live there. Place des Acacias. A sixth-floor room. In those days everything was rosy: I was eighteen, and I was drawing a naval pension with forged papers. Apparently no one wished me ill. A handful of human contacts: my mother, a few dogs, two or three old men, and Lili Marlene. Many an afternoon spent reading or walking the streets. The boys my age, so full of life, astounded me. They held nothing back. Their eyes sparkled. My idea was that the less one was seen, the better. Painfully shy. Neutral-colored suits. That's what I thought. Place Pereire. On warm evenings I'd sit outside at the Royal-Villiers café. Someone at the next table smiled at me. Cigarette? He held out a package of Khedives and we started to talk. He and a friend of his ran a private detective agency. They offered me a job at their place. They liked my honest looks and good manners. My job was shadowing. After that, they put me to work in earnest: investigations, information-gathering of all sorts, confidential missions. I had an office all to myself at the agency's headquarters, 177 Avenue Niel. My bosses didn't have an ounce of respectability: Henri Normand, known as "the Khedive" (because of his brand of cigarettes), was a former convict; Pierre Philibert, a top police inspector who'd been cashiered. I realized that they were giving me "slightly offcolor" jobs. Yet it never occurred to me to quit the place. In my office on the Avenue Niel I took stock of my responsibilities: first and foremost, to look after Mama since she had little to live on. I was sorry I had neglected my role as family provider up to that point, but now that I was working and bringing in a steady salary, I'd be a model son.
Avenue de Wagram. Place des Ternes. The Brasserie Lorraine on my left, where I'd made an appointment with him. He was being blackmailed and counted on our agency to get him off the hook. Myopic eyes. His hands trembled. Stammering, he asked me whether I had "the papers." Yes, I replied, very softly, but he'd have to give me twenty thousand francs. Cash. After that we'd see. We met again the next day at the same place. He handed me an envelope. Everything was there. Instead of turning over "the papers," I got up and took off. You don't like to use those tactics, but they become a habit. My bosses gave me a 10 per cent commission on this type of business. In the evening I'd bring Mama tumbrels of orchids. My affluence worried her. Perhaps she guessed that I was wasting my youth for a handful of cash. She never questioned me about it.
Le temps passe très vite, et les années vous quittent.
Un jour, on est un grand garcon…
I would rather have devoted myself to a worthier cause than that so-called private detective agency. I'd have liked to be a doctor, but open wounds and the sight of blood make me ill. On the other hand, moral ugliness doesn't bother me. Innately suspicious, I'm apt to single out the worst side of people and things so I won't be caught off guard. I was perfectly at home then at the Avenue Niel, where there was talk of nothing but extortion, breach of confidence, larceny, swindles, corruption of all sorts, and where the customers we dealt with were real sewer rats. (On this last score, my employers came no better recommended.) The only positive factor: I was earning fantastic sums of money, as I've already said. It's important to me. It was in the pawnshop on the Rue Pierre Charron (my mother and I often went there; they refused to take our imitation jewelry) that I decided once and for all that poverty was a pain in the neck. You'll think I have no principles. I started out with infinite innocence of heart and mind. It gets lost along the way. Place de l'Étoile. Nine in the evening. The lights along the Champs-Élysées sparkle as they always have. They haven't kept their promise. This avenue, so seemingly majestic from afar, is one of the vilest sections of Paris. The Claridge, Fouquet, Hungaria, the Lido, the Embassy, Butterfly… at
Avenue de Wagram. Place des Ternes. The Brasserie Lorraine on my left, where I'd made an appointment with him. He was being blackmailed and counted on our agency to get him off the hook. Myopic eyes. His hands trembled. Stammering, he asked me whether I had "the papers." Yes, I replied, very softly, but he'd have to give me twenty thousand francs. Cash. After that we'd see. We met again the next day at the same place. He handed me an envelope. Everything was there. Instead of turning over "the papers," I got up and took off. You don't like to use those tactics, but they become a habit. My bosses gave me a 10 per cent commission on this type of business. In the evening I'd bring Mama tumbrels of orchids. My affluence worried her. Perhaps she guessed that I was wasting my youth for a handful of cash. She never questioned me about it.
Le temps passe très vite, et les années vous quittent.
Un jour, on est un grand garcon…
I would rather have devoted myself to a worthier cause than that so-called private detective agency. I'd have liked to be a doctor, but open wounds and the sight of blood make me ill. On the other hand, moral ugliness doesn't bother me. Innately suspicious, I'm apt to single out the worst side of people and things so I won't be caught off guard. I was perfectly at home then at the Avenue Niel, where there was talk of nothing but extortion, breach of confidence, larceny, swindles, corruption of all sorts, and where the customers we dealt with were real sewer rats. (On this last score, my employers came no better recommended.) The only positive factor: I was earning fantastic sums of money, as I've already said. It's important to me. It was in the pawnshop on the Rue Pierre Charron (my mother and I often went there; they refused to take our imitation jewelry) that I decided once and for all that poverty was a pain in the neck. You'll think I have no principles. I started out with infinite innocence of heart and mind. It gets lost along the way. Place de l'Étoile. Nine in the evening. The lights along the Champs-Élysées sparkle as they always have. They haven't kept their promise. This avenue, so seemingly majestic from afar, is one of the vilest sections of Paris. The Claridge, Fouquet, Hungaria, the Lido, the Embassy, Butterfly… at
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