Suspended Sentences by Patrick Modiano Page B

with Annie and Mathilde after lunch, in the 4CV. We stayed home in the care of Little Hélène. We were playing in the garden at setting up a canvas tent Annie had given me for my last birthday. Around midafternoon, Roger Vincent came by, alone. He and Little Hélène talked together in the courtyard of the house, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Little Hélène told us she had to run an errand in Versailles and asked us to come with them.
    We were thrilled to ride in Roger Vincent’s American car again. It was April, during Easter vacation. Little Hélène sat in front. She was wearing her riding breeches and her cowboy jacket. We were sitting on the huge back seat, my brother and I, and our feet didn’t reach the floor of the car.
    Roger Vincent drove slowly. He looked back toward us, with his smile:
    “Would you like me to turn on the radio?”
    The radio? So you could listen to the radio in this car? He pushed an ivory button on the dashboard, and instantly we heard music.
    “Should I turn it up or down, boys?” he asked us.
    We didn’t dare answer. We listened to the music coming from the dashboard. And then a woman started singing in a raspy voice.
    “That’s Edith singing, boys,” said Roger Vincent. “She’s a friend …”
    He asked Little Hélène:
    “Do you still see Edith?”
    “Now and then,” said Little Hélène.
    We drove down a large avenue and arrived in Versailles. The car stopped at a red light, and we admired, on a lawn to our left, a clock whose numbers were made of flowerbeds.
    “The next time,” Little Hélène said to us, “I’ll take you to see the palace.”
    She asked Roger Vincent to stop at a store where they sold used furniture.
    “Boys, you stay here in the car,” said Roger Vincent. “Watch the car for me …”
    We were proud to be entrusted with such an important mission and we watched the comings and goings of the passers-by like hawks. Behind the window of the store, Roger Vincent and Little Hélène were talking with a dark-haired man wearing a raincoat and a mustache. They spoke for a very long time. They had forgotten about us.
    They came out of the store. Roger Vincent was holding a leather suitcase that he stashed in the trunk. He got back behind the wheel, with Little Hélène next to him. He turned back toward me:
    “Anything to report?”
    “No … Nothing …” I said.
    “So much the better,” said Roger Vincent.
    On the way back, in Versailles, we followed an avenue at the end of which rose a brick church. Several fairground stalls occupied the median strip, around a glittering bumper car track. Roger Vincent parked along the curb.
    “Shall we take them for a ride in the bumper cars?” he asked Little Hélène.
    The four of us waited at the side of the track. Music blared very loud through speakers. Only three cars were being used by customers, two of which chased the third and rammed it at the same time, on either side, producing screams and shouts of laughter. The trolley poles left trails of sparks along the ceiling of the track. But what captivated me more than anything was the color of the cars: turquoise,pale green, yellow, purple, bright red, mauve, pink, midnight blue … They stopped moving and their occupants left the track. My brother climbed into a yellow car with Roger Vincent, and I, with Little Hélène, into a turquoise one.
    We were the only ones on the track, and we didn’t ram each other. Roger Vincent and Little Hélène drove. We circled the track, and Little Hélène and I followed Roger Vincent and my brother’s car. We zigzagged among the other cars, empty and motionless. The music played less loudly, and the man who had sold us our tickets looked forlorn, standing at the side of the track as if we were the last customers ever.
    It was nearly dark. We stopped at the edge of the track. I looked one more time at all those cars with their bright colors. We talked about it, my brother and I, in our room after lights