Missing Person by Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort

trembled at the memory, and even though I was obsessed with thoughts of Denise Coudreuse, this shrill voice, this passionate protest, as it were, impressed me in a way I could hardly justify to myself, and which made it clear that he was, in fact, jealous of his friend's fate and resented the man with the gray eyes for not having murdered him.
    "He's still alive ... Still in Paris ... I found out through someone ... Of course, he no longer has that angel face ... Would you like to hear his voice?"
    I had no time to respond to his surprising question: he had picked up the telephone, on a red leather pouf next to us, and was dialing a number. He handed me the receiver.
    "You'll hear it... Listen... He calls himself 'Blue Rider'..."
    At first all I heard were the short bursts of ringing which indicated that the line was busy. And then, in the intervals between the ringing, I began to make out the voices of men and women sending messages to each other: "Maurice and Josy would like René to phone ..."; "Lucien is waiting for Jeannot at Rue de la Convention..."; "Mrs. du Barry is looking for a partner ..."; "Alcibiades is alone this evening ..."
    Skeletal conversations, voices seeking each other out, in spite of the ringing which obliterated them at regular intervals. And all these faceless beings trying to exchange telephone numbers, passwords, in the hope of some rendezvous. Finally I heard a voice that was more distant than the others and which kept repeating:
    "'Blue Rider' is free this evening ... 'Blue Rider' is free this evening . . . Give your phone number . . . Give your phone number ..."
    "Do you hear him?" asked Mansoure. "Do you hear him?"
    He pressed his ear to the receiver, bringing his face up to mine.
    "The number I dialed hasn't belonged to anyone for a long time," he explained. "And they found out they could communicate that way."
    He stopped speaking, so as to be able to listen to "Blue Rider" better. For me all these voices were voices from beyond the grave, voices of vanished people - wandering voices which could respond to each other only through a discontinued telephone number.
    "It's dreadful, dreadful ..." he repeated, pressing the phone to his ear. "The murderer ... Do you hear?..."
    He hung up abruptly. He was bathed in sweat.
    "I'll show you a photograph of the friend this little villain murdered ... And I'll try to find his novel, Ship at Anchor, for you ... You should read it..."
    He rose and went into the other room which was separated from the drawing-room by the pink satin curtains. I noticed a very low bed with a guanaco fur thrown over it, half hidden by the curtains.
    I had walked over to the window and was looking down at the rails of the Montmartre funicular, the gardens of the Sacré Cœur and, further off, the whole of Paris, with its lights, its roofs, its shadows. Denise Coudreuse and I had met one day in this maze of roads and boulevards. Paths that cross, among those of thousands and thousands of people all over Paris, like countless little balls on a gigantic, electric billiard table, which occasionally bump into each other. And nothing remained of this, not even the luminous trail a firefly leaves behind it.
    Mansoure, out of breath, re-emerged from behind the pink curtains, holding a book and several photographs.
    "I've found them!... I've found them!..."
    He was radiant. He had no doubt feared that he had mislaid these relics. He sat down opposite me and handed me the book.
    "There you are... It's a prize possession, but I'll lend you it... You simply must read it... It's a fine book ... And he really had a presentiment... Alec foresaw his own death..."
    His face darkened.
    "I'll give you two or three photos of him as well..."
    "But don't you want to keep them?"
    "No, no! Don't worry... I've dozens like them ... And all the negatives! ..."
    I wanted to ask him to print a few photos of Denise Coudreuse for me, but did not have the nerve.
    "It's a pleasure to give a fellow like you