futile. Sadly, he came to the realization that
Paris had transformed his colleague into a force of nature it was futile to
resist. That night they dined in a little restaurant with a charcoal grill in
the Rue Racine, where they were joined by the Spanish journalist, named Paco
Morral, who liked to imitate the Buenos Aires accent, very badly, and believed
that Spanish cinema was far better than French cinema, much denser, an opinion
shared by Riquelme.
The meal went on and on, and Rousselot began to feel ill. When he
returned to his hotel at four in the morning, he was running a fever and began
to vomit. He woke shortly before midday with the feeling that he had lived in
Paris for many years. He went through the pockets of his jacket looking for the
cell phone that he had managed to extract from Riquelme, and called Morini. A
woman, the one who had previously spoken to Riquelme, he supposed, picked up the
receiver and told him that Monsieur Morini had left that morning to spend a few
days with his parents. Rousselot’s first thought was that she was lying, or that
before his hurried departure, the director had lied to her. He said he was an
Argentine journalist who wanted to interview Morini for a well-known magazine
with a big circulation, widely read all over Latin America, from Argentina to
Mexico. The only problem, he alleged, was that he had limited time, since he had
to fly home in a couple of days. Humbly he asked for the address of Morini’s
parents. He didn’t have to insist. The woman listened politely, then gave him
the name of a village in Normandy, followed by a street and a number.
Rousselot thanked her, then called Simone. No one was home. Suddenly
he realized that he didn’t even know what day it was. He thought of asking one
of the hotel staff but felt embarrassed. He called Riquelme. A hoarse voice
answered on the other end of the line. Rousselot asked him about the village
where Morini’s parents lived: did he know where it was? Who’s Morini? asked
Riquelme. Rousselot had to remind him and explain part of the story again. No
idea, said Riquelme, and hung up. After feeling annoyed for a while, Rousselot
told himself it was better that way, if Riquelme lost interest in the whole
business. Then he packed his suitcase and went to the train station.
The trip to Normandy gave him time to go back over what he had done
since arriving in Paris. An absolute zero lit up in his mind, then delicately
disappeared forever. The train stopped in Rouen. Other Argentines, and Rousselot
himself in other circumstances, would have set off at once to explore the town,
like bloodhounds following the scent of Flaubert. But he didn’t even leave the
station; he waited twenty minutes for the train to Caen, thinking of Simone, who
personified the grace of French women, and of Riquelme and his odd journalist
friend: in the end, both of them were more interested in rummaging through their
own failures than in discovering someone else’s story, however singular it might
be, and perhaps that wasn’t so unusual. People are only interested in
themselves, he concluded gravely.
From Caen, he took a taxi to Le Hamel. He was surprised to find that
the address he had been given in Paris corresponded to a hotel. The hotel had
four stories and was not without a certain charm, but it was shut until the
beginning of the season. For half an hour Rousselot walked around in the
vicinity, wondering if the woman who lived with Morini had sent him on a wild
goose chase, until eventually he began to feel tired and headed for the port. In
a bar he was told that he’d be very lucky to find a hotel open in Le Hamel. The
patron, a cadaverously pale guy with red hair, suggested he go to Arromanches,
unless he wanted to sleep in one of the
auberges
that stayed open all
year round. Rousselot thanked him and went looking for a taxi.
He booked into the best hotel he could find in Arromanches, a pile
made of brick, stone and wood, which creaked in the
Paris had transformed his colleague into a force of nature it was futile to
resist. That night they dined in a little restaurant with a charcoal grill in
the Rue Racine, where they were joined by the Spanish journalist, named Paco
Morral, who liked to imitate the Buenos Aires accent, very badly, and believed
that Spanish cinema was far better than French cinema, much denser, an opinion
shared by Riquelme.
The meal went on and on, and Rousselot began to feel ill. When he
returned to his hotel at four in the morning, he was running a fever and began
to vomit. He woke shortly before midday with the feeling that he had lived in
Paris for many years. He went through the pockets of his jacket looking for the
cell phone that he had managed to extract from Riquelme, and called Morini. A
woman, the one who had previously spoken to Riquelme, he supposed, picked up the
receiver and told him that Monsieur Morini had left that morning to spend a few
days with his parents. Rousselot’s first thought was that she was lying, or that
before his hurried departure, the director had lied to her. He said he was an
Argentine journalist who wanted to interview Morini for a well-known magazine
with a big circulation, widely read all over Latin America, from Argentina to
Mexico. The only problem, he alleged, was that he had limited time, since he had
to fly home in a couple of days. Humbly he asked for the address of Morini’s
parents. He didn’t have to insist. The woman listened politely, then gave him
the name of a village in Normandy, followed by a street and a number.
Rousselot thanked her, then called Simone. No one was home. Suddenly
he realized that he didn’t even know what day it was. He thought of asking one
of the hotel staff but felt embarrassed. He called Riquelme. A hoarse voice
answered on the other end of the line. Rousselot asked him about the village
where Morini’s parents lived: did he know where it was? Who’s Morini? asked
Riquelme. Rousselot had to remind him and explain part of the story again. No
idea, said Riquelme, and hung up. After feeling annoyed for a while, Rousselot
told himself it was better that way, if Riquelme lost interest in the whole
business. Then he packed his suitcase and went to the train station.
The trip to Normandy gave him time to go back over what he had done
since arriving in Paris. An absolute zero lit up in his mind, then delicately
disappeared forever. The train stopped in Rouen. Other Argentines, and Rousselot
himself in other circumstances, would have set off at once to explore the town,
like bloodhounds following the scent of Flaubert. But he didn’t even leave the
station; he waited twenty minutes for the train to Caen, thinking of Simone, who
personified the grace of French women, and of Riquelme and his odd journalist
friend: in the end, both of them were more interested in rummaging through their
own failures than in discovering someone else’s story, however singular it might
be, and perhaps that wasn’t so unusual. People are only interested in
themselves, he concluded gravely.
From Caen, he took a taxi to Le Hamel. He was surprised to find that
the address he had been given in Paris corresponded to a hotel. The hotel had
four stories and was not without a certain charm, but it was shut until the
beginning of the season. For half an hour Rousselot walked around in the
vicinity, wondering if the woman who lived with Morini had sent him on a wild
goose chase, until eventually he began to feel tired and headed for the port. In
a bar he was told that he’d be very lucky to find a hotel open in Le Hamel. The
patron, a cadaverously pale guy with red hair, suggested he go to Arromanches,
unless he wanted to sleep in one of the
auberges
that stayed open all
year round. Rousselot thanked him and went looking for a taxi.
He booked into the best hotel he could find in Arromanches, a pile
made of brick, stone and wood, which creaked in the
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