Read Online Night Rounds by Patrick Modiano - Free Book Online Page A

for anything. It was they who came after me.
    A little farther along. On the left, the Ambassadeurs theater. They're performing an operetta that nobody would remember. There can't be much of an audience. An elderly lady, an elderly gentleman, two or three English tourists. I pass along a grassy stretch, the last of the hedges. Place de la Concorde. The street lights were blinding. I stood still, breathing hard. Overhead, the Marly horses were rearing, straining every nerve to resist the will of man. Ready to bolt across the square. A magnificent, sweeping view, the only place in Paris that leaves you with the giddiness of mountain peaks. A landscape of stone and sparkling lights. Over by the Tuileries, the Ocean. I was on the quarter-deck of a liner bound for the Northwest, carrying with it the Madeleine, the Opera, the Berlitz Palace, the Church of La Trinité. It was about to sink. Tomorrow we'd be resting on the ocean floor, three thousand fathoms deep. My shipmates no longer filled me with dread. The gaping mouth of the Baron de Lussatz; Odicharvi's cruel eyes; the treacherous Chapochnikoff brothers; Frau Sultana twisting a strap around her left arm to make the vein bulge and injecting herself with 30 cc. of morphine; Zieff with his vulgarity, his gold chