Missing Person by Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort Page B
Authors: Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort
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that..."
"Don't you think he looks like me?"
"Yes ... Could be," he said without conviction.
So, it was clear my name was not Freddie Howard de Luz. I looked at the lawn with its high grass whose borders caught the last rays of the setting sun. I had never walked this lawn, arm in arm with an American grandmother. I had never played, as a child, in this "maze." The frame, with its swings, had not been put up for me. Pity.
"You say, South American?"
"Yes ... But he spoke French like you and me ..."
"And you often saw him here?"
"A few times."
"How did you know he was South American?"
"Because one day I went to Paris to fetch him by car and bring him back here. He'd told me to pick him up at the place where he worked ... A South American embassy..."
"Which embassy?"
"There you're asking too much ..."
The change in my circumstances took some getting used to. I was no longer the scion of a family whose name appeared in a number of old social directories and even in the year-book, but a South American whose trail would be infinitely harder to pick up.
"I think he was a childhood friend of Freddie's ..."
"He came here with a woman?"
"Yes. Two or three times. A Frenchwoman. The four of them used to come here together... After the grandmother's death..."
He rose.
"Shall we go in? It's getting cold ..."
Night had almost fallen and once again we found ourselves in the "summer dining-room."
"This was Freddie's favorite room ... All four of them, Freddie, the Russian woman, the South American and the other girl, used to sit up here very late in the evening ..."
The divan was no more than a soft blur and a lattice work of shadows danced on the ceiling in diamond shapes. I tried in vain to recapture the echoes of our evenings together.
"They put a billiard table in here ... The South American's girlfriend was the one who particularly liked billiards ... She won every time ... I can tell you because I played her several times ... The table's still here, by the way..."
He led me into a dark corridor, switching on a flashlight, and we emerged into a tiled hall with a majestic staircase sweeping up from it.
"The main entrance ..."
Under the stairs, there was, indeed, a billiard table. He shone his flashlight on it. A white ball, in the center, as though the game had been interrupted and would start again at any moment. And as though Gay Orlov, or I, or Freddie, or the mysterious Frenchwoman who accompanied me here, or Bob, were already leaning forward, to take aim.
"You see, the billiard table's still there ..."
He swept the majestic staircase with his flashlight.
"It's no use going up to the other floors ... The whole mess is under seal..."
I thought - Freddie had a room up there. A child's room, then a young man's room with bookshelves, photographs on the wall, and - who knows? - perhaps one of them showing all four of us, or the two of us, Freddie and me, arm in arm. He leaned against the billiard table to relight his pipe. I, for my part, could not help staring at this great staircase which it was no use climbing, because up there, everything was "under seal."
We left by the small side door, which he closed, turning the key twice in the lock. It was dark.
"I've got to catch the train to Paris," I told him.
"Come with me."
He gripped my arm and we followed the surrounding wall until we reached the old stables. He opened a glass- fronted door and lit an oil lamp.
"They cut off the electricity ages ago ... But they forgot to cut the water ..."
We were in a room, in the middle of which was a dark, wooden table and some wicker chairs. On the walls, earthenware plates and some copper dishes. A stuffed boar's head over the window.
"I'm going to give you something."
He crossed the room to a cupboard at the other end, and opened it. He took out a box which he placed on the table, with the words "Biscuits Lefebvre Utile - Nantes" on its lid. Then he stood in front of me.
"You were a friend of Freddie's, weren't
"Don't you think he looks like me?"
"Yes ... Could be," he said without conviction.
So, it was clear my name was not Freddie Howard de Luz. I looked at the lawn with its high grass whose borders caught the last rays of the setting sun. I had never walked this lawn, arm in arm with an American grandmother. I had never played, as a child, in this "maze." The frame, with its swings, had not been put up for me. Pity.
"You say, South American?"
"Yes ... But he spoke French like you and me ..."
"And you often saw him here?"
"A few times."
"How did you know he was South American?"
"Because one day I went to Paris to fetch him by car and bring him back here. He'd told me to pick him up at the place where he worked ... A South American embassy..."
"Which embassy?"
"There you're asking too much ..."
The change in my circumstances took some getting used to. I was no longer the scion of a family whose name appeared in a number of old social directories and even in the year-book, but a South American whose trail would be infinitely harder to pick up.
"I think he was a childhood friend of Freddie's ..."
"He came here with a woman?"
"Yes. Two or three times. A Frenchwoman. The four of them used to come here together... After the grandmother's death..."
He rose.
"Shall we go in? It's getting cold ..."
Night had almost fallen and once again we found ourselves in the "summer dining-room."
"This was Freddie's favorite room ... All four of them, Freddie, the Russian woman, the South American and the other girl, used to sit up here very late in the evening ..."
The divan was no more than a soft blur and a lattice work of shadows danced on the ceiling in diamond shapes. I tried in vain to recapture the echoes of our evenings together.
"They put a billiard table in here ... The South American's girlfriend was the one who particularly liked billiards ... She won every time ... I can tell you because I played her several times ... The table's still here, by the way..."
He led me into a dark corridor, switching on a flashlight, and we emerged into a tiled hall with a majestic staircase sweeping up from it.
"The main entrance ..."
Under the stairs, there was, indeed, a billiard table. He shone his flashlight on it. A white ball, in the center, as though the game had been interrupted and would start again at any moment. And as though Gay Orlov, or I, or Freddie, or the mysterious Frenchwoman who accompanied me here, or Bob, were already leaning forward, to take aim.
"You see, the billiard table's still there ..."
He swept the majestic staircase with his flashlight.
"It's no use going up to the other floors ... The whole mess is under seal..."
I thought - Freddie had a room up there. A child's room, then a young man's room with bookshelves, photographs on the wall, and - who knows? - perhaps one of them showing all four of us, or the two of us, Freddie and me, arm in arm. He leaned against the billiard table to relight his pipe. I, for my part, could not help staring at this great staircase which it was no use climbing, because up there, everything was "under seal."
We left by the small side door, which he closed, turning the key twice in the lock. It was dark.
"I've got to catch the train to Paris," I told him.
"Come with me."
He gripped my arm and we followed the surrounding wall until we reached the old stables. He opened a glass- fronted door and lit an oil lamp.
"They cut off the electricity ages ago ... But they forgot to cut the water ..."
We were in a room, in the middle of which was a dark, wooden table and some wicker chairs. On the walls, earthenware plates and some copper dishes. A stuffed boar's head over the window.
"I'm going to give you something."
He crossed the room to a cupboard at the other end, and opened it. He took out a box which he placed on the table, with the words "Biscuits Lefebvre Utile - Nantes" on its lid. Then he stood in front of me.
"You were a friend of Freddie's, weren't
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