again.
"I've left the Midi … I've been living in this district for several months …"
She raised her face to me, and I read anxiety in her grey eyes. And then kindness, and curiosity about me.
"And you? Do you know this district?"
"Not very well."
"Then we're in the same situation."
"Do you live quite near here?"
"Yes. In a big office block, on the top floor … I have a beautiful view, but there's too much silence in the flat …" I said nothing. Night was falling.
"I'm keeping you …" she said. "You must have something to do …?"
"No."
"I'd invite you to have dinner at the flat, but there's nothing to eat."
She hesitated. She frowned.
"We might perhaps try to find a café or a restaurant open …"
And she looked straight ahead of her at the deserted avenue and the lines of trees, as far as the eye could see, whose foliage had taken on a sombre hue, just after the sun had set.
•
Many years later, Cavanaugh rented a minute flat in that district, and he still lives there. He may perhaps be there tonight with Annette. It must be very hot in his two little rooms cluttered with African and Oceanian masks, and Annette will have gone out for a moment to get some fresh air. She'll be walking down the Avenue Duquesne. It's not impossible that she's thinking of me and feeling tempted to come and join me at the Porte Dorée, where Ingrid and Rigaud lived during the air raids. That's the way we are always wandering in the same places at different times and, in spite of the gap between the years, we finally meet.
A restaurant was open in the A venue de Lowendal, about a hundred metres from where Cavanaugh would later live. I have often passed this restaurant since, and even though because of Cavanaugh I'm now familiar with the district, every time I have had the same feeling that I had with Ingrid that evening, that I was in a different town from Paris, but a town whose name one could not know.
•
"That'll do nicely … "
She pointed to one of the tables with an authoritarian gesture which surprised me. I remembered the hesitant way she'd been walking when I had seen her alone, from behind, on the pavement.
An hotel restaurant. A group of Japanese were waiting, rigid, in the middle of the reception hall, with their luggage. The decor of the dining room was resolutely modern: black-lacquered walls, glass tables, leather banquettes, spotlights on the ceiling. We were facing each other and, behind the banquette she was sitting on, phosphorescent fish were swimming round in a big aquarium.
She studied the menu.
"You must eat properly … You need to keep up your strength at your age …"
"So do you," I said.
"No … I'm not hungry."
She ordered an hors-d'oeuvre and a main dish for me, and for herself a green salad.
"Are you going to have something to drink?" she asked. "No."
"Don't you drink alcohol? May I have some?"
She gave me an anxious look, as if I was going to refuse my permission.
"You may," I said.
She raised her head to the maître d'hôtel.
"Well then … A beer …"
It was as if she had suddenly decided to do something shameful or forbidden.
"It stops me drinking whisky, or other kinds of alcohol … I just drink a little beer …"
She forced herself to smile. She seemed to feel ill at ease with me.
"I don't know what you think," she said, "but I've always thought it wasn't a woman's drink …"
This time her gaze expressed more than anxiety; distress, rather. And I was so surprised that I couldn't manage to find a comforting word. I finally said:
"I believe you're wrong … I know a lot of women who drink beer …"
"Really? You know a lot?"
Her smile and her ironic look reassured me: earlier, when I had taken her by surprise on the pavement, I had wondered whether she was indeed the same person as she had been on the Côte d'Azur. No, she hadn't really changed in three years.
"Tell me what you do. Is it interesting?" she said.
Her salad and beer had been brought. She drank a few
"I've left the Midi … I've been living in this district for several months …"
She raised her face to me, and I read anxiety in her grey eyes. And then kindness, and curiosity about me.
"And you? Do you know this district?"
"Not very well."
"Then we're in the same situation."
"Do you live quite near here?"
"Yes. In a big office block, on the top floor … I have a beautiful view, but there's too much silence in the flat …" I said nothing. Night was falling.
"I'm keeping you …" she said. "You must have something to do …?"
"No."
"I'd invite you to have dinner at the flat, but there's nothing to eat."
She hesitated. She frowned.
"We might perhaps try to find a café or a restaurant open …"
And she looked straight ahead of her at the deserted avenue and the lines of trees, as far as the eye could see, whose foliage had taken on a sombre hue, just after the sun had set.
•
Many years later, Cavanaugh rented a minute flat in that district, and he still lives there. He may perhaps be there tonight with Annette. It must be very hot in his two little rooms cluttered with African and Oceanian masks, and Annette will have gone out for a moment to get some fresh air. She'll be walking down the Avenue Duquesne. It's not impossible that she's thinking of me and feeling tempted to come and join me at the Porte Dorée, where Ingrid and Rigaud lived during the air raids. That's the way we are always wandering in the same places at different times and, in spite of the gap between the years, we finally meet.
A restaurant was open in the A venue de Lowendal, about a hundred metres from where Cavanaugh would later live. I have often passed this restaurant since, and even though because of Cavanaugh I'm now familiar with the district, every time I have had the same feeling that I had with Ingrid that evening, that I was in a different town from Paris, but a town whose name one could not know.
•
"That'll do nicely … "
She pointed to one of the tables with an authoritarian gesture which surprised me. I remembered the hesitant way she'd been walking when I had seen her alone, from behind, on the pavement.
An hotel restaurant. A group of Japanese were waiting, rigid, in the middle of the reception hall, with their luggage. The decor of the dining room was resolutely modern: black-lacquered walls, glass tables, leather banquettes, spotlights on the ceiling. We were facing each other and, behind the banquette she was sitting on, phosphorescent fish were swimming round in a big aquarium.
She studied the menu.
"You must eat properly … You need to keep up your strength at your age …"
"So do you," I said.
"No … I'm not hungry."
She ordered an hors-d'oeuvre and a main dish for me, and for herself a green salad.
"Are you going to have something to drink?" she asked. "No."
"Don't you drink alcohol? May I have some?"
She gave me an anxious look, as if I was going to refuse my permission.
"You may," I said.
She raised her head to the maître d'hôtel.
"Well then … A beer …"
It was as if she had suddenly decided to do something shameful or forbidden.
"It stops me drinking whisky, or other kinds of alcohol … I just drink a little beer …"
She forced herself to smile. She seemed to feel ill at ease with me.
"I don't know what you think," she said, "but I've always thought it wasn't a woman's drink …"
This time her gaze expressed more than anxiety; distress, rather. And I was so surprised that I couldn't manage to find a comforting word. I finally said:
"I believe you're wrong … I know a lot of women who drink beer …"
"Really? You know a lot?"
Her smile and her ironic look reassured me: earlier, when I had taken her by surprise on the pavement, I had wondered whether she was indeed the same person as she had been on the Côte d'Azur. No, she hadn't really changed in three years.
"Tell me what you do. Is it interesting?" she said.
Her salad and beer had been brought. She drank a few
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