Authors: Patrick Modiano
‘A game of blind man’s buff?’ ‘What a good idea!’ ‘We won’t even need blindfolds!’ ‘It’s dark enough.’ ‘You’re it, Odicharvi!’ ‘Scatter, everyone!’
They creep around the room. You can hear the closet door open. They’re probably plannning to hide there. It sounds as if they’re crawling around the desk. The floor is creaking. Someone bumps into a piece of furniture. A
face
is silhouetted against the window. Gales of laughter. Sighs. Frantic gestures. They run around in all directions. ‘Caught you, Baruzzi!’ ‘Hard luck, I’m Helder.’ ‘Who’s that?’ ‘Guess!’ ‘Rosenheim?’ ‘No.’ ‘Costachesco?’ ‘No.’ ‘Give up?’
‘We’ll arrest them tonight,’ says the Khedive. ‘The Lieutenant and all the members of the ring,
EVERY LAST ONE.
These people are sabotaging our work.’
‘You still haven’t given us Lamballe’s address,’ murmurs Monsieur Philibert. ‘When are you going to make up your mind,
mon petit
? Come on now . . .’
‘Give him a chance, Pierrot.’
Suddenly the chandeliers flicker on again. They blink into the light. There they are around the desk. ‘I’m parched.’ ‘Let’s have a drink, friends, a drink!’ ‘A song, Baruzzi, a song!’ ‘“Il était un petit navire”
.
’ ‘Go on, Baruzzi, go on!’ ‘“
Quin’avaitja-ja-ja-ja-maisnavigué . . .”
’
‘You want to see my tattoos?’ asks Frau Sultana. She rips open her blouse. On each breast is a ship’s anchor. Baroness Lydia Stahl and Violette Morris wrestle her to the ground and strip her. She wriggles and struggles free of the clutches, giggling and squealing, egging them on. Violette Morris chases her across the living room to the corner where Zieff is sucking on a chicken wing. ‘Nothing like a tasty morsel now rationing is here to
stay.
Do you know what I did just now? I stood in front of the mirror and smeared my face with foie gras! Foie gras worth fifteen thousand francs a medallion!’ (He bursts out laughing.) ‘Another cognac?’ offers Pols de Helder. ‘You can’t get it any more. A half-bottle sells for a hundred thousand francs. English cigarettes? I have them flown in direct from Lisbon. Twenty thousand francs a pack.’
‘One of these days they’ll address me as
Monsieur le Préfet de police
,’ the Khedive announces crisply. He stares off into the middle distance.
‘To the health of the
Préfet
!’ shouts Lionel de Zieff. He staggers and collapses onto the piano. The glass has slipped from his hands. Monsieur Philibert thumbs through a dossier along with Paulo Hayakawa and Baruzzi. The Chapochnikoff brothers busy themselves at the Victrola. Simone Bouquereau gazes at herself in the mirror.
Die Nacht
Die Musik
Und dein Mund
hums Baroness Lydia, doing a quick dance.
‘Anyone for a session of sexuo-divine paneurhythmy?’ Ivanoff the Oracle whinnies, his voice like a stallion.
The
Khedive eyes them mournfully. ‘They’ll address me as
Monsieur le Préfet
.’ He raises his voice: ‘
Monsieur le Préfet de police!
’ He bangs his fist on the desk. The others pay no attention to this outburst. He gets up and opens the left-hand window a little. ‘Come sit here,
mon petit
, I have need of your presence, such a sensitive boy, so receptive . . . you soothe my nerves.’
Zieff is snoring on the piano. The Chapochnikoff brothers have stopped playing the Victrola. They are examining the vases of flowers one by one, straightening an orchid, caressing the petals of a dahlia. Now and then they turn and dart frightened glances at the Khedive. Simone Bouquereau seems fascinated by her face in the mirror. Her indigo eyes widen, her complexion slowly pales to ashen. Violette Morris has taken a seat on the velvet sofa next to Frau Sultana. Both women have extended the palms of their white hands to Ivanoff’s gaze.
‘The price of tungsten has gone up,’ Baruzzi announces. ‘I can get you a good deal. I’ve got a little sideline with Guy Max in the purchasing office on Rue Villejust.’
‘I thought he only dealt in textiles,’ says Monsieur Philibert.
‘He’s changed his line,’ says Hayakawa. ‘Sold all of his stock to Macias-Reoyo.’
‘
Maybe you’d rather raw hides?’ asks Baruzzi. ‘The price of box calf has gone up a hundred francs.’
‘Odicharvi mentioned three tons of worsted he wants to get rid of. I thought of you, Philibert.’
‘I can have thirty-six thousand decks of cards delivered to you by morning . . . You’ll get the top price for them. Now’s the time. They launched their
Schwerpunkt Aktion
at the beginning of the month.’
Ivanoff is intent on the palm of the Marquise.
‘Quiet!’ shouts Violette Morris. ‘The Oracle is predicting her future. Quiet!’
