Missing Person by Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort Page A
Authors: Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort
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photos of Alec..."
"Thanks."
"You were looking out of the window? A nice view, isn't it? And to think that Alec's murderer is somewhere out there..."
And with a movement of the back of his hand against the window, he took in the whole of Paris, below.
"He must be an old man, now ... an awful old man ... made up ..."
With a shudder, he closed the pink satin curtains.
"I prefer not to think about it."
"I'll have to be going back," I said. "Thanks again for the photos."
"You're leaving me alone? You wouldn't like a last drop of Marie Brizard?"
"No thanks."
He accompanied me to the service door, along a corridor hung in dark blue velvet and lit by bracket-lamps with garlands of little crystals. Next to the door, on the wall, I noticed an inset photograph of a man. A fair-haired man, with a handsome, lively face and dreamy eyes.
"Richard Wall ... An American friend ... Also murdered..."
He stood motionless before me, bowed.
"And there were others," he whispered ... "Many others ... If I were to add them up ... All those dead ..."
He opened the door for me. He seemed so distressed that I embraced him.
"Don't worry, old chap," I said.
"You'll come and see me again, won't you? I feel so alone ... And I'm frightened ..."
"I'll come back."
"And above all, read Alec's book..."
I plucked up my courage.
"I wonder ... please ... Would you print a few photographs for me ... of Denise Coudreuse?"
"Of course. Anything you want... Don't lose the photos of Alec. And take care in the street..."
He closed the door and I heard him sliding the bolts home one after the other. I stood for a moment on the landing. I imagined him walking back along the dark blue corridor, into the drawing-room with its pink and green satins. And there, I was sure he would pick up the telephone, dial the number again, press the receiver feverishly to his ear, and listen tremulously, without tiring, to the faint messages of "Blue Rider."
21
W E HAD LEFT very early, that morning, in Denise's convertible and I believe we took the Porte de Saint-Cloud road. The sun must have been shining because Denise had on a large straw hat.
We reached a village in Seine-et-Oise or Seine-et-Marne and turned down a gently sloping, tree-lined street. Denise parked the car before a white gate which led into a garden. She pushed open the gate and I waited for her on the pavement outside.
A weeping willow, in the center of the garden, and at the far end, a bungalow.
She returned with a little girl of about ten whose hair was fair and who was wearing a gray skirt. All three of us got into the car, the little girl in the back and I next to Denise, who drove. I no longer remember where we ate.
But in the afternoon we went for a walk in the grounds of Versailles and took a boat out with the little girl. The reflection of the sun on the water dazzled me. Denise lent me her sun glasses.
Later, the three of us were seated at a table with a sunshade and the little girl was eating a green and pink icecream. Around us, a large number of people in summer clothes. An orchestra playing. We brought the little girl back as night was falling. Crossing the town, we passed a fair and stopped.
I can see the wide, empty road at dusk and Denise and the little girl in a purple bumper-car which left a wake of sparks behind it. They were laughing and the little girl waved to me. Who was she?
22
T HAT EVENING , sitting in the Agency, I studied the photographs Mansoure had given me.
A fat man, seated in the middle of a settee. He is wearing a silk dressing-gown, embroidered with flowers. A cigarette- holder between thumb and forefinger of the right hand. With his left hand, he is holding down the pages of a book, which rests on his knee. He is bald, his eyebrows are bushy, and his eyelids are lowered. He is reading. The short, thick nose, the grim fold of the mouth, the heavy oriental face, remind one of a bull terrier. Above him, the carved wooden angel I had noticed on the cover
"Thanks."
"You were looking out of the window? A nice view, isn't it? And to think that Alec's murderer is somewhere out there..."
And with a movement of the back of his hand against the window, he took in the whole of Paris, below.
"He must be an old man, now ... an awful old man ... made up ..."
With a shudder, he closed the pink satin curtains.
"I prefer not to think about it."
"I'll have to be going back," I said. "Thanks again for the photos."
"You're leaving me alone? You wouldn't like a last drop of Marie Brizard?"
"No thanks."
He accompanied me to the service door, along a corridor hung in dark blue velvet and lit by bracket-lamps with garlands of little crystals. Next to the door, on the wall, I noticed an inset photograph of a man. A fair-haired man, with a handsome, lively face and dreamy eyes.
"Richard Wall ... An American friend ... Also murdered..."
He stood motionless before me, bowed.
"And there were others," he whispered ... "Many others ... If I were to add them up ... All those dead ..."
He opened the door for me. He seemed so distressed that I embraced him.
"Don't worry, old chap," I said.
"You'll come and see me again, won't you? I feel so alone ... And I'm frightened ..."
"I'll come back."
"And above all, read Alec's book..."
I plucked up my courage.
"I wonder ... please ... Would you print a few photographs for me ... of Denise Coudreuse?"
"Of course. Anything you want... Don't lose the photos of Alec. And take care in the street..."
He closed the door and I heard him sliding the bolts home one after the other. I stood for a moment on the landing. I imagined him walking back along the dark blue corridor, into the drawing-room with its pink and green satins. And there, I was sure he would pick up the telephone, dial the number again, press the receiver feverishly to his ear, and listen tremulously, without tiring, to the faint messages of "Blue Rider."
21
W E HAD LEFT very early, that morning, in Denise's convertible and I believe we took the Porte de Saint-Cloud road. The sun must have been shining because Denise had on a large straw hat.
We reached a village in Seine-et-Oise or Seine-et-Marne and turned down a gently sloping, tree-lined street. Denise parked the car before a white gate which led into a garden. She pushed open the gate and I waited for her on the pavement outside.
A weeping willow, in the center of the garden, and at the far end, a bungalow.
She returned with a little girl of about ten whose hair was fair and who was wearing a gray skirt. All three of us got into the car, the little girl in the back and I next to Denise, who drove. I no longer remember where we ate.
But in the afternoon we went for a walk in the grounds of Versailles and took a boat out with the little girl. The reflection of the sun on the water dazzled me. Denise lent me her sun glasses.
Later, the three of us were seated at a table with a sunshade and the little girl was eating a green and pink icecream. Around us, a large number of people in summer clothes. An orchestra playing. We brought the little girl back as night was falling. Crossing the town, we passed a fair and stopped.
I can see the wide, empty road at dusk and Denise and the little girl in a purple bumper-car which left a wake of sparks behind it. They were laughing and the little girl waved to me. Who was she?
22
T HAT EVENING , sitting in the Agency, I studied the photographs Mansoure had given me.
A fat man, seated in the middle of a settee. He is wearing a silk dressing-gown, embroidered with flowers. A cigarette- holder between thumb and forefinger of the right hand. With his left hand, he is holding down the pages of a book, which rests on his knee. He is bald, his eyebrows are bushy, and his eyelids are lowered. He is reading. The short, thick nose, the grim fold of the mouth, the heavy oriental face, remind one of a bull terrier. Above him, the carved wooden angel I had noticed on the cover
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