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Authors: Patrick Modiano
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long time ago.
âIâm not sure about my fatherâs identity.â
I kept my tone casual, as I was worried about making her uneasy. And I wasnât used to confiding in people.
She remained silent. I had shocked her with all that sadness and gloom. I tried to think of something more cheerful, a brighter note.
âBut fortunately I was brought up by an uncle who was kind to me.â
It wasnât really a lie. For two or three years, Jean Borand had looked after me every Thursday. Once he had taken me to the Trône fair, not far from his place. Was he my uncle? Perhaps he was my father, after all? When we were living in the apartment near the Bois de Boulogne, my mother used to cover her tracks and embellish the truth. She said to me one day that she âdidnât like vulgar thingsâ; I had no idea what she was referring to. Back when we were living in the big apartment, her name wasnât Suzanne Cardères anymore. She was the Comtesse Sonia OâDauyé.
âI donât want to bore you with my family stories.â
She still had her arm in mine. We had arrived at the Gare de Lyon, near the metro station. So it was all over now. She would leave me at the top of the stairs.
âIâll take you home in a taxi.â
She led me over to the station. I was so surprised I couldnât bring myself to thank her. There was a line of taxis along the street. Next thing, the taxi driver was waiting for directions. I managed to say, âPlace Blanche.â
The pharmacist asked if I had been living in the neighbourhood for long. No, just a few months. A room in a place on a little street. It used to be a hotel. The rent wasnât much. Besides, Iâd found a job. The taxi drove alongthe river and the empty streets.
âBut youâve got friends, havenât you?â
At Trois Quartiers, one of my co-workers, Muriel, had introduced me to a small group of people she went out with on Saturday nights. For a little while, Iâd been part of the gang. They would go out to dinner and then on to a nightclub. Sales girls, fellows who were starting off at the stock exchange or in jewellery shops or car dealerships. Department managers. One of them seemed more interesting than the others and I went out with him. He used to invite me to dinner and to Studio 28, a cinema in Montmartre, to watch old American movies. One night, after the movie, he took me to a hotel near Châtelet, and I let him have his way. I have only a vague memory of all those people and all those evenings out. None of it mattered at all to me. I couldnât even remember his first name. His surname was all Iâd retained: Wurlitzer.
âI donât have many friends anymore,â I said.
âYou mustnât be by yourself all the time like that⦠Otherwise you wonât be able to keep fighting your demons.â
She turned and looked at me with a slightly mischievous smile. I couldnât bring myself to ask her how old she was. Perhaps ten or fifteen years older than I was, the sameage as my mother at the time of the big apartment and the two photos, of her and of me. All the same, what an odd thing to do, to go and die in Morocco. âShe wasnât a nasty woman,â Frédérique told me one night when we were talking about my mother. âShe was just unlucky.â She had come to Paris when she was very young, to learn classical ballet at the Paris Opera Ballet School. It was all she wanted to do. Then sheâd had an accident âwith her anklesâ and had to stop ballet. At twenty, she was dancing, but as a chorus girl in obscure cabaret shows, at Ferrari, Préludes, the Moulin Rouge, all those names Iâd heard, during their conversations, from the brunette who didnât like my mother and who, like her, had worked in those clubs. âYou see,â Frédérique said, âbecause of her ankles, she was like a wounded racehorse on the way to the
âIâm not sure about my fatherâs identity.â
I kept my tone casual, as I was worried about making her uneasy. And I wasnât used to confiding in people.
She remained silent. I had shocked her with all that sadness and gloom. I tried to think of something more cheerful, a brighter note.
âBut fortunately I was brought up by an uncle who was kind to me.â
It wasnât really a lie. For two or three years, Jean Borand had looked after me every Thursday. Once he had taken me to the Trône fair, not far from his place. Was he my uncle? Perhaps he was my father, after all? When we were living in the apartment near the Bois de Boulogne, my mother used to cover her tracks and embellish the truth. She said to me one day that she âdidnât like vulgar thingsâ; I had no idea what she was referring to. Back when we were living in the big apartment, her name wasnât Suzanne Cardères anymore. She was the Comtesse Sonia OâDauyé.
âI donât want to bore you with my family stories.â
She still had her arm in mine. We had arrived at the Gare de Lyon, near the metro station. So it was all over now. She would leave me at the top of the stairs.
âIâll take you home in a taxi.â
She led me over to the station. I was so surprised I couldnât bring myself to thank her. There was a line of taxis along the street. Next thing, the taxi driver was waiting for directions. I managed to say, âPlace Blanche.â
The pharmacist asked if I had been living in the neighbourhood for long. No, just a few months. A room in a place on a little street. It used to be a hotel. The rent wasnât much. Besides, Iâd found a job. The taxi drove alongthe river and the empty streets.
âBut youâve got friends, havenât you?â
At Trois Quartiers, one of my co-workers, Muriel, had introduced me to a small group of people she went out with on Saturday nights. For a little while, Iâd been part of the gang. They would go out to dinner and then on to a nightclub. Sales girls, fellows who were starting off at the stock exchange or in jewellery shops or car dealerships. Department managers. One of them seemed more interesting than the others and I went out with him. He used to invite me to dinner and to Studio 28, a cinema in Montmartre, to watch old American movies. One night, after the movie, he took me to a hotel near Châtelet, and I let him have his way. I have only a vague memory of all those people and all those evenings out. None of it mattered at all to me. I couldnât even remember his first name. His surname was all Iâd retained: Wurlitzer.
âI donât have many friends anymore,â I said.
âYou mustnât be by yourself all the time like that⦠Otherwise you wonât be able to keep fighting your demons.â
She turned and looked at me with a slightly mischievous smile. I couldnât bring myself to ask her how old she was. Perhaps ten or fifteen years older than I was, the sameage as my mother at the time of the big apartment and the two photos, of her and of me. All the same, what an odd thing to do, to go and die in Morocco. âShe wasnât a nasty woman,â Frédérique told me one night when we were talking about my mother. âShe was just unlucky.â She had come to Paris when she was very young, to learn classical ballet at the Paris Opera Ballet School. It was all she wanted to do. Then sheâd had an accident âwith her anklesâ and had to stop ballet. At twenty, she was dancing, but as a chorus girl in obscure cabaret shows, at Ferrari, Préludes, the Moulin Rouge, all those names Iâd heard, during their conversations, from the brunette who didnât like my mother and who, like her, had worked in those clubs. âYou see,â Frédérique said, âbecause of her ankles, she was like a wounded racehorse on the way to the
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