So You Don't Get Lost in the Neighborhood (2 page)

“This name means nothing to you?”

“No.”

A few years earlier, he would have displayed some of that politeness for which he was renowned. He would have said: “Give me a bit of time to throw some light on the mystery . . .” But the words did not come.

“It's to do with a news item about which I've gathered quite a lot of information,” the man continued. “This name is mentioned. That's all . . .”

He suddenly seemed to be on the defensive.

“What kind of news item?”

Daragane has asked the question automatically, as though he were rediscovering his former courteous reflexes.

“A very old news item . . . I wanted to write an article about it . . . You know, I used to do some journalism to begin with . . .”

But Daragane's attention was flagging. He really must get rid of them quickly, otherwise this man was going to tell him his life story.

“I'm sorry,” he told him. “I've forgotten this Torstel . . . At my age, one suffers memory losses . . . I must leave you unfortunately . . .”

He stood up and shook hands with both of them. Ottolini gave him a hard stare, as though Daragane had insulted him and he was ready to respond in a violent way. The girl, for her part, had lowered her gaze.

He walked over towards the wide-open glass door that gave onto boulevard Haussmann, hoping that the man would not block his path. Outside, he breathed in deeply. What a strange idea, this meeting with a stranger, when he himself had not seen anybody for three months and was none the worse for it . . . On the contrary. In his solitude, he had never felt so light-hearted, with strange moments of elation either in the morning or the evening, as though everything were still possible and, as the title of the old film has it, adventure lay at the corner of the street . . . Never, even during the summers of his youth, had life seemed so free of oppression as it had since the beginning of this summer. But in summer, everything is uncertain—a “metaphysical” season, his philosophy teacher, Maurice Caveing, had once told him. It was odd, he remembered the name “Caveing” yet he no longer knew who this Torstel was.

It was still sunny, and a light breeze was cooling the heat. Boulevard Haussmann was deserted at this time of day.

Over the course of the past fifty years, he had often come here, and had done so even during his childhood, when his mother took him to Printemps, the large department store a little further up the boulevard. But this evening, his city seemed unfamiliar to him. He had cast off all the bonds that could still bind him to her, but perhaps it was she who had rejected him.

He sat down on a bench and took out the address book from his pocket. He was about to tear it up and scatter the shreds into the green plastic wastepaper bin beside the bench. Yet he hesitated. No, he would do so later, at home, when he had peace of mind. He leafed through the notebook absent-mindedly. Among these telephone numbers, there was not one that he would have wanted to dial. And then, the two or three missing numbers, those that had mattered to him and which he still knew by heart, would no longer respond.

 

AT ABOUT NINE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING, THE
telephone rang. He had just woken up.

“Monsieur Daragane? Gilles Ottolini.”

The voice sounded less aggressive than the previous day.

“I'm sorry about yesterday . . . I feel that I annoyed you . . .”

The tone was courteous, and even deferential. None of that insect-like insistence that had so irritated Daragane.

“Yesterday . . . I wanted to catch up with you in the street . . . You left so abruptly . . .”

A silence. But this one was not threatening.

“You know, I've read a few of your books.
Le Noir de l'été
in particular . . .”

Le Noir de l'été
. It took him a few seconds to realise that this was actually a novel that he had once written. His first book. It was so long ago . . .

“I liked
Le Noir de l'été
very much. This name that is mentioned in your address book and that we spoke about . . . Torstel . . . you used it in
Le Noir de l'été
.”

Daragane had no memory of it. Nor of the rest of the book, for that matter.

“Are you sure?”

“You simply mention this name . . .”

“I must reread
Le Noir de l'eté
. But I haven't a single copy of it left.”

“I could lend you mine.”

The tone of voice struck Daragane as more terse, almost insolent. He was probably mistaken. When you have been too long on your own—he had not spoken to anyone since the beginning of the summer—you become suspicious and touchy towards your fellow men and you risk assessing them incorrectly. No, they are not as bad as all that.

“We didn't have time to go into any detail yesterday . . . But what is it you want to know about this Torstel . . . ?”

Daragane had rediscovered his cheerful voice. It was just a matter of talking to someone. It was a bit like gymnastic exercises that restore your suppleness.

“Apparently he was involved in some old news item . . . The next time we see each other, I'll show you all the documents . . . I told you that I was writing an article about it . . .”

So this individual wished to see him again. Why not? For some time he had felt some reluctance at the notion that newcomers might enter into his life. But, at other times, he still felt receptive. It depended on the day. Eventually, he said to him:

“So, what can I do for you?”

“I have to be away for two days because of my work. I'll phone you when I'm back. And we can arrange to meet.”

“If you like.”

He was no longer in the same mood as he was yesterday. He had probably been unfair with this Gilles Ottolini and had seen him in an unfavourable light. This was to do with the telephone ringing the other afternoon, which had roused him suddenly from his semi-slumber . . . A ringing sound heard so rarely in the past few months that it had given him a fright and had seemed to him just as threatening as if someone had come and knocked on his door at daybreak.

He did not want to reread
Le Noir de l'été
, even though reading it would give him the impression that the novel had been written by someone else. He would quite simply ask Gilles Ottolini to photocopy the pages that referred to Torstel. Would that be enough to remind him of anything?

He opened his notebook at the letter
T
, underlined “Guy Torstel 423 40 55” in blue ballpoint pen and added a question mark alongside the name. He had recopied all these pages from an old address book, crossing out the names of those who had died and the out-of-date numbers. And this Guy Torstel had probably slipped to the very top of the page because of a momentary lack of concentration on his part. He would have to find the old address book, which must date from about thirty years ago, and perhaps he would be reminded of him once he saw this name alongside other names from the past.

