
    â€œI’m going out for cigarettes.”
    She wanted me to stay in case the phone rang. I asked her to buy the evening paper.
    I watched her from the window. She didn’t take the car. She walked with a languid step, hands in the pockets of her raincoat that she’d left unbuttoned.
    She disappeared around the corner of the Hôtel des Monnaies.
    I lay back down on the couch. I tried to recall the furniture that used to be in this office.
    The telephone rang. A muffled, slightly drawling voice.
    â€œI’m calling on behalf of Mister Samson, who asked you some questions last Thursday. A young girl was called in just after you … The two of you met up later at the Soleil-d’Or café.”
    He paused. But I didn’t say anything. I felt incapable of uttering a single word.
    â€œYou have spent the last four days together and she is living at your address … I’m calling to warn you …”
    The office was now half in shadow and he continued speaking in his muffled voice.
    â€œThere is a lot you don’t know about this person … I suppose she even lied to you about her name … Her real name is Suzanne Kraay …”
    He spelled out the name, mechanically: K-R-A-A-Y . It felt as if the voice I was hearing was prerecorded, like the talking clock.
    â€œShe has already