Read Online Missing Person by Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort - Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort
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you?" he said in a voice full of feeling.
"Yes."
"Well, I'm going to give you this ..."
He pointed to the box.
"They're keepsakes of Freddie... Little things I was able to put aside when they came along to impound the old place..."
He was really moved. I even think there were tears in his eyes.
"I was very fond of him... I knew him as a youngster... He was a dreamer. He always told me he'd buy a yacht... He used to say: 'Bob, you'll be my first mate...' God knows where he is now... if he's still alive ..."
"We'll find him," I said.
"He was too spoiled by his grandmother, you see ..."
He took the box and handed it to me. I thought of Styoppa de Dzhagorev and the red box he too had given me. It certainly seemed everything ended with old chocolate or biscuit or cigar boxes.
"Thank you."
"I'll walk you to the station."
We took a forest path and he shone the beam of his flashlight ahead of us. Was he losing his way? It felt to me as though we were penetrating deeper and deeper into the forest.
"I'm trying to remember the name of Freddie's friend. The one you pointed out in the photograph ... the South American..."
We were crossing a clearing, the foliage phosphorescent in the moonlight. A clump of umbrella pines. He had switched off his flashlight, because it was almost as bright as daylight here.
"This is where Freddie used to come riding with another friend of his ... A jockey ... He never spoke to you about the jockey?"
"No."
"I can't remember his name any more... And yet he was well known . . . He'd been Freddie's grandfather's jockey, when the old man had a racing stable ..."
"Did the South American know the jockey too?"
"Of course. They used to come here together. The jockey played billiards with the other... I even think it was he who introduced the Russian woman to Freddie ..."
I was afraid I would not remember all these details. I should have been noting them down on the spot.
The path sloped gently upward and it was not easy walking, because of all the dead leaves underfoot.
"So, do you remember the South American's name?"
"Just a moment... it's coming back ..."
I hugged the biscuit box to my hip, anxious to find out what its contents were. Perhaps I would discover some answers to my questions. My name. Or the jockey's name, for instance.
We were at the edge of a slope, at the bottom of which lay the station square. The station, with its bright neon-lit entrance hall, seemed deserted. A cyclist crossed the square slowly and stopped in front of the station.
"One moment... his first name was ... Pedro ..."
We stood at the edge of the slope. He had taken out his pipe again, and was cleaning it with a strange little instrument. Inwardly I repeated this name I'd been given at birth, this name by which I had been called throughout a whole section of my life and which, for a number of people, had conjured up my face. Pedro.
12
N OT MUCH HERE , in the biscuit box. A flaking lead soldier with a drum. A four-leaf clover adhering to the center of a white envelope. Some photographs.
I appear in two of them. No question that it is the same man as the one standing beside Gay Orlov and old Giorgiadze. A tall, dark-haired man, me, the only difference being that I've no moustache there. In one of the photographs, I am with another man as young as myself, as tall, but fair-haired. Freddie? Yes, as someone has written in pencil on the back of the photo: "Pedro - Freddie - La Baule." We are at the seaside and both wearing beach robes. Evidently a very old photograph.
In the second photograph, there are four of us: Freddie, myself, Gay Orlov, whom I recognized at once, and another young woman, all sitting on the floor, leaning against the red velvet sofa in the summer dining room. To the right, you can make out a billiard table.
A third photograph shows the young woman who is with us in the summer dining room. She is standing in front of the billiard table, holding a cue in her two hands. Fair hair falling to
"Yes."
"Well, I'm going to give you this ..."
He pointed to the box.
"They're keepsakes of Freddie... Little things I was able to put aside when they came along to impound the old place..."
He was really moved. I even think there were tears in his eyes.
"I was very fond of him... I knew him as a youngster... He was a dreamer. He always told me he'd buy a yacht... He used to say: 'Bob, you'll be my first mate...' God knows where he is now... if he's still alive ..."
"We'll find him," I said.
"He was too spoiled by his grandmother, you see ..."
He took the box and handed it to me. I thought of Styoppa de Dzhagorev and the red box he too had given me. It certainly seemed everything ended with old chocolate or biscuit or cigar boxes.
"Thank you."
"I'll walk you to the station."
We took a forest path and he shone the beam of his flashlight ahead of us. Was he losing his way? It felt to me as though we were penetrating deeper and deeper into the forest.
"I'm trying to remember the name of Freddie's friend. The one you pointed out in the photograph ... the South American..."
We were crossing a clearing, the foliage phosphorescent in the moonlight. A clump of umbrella pines. He had switched off his flashlight, because it was almost as bright as daylight here.
"This is where Freddie used to come riding with another friend of his ... A jockey ... He never spoke to you about the jockey?"
"No."
"I can't remember his name any more... And yet he was well known . . . He'd been Freddie's grandfather's jockey, when the old man had a racing stable ..."
"Did the South American know the jockey too?"
"Of course. They used to come here together. The jockey played billiards with the other... I even think it was he who introduced the Russian woman to Freddie ..."
I was afraid I would not remember all these details. I should have been noting them down on the spot.
The path sloped gently upward and it was not easy walking, because of all the dead leaves underfoot.
"So, do you remember the South American's name?"
"Just a moment... it's coming back ..."
I hugged the biscuit box to my hip, anxious to find out what its contents were. Perhaps I would discover some answers to my questions. My name. Or the jockey's name, for instance.
We were at the edge of a slope, at the bottom of which lay the station square. The station, with its bright neon-lit entrance hall, seemed deserted. A cyclist crossed the square slowly and stopped in front of the station.
"One moment... his first name was ... Pedro ..."
We stood at the edge of the slope. He had taken out his pipe again, and was cleaning it with a strange little instrument. Inwardly I repeated this name I'd been given at birth, this name by which I had been called throughout a whole section of my life and which, for a number of people, had conjured up my face. Pedro.
12
N OT MUCH HERE , in the biscuit box. A flaking lead soldier with a drum. A four-leaf clover adhering to the center of a white envelope. Some photographs.
I appear in two of them. No question that it is the same man as the one standing beside Gay Orlov and old Giorgiadze. A tall, dark-haired man, me, the only difference being that I've no moustache there. In one of the photographs, I am with another man as young as myself, as tall, but fair-haired. Freddie? Yes, as someone has written in pencil on the back of the photo: "Pedro - Freddie - La Baule." We are at the seaside and both wearing beach robes. Evidently a very old photograph.
In the second photograph, there are four of us: Freddie, myself, Gay Orlov, whom I recognized at once, and another young woman, all sitting on the floor, leaning against the red velvet sofa in the summer dining room. To the right, you can make out a billiard table.
A third photograph shows the young woman who is with us in the summer dining room. She is standing in front of the billiard table, holding a cue in her two hands. Fair hair falling to
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