their occupants. I came across SAINT-LAZARE (Gare), and I was surprised to find that there were names there as well:
Railway Police
Lab 28 42
WAGONS-LITS
Eur 44 46
CAFÉ ROME
Eur 48 30
HOTEL TERMINUS
Eur 36 80
Porter's Cooperative
Eur 58 77
Gabrielle Debrie, florist, Salle des Pas Perdus
Lab 02 47
Commercial Gallery:
1. Bernois
Eur 45 66
5. Biddeloo et Dilley Mmes
Eur 42 48
Geo Shoes
Eur 44 63
CINÉAC
Lab 80 74
19. Bourgeois (Renée)
Eur 35 20
25. Stop private mail service
Eur 45 96
25 bis . Nono-Nanette
Eur 42 62
27. Discobolos (The)
Eur 41 43
Was it possible to get in touch with these people? Was Renée Bourgeois still somewhere in the station at this hour? Behind the glass of one of the waiting rooms, I could see only a man in an old brown overcoat, slumped on one of the benches, asleep, with a newspaper sticking out of the pocket of his overcoat. Bernois?
I climbed the central staircase and entered the commercial gallery. All the shops were closed. I could hear the sound of diesel engines coming from the taxi stand in the Cour d'Amsterdam. The commercial gallery was very brightly lit, and I was suddenly afraid I might run into one of the agents of the 'Railway Police,' as they were listed in the phone book. He would ask me to open the suitcase and I would have to run. They would have no trouble catching me, and they would drag me into their office in the station. It was too stupid.
I entered the Cinéac and paid my two francs fifty at the ticket counter. The usherette, a blonde with short hair, wanted to lead me to the front rows with her little flashlight, but I preferred to sit in the back. The newsreel pictures were passing by, and the narrator provided a commentary in a grating voice that was very familiar to me: that same voice, for more than twenty-five years. I had heard it the year before at the Cinéma Bonaparte, which was showing a montage of old newsreels.
I had set the suitcase on the seat to my right. I counted seven separate silhouettes in front of me, seven people alone. The theater was filled with that warm smell of ozone that hits you when you walk over a subway grating. I hardly glanced at the pictures of the week's events. Every fifteen minutes these same pictures would appear on the screen, timeless, like that piercing mice, which sounded to me as if it could have been produced through some sort of prosthesis.
The newsreel went by a third time, and I looked at my watch. Nine thirty. There were only two silhouettes left in front of me. They were probably asleep. The usherette was sitting near the entrance on a little seat that folded out from the wall. I heard the seat clack. The beam from her flashlight swept over the row of seats where I was sitting but on the other side of the aisle. She was showing a young man in uniform to his seat. She turned off her flashlight and they sat down together. I overheard a few words of their conversation. He would be taking the train for Le Havre as well. He would try to be back in Paris in two weeks. He would call to let her know the exact date of his return. They were quite close to me. Only the aisle separated us. They were talking out loud, as if they didn't know I and the two sleeping silhouettes in front of us were here. They stopped talking. They were squeezed together, and they were kissing. The grating voice was still discussing the images on the screen: a parade of striking workers, a foreign statesman's motorcade passing through Paris, bombings … I wished that voice would fall silent forever. The thought that it would go on just as it was, commenting on future catastrophes without the slightest hint of compassion, sent a shiver down my spine. Now the usherette was straddling her companion's knees. She was moving rhythmically above him, and the springs were squeaking. And soon her sighs and moans drowned out the commentator's quavering voice.
In the Cour de Rome, I looked through my pockets to see if l had enough money left. Ten francs.
Railway Police
Lab 28 42
WAGONS-LITS
Eur 44 46
CAFÉ ROME
Eur 48 30
HOTEL TERMINUS
Eur 36 80
Porter's Cooperative
Eur 58 77
Gabrielle Debrie, florist, Salle des Pas Perdus
Lab 02 47
Commercial Gallery:
1. Bernois
Eur 45 66
5. Biddeloo et Dilley Mmes
Eur 42 48
Geo Shoes
Eur 44 63
CINÉAC
Lab 80 74
19. Bourgeois (Renée)
Eur 35 20
25. Stop private mail service
Eur 45 96
25 bis . Nono-Nanette
Eur 42 62
27. Discobolos (The)
Eur 41 43
Was it possible to get in touch with these people? Was Renée Bourgeois still somewhere in the station at this hour? Behind the glass of one of the waiting rooms, I could see only a man in an old brown overcoat, slumped on one of the benches, asleep, with a newspaper sticking out of the pocket of his overcoat. Bernois?
I climbed the central staircase and entered the commercial gallery. All the shops were closed. I could hear the sound of diesel engines coming from the taxi stand in the Cour d'Amsterdam. The commercial gallery was very brightly lit, and I was suddenly afraid I might run into one of the agents of the 'Railway Police,' as they were listed in the phone book. He would ask me to open the suitcase and I would have to run. They would have no trouble catching me, and they would drag me into their office in the station. It was too stupid.
I entered the Cinéac and paid my two francs fifty at the ticket counter. The usherette, a blonde with short hair, wanted to lead me to the front rows with her little flashlight, but I preferred to sit in the back. The newsreel pictures were passing by, and the narrator provided a commentary in a grating voice that was very familiar to me: that same voice, for more than twenty-five years. I had heard it the year before at the Cinéma Bonaparte, which was showing a montage of old newsreels.
I had set the suitcase on the seat to my right. I counted seven separate silhouettes in front of me, seven people alone. The theater was filled with that warm smell of ozone that hits you when you walk over a subway grating. I hardly glanced at the pictures of the week's events. Every fifteen minutes these same pictures would appear on the screen, timeless, like that piercing mice, which sounded to me as if it could have been produced through some sort of prosthesis.
The newsreel went by a third time, and I looked at my watch. Nine thirty. There were only two silhouettes left in front of me. They were probably asleep. The usherette was sitting near the entrance on a little seat that folded out from the wall. I heard the seat clack. The beam from her flashlight swept over the row of seats where I was sitting but on the other side of the aisle. She was showing a young man in uniform to his seat. She turned off her flashlight and they sat down together. I overheard a few words of their conversation. He would be taking the train for Le Havre as well. He would try to be back in Paris in two weeks. He would call to let her know the exact date of his return. They were quite close to me. Only the aisle separated us. They were talking out loud, as if they didn't know I and the two sleeping silhouettes in front of us were here. They stopped talking. They were squeezed together, and they were kissing. The grating voice was still discussing the images on the screen: a parade of striking workers, a foreign statesman's motorcade passing through Paris, bombings … I wished that voice would fall silent forever. The thought that it would go on just as it was, commenting on future catastrophes without the slightest hint of compassion, sent a shiver down my spine. Now the usherette was straddling her companion's knees. She was moving rhythmically above him, and the springs were squeaking. And soon her sighs and moans drowned out the commentator's quavering voice.
In the Cour de Rome, I looked through my pockets to see if l had enough money left. Ten francs.
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