window filled the room with a white light.
On the left was a small cupboard. The top shelf was empty. Against the wall was a pair of old-fashioned skis. At the bottom of the cupboard, a cheap suitcase. It contained a pair of ski boots and a page torn out of a magazine on which I could make out a few photos. I held the piece of glossy paper up to the light coming from the street lamp and read the text that accompanied the photos:
MEGÈVE HAS NOT BEEN DESERTED. FOR SOME YOUNG MEN A BREAK FROM THEIR ARMY LIFE, FOR OTHERS THEIR LAST HOLIDAYS BEFORE JOINING THE FORCES.
I recognized the twenty-year-old Rigaud in two of the photos. One showed him at the top of a piste, leaning on his ski sticks, the other, on the balcony of a chalet with a woman and a man who was wearing big sunglasses. Underneath the second photo was written: Madame Édouard Bourdet, P. Rigaud, university ski champion 1939 , and Andy Embiricos. Moustaches had been pencilled-in on Madame Édouard Bourdet's face, and I was certain that this was the work of Rigaud himself.
I imagined that when he moved from the Rue de Tilsitt to the Boulevard Soult he had taken the skis, the boots and the page from the glossy magazine that dated from the phoney war. One evening, in this room where he had taken refuge with Ingrid – the evening of the first air raid over Paris, but neither of them went down to the cellar – he must have contemplated these accessories with stupefaction, as relics of a previous life – that of a dutiful young man. The world he had grown up in and belonged to until he was twenty must have seemed so far-off and so absurd that while waiting for the end of the raid, he had absent-mindedly drawn moustaches on Madame Bourdet.
•
Before shutting the flat door, I checked to see whether the yellow key the concierge had given me was still in my pocket. Then I went down the stairs in semi-darkness, because I hadn't been able to find the light switch.
Down on the boulevard, the night was a little cooler than usual. Outside the service station, the Kabyle in the blue dungarees was sitting on a chair and smoking. He waved to me.
"Are you on your own?" I asked.
"He went to get some sleep. He's going to take over later."
"Do you work all night?"
"All night."
"Even in the summer?"
"Yes. It doesn't bother me. I don't like sleeping."
"If you ever need me," I said, "I could stand in for you whenever you like. I live in the district now, and I've nothing else to do."
I sat down on the chair opposite him.
"Would you like some coffee?" he said.
"With pleasure."
He went into the office and came back with two cups of coffee.
"I put a lump of sugar in. Is that all right?
We were now sitting on our chairs and sipping our coffee.
"Do you like the flat?"
"Very much," I said.
"I rented it from my friend, too, for three months, before I found a studio flat in the neighbourhood."
"And the flat was empty, as it is now?"
"All that was left was an old pair of skis in a cupboard."
"They're still there," I told him. "And your friend has no idea where to find the former owner?"
"He may be dead, you know."
He put his coffee cup down on the pavement by his feet.
"If he isn't dead, he might get in touch all the same," I said.
He smiled at me with a shrug of the shoulders. We remained silent for a few moments. He seemed thoughtful.
"In any case," he said, "he was a man who must have liked winter sports …"
•
Back at the hotel, I opened the folder containing my notes on Ingrid's life, and added the page torn out of the magazine and the envelope addressed to Rigaud. Yes, 3 , Rue de Tilsitt had indeed been where Madame Paul Rigaud had lived. I had written it down on a bit of paper after checking in an old directory. During the few days that Ingrid had lived with Rigaud in the Rue de Tilsitt it had been snowing in Paris, and they hadn't left the flat. Through the big windows in the salon they looked at the snow covering the Place and the avenues all around, and
On the left was a small cupboard. The top shelf was empty. Against the wall was a pair of old-fashioned skis. At the bottom of the cupboard, a cheap suitcase. It contained a pair of ski boots and a page torn out of a magazine on which I could make out a few photos. I held the piece of glossy paper up to the light coming from the street lamp and read the text that accompanied the photos:
MEGÈVE HAS NOT BEEN DESERTED. FOR SOME YOUNG MEN A BREAK FROM THEIR ARMY LIFE, FOR OTHERS THEIR LAST HOLIDAYS BEFORE JOINING THE FORCES.
I recognized the twenty-year-old Rigaud in two of the photos. One showed him at the top of a piste, leaning on his ski sticks, the other, on the balcony of a chalet with a woman and a man who was wearing big sunglasses. Underneath the second photo was written: Madame Édouard Bourdet, P. Rigaud, university ski champion 1939 , and Andy Embiricos. Moustaches had been pencilled-in on Madame Édouard Bourdet's face, and I was certain that this was the work of Rigaud himself.
I imagined that when he moved from the Rue de Tilsitt to the Boulevard Soult he had taken the skis, the boots and the page from the glossy magazine that dated from the phoney war. One evening, in this room where he had taken refuge with Ingrid – the evening of the first air raid over Paris, but neither of them went down to the cellar – he must have contemplated these accessories with stupefaction, as relics of a previous life – that of a dutiful young man. The world he had grown up in and belonged to until he was twenty must have seemed so far-off and so absurd that while waiting for the end of the raid, he had absent-mindedly drawn moustaches on Madame Bourdet.
•
Before shutting the flat door, I checked to see whether the yellow key the concierge had given me was still in my pocket. Then I went down the stairs in semi-darkness, because I hadn't been able to find the light switch.
Down on the boulevard, the night was a little cooler than usual. Outside the service station, the Kabyle in the blue dungarees was sitting on a chair and smoking. He waved to me.
"Are you on your own?" I asked.
"He went to get some sleep. He's going to take over later."
"Do you work all night?"
"All night."
"Even in the summer?"
"Yes. It doesn't bother me. I don't like sleeping."
"If you ever need me," I said, "I could stand in for you whenever you like. I live in the district now, and I've nothing else to do."
I sat down on the chair opposite him.
"Would you like some coffee?" he said.
"With pleasure."
He went into the office and came back with two cups of coffee.
"I put a lump of sugar in. Is that all right?
We were now sitting on our chairs and sipping our coffee.
"Do you like the flat?"
"Very much," I said.
"I rented it from my friend, too, for three months, before I found a studio flat in the neighbourhood."
"And the flat was empty, as it is now?"
"All that was left was an old pair of skis in a cupboard."
"They're still there," I told him. "And your friend has no idea where to find the former owner?"
"He may be dead, you know."
He put his coffee cup down on the pavement by his feet.
"If he isn't dead, he might get in touch all the same," I said.
He smiled at me with a shrug of the shoulders. We remained silent for a few moments. He seemed thoughtful.
"In any case," he said, "he was a man who must have liked winter sports …"
•
Back at the hotel, I opened the folder containing my notes on Ingrid's life, and added the page torn out of the magazine and the envelope addressed to Rigaud. Yes, 3 , Rue de Tilsitt had indeed been where Madame Paul Rigaud had lived. I had written it down on a bit of paper after checking in an old directory. During the few days that Ingrid had lived with Rigaud in the Rue de Tilsitt it had been snowing in Paris, and they hadn't left the flat. Through the big windows in the salon they looked at the snow covering the Place and the avenues all around, and
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