Read Online After the Circus by Patrick Modiano - Free Book Online Page B

wan light of the ceiling bulb, as if celebrating some mysterious birthday.
    â€œPlease excuse me,” Gisèle said, “I’m dead on my feet.”
    â€œTomorrow is Sunday, we can all go to the Tomate to watch Sylvette,” Grabley said.
    And once again, I thought of all those bygone Sunday evenings.

    I slept fitfully. Several times I awoke with a start, and reassured myself that she was still beside me in bed. I had a temperature. The room had turned into a train compartment. The silhouettes of Grabley and the small brunette appeared in the window frame. They were standing on the platform, waiting for us to depart. They were each holding a paper cup and they raised their arms in a toast, as if in slow motion. I could hear Grabley’s half-muffled voice:
    â€œWe can all meet tomorrow at the Tomate …”
    But I knew full well we wouldn’t show up. We were leaving Paris for good. The train jerked to a start. The buildings and houses of the suburbs stood out one last time, black against a crepuscular sky. We were squeezed together in a couchette and the jostling carriage shook us violently. The next morning, the train would stop at a platform flooded in sunlight.

It was Sunday. We got up very late, feeling as if we had the flu. We had to find an open pharmacy in the neighborhood where we could buy some aspirin. And anyway, we needed to walk the dog.
    Grabley had already gone out. He had left a note, lying conspicuously on the office couch.
    My dear Obligado,
    You aren’t up yet, and I have to go to eleven o’clock Mass at Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
    Your father called this morning, but I could barely hear him because he was calling from an outdoor phone booth: the car horns and traffic covered his voice.
    On top of which, we were cut off, but I’m sure he’ll call back. Life in Switzerland must not be easy for him. I tried to convince him not to go there. It can be a tough place if you don’t have the cash …
    We’re expecting you this evening without fail, at the Tomate. The last two shows are at eight and ten-thirty. Take your pick.
    Afterward, we’re going to have a late supper in the neighborhood. I hope you can join us.
    Henri
    There was an open pharmacy on Rue Saint-André-des-Arts. We went to take the aspirin in a café on the quay, then walked to the Pont de la Tournelle after letting the dog off the leash.
    It was nice out, as it had been the previous day, but colder, like a sunny day in February. Soon it would be spring. At least, I comforted myself with that illusion, as the prospect of spending the entire winter in Paris without knowing whether I could stay in the apartment made me uneasy.
    As we walked, we began to feel better. We had lunch in a hotel on the Quai des Grands-Augustins called the Relais Bisson. When we saw how expensive the dishes were, we ordered just some soup, a dessert, and a little chopped meat for the dog.
    And the afternoon drifted by in a gentle torpor on the bed in the fifth-floorbedroom, and, later, listening to the radio. We had plugged in the one in the office. I remember that it was a program about jazz musicians.
    Suddenly, the charm evaporated: In an hour, we’d have to keep the appointment Ansart had set for us.
    â€œHow about if we just stood him up?” I asked.
    She paused a moment. I could feel her giving in.
    â€œIf we do, we can never see them again, and we’d have to leave the car on Rue Raffet.”
    She took a cigarette from a pack of Camels that Grabley had left behind. She lit it and sucked in a puff. She coughed. It was the first time I’d ever seen her smoke.
    â€œIt would be stupid to break it off with them …”
    I was disappointed that she’d changed her mind. She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray.
    â€œWe’ll do what they want, and then I’ll ask Ansart for a lot of money so we can go to Rome.”
    I had the impression she was only saying thatto