‘What do you think of that,
mon petit
?’ the Khedive asks me. ‘Ivanoff rules women with his rod. Though his fame is not exactly iron! They can’t do without him. Mystics,
mon cher
. And he plays it to the hilt! The old fool!’ He rests his elbows on the edge of the balcony. Below is a peaceful square of the kind you only find in the 16th
arrondissement
. The street lights cast a strange blue glow on the foliage and the bandstand. ‘Did you know,
mon fils
, that before the war this grand house we’re in belonged to M. de Bel-Respiro?’ (His voice is increasingly subdued.) ‘In a cabinet, I found some letters that he wrote his wife and children. A real family man. Look, that’s him there.’ He gestures to a full-length portrait hanging between the two windows. ‘M. de
Bel-
Respiro in the flesh wearing his Spahi officer’s uniform. Look at all those medals! There’s a model Frenchman for you!’
‘A square mile of rayon?’ offers Baruzzi. ‘I’ll sell it to you dirt cheap. Five tons of biscuits? The freight cars have been impounded at the Spanish border. You’ll have no problem getting them released. All I ask is a small commission, Philibert.’
The Chapochnikoff brothers prowl around the Khedive, not daring to speak to him. Zieff is sleeping with his mouth open. Frau Sultana and Violette Morris are hanging on Ivanoff’s every word: astral flux . . . sacred pentagram . . . grains of sustenance from the nourishing earth . . . great cosmic waves . . . incantatory paneu-rhythmy . . . Betelgeuse . . . But Simone Bouquereau presses her forehead up against the mirror.
‘I’m not interested in any of these financial schemes,’ interrupts Monsieur Philibert.
Disappointed, Baruzzi and Hayakawa tango across the room to the chair where Lionel de Zieff is sleeping and shake his shoulder to wake him. Monsieur Philibert thumbs through a dossier, pencil in hand.
‘You see,
mon petit
,’ the Khedive resumes (he looks as though he is about to burst into tears), ‘I never had any education. After my father died, I was alone and I spent
the
night sleeping on his grave. It was bitter cold, that night. At fourteen, the reformatory in Eysses . . . penal military unit . . . Fresnes Prison. . . . The only people I met were louts like myself . . . Life . . .’
‘Wake up, Lionel!’ shrieks Hayakawa.
‘We’ve got something important to tell you,’ adds Baruzzi.
‘We’ll get you fifteen thousand trucks and two tons of nickel for a 15 per cent commission.’ Zieff blinks and mops his forehead with a light-blue handkerchief. ‘Whatever you like, as long we can eat until we’re stuffed fit to burst. I’ve filled out nicely these last two months, don’t you think? It feels good, now that rationing is here to stay.’ He lumbers over to the sofa and slips his hand into Frau Sultana’s blouse. She squirms and slaps him as hard as she can. Ivanoff gives a faint snicker. ‘Anything you say, boys,’ Zieff repeats in a grating voice. ‘Anything you say.’ ‘Is everything arranged for tomorrow morning, Lionel?’ asks Hayakawa. ‘Can I confirm it with Schiedlausky? We’ll throw in a truckload of rubber.’
Sitting at the piano, Monsieur Philibert pensively fingers a few notes.
‘And yet,
mon petit
,’ the Khedive resumes his tale, ‘I’ve always longed for respectability. Please don’t confuse me with the characters you see here . . .’
Simone
Bouquereau is in front of the mirror, putting on her make-up. Violette Morris and Frau Sultana have their eyes closed. The Oracle, it would appear, is calling upon the celestial bodies. The Chapochnikoff brothers hover around the piano. One of them is winding up the metronome, the other hands Monsieur Philibert a book of sheet music.
‘Take Lionel de Zieff for example,’ hisses the Khedive. ‘The stories I could tell you about that shark! And about Baruzzi! Or Hayakawa! Every last one of them! Ivanoff? A sleazy blackmailer! And Baroness Lydia Stahl is nothing but a whore!’
Monsieur Philibert riffles through the sheet music. From time to time he drums out the rhythm. The Chapochnikoff brothers glance at him fearfully.
‘So you see,
mon petit
,’ the Khedive continues, ‘the rats have made the most of recent ‘events’ to come out into the open. Indeed, I myself . . . But that’s another story. Appearances can be deceptive. Before long, I will be welcoming the most respectable people in Paris. They will address me as Monsieur le Préfet!
MONSIEUR LE PRÉFET DE POLICE,
do you understand?’ He turns around and points to the full-length portrait. ‘Me! In my Spahi officer’s uniform! Look at those decorations! The
Légion d’honneur
. The Order of the Holy Sepulchre, the Order
of
Saint George from Russia, the Order of Prince Danilo from Montenegro, the Order of the Tower and Sword from Portugal. Why should I envy Monsieur de Bel-Respiro? I could give him a run for his money!’
He clicks his heels.
Suddenly, silence.
Monsieur Philibert is playing a waltz. The cascade of notes hesitates, unfolds, then breaks like a wave over the dahlias and the orchids. He sits ramrod straight. His eyes are closed.
