Ring Roads by Patrick Modiano Page B

easy, for me, you know. I went on forging dedications for a little longer. Until the day the customer to whom I offered a love letter from Abel Bonnard to Henry Bordeaux realised it was a fake and tried to have me dragged off to court. Naturally I thought it better to disappear. A job as a monitor in a school in Sarthe. Greyness. The pettiness of colleagues. The classes of stubborn, sneering adolescents. The night wandering around of the bars with the gym teacher, who tried to convert me to Hebert’s ‘natural method’ of physical education and told me about the Olympic Games in Berlin . . .
    What about you? Did you carry on sending parcels to French and foreign collectors? More than once, I wanted to write to you from my provincial bolt hole. But where would I write?
    We look like a couple of burglars. I can imagine the surprise of the owners if they saw us drinking tea in their living room. I ask:
    ‘Did you buy the house?’
    ‘It was . . . deserted . . . ’ you look sideways at me. ‘The owners chose to leave because of . . . recent events.’
    I thought so. They’re waiting in Switzerland or Portugal until the situation improves, and, when they come back, we will, alas, no longer be there to greet them. Things will look just as usual. Will they notice we have been there? Unlikely. We are as careful as rats. A few crumbs perhaps, a dirty cup . . . You open the cocktail cabinet, nervous, as though afraid of being caught.
    ‘A little glass of Poire Williams?’
    Why not? Let’s make the most of it. Tonight this house is ours. I stare at the rosette on your lapel but I have no need to feel jealous: I too have a little pink and gold ribbon pinned to the lapel of my coat, no doubt some military decoration. We ’ll talk about reassuring things, shall we? About the garden that needs weeding and this beautiful bronze by Barbedienne gleaming in the lamplight. You are a forestry manager and I, your son, a regular officer in the army. I spend my furloughs in our dear old home. I recognise the familiar smells. My room hasn’t changed. At the back of the cupboard, my crystal radio, lead soldiers and Meccano, just as they used to be. Maman and Geneviève have gone to bed. We men remain in the living room, I love these moments. We sip our pear liqueur. Afterwards, our gestures mirroring each other, we fill our pipes. We are very alike, papa. Two peasants, two headstrong Bretons, as you would say. The curtains are drawn, the fire crackles cosily. Let’s chat, my old partner in crime.
    ‘Have you known Murraille and Marcheret long?’
    ‘Since last year.’
    ‘And you get along well with them?’
    You pretended not to understand. You gave a little cough. I tried again.
    ‘In my opinion, you shouldn’t trust these people.’
    You remained pokerfaced, your eyes screwed up. Perhaps you thought I was an agent provocateur. I shifted closer to you.
    ‘Forgive my interfering in something that doesn’t concern me, but I get the impression that they intend to harm you.’
    ‘So do I,’ you replied.
    I think you suddenly felt you could trust me. Did you recognize me? You refilled our glasses.
    ‘Perhaps we should drink a toast,’ I said.
    ‘Good idea!’
    ‘Your health, Monsieur le Baron!’
    ‘And yours, Monsieur . . . Alexandre! These are difficult times we’re living in, Monsieur Alexandre.’
    You repeated this sentence two or three times, as a kind of preamble, and then explained your situation to me. I could hardly hear you, as though you were talking to me on the telephone. A tinny voice, muffled by time and distance. From time to time, I caught a few words: ‘Leaving . . .’ ‘Crossing borders . . .’ ‘Gold and hard currency . . .’ And from them managed to piece together your story. Murraille, knowing your talents as a broker, had put you in charge of the self-styled ‘Societé Française d’achats’, whose mission was to stockpile a vast range of goods for resale later at a high price. He took