was not. Her shirt and black trousers were rolled up in a ball on the floor, next to her slip-on shoes. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing steadily. Was she pretending to be asleep?
Â
She had left at about midday and Daragane was alone, as usual, in his study. She was worried that Gilles Ottolini might be back already. When he went to the casino in Charbonnières, he sometimes caught the train for Paris very early on the Monday morning. Through the window, he had watched her walk away wearing her shirt and her black trousers. She was not carrying the plastic bag. She had left it behind on the sofa along with the dress. It took Daragane a long time before he found the visiting card she had given him, a faded paper visiting card. But the mobile telephone number did not answer. She would surely ring him back in due course, as soon as she noticed that she had forgotten the dress.
He took it out of the bag and looked at the label again: âSilvy-Rosa. Fashion design. Rue Estelle. Marseilleâ. This reminded him of something, even though he had never been to Marseille. He had read this address before, or else heard the name. When he was younger, this type of apparently insignificant mystery could keep him busy for several days during which he searched stubbornly for a solution. Even if it were a matter of a tiny detail, he experienced a feeling of anxiety and privation for as long as he failed to make the connection, rather like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that has been lost. Sometimes, it was a phrase or a line of verse for which he wanted to find the author, sometimes, a simple name. âSilvy-Rosa. Fashion design. Rue Estelle. Marseilleâ. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Two words came to mind that seemed to be associated with this label: âLa Chinoiseâ. It would require the patience of a deep-sea diver to discover the link between âSilvy-Rosaâ and âLa Chinoiseâ, but for several years he had no longer had the strength to devote himself to this type of exploit. No, he was too old, he preferred to float along calmly . . . âLa Chinoiseâ . . . Was it on account of this Chantal Grippayâs black hair and slightly slanted eyes?
He sat down at his desk. That night, she had not noticed the scattered pages and the deletions in blue pencil. He opened the cardboard folder that he had left by the telephone and took out the book that was inside it. He started to leaf through
Le Flâneur hippique
. It was a recent reprint of a book whose copyright dated from before the war. How could Gilles Ottolini have the cheek, or the naivety, to claim to be its author? He closed the book and glanced at the sheets of paper in front of him. During his first reading, he had skipped sentences because the letters were too cramped together.
Once again, the words danced. There were clearly other details relating to Annie Astrand, but he felt too tired to take them in. He would do so later, in the afternoon, when he had had a rest. Or else he might decide to tear up the pages, one by one. Yes, he would see about that later.
Just as he was putting the âdossierâ back in its cardboard folder, his eyes fell on the photograph of the child, which he had forgotten about. On the back of it, he read: â3 passport photos. Unidentified child. Search and arrest Astrand, Annie. Customs post Ventimiglia. Monday, 21 July 1952.â Yes, it was indeed the enlargement of a passport photograph, as he had thought yesterday afternoon in the room in rue de Charonne.
He could not keep his eyes off this photograph and he wondered why he had forgotten it among the sheets in the âdossierâ. Was it something that embarrassed him, an exhibit, to use the legal language, and which he, Daragane, had wanted to erase from his memory? He experienced a sort of giddiness, a tingling sensation at the roots of his hair. This child, so detached from him over such a very long
Â
She had left at about midday and Daragane was alone, as usual, in his study. She was worried that Gilles Ottolini might be back already. When he went to the casino in Charbonnières, he sometimes caught the train for Paris very early on the Monday morning. Through the window, he had watched her walk away wearing her shirt and her black trousers. She was not carrying the plastic bag. She had left it behind on the sofa along with the dress. It took Daragane a long time before he found the visiting card she had given him, a faded paper visiting card. But the mobile telephone number did not answer. She would surely ring him back in due course, as soon as she noticed that she had forgotten the dress.
He took it out of the bag and looked at the label again: âSilvy-Rosa. Fashion design. Rue Estelle. Marseilleâ. This reminded him of something, even though he had never been to Marseille. He had read this address before, or else heard the name. When he was younger, this type of apparently insignificant mystery could keep him busy for several days during which he searched stubbornly for a solution. Even if it were a matter of a tiny detail, he experienced a feeling of anxiety and privation for as long as he failed to make the connection, rather like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that has been lost. Sometimes, it was a phrase or a line of verse for which he wanted to find the author, sometimes, a simple name. âSilvy-Rosa. Fashion design. Rue Estelle. Marseilleâ. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Two words came to mind that seemed to be associated with this label: âLa Chinoiseâ. It would require the patience of a deep-sea diver to discover the link between âSilvy-Rosaâ and âLa Chinoiseâ, but for several years he had no longer had the strength to devote himself to this type of exploit. No, he was too old, he preferred to float along calmly . . . âLa Chinoiseâ . . . Was it on account of this Chantal Grippayâs black hair and slightly slanted eyes?
He sat down at his desk. That night, she had not noticed the scattered pages and the deletions in blue pencil. He opened the cardboard folder that he had left by the telephone and took out the book that was inside it. He started to leaf through
Le Flâneur hippique
. It was a recent reprint of a book whose copyright dated from before the war. How could Gilles Ottolini have the cheek, or the naivety, to claim to be its author? He closed the book and glanced at the sheets of paper in front of him. During his first reading, he had skipped sentences because the letters were too cramped together.
Once again, the words danced. There were clearly other details relating to Annie Astrand, but he felt too tired to take them in. He would do so later, in the afternoon, when he had had a rest. Or else he might decide to tear up the pages, one by one. Yes, he would see about that later.
Just as he was putting the âdossierâ back in its cardboard folder, his eyes fell on the photograph of the child, which he had forgotten about. On the back of it, he read: â3 passport photos. Unidentified child. Search and arrest Astrand, Annie. Customs post Ventimiglia. Monday, 21 July 1952.â Yes, it was indeed the enlargement of a passport photograph, as he had thought yesterday afternoon in the room in rue de Charonne.
He could not keep his eyes off this photograph and he wondered why he had forgotten it among the sheets in the âdossierâ. Was it something that embarrassed him, an exhibit, to use the legal language, and which he, Daragane, had wanted to erase from his memory? He experienced a sort of giddiness, a tingling sensation at the roots of his hair. This child, so detached from him over such a very long
Similar Books
