Missing Person by Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort Page A
Authors: Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort
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American fortune..."
He pulled sedately on his pipe and thin streams of blue smoke rose to the ceiling. This room with its large stained glass windows and Freddie's - my? - decorations on the wall and ceiling was obviously a haven for him.
"Then Freddie disappeared ... Without any warning... I don't know what happened. But the lot was impounded."
Again the term "impounded," like a door slamming in my face just as I was about to cross its threshold.
"And since then, I've been waiting ... I wonder what they intend doing about me . . . They can't throw me out after all."
"Where do you live?"
"In the old stables. Freddie's grandfather had them converted."
He studied me, his pipe clenched between his teeth.
"And how about you? Tell me how you got to know Freddie in America."
"Oh ... It's a long story..."
"Would you like to take a walk? I'll show you the grounds on that side."
"With pleasure."
He opened the french windows and we went down some stone steps. We were standing before a lawn like the one I had tried to cross to reach the château, but here, the grass was not nearly so high. To my astonishment, the back of the château did not conform at all with its façade: it was built of gray stone. The roof was not the same either: on this side it was more elaborate, with cut off corners and gables, so that a house which at first sight looked like a Louis XIII château, from the back looked like one of those late-nineteenth-century seaside resort mansions, a few rare specimens of which still survive in Biarritz.
"I try to keep up the whole of this side of the park a bit," he said. "But it's not easy for a man on his own."
We were following a gravel path which skirted the lawn. The bushes on our left, head-high, were carefully trimmed. He motioned toward them:
"The maze. It was planted by Freddie's grandfather. I do the best I can with it. After all, something ought to stay the way it was."
We entered the "maze" by one of its side-entrances, stooping because of an archway of greenery. Several of the paths intersected, there were crossroads, roundabouts, circular and right-angle bends, dead-ends, an arbor with a green bench ... As a child, I must have played games of hide-and-seek here with my grandfather or with friends of my own age. In this enchanted place, which smelt of privet and pine, I must surely have known the best moments of my life. When we left the maze, I could not resist saying to my guide:
"It's odd ... It reminds me of something ..."
But he did not seem to hear me.
At the edge of the lawn, a rusty old frame from which hung two swings.
"Would you mind if we ..."
He sat down on one of the swings and lit his pipe again.
I seated myself on the other. The sun was setting and bathed the lawn and bushes of the maze in a delicate orange glow. And the gray stone of the château was speckled in the same way.
I chose this moment to hand him the photo of Gay Orlov, old Giorgiadze and myself.
"Do you know these people?"
He studied the photo for a long time, without taking the pipe from his mouth.
"I knew that one, all right..."
He put his forefinger over Gay Orlov's face.
"The Russian woman ..."
He said this in a dreamy tone, smiling.
"Yes, I certainly knew the Russian woman ..
He gave a short laugh.
"Freddie often brought her here in the last few years ... Some girl... A blonde ... She really knew how to drink, I can tell you ... Did you know her?"
"Yes," I said. "I met her with Freddie in America."
"He knew the Russian woman in America, did he?"
"Yes."
"She could tell you where Freddie is right now ... You should ask her ..."
"And this dark-haired fellow, here, next to the Russian?"
He leaned a bit closer to the photo and scrutinized it. My heart was thumping.
"Yes ... I knew him too ... Just a moment ... Yes, of course ... He was a friend of Freddie's ... He used to come here with Freddie, the Russian woman and another girl... I think he was a South American or something like
He pulled sedately on his pipe and thin streams of blue smoke rose to the ceiling. This room with its large stained glass windows and Freddie's - my? - decorations on the wall and ceiling was obviously a haven for him.
"Then Freddie disappeared ... Without any warning... I don't know what happened. But the lot was impounded."
Again the term "impounded," like a door slamming in my face just as I was about to cross its threshold.
"And since then, I've been waiting ... I wonder what they intend doing about me . . . They can't throw me out after all."
"Where do you live?"
"In the old stables. Freddie's grandfather had them converted."
He studied me, his pipe clenched between his teeth.
"And how about you? Tell me how you got to know Freddie in America."
"Oh ... It's a long story..."
"Would you like to take a walk? I'll show you the grounds on that side."
"With pleasure."
He opened the french windows and we went down some stone steps. We were standing before a lawn like the one I had tried to cross to reach the château, but here, the grass was not nearly so high. To my astonishment, the back of the château did not conform at all with its façade: it was built of gray stone. The roof was not the same either: on this side it was more elaborate, with cut off corners and gables, so that a house which at first sight looked like a Louis XIII château, from the back looked like one of those late-nineteenth-century seaside resort mansions, a few rare specimens of which still survive in Biarritz.
"I try to keep up the whole of this side of the park a bit," he said. "But it's not easy for a man on his own."
We were following a gravel path which skirted the lawn. The bushes on our left, head-high, were carefully trimmed. He motioned toward them:
"The maze. It was planted by Freddie's grandfather. I do the best I can with it. After all, something ought to stay the way it was."
We entered the "maze" by one of its side-entrances, stooping because of an archway of greenery. Several of the paths intersected, there were crossroads, roundabouts, circular and right-angle bends, dead-ends, an arbor with a green bench ... As a child, I must have played games of hide-and-seek here with my grandfather or with friends of my own age. In this enchanted place, which smelt of privet and pine, I must surely have known the best moments of my life. When we left the maze, I could not resist saying to my guide:
"It's odd ... It reminds me of something ..."
But he did not seem to hear me.
At the edge of the lawn, a rusty old frame from which hung two swings.
"Would you mind if we ..."
He sat down on one of the swings and lit his pipe again.
I seated myself on the other. The sun was setting and bathed the lawn and bushes of the maze in a delicate orange glow. And the gray stone of the château was speckled in the same way.
I chose this moment to hand him the photo of Gay Orlov, old Giorgiadze and myself.
"Do you know these people?"
He studied the photo for a long time, without taking the pipe from his mouth.
"I knew that one, all right..."
He put his forefinger over Gay Orlov's face.
"The Russian woman ..."
He said this in a dreamy tone, smiling.
"Yes, I certainly knew the Russian woman ..
He gave a short laugh.
"Freddie often brought her here in the last few years ... Some girl... A blonde ... She really knew how to drink, I can tell you ... Did you know her?"
"Yes," I said. "I met her with Freddie in America."
"He knew the Russian woman in America, did he?"
"Yes."
"She could tell you where Freddie is right now ... You should ask her ..."
"And this dark-haired fellow, here, next to the Russian?"
He leaned a bit closer to the photo and scrutinized it. My heart was thumping.
"Yes ... I knew him too ... Just a moment ... Yes, of course ... He was a friend of Freddie's ... He used to come here with Freddie, the Russian woman and another girl... I think he was a South American or something like
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