Read Online Honeymoon by Patrick Modiano - Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Modiano
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
windows and unfolded the paper the porter had given him. The headline of the article, on the front page, hit him in the eye: "The Perfumed Ghetto … Who's Who in the hotels on the Côte d'Azur." A list of names at the start of the article. His name wasn't there, as it sounded French.
"What does the article say?" Ingrid asked.
"Nothing of any interest …"
He folded the paper and stuffed it into the drawer of the bedside table. A few years hence, when the war was over and the hotel was once again full of life, a guest would discover this paper as he, Rigaud, had found the empty packet of Craven A. He went and lay down beside Ingrid on the bed-frame and held her close to him. There was not even any point now in picking up the card on the bedside table and hanging it outside the door: "Do not disturb."
•
He slept fitfully. He woke up suddenly and made sure that Ingrid was still lying beside him on the frame. He had wanted to lock the door, but that was a useless precaution: the porter had given him a master key which opened the communicating doors between the rooms.
Some men guided by the dark patch had entered the lobby and were about to raid the hotel. But he wasn't at all afraid for Ingrid. The men were going along the corridors on all five floors with torches which barely pierced the darkness. And they'd have to open, one after the other, the doors to the two hundred and fifty rooms in the hotel to check whether or not they were occupied.
He could hear the regular banging of the doors on the upper floors. The bangs came nearer, and occasionally he heard voices: the dark patch and the others had now reached their floor. His hand tightened on the master key. As soon as he heard them open the door to the room next to theirs he would wake Ingrid and they'd slip into the room on the other side. And this game of cat and mouse would continue through all the rooms on the floor. The men really hadn't the slightest chance of finding them, because they'd both be hidden in the depths of the shadows of the Provençal.
Once again he awoke with a start. Not a sound. Not the slightest banging of a door. The blinds let the daylight through. He turned to Ingrid. Her cheek resting on her arm, she was sleeping like the child she was.
•
At the end of the palm-lined drive stood the villa, with its medieval-style façade surmounted by a turret. At the time when he used to come here with his mother, Rigaud was reading Walter Scott, and he imagined that the castles in Ivanhoe or Quentin Durward were like this villa. The first time he came, he had been surprised that the American woman and "Monsieur Bailby" were not dressed like the people in the illustrations of these books.
The porter wanted to show them the garden first.
"I know it by heart," Rigaud said.
He could have walked down the paths with his eyes shut. Over there were the well and the phoney Roman ruins, and the big lawn cut like an English one which made a contrast with the umbrella pines and oleanders. And over there, at the edge of the lawn, was where he'd been when his mother had forgotten all about him one evening and gone back to Cannes without him.
"You'll be safe here."
The porter looked round the garden. Rigaud tried to conquer his uneasy feeling by gripping Ingrid's arm. He had the unpleasant impression that he was returning to his point of departure, to the scene of his unhappy childhood, and that he was sensing the invisible presence of his mother, just when he had managed to forget the wretched woman: all his memories of her were unpleasant. And now once again he would have to remain a prisoner in this garden for hours upon hours … The thought made him shiver. The war was playing a dirty trick on him in forcing him to return to the prison that had been his childhood, from which he had escaped so long ago. Reality was now resembling the nightmares he regularly had: it was the beginning of a new term in the school dormitory …
"I couldn't have found you a
"What does the article say?" Ingrid asked.
"Nothing of any interest …"
He folded the paper and stuffed it into the drawer of the bedside table. A few years hence, when the war was over and the hotel was once again full of life, a guest would discover this paper as he, Rigaud, had found the empty packet of Craven A. He went and lay down beside Ingrid on the bed-frame and held her close to him. There was not even any point now in picking up the card on the bedside table and hanging it outside the door: "Do not disturb."
•
He slept fitfully. He woke up suddenly and made sure that Ingrid was still lying beside him on the frame. He had wanted to lock the door, but that was a useless precaution: the porter had given him a master key which opened the communicating doors between the rooms.
Some men guided by the dark patch had entered the lobby and were about to raid the hotel. But he wasn't at all afraid for Ingrid. The men were going along the corridors on all five floors with torches which barely pierced the darkness. And they'd have to open, one after the other, the doors to the two hundred and fifty rooms in the hotel to check whether or not they were occupied.
He could hear the regular banging of the doors on the upper floors. The bangs came nearer, and occasionally he heard voices: the dark patch and the others had now reached their floor. His hand tightened on the master key. As soon as he heard them open the door to the room next to theirs he would wake Ingrid and they'd slip into the room on the other side. And this game of cat and mouse would continue through all the rooms on the floor. The men really hadn't the slightest chance of finding them, because they'd both be hidden in the depths of the shadows of the Provençal.
Once again he awoke with a start. Not a sound. Not the slightest banging of a door. The blinds let the daylight through. He turned to Ingrid. Her cheek resting on her arm, she was sleeping like the child she was.
•
At the end of the palm-lined drive stood the villa, with its medieval-style façade surmounted by a turret. At the time when he used to come here with his mother, Rigaud was reading Walter Scott, and he imagined that the castles in Ivanhoe or Quentin Durward were like this villa. The first time he came, he had been surprised that the American woman and "Monsieur Bailby" were not dressed like the people in the illustrations of these books.
The porter wanted to show them the garden first.
"I know it by heart," Rigaud said.
He could have walked down the paths with his eyes shut. Over there were the well and the phoney Roman ruins, and the big lawn cut like an English one which made a contrast with the umbrella pines and oleanders. And over there, at the edge of the lawn, was where he'd been when his mother had forgotten all about him one evening and gone back to Cannes without him.
"You'll be safe here."
The porter looked round the garden. Rigaud tried to conquer his uneasy feeling by gripping Ingrid's arm. He had the unpleasant impression that he was returning to his point of departure, to the scene of his unhappy childhood, and that he was sensing the invisible presence of his mother, just when he had managed to forget the wretched woman: all his memories of her were unpleasant. And now once again he would have to remain a prisoner in this garden for hours upon hours … The thought made him shiver. The war was playing a dirty trick on him in forcing him to return to the prison that had been his childhood, from which he had escaped so long ago. Reality was now resembling the nightmares he regularly had: it was the beginning of a new term in the school dormitory …
"I couldn't have found you a
Similar Books
