other’s mouths to stop their moans waking the
child, and made love for hours, violently at times, as if loving each other were
the only thing they knew how to do. The next day he returned to his hotel before
the child woke up.
His suitcase had not been put out in the street as he had feared, and
no one was surprised to see him appear out of nowhere, like a ghost. At
reception there were two messages from Riquelme. The first was to say he had
found out how to locate Morini. The second was to ask if Rousselot was still
interested in meeting him.
He showered, shaved, brushed his teeth (a horrifying experience), put
on clean clothes and called Riquelme. They talked for a long time. Riquelme told
him that a friend of his, a Spanish journalist, knew another journalist, a
Frenchman, who was a freelance movie, theater and music critic. The French
journalist had been a friend of Morini’s and still had his telephone number.
When the Spaniard had asked for the number, the Frenchman had given it to him
without a second thought. Then Riquelme and the Spanish journalist had called
Morini’s number without getting their hopes up, and were amazed when the woman
who answered told them that they had indeed reached the director’s
residence.
Now all they had to do was set up a meeting (at which Riquelme and the
Spanish journalist wanted to be present) on some pretext—anything, for example
an interview for an Argentinean newspaper . . . with a surprise ending. What do
you mean a surprise ending? shouted Rousselot. That’s when the bogus journalist
reveals his true identity and confronts the plagiarist, Riquelme replied.
That night, as Rousselot was taking photographs more or less at random
on the banks of the Seine, a bum came up and asked him for some change.
Rousselot offered him a bill if he would consent to be photographed. The bum
agreed, and for a while they walked along together in silence, stopping every
now and then to allow the Argentine writer to move off to an appropriate
distance and take a photo. On the third occasion the bum suggested a pose, which
Rousselot accepted without demur. The writer took eight photos in all: the bum
on his knees with his arms stretched out to the sides, and in other poses, such
as pretending to sleep on a bench, thoughtfully watching the river flow by, or
smiling and waving his hand. When the photo session was over, Rousselot gave him
two bills and all the coins in his pocket, and then the pair of them stood there
together, as if there were something more to be said but neither of them dared
say it. Where are you from? the bum asked. Buenos Aires, Argentina, replied
Rousselot. What a coincidence, said the bum in Spanish, I’m Argentine too.
Rousselot was not at all surprised by this revelation. The bum began to hum a
tango, then told him that in Europe, where he’d been living for more than
fifteen years, he had found happiness and even some wisdom now and then.
Rousselot realized that the bum had started using the familiar form of address,
which he hadn’t done when they were speaking in French. Even his voice, the tone
of his voice, seemed to have changed. Rousselot felt a deep sadness overwhelming
him, as if he knew that, come the end of the day, he would have to look into an
abyss. The bum noticed and asked him what he was worried about.
Nothing, a girl, said Rousselot, trying to adopt the same tone as his
compatriot. Then he said a rather hurried good-bye and, as he was climbing the
stairs, he heard the bum’s voice telling him that death was the only sure thing.
My name is Enzo Cherubini and I’m telling you, death is the only sure thing
there is. When Rousselot turned around, the bum was walking off in the opposite
direction.
That night he called Simone but she wasn’t home. He talked for a while
with the old woman who looked after the child, then hung up. At ten, Riquelme
came visiting. Reluctant to go out, Rousselot said he felt feverish and
nauseous, but his excuses were
child, and made love for hours, violently at times, as if loving each other were
the only thing they knew how to do. The next day he returned to his hotel before
the child woke up.
His suitcase had not been put out in the street as he had feared, and
no one was surprised to see him appear out of nowhere, like a ghost. At
reception there were two messages from Riquelme. The first was to say he had
found out how to locate Morini. The second was to ask if Rousselot was still
interested in meeting him.
He showered, shaved, brushed his teeth (a horrifying experience), put
on clean clothes and called Riquelme. They talked for a long time. Riquelme told
him that a friend of his, a Spanish journalist, knew another journalist, a
Frenchman, who was a freelance movie, theater and music critic. The French
journalist had been a friend of Morini’s and still had his telephone number.
When the Spaniard had asked for the number, the Frenchman had given it to him
without a second thought. Then Riquelme and the Spanish journalist had called
Morini’s number without getting their hopes up, and were amazed when the woman
who answered told them that they had indeed reached the director’s
residence.
Now all they had to do was set up a meeting (at which Riquelme and the
Spanish journalist wanted to be present) on some pretext—anything, for example
an interview for an Argentinean newspaper . . . with a surprise ending. What do
you mean a surprise ending? shouted Rousselot. That’s when the bogus journalist
reveals his true identity and confronts the plagiarist, Riquelme replied.
That night, as Rousselot was taking photographs more or less at random
on the banks of the Seine, a bum came up and asked him for some change.
Rousselot offered him a bill if he would consent to be photographed. The bum
agreed, and for a while they walked along together in silence, stopping every
now and then to allow the Argentine writer to move off to an appropriate
distance and take a photo. On the third occasion the bum suggested a pose, which
Rousselot accepted without demur. The writer took eight photos in all: the bum
on his knees with his arms stretched out to the sides, and in other poses, such
as pretending to sleep on a bench, thoughtfully watching the river flow by, or
smiling and waving his hand. When the photo session was over, Rousselot gave him
two bills and all the coins in his pocket, and then the pair of them stood there
together, as if there were something more to be said but neither of them dared
say it. Where are you from? the bum asked. Buenos Aires, Argentina, replied
Rousselot. What a coincidence, said the bum in Spanish, I’m Argentine too.
Rousselot was not at all surprised by this revelation. The bum began to hum a
tango, then told him that in Europe, where he’d been living for more than
fifteen years, he had found happiness and even some wisdom now and then.
Rousselot realized that the bum had started using the familiar form of address,
which he hadn’t done when they were speaking in French. Even his voice, the tone
of his voice, seemed to have changed. Rousselot felt a deep sadness overwhelming
him, as if he knew that, come the end of the day, he would have to look into an
abyss. The bum noticed and asked him what he was worried about.
Nothing, a girl, said Rousselot, trying to adopt the same tone as his
compatriot. Then he said a rather hurried good-bye and, as he was climbing the
stairs, he heard the bum’s voice telling him that death was the only sure thing.
My name is Enzo Cherubini and I’m telling you, death is the only sure thing
there is. When Rousselot turned around, the bum was walking off in the opposite
direction.
That night he called Simone but she wasn’t home. He talked for a while
with the old woman who looked after the child, then hung up. At ten, Riquelme
came visiting. Reluctant to go out, Rousselot said he felt feverish and
nauseous, but his excuses were
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