Authors: Patrick Modiano
Boy scout? Florist? Tennis player? No: Employee of a phony detective agency. Blackmailer, informant, extortionist. I found it quite surprising. I did not have the talents required for such work: the cruelty, the lack of scruples, a taste for sleazy company. Even so, I bravely stuck at it, the way another man might study for a boilermaker’s license. The strange thing about guys like me is that they can just as easily end up in the Panthéon as in Thiais cemetery, the potter’s field for spies. They become heroes. Or bastards. No one realises they get dragged into this dirty business against their will. That all they wanted, all they cared about was their stamp collection, and being left in peace on the Place des Acacias, where they could breathe in careful little breaths.
In the meantime, I was getting into bad ways. My passivity and my lack of enthusiasm made me all the more vulnerable to the malign influence of the Khedive and Monsieur Philibert. I remembered the words of a doctor who lived across the landing in our apartment block on the Place des Acacias. ‘After you reach twenty,’ he told me, ‘you start to decay. Fewer and fewer nerve cells, my boy.’ I jotted this remark down in a notebook,
because
it’s important to heed the experience of our elders. I now realised that he was right. My shady dealings and the unsavoury characters I rubber shoulders with would cost me my innocence. The future? A race, with the finish line on a patch of waste ground. Being dragged to a guillotine with no chance to catch my breath. Someone whispered in my ear: you have gained nothing in this life but the whirlwind you let yourself be caught up in . . . gypsy music, played faster and faster to drown out my screams. This evening the air is decidedly balmy. As they always have, the donkeys trudge down the path heading back to the stables having spent the day giving rides to children. They disappear around the corner of the Avenue Gabriel. We will never know how they suffer. Their reticence impressed me. As they trotted past, I once again felt calm, indifferent. I tried to gather my thoughts. They were few and far between, and utterly banal. I have no taste for thinking. Too emotional. Too lazy. After a moment’s effort, I invariably arrived at same conclusion: I was bound to die some day. Fewer and fewer nerve cells. A long slow process of decay. The doctor had warned me. I should add that my profession inclined me toward dwelling on the morose: being an informant and a blackmailer at twenty rather narrows one’s sights. A curious smell of old furniture
and
musty wallpaper permeated 177 Avenue Niel. The light was constantly flickering. Behind my desk was a set of wooden drawers where I kept the files on our ‘clients’. I catalogued them by names of poisonous plants: Black Ink Cap, Belladonna, Devil’s bolete, Henbane, Livid Agaric. . . . Their very touch made me decalcify. My clothes were suffused with the stifling stench of the office on Avenue Niel. I had allowed myself to be contaminated. The disease? An accelerated aging process, a physical and moral decay in keeping with the doctor’s prognosis. And yet I am not predisposed towards the morbid.
Un petit village
Un vieux clocher
A little village, and old church tower, these described my fondest hopes. Unfortunately, I lived in a city not unlike a vast Luna Park where the Khedive and Monsieur Philibert were driving me from shooting galleries to roller coasters, from Punch and Judy shows to ‘Sirocco’ whirligigs. Finally I lay down on a bench. I wasn’t meant for such a life. I never asked anyone for anything. They had come to me.
A little farther along. On the left, the théâtre des Ambassadeurs. They’re performing
The Nightwatch
, a
long-
forgotten operetta. There can’t be much of an audience. An elderly lady, an elderly gentleman, a few English tourists. I walk across a lawn, past the last hedge. Place de la Concorde. The street lights hurt my eyes. I stood stock still, gasping for breath. Above my head, the Marly Horses reared and strained with all their might, desperate to escape from their grooms. They seemed about to bolt across the square. A magnificent space, the only place in Paris where you feel the exhilaration you experience in the mountains. A landscape of marble and twinkling lights. Over past the Tuileries, the ocean. I was on the quarter-deck of a liner heading Northwest, taking with it the Madeleine, the Opéra, the Berlitz Palace, the church of La Trinité. It might founder at any minute. Tomorrow we would be on the ocean floor, three thousand fathoms down. I no longer feared my shipmates. The rictus grin of the Baron de Lussatz; Odicharvi’s cruel eyes; the treacherous Chapochnikoff brothers; Frau Sultana twisting a tourniquet around her upper arm and patting a vein preparing to inject herself with heroin; Zieff with his vulgarity, his solid gold watch, his chubby fingers bedecked in rings; Ivanoff and his sessions of sexuo-divine paneurhythmy; Costachesco, Jean-Farouk de Méthode, and Rachid von Rosenheim discussing their fraudulent bankruptcies; and the
