who had been out of town, meeting with producers in Paris. Pierre Roustang had read the script and found it interesting. Pierre Roustang. Another faceless name floating in my memory, but whose syllables have kept a certain resonance, like all the names you hear when you're twenty years old.
There were many different kinds of people at Rachman's parties. In a few months, a fresh wind would blow over London, with new music and bright clothes. And I believe that on Dolphin Square I met a few of the people who were soon to become important personalities in a city suddenly grown young.
I never wrote in the morning anymore, only from midnight on. I wasn't trying to take advantage of the tranquility and silence. I was only putting off the moment when I would have to begin work. And I managed to overcome my laziness every time. I had another reason for choosing that hour to write: I was terrified that the panic I had so often felt those first few days we were in London would come back.
Jacqueline undoubtedly had the same fear, but she needed people and noise around her.
At midnight, she would leave the apartment with Linda. They would go to Rachman's parties or to out-of-the-way spots around Notting Hill. At Rachman's you could meet great numbers of people who would invite you to their parties as well. For the first time in London – said Savoundra – you didn't feel that you were out in the provinces. There was electricity in the air, they said.
I remember our last walks together. I accompanied her to Rachman's house on Dolphin Square. I didn't want to go in and find myself among all those people. The idea of returning to the apartment frightened me a little. I would have to start putting the sentences down on the white page again, but I had no choice.
Those evenings, we'd ask the taxi driver to stop at Victoria Station. And from there we would walk to the Thames through the streets of Pimlico. It was July. The heat was suffocating, but whenever we walked along the iron fences of a park, a breeze washed over us, smelling of privet or linden.
We would say goodnight under the portico. The clusters of apartment buildings on Dolphin Square stood out against the moonlight. The shadows of the trees were cast onto the sidewalk, and the leaves stood motionless. There was not a breath of air. Across the quai, beside the Thames, there was a neon sign advertising a restaurant on a barge, and the doorman stood at the edge of the gangplank. But apparently no one ever went into that restaurant. I used to watch the man standing still for hours in his uniform. There were no more cars driving along the quai at that hour, and I had finally arrived at the tranquil, desolate heart of the summer.
Back in Chepstows Villas I wrote, stretched out on the bed. Then I turned off the light and waited in the dark.
She would come in about three o'clock in the morning, always alone. Linda had disappeared again, sometime before.
She would softly open the door. I pretended to be sleeping.
And then, after a few days, I would stay awake until dawn, but I never again heard her footsteps in the stairway.
YESTERDAY, Saturday the first of October 1994, I took the métro back to my apartment from the Place d'Italie. I had gone looking for videos in a shop that was supposed to have a better selection than the others. I hadn't seen the Place d'Italie for a long time, and it seemed very different because of the skyscrapers.
I stood near the doors in the métro car. A woman was sitting on the bench in the back of the car, on my left, and I'd noticed her because she was wearing sunglasses, a scarf tied under her chin, and an old beige raincoat. She looked like Jacqueline. The elevated métro followed along the Boulevard Auguste-Blanqui. Her face seemed thinner in the daylight. I could clearly make out the shape of her mouth and her nose. It was her, I gradually became convinced of it.
She didn't see me. Her eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses.
She stood up
There were many different kinds of people at Rachman's parties. In a few months, a fresh wind would blow over London, with new music and bright clothes. And I believe that on Dolphin Square I met a few of the people who were soon to become important personalities in a city suddenly grown young.
I never wrote in the morning anymore, only from midnight on. I wasn't trying to take advantage of the tranquility and silence. I was only putting off the moment when I would have to begin work. And I managed to overcome my laziness every time. I had another reason for choosing that hour to write: I was terrified that the panic I had so often felt those first few days we were in London would come back.
Jacqueline undoubtedly had the same fear, but she needed people and noise around her.
At midnight, she would leave the apartment with Linda. They would go to Rachman's parties or to out-of-the-way spots around Notting Hill. At Rachman's you could meet great numbers of people who would invite you to their parties as well. For the first time in London – said Savoundra – you didn't feel that you were out in the provinces. There was electricity in the air, they said.
I remember our last walks together. I accompanied her to Rachman's house on Dolphin Square. I didn't want to go in and find myself among all those people. The idea of returning to the apartment frightened me a little. I would have to start putting the sentences down on the white page again, but I had no choice.
Those evenings, we'd ask the taxi driver to stop at Victoria Station. And from there we would walk to the Thames through the streets of Pimlico. It was July. The heat was suffocating, but whenever we walked along the iron fences of a park, a breeze washed over us, smelling of privet or linden.
We would say goodnight under the portico. The clusters of apartment buildings on Dolphin Square stood out against the moonlight. The shadows of the trees were cast onto the sidewalk, and the leaves stood motionless. There was not a breath of air. Across the quai, beside the Thames, there was a neon sign advertising a restaurant on a barge, and the doorman stood at the edge of the gangplank. But apparently no one ever went into that restaurant. I used to watch the man standing still for hours in his uniform. There were no more cars driving along the quai at that hour, and I had finally arrived at the tranquil, desolate heart of the summer.
Back in Chepstows Villas I wrote, stretched out on the bed. Then I turned off the light and waited in the dark.
She would come in about three o'clock in the morning, always alone. Linda had disappeared again, sometime before.
She would softly open the door. I pretended to be sleeping.
And then, after a few days, I would stay awake until dawn, but I never again heard her footsteps in the stairway.
YESTERDAY, Saturday the first of October 1994, I took the métro back to my apartment from the Place d'Italie. I had gone looking for videos in a shop that was supposed to have a better selection than the others. I hadn't seen the Place d'Italie for a long time, and it seemed very different because of the skyscrapers.
I stood near the doors in the métro car. A woman was sitting on the bench in the back of the car, on my left, and I'd noticed her because she was wearing sunglasses, a scarf tied under her chin, and an old beige raincoat. She looked like Jacqueline. The elevated métro followed along the Boulevard Auguste-Blanqui. Her face seemed thinner in the daylight. I could clearly make out the shape of her mouth and her nose. It was her, I gradually became convinced of it.
She didn't see me. Her eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses.
She stood up
Similar Books
