So You Don't Get Lost in the Neighborhood by Patrick Modiano Page A

was burning in the grate and directed him to an armchair opposite the bow window. He sat down beside him in a similar armchair that was covered in the same tartan material.
    â€œAnd who gave you the notion of coming to see me, in particular?”
    His voice was so solemn and gentle that, within a very short time, he could have extracted confessions from the wiliest and most hardened criminal. At least that was what Daragane imagined.
    â€œPassing by, I saw your plate. And I said to myself that a doctor knows the place where he practises very well . . .”
    He had tried to speak clearly, in spite of his awkwardness, and he had only just managed to use the word “place” instead of “village”, which was the one that had automatically come to mind. But Saint-Leu-la-Forêt was no longer the village of his childhood.
    â€œYou are not mistaken. I’ve been practising here for twenty-five years.”
    He stood up and walked over to a shelf on which Daragane noticed a box of liqueurs.
    â€œWill you drink something? A little port?”
    He handed the glass to Daragane and sat down again, beside him, in the tartan-covered armchair.
    â€œAnd you are writing a book about Saint-Leu? What a good idea . . .”
    â€œOh . . . a pamphlet . . . for a series on the different areas of Ile-de-France . . .”
    He searched for other details that would inspire this Dr Voustraat with confidence.
    â€œFor example, I’m devoting a chapter to the mysterious death of the last Prince de Condé.”
    â€œI can see that you are well acquainted with the history of our little town.”
    And Dr Voustraat stared at him with his blue eyes and smiled at him, as he had done fifteen years ago when he had listened to his chest in his bedroom in the house opposite. Was it for a bout of flu or for one of those childhood illnesses with such complicated names?
    â€œI shall need other information that may not be historical,” said Daragane. “Some anecdotes, for example, concerning certain inhabitants of the town . . .”
    He astonished himself at having been able to complete a sentence of such length, and with confidence.
    Dr Voustraat appeared thoughtful, his eyes focused on a log that was burning gently in the grate.
    â€œWe have had artists at Saint-Leu,” he said as he nodded, looking as though he were jogging his memory. “The pianist Wanda Landowska . . . And also the poet Olivier Larronde . . .”
    â€œWould you mind if I made a note of the names?” Daragane asked.
    From one of his coat pockets he took out a ballpoint pen and the black moleskin notebook that he always kept with him since he had begun his book. In it, he jotted down snatches of sentences, or possible titles for his novel. With great care, he wrote, in capital letters: WANDA LANDOWSKA. OLIVIER LARRONDE . He wanted to show Dr Voustraat that he had scholarly habits.
    â€œThank you for your information.”
    â€œOther names will certainly occur to me . . .”
    â€œIt’s very kind of you,” said Daragane. “Would you, by any chance, remember a news item that is supposed to have occured at Saint-Leu-la-Forêt?”
    â€œA news item?”
    Dr Voustraat was evidently surprised by this word.
    â€œNot a crime, of course . . . But something shady that may have happened around here . . . I was told about a house, just opposite yours, where some strange people lived . . .”
    There, he had cut to the heart of the matter, in a much quicker way than he had anticipated.
    Dr Voustraat’s blue eyes stared at him again and Daragane sensed a certain mistrust in his gaze.
    â€œWhich house opposite?”
    He wondered whether he had not gone too far. But why, after all? Did he not appear to be a sensible young man who wanted to write a pamphlet about Saint-Leu-la-Forêt?
    â€œThe house that’s slightly to the