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Authors: Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort
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Frederico Murgo. Attaché.
Ecuador
Avenue Wagram, 91 (XVIIth). Tel. ÉTOile 17-89.
Mr. Gonzalo Zaldumbide. Special Envoy and Plenipotentiary (and Mrs.).
Mr. Alberto Puig Arosemena. First Secretary (and Mrs.).
Mr. Alfredo Gangotena. Third Secretary (and Mrs.).
Mr. Carlos Guzman. Attaché (and Mrs.). Mr. Victor Zevallos. Counsellor (and Mrs.), Avenue d'Iéna, 21 (XVth).
El Salvador
Riquez Vega. Special Envoy.
Major J. H. Wishaw. Military Attaché (and daughter).
F. Capurro. First Secretary.
Luis...
The letters dance before my eyes. Who am I?
15
Y OU TURN LEFT and it is amazing how silent and deserted is this section of Rue Cambacérès. Not a single car. I walked past a hotel and my eyes were dazzled by a chandelier, all its crystals blazing, in the lobby. It was sunny.
10 A is a narrow, four-story building. Tall windows on the first floor. A policeman stands on sentry duty on the pavement opposite.
One half of the double door to the building was open, the hall light on. A long vestibule with gray walls. At the end, a door with small glass panels which I found hard to open. A carpetless stairway leading to the upper floors.
I stopped in front of the first floor door. I had decided to ask the tenants on each floor if ANJou 15-28 had been their telephone number at any time, and there was a tightness in my throat, as I was aware of the oddness of this request. On the door, a brass plate, which read: H ÉLÈNE P ILGRAM .
A high-pitched bell which was so worn, it rang only intermittently. I pressed on it as long as possible. The door opened a crack. A woman's face, her ash-gray hair cut short, appeared in the opening.
"Excuse me ... I wonder if you could tell me ..."
Her very clear eyes fastened on me. Impossible to say what her age was. Thirty, fifty?
"Was your old phone number ANJou 15-28, by any chance?"
She frowned.
"Yes. Why?"
She opened the door. She was wearing a man's black silk dressing-gown.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because ... I lived here once ..."
She had moved out on to the landing and was staring at me fixedly. Her eyes widened.
"But... you're ... Mr.... McEvoy?"
"Yes," I said on the off-chance.
"Come in."
She seemed quite overcome. We stood, the two of us, facing each other, in the middle of a lobby with damaged parquet flooring. Some of the pieces had been replaced with strips of linoleum.
"You haven't changed much," she said, smiling.
"Nor have you."
"Do you still remember me?"
"I remember you very well," I said.
"That's nice ..."
Her eyes lingered affectionately on me.
"Come..."
She preceded me into a very large, very high-ceilinged room, whose windows were the ones I had noticed from the street. The parquet, damaged as in the hall, was hidden here and there under white wool rugs. Through the windows, the autumn sun lit the room with an amber light.
"Do sit down ..."
She pointed to a long wall-sofa with velvet cushions. She sat down on my left.
"It's funny to see you again so ... unexpectedly ..."
"I happened to be in the district," I said.
She looked younger to me than she had seemed in the doorway. Not a line at the junctions of the lips, around the eyes, or on the brow, and this smooth face contrasted with her white hair.
"It seems to me you've changed your hair color," I hazarded.
"No, I haven't... My hair's been white since I was twenty- five ... I preferred to keep it that color ..."
Apart from the velvet sofa, there was not much furniture. A rectangular table against the opposite wall. An old dressmaker's mannequin between the two windows, the torso covered with a piece of dirty beige material. The unlikely presence of this object made one think of a dressmaker's workshop. Besides, I noticed, in a corner of the room, a sewing machine on a table.
"Do you remember the apartment?" she asked. "You see ... I've kept some of the things ..."
She motioned toward the mannequin.
"Denise left all that..."
Denise?
"No, it hasn't really changed much ..." I
Ecuador
Avenue Wagram, 91 (XVIIth). Tel. ÉTOile 17-89.
Mr. Gonzalo Zaldumbide. Special Envoy and Plenipotentiary (and Mrs.).
Mr. Alberto Puig Arosemena. First Secretary (and Mrs.).
Mr. Alfredo Gangotena. Third Secretary (and Mrs.).
Mr. Carlos Guzman. Attaché (and Mrs.). Mr. Victor Zevallos. Counsellor (and Mrs.), Avenue d'Iéna, 21 (XVth).
El Salvador
Riquez Vega. Special Envoy.
Major J. H. Wishaw. Military Attaché (and daughter).
F. Capurro. First Secretary.
Luis...
The letters dance before my eyes. Who am I?
15
Y OU TURN LEFT and it is amazing how silent and deserted is this section of Rue Cambacérès. Not a single car. I walked past a hotel and my eyes were dazzled by a chandelier, all its crystals blazing, in the lobby. It was sunny.
10 A is a narrow, four-story building. Tall windows on the first floor. A policeman stands on sentry duty on the pavement opposite.
One half of the double door to the building was open, the hall light on. A long vestibule with gray walls. At the end, a door with small glass panels which I found hard to open. A carpetless stairway leading to the upper floors.
I stopped in front of the first floor door. I had decided to ask the tenants on each floor if ANJou 15-28 had been their telephone number at any time, and there was a tightness in my throat, as I was aware of the oddness of this request. On the door, a brass plate, which read: H ÉLÈNE P ILGRAM .
A high-pitched bell which was so worn, it rang only intermittently. I pressed on it as long as possible. The door opened a crack. A woman's face, her ash-gray hair cut short, appeared in the opening.
"Excuse me ... I wonder if you could tell me ..."
Her very clear eyes fastened on me. Impossible to say what her age was. Thirty, fifty?
"Was your old phone number ANJou 15-28, by any chance?"
She frowned.
"Yes. Why?"
She opened the door. She was wearing a man's black silk dressing-gown.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because ... I lived here once ..."
She had moved out on to the landing and was staring at me fixedly. Her eyes widened.
"But... you're ... Mr.... McEvoy?"
"Yes," I said on the off-chance.
"Come in."
She seemed quite overcome. We stood, the two of us, facing each other, in the middle of a lobby with damaged parquet flooring. Some of the pieces had been replaced with strips of linoleum.
"You haven't changed much," she said, smiling.
"Nor have you."
"Do you still remember me?"
"I remember you very well," I said.
"That's nice ..."
Her eyes lingered affectionately on me.
"Come..."
She preceded me into a very large, very high-ceilinged room, whose windows were the ones I had noticed from the street. The parquet, damaged as in the hall, was hidden here and there under white wool rugs. Through the windows, the autumn sun lit the room with an amber light.
"Do sit down ..."
She pointed to a long wall-sofa with velvet cushions. She sat down on my left.
"It's funny to see you again so ... unexpectedly ..."
"I happened to be in the district," I said.
She looked younger to me than she had seemed in the doorway. Not a line at the junctions of the lips, around the eyes, or on the brow, and this smooth face contrasted with her white hair.
"It seems to me you've changed your hair color," I hazarded.
"No, I haven't... My hair's been white since I was twenty- five ... I preferred to keep it that color ..."
Apart from the velvet sofa, there was not much furniture. A rectangular table against the opposite wall. An old dressmaker's mannequin between the two windows, the torso covered with a piece of dirty beige material. The unlikely presence of this object made one think of a dressmaker's workshop. Besides, I noticed, in a corner of the room, a sewing machine on a table.
"Do you remember the apartment?" she asked. "You see ... I've kept some of the things ..."
She motioned toward the mannequin.
"Denise left all that..."
Denise?
"No, it hasn't really changed much ..." I
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