Khedive’s
gang of thugs: Armand le Fou, Jo Reocreux, Tony Breton, Vital-Léca, Robert le Pâle, Gouari, Danos, Codébo. . . . Before long, those shadowy figures would be meat for octopuses, sharks, and moray eels. I would share their fate. Of my own free will. This was something I realised quite suddenly one night as I crossed the place de la Concorde, my arms outstretched, casting a shadow all the way to the Rue Royale, my left hand extended to the Champs-Élysées gardens, my right towards the Rue Saint-Florentin. I might have been thinking of Jesus; in fact I was thinking of Judas Iscariot. A much misunderstood man. It had taken great humility and courage to take upon himself mankind’s disgrace. To die of it. Alone. Like a big boy. Judas, my elder brother. Both of us suspicious by nature. We expected little of our fellow man, of ourselves or of any saviour. Will I have the strength to follow you to the bitter end? It is a difficult path. Night was drawing in, but my job as informant and blackmailer has accustomed me to darkness. I put from my mind my uncharitable thoughts about my shipmates and their crimes. After a few weeks hard work at the Avenue Niel, nothing surprised me anymore. Though they could come up with new poses, it would make no difference. I watched them as they bustled along the promenade deck, down the gangways,
carefully
noting their ruses and their tricks. A pointless task given that water was already pouring into the hold. Next would come the Grand Salon and the ballroom would be next. With the ship about to sink, I felt pity for even the most savage passengers. Any moment now, Hitler himself would come rushing into my arms, sobbing like a child. The arcades along the Rue de Rivoli. Something serious was happening. I had noticed the endless stream of cars along the outer boulevards. People were fleeing Paris. The war, probably. Some unexpected disaster. Coming out of Hilditch & Key, where I’d just picked out a tie, I studied this strip of fabric men tighten around their throats. A blue-and-white striped tie. That afternoon, I was also wearing a fawn suit and crêpe-soled shoes. In my wallet, a photograph of maman and an out-of date métro ticket. I had just had my hair cut. Such details were of no interest to anyone. People were thinking only about saving their skins. Every man for himself. Before long there was not a soul nor a car in the streets. Even maman had left. I wished that I could cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. This silence, this deserted city, was in keeping with my state of mind. I checked my tie and shoes again. The weather was sunny. The words of a song came back to me:
Seul
Depuis toujours . . .
The fate of the world? I didn’t even bother to read the headlines. Besides, soon there would be no more newspapers. No more trains. In fact, maman had just managed to catch the last Paris-Lausanne express.
Seul il a souffert chaque jour
Il pleure avec le ciel de Paris . . .
The sort of sad, sweet song I liked. Unfortunately, this was no time for romance. We were living – it seemed to me – through a tragic era. You don’t go around humming pre-war tunes when everything around you is dying. It was the height of bad manners. Was it my fault? I never had much of a taste for anything. Excepting the circus, operettas and the music hall.
By the time I reached the Rue de Castiglione, it was dark. Someone was following close behind. A tap on the shoulder. The Khedive. I had been expecting this meeting. At that very moment, on that very spot. A nightmare where I knew every twist and turn in advance. He grabs my arm. We get into a car. We drive through the Place Vendôme. Street lights cast a strange bluish glow. A
single
window in the Hôtel Continental is lit. Blackout. Better to get used to it,
mon petit
. The Khedive laughs and turns the dial on the radio.
Un doux parfum qu’on respire
c’est
Fleur bleue . . .
A dark mass looms in front of us. The Opéra? The church of La Trinité? On the left, a neon sign reads FLORESCO’S. We are on the Rue Pigalle. He floors the accelerator.
Un regard qui vous attire
c’est
Fleur bleue . . .
Darkness once more. A huge red lantern outside L’Européen on the Place Clichy. We must be on the Boulevard des Batignolles. Suddenly the headlights pick out railings and dense foliage. The Parc Monceau?
Un rendez-vous en automne
c’est
Fleur bleue . . .