But today he did not have the courage to rummage around in cupboards and drawers. Still less to reread
Le Noir de l'été
. Besides, for some time his reading had been reduced to just one author: Buffon. He derived a great deal of comfort from him, thanks to the clarity of his style, and he regretted not having been influenced by him: writing novels whose characters might have been animals, and even trees or flowers . . . If anyone were to have asked him nowadays which writer he might have wished to have been, he would have replied without hesitation: a Buffon of trees and flowers.

 

THE TELEPHONE RANG IN THE AFTERNOON, AT THE
same time as the other day, and he thought that it was Gilles Ottolini once again. But no, a female voice.

“Chantal Grippay. Do you remember? We saw each other yesterday with Gilles . . . I don't want to disturb you . . .”

The voice was faint, muffled by interference.

A silence.

“I should very much like to see you, Monsieur Daragane. To talk to you about Gilles . . .”

The voice was clearer now. Evidently, this Chantal Grippay had overcome her shyness.

“Yesterday evening after you left, he was worried that you might be angry with him. He's spending two days in Lyon for his work . . . Could we see one another in the late afternoon?”

The tone of voice of this Chantal Grippay had become more confident, like a diver who has paused for a few moments before jumping into the water.

“Some time around five o'clock, would that suit you? I live at 118 rue de Charonne.”

Daragane jotted down the address on the same page that contained the name Guy Torstel.

“On the fourth floor, at the end of the corridor. The name's written on the letter box down below. It says Joséphine Grippay, but I've changed my first name . . .”

“At 118 rue de Charonne. At six in the evening . . . fourth floor,” Daragane repeated.

“Yes, that's right . . . We'll talk about Gilles . . .”

After she had hung up, the phrase she had just uttered, “We'll talk about Gilles”, echoed in Daragane's head like the ending of an alexandrine. He must ask her why she had changed her first name.

A brick building, taller than the others and slightly set back. Daragane preferred to climb the four storeys on foot rather than take the lift. At the end of the corridor, on the door, a visiting card in the name of “Joséphine Grippay”. The first name “Joséphine” was scratched out and replaced, in violet ink, by “Chantal”. He was on the point of ringing, but the door opened. She was wearing black, as at the café the other day.

“The bell doesn't work anymore, but I heard the sound of your footsteps.”

She was smiling and she remained standing there, in the doorway. It was as though she were unsure whether to let him enter.

“We can go and have a drink somewhere else, if you like,” said Daragane.

“Not at all. Come in.”

A medium-sized room and, on the right, an open door. It apparently led to the bathroom. A light bulb was hanging from the ceiling.

“There's not much room here. But it's easier for us to talk.”

She walked over to the small pale wooden desk between the two windows, drew out the chair and placed it by the bed.

“Do sit down.”

She herself sat on the edge of the bed, or rather of the mattress, for the bed did not have a base.

“It's my room . . . Gilles found something larger for himself in the 17th, square du Graisivaudan.”

She looked up to speak to him. He would have preferred to sit on the floor, or next to her, on the edge of the bed.

“Gilles is counting on you a great deal to help him write this article . . . He's written a book, you know, but he didn't dare tell you . . .”

And she leant back on the bed, reached out her arm and picked up a book with a green cover on the bedside table.

“Here . . . Don't tell Gilles that I lent it to you . . .”

A slim volume entitled
Le Flâneur hippique
, the back cover of which indicated that it had been published three years earlier by Sablier. Daragane opened it and glanced at the contents list. The book consisted of two main chapters: “Racecourses” and “School for Jockeys”.

She gazed at him with her slightly slanting eyes.

“It's best that he doesn't know we've seen one another.”

She stood up, went to close one of the windows that was half-open and sat down again on the edge of the bed. Daragane had the impression that she had closed this window so that they should not be heard.

“Before working for Sweerts, Gilles wrote articles on racecourses and horses for magazines and specialist papers.”

She paused like someone who is about to let you into a secret.

“When he was very young, he went to the school for jockeys at Maisons-Laffitte. But it was too tough . . . he had to give it up . . . You'll see, if you read the book . . .”

Daragane listened to her carefully. It was strange to enter into people's lives so quickly . . . He had thought that this would be unlikely to happen to him any longer at his age, through weariness on his part and because of the feeling that other people slowly grow away from you.

“He used to take me to race meetings . . . He taught me to gamble . . . It's a drug, you know . . .”

All of a sudden, she seemed sad. Daragane wondered whether she might be seeking some sort of support from him, material or moral. And the solemnity of these words that had just crossed his mind made him want to laugh.

“And do you still go and place bets at race meetings?”

“Less and less since he's been working at Sweerts.”

Her voice had dropped. Perhaps she feared that Gilles Ottolini might walk into the room unexpectedly and catch them both by surprise.

“I'll show you the notes that he put together for his article . . . Perhaps you've known all these people . . .”

“What people?”

“For instance, the person whom he spoke to you about . . . Guy Torstel . . .”

Once again, she leant back on the bed and took from beneath the bedside table a sky-blue cardboard folder which she opened. It contained typewritten pages and a book which she handed to him:
Le Noir de l'été
.

“I'd prefer you to keep it,” he said brusquely.

“He marked the page where you mention this Guy Torstel . . .”

“I'll ask him to photocopy it. That will save me from having to reread the book . . .”

She seemed astonished that he should not want to reread his book.

“In a moment, we'll also go and make a photocopy of the notes he made so that you can take them with you.”

And she pointed to the typewritten notes.

“But all this must remain between ourselves . . .” Daragane was feeling slightly uncomfortable sitting on his chair and, so as to appear more composed, he leafed through Gilles Ottolini's book. In the chapter on “Racecourses”, he came across two words printed in capital letters: LE TREMBLAY. And these words triggered something in him, without him quite knowing why, as though he was gradually being reminded of a detail that he had forgotten.