The Black Notebook by Patrick Modiano Page B

strange feeling, every time, when you learn things twenty years after the fact about people you once knew . . . You finally decipher, thanks to a secret code, what you had lived through in confusion and without really understanding . . . A car ride at night with the headlights off, and no matter how tightly you press your forehead against the window, you have no reference points. And besides, did you really ask that many questions about where you were going? Twenty years later, you follow the same path by day and finally see all the details surrounding you. But so what? It’s too late, and no one is left. André Falvet, a member of the Stéfani gang. Served time in Poissy prison. Dog breeder in Porcheville. Manager of Carrol’s Beach in La Garoupe. Restaurant La Passée, Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr. Le Sévigné, Rue Blanche.
    â€œWe should come here more often,” she said to me.
    We did go back several times. The room was no longer empty, as it had been that first evening. Instead, all the tables were occupied by odd-looking customers, and I wondered if they were locals. Others were seated at the bar, speaking with the aforementioned André Falvet. Some of them are listed in Langlais’s file. Names, mere names, that I’d gladly copy down here, as a shot in the dark, but right now I’m not up to it. I’ll do it later, just to be on the safe side. You never know: you should always send out signals. The light was muted, as if the bulbs were of insufficient wattage. Or was the aforementioned Falvet trying to create a more intimate ambiance? As I write this, a thought occurs. The light was the same as in the apartment on Avenue Félix-Faure, where she had taken me one evening, and also as in the country house in Feuilleuse, at dusk. As if the lamps had grown weaker over time. But sometimes, something clicks. Yesterday, I was alone in the street and a veil fell away. No more past, no more present—time stood still. Everything had recaptured its true light. It was about eight in the evening, in summer, and there was still sunlight at the bottom of Rue Blanche. They had placed two or three outdoor tables in front of the restaurant. The door was wide open on the street, and you could hear the din of conversation from the dining room. We were sitting at one of the outdoor tables, Dannie and I. The sun was making us squint.
    â€œI have to show you the hotel where I used to live, a bit farther on,” she said.
    â€œAt number 23?”
    â€œYes, number 23.”
    And she did not seem at all surprised that I should know the address.
    â€œBut that’s not a hotel.”
    She didn’t answer, and it made no difference. She wanted to walk around the neighborhood before nightfall. But we had plenty of time ahead of us. Thanks to daylight saving time, the sun would still be up at ten o’clock. I even thought it would shine all night.
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    A short while ago, I was in a bookstore on Rue de l’Odéon. Night had already fallen. Among the used books, I had discovered a novel with a scuffed red binding whose title was
The Dream Is Over.
The bookseller, at his counter, had just slipped the volume into a white plastic bag and was handing it to me when a woman entered the shop. She hadn’t shut the glass door behind her, as if she were in a hurry. A mixed-race woman my age, tall, wearing an old, rust-colored coat with a hanging belt. She was carrying a large shopping bag. She came up and plunked the bag on the counter.
    â€œYou buy books?”
    She had asked the question abruptly, with an outmoded accent from the old Paris outskirts.
    â€œThat depends,” said the bookseller.
    â€œAn old lady sent me . . . I work for her . . .”
    She yanked the books from the large shopping bag: art books, deluxe volumes from the Pléïade series . . . A necklace and brooch were stuck to one of them, and she shoved them back in the bag.