He
whistles along to the chorus, nodding his head in time. We are driving at breakneck speed. ‘Guess where we are,
mon petit
?’ He swerves. My shoulder bumps against his. The brakes screech. The light in the stairwell is not working. I grope my way, clutching the banister. He strikes a match, and I just have time to read the marble plaque on the door: ‘Normand-Philibert Agency’. We go in. The stench – more nauseating than ever – catches in my throat. Monsieur Philibert is standing in the doorway, waiting. A cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. He winks at me and, despite my weariness, I manage a smile: maman would have reached Lausanne by now, I think. There, she’d have nothing to fear. Monsieur Philibert shows us into his office. He complains about the fluctuations in electricity. The quavering glow from the brass light overhead does not seem unusual. It had always been like that at 177 Avenue Niel. The Khedive proposes champagne and produces a bottle from his left jacket pocket. As of today, our ‘agency’ – it appears – is about to expand considerably. ‘Recent events’ have worked to our advantage. The office is moving to an
hôtel particulier
at 3
bis
Square Cimarosa. No more small-time work. We’re in line for some important work. It’s even possible that the Khedive will be named
préfet de police
. In these troubled times, there are positions to be
fi
lled. Our job: to carry out investigations, searches, interrogations, and arrests. The ‘Cimarosa Square Bureau’ will operate on two levels: as an unofficial wing of the police and as a ‘purchase office’ stocking goods and raw materials that will shortly be unobtainable. The Khedive has already hand-picked some fifty people to work with us. Old acquaintances. All of them, along with their identification photos, are on file at 177 Avenue Niel. Having said this, Monsieur Philibert hands us a glass of champagne. We toast our success. We will be – it seems – kings of Paris. The Khedive pats my cheek and slips a roll of bills into my inside pocket. The two men talk amongst themselves, review the files and the appointment books, make a few calls. Now and then I hear a burst of voices. Impossible to tell what is being said. I go into the adjoining room, which we use as our ‘clients’ waiting room. Here they would sit in the battered leather chairs. On the walls, a few colour prints of grape picking. A sideboard and assorted pine furniture. Beyond the far door, another room with an en-suite bathroom. I would regularly stay back at night to put the files in order. I worked in the waiting room. No one would ever guess that this apartment housed a detective agency. It was previously occupied by a retired couple. I drew the curtains. Silence. Flickering light. A smell of
withered
things. ‘Dreaming,
mon petit
?’ The Khedive laughs and adjusts his hat in the mirror. We go through the waiting room. In the hall, Monsieur Philibert snaps on a flashlight. We are having a house-warming tonight at 3
bis
Cimarosa Square. The owners have fled. We have taken over their house. A cause for celebration. Hurry. Our friends are waiting for us at L’Heure Mauve, a cabaret club on the Champs-Élysées . . .
The following week the Khedive orders me to gather information for the ‘agency’ on the activities of a certain Lieutenant Dominique. We received a memorandum on him with his address, a photo, and the comment: ‘Keep under surveillance’. I have to find some way of introducing myself to the man. I go to his house at 5 rue Boisrobert, in the 15th
arrondissement
. A modest little building. The Lieutenant himself answers the door. I ask for Mr Henri Normand. He tells me I’ve made a mistake. Then I blurt out my whole story: I’m an escaped POW. A friend said that if I ever managed to escape, I should get in touch with Monsieur Normand, 5 rue Boisrobert. He would keep me safe. My comrade had clearly given me the wrong address. I don’t know a soul in Paris. I have no money. I don’t know where to turn. He studies me thoughtfully. I squeeze out a couple of tears to convince him. Next thing I know I’m in his office. In a
deep,
clear voice he tells me that a boy my age should not let himself be discouraged by the catastrophe that has beset our country. He is still weighing me up. Then, suddenly, he asks: ‘Do you want to work with us?’ He is head of a group of ‘tremendous’ guys. Many of them escaped prisoners like myself. Boys from Saint-Cyr Military Academy. Regular officers. A handful of civilians. All raring to go. The best of the best. We are waging a covert war against the powers of evils that have temporarily triumphed. A daunting task, but to brave hearts nothing is impossible. Goodness, Freedom, and Moral Standards will soon be re-established. Lieutenant Dominique swears as much. I don’t share his optimism. I’m thinking about the report I’ll need to turn in to the Khedive this evening at Square Cimarosa. The Lieutenant gives me a few other facts: he refers to the group as CKS, the Company of the Knights of the Shadows. There is no way they can fight out in the open. This is a subterranean war. We will constantly be hunted. All the members of the group have taken the name of a métro station as a code name. He will introduce them to me shortly: Saint-Georges. Obligado. Corvisart. Pernety. There are more. As for me, I will be known as the ‘Princesse de Lamballe’. Why ‘Princesse de Lamballe’? A whim of the Lieutenant. ‘Are you prepared to join our
network?
Honour demands it. You should not hesitate for a moment. So – what’s your answer?’ I reply: ‘Yes,’ in a hesitant voice. ‘Don’t ever waver, lad. I know that these are sad times. Thugs and gangsters are running the show. There’s a stench of decay in the air. But it won’t last. Have a little fortitude, Lamballe.’ He suggests I stay with him at the Rue Boisrobert, but I quickly invent an elderly uncle in the suburbs who will put me up. We agree to meet tomorrow afternoon at the Place des Pyramides in front of the statue of Joan of Arc. ‘Farewell, Lamballe.’ He gives me a piercing look, his eyes narrow, and I can’t bear the glint of them. He repeats: ‘Farewell,
LAM-BALLE,’
emphasizing each syllable in a strange way:
LAM-BALLE.
He shuts the door. Night was drawing in. I wandered aimlessly through these unfamiliar streets. They would be waiting for me at Square Cimarosa. What should I tell them? To put it bluntly, Lieutenant Dominique was a hero. As was every member of his group . . . But I still need to make a report to the Khedive and Monsieur Philibert. The existence of the CKS came as a surprise to them. They were not expecting such an extensive operation. ‘You will need to infiltrate the group. Try to get their names and addresses. It could make for a fine haul.’ For the first time in my life, I had what people call a pang of conscience. A fleeting
pang,
as it turned out. I was given an advance of one hundred thousand francs against the information I was to obtain.