‘Hear that,
mon petit
?’ asks the Khedive. ‘Just look at his hands! Pierre can play for hours. He never gets cramp. The man is an artist!’
Frau Sultana is nodding gently. The opening chords roused her from her torpor. Violette Morris gets to her feet and all alone she waltzes the length of the living room. Paulo Hayakawa and Baruzzi have fallen silent. The Chapochnikoff brothers listen, mouths agape. Even Zieff seems mesmerized by Monsieur Philibert’s hands as they flutter feverishly over the keyboard. Ivanoff juts his chin, stares at the ceiling. Only Simone Bouquereau carries on as if nothing has happened, putting the finishing touches to her make-up in the Venetian mirror.
Hunched low over the keys, his eyes squeezed shut, Monsieur Philibert pounds the chords with all of his
strength.
His playing becomes more and more impassioned.
‘Like it,
mon petit
?’ asks the Khedive.
Monsieur Philibert has slammed the lid of the piano shut. He gets to his feet, rubbing his hands, and strides over to the Khedive. After a pause:
‘We just brought someone in, Henri. Distributing leaflets. We caught him red-handed. Breton and Reocreux are in the cellar giving him a good going over.’
The others are still dazed from the waltz. Silent, motionless, they stand precisely where the music left them.
‘I was just telling the boy about you, Pierre,’ murmurs the Khedive. ‘Telling him what a sensitive boy you are, a terpsichorean, a virtuoso, an artist . . .’
‘Thank you, Henri. It’s all true, but you know how I despise big words. You should have told this young man that I am a policeman, no more, no less.’
‘The finest flatfoot in France! And I’m quoting a cabinet minister!’
‘That was a long time ago, Henri.’
‘In those days, Pierre, I would have been afraid of you. Inspector Philibert! Fearsome! When they make me
préfet de police
, I’ll appoint you
commissaire
, my darling.’
‘Shut up!’
‘
But you love me all the same?’
A scream. Then two. Then three. Loud and shrill. Monsieur Philibert glances at his watch. ‘Three quarters of an hour already. He’s bound to crack soon. I’ll go and check.’ The Chapochnikoff brothers follow close on his heels. The others – it would appear – heard nothing.
‘You are truly divine,’ Paulo Hayakawa tells Baroness Lydia, proffering a glass of champagne. ‘Really?’ Frau Sultana and Ivanoff are gazing into each other’s eyes. Baruzzi is creeping wolfishly towards Simone Bouquereau, but Zieff trips him up. Baruzzi upsets a vase of dahlias as he falls. ‘So you’ve decided to play the ladies’ man? Ignoring your beloved Lionel?’ He bursts out laughing and fans himself with his light-blue handkerchief.
‘It’s the guy they arrested,’ murmurs the Khedive, ‘the one handing out pamphlets. They’re working him over. He’s bound to crack soon,
mon petit
. Would you like to watch?’ ‘A toast to the Khedive!’ roars Lionel de Zieff. ‘To Inspector Philibert!’ adds Paulo Hayakawa, idly caressing the Baroness’ neck. A scream. Then two. A lingering sob.
‘Talk or die!’ bellows the Khedive.
The others pay no attention. Excepting Simone Bouquereau, still touching up her make-up in the mirror.
She
turns, her great violet eyes devouring her face. A streak of lipstick across her chin.
We could still make out the music for a few minutes more. It faded as we reached the junction at Cascades. I was driving. Coco Lacour and Esmeralda were huddled together in the passenger seat. We glided along the Route des Lacs. Hell begins as we leave the Bois de Boulogne: Boulevard Lannes, Boulevard Flandrin, Avenue Henri-Martin. This is the most fearsome residential section in the whole of Paris. The silence that once upon a time reigned here after eight o’clock, was almost reassuring. A bourgeois silence of plush velvet and propriety. One could almost see the families gathered in the drawing room after dinner. These days, there’s no knowing what goes on behind the high dark walls. Once in a while, a car passed, its headlights out. I was afraid it might stop and block our way.
We took the Avenue Henri-Martin. Esmeralda was half-asleep. After eleven o’clock, little girls have a hard time keeping their eyes open. Coco Lacour was toying with the dashboard, turning the radio dial. Neither of them had any idea just how fragile was their happiness. I was the only one who worried about it. We were three
children
making our way through ominous shadows in a huge automobile. And if there happened to be a light at any window, I wouldn’t rely on it. I know the district well. The Khedive used to have me raid private houses and confiscate objects of art: Second Empire
hôtels particuliers
, eighteenth-century ‘follies’, turn-of-the-century buildings with stained-glass windows, faux-châteaux in the gothic style. These days, their sole occupant was a terrified caretaker, overlooked by the owner in his flight. I’d ring the doorbell, flash my warrant card and search the premises. I remember long walks: Ranelagh-La Muette-Auteuil, this was my route. I’d sit on a bench in the shade of the chestnut trees. Not a soul on the streets. I could enter any house in the area. The city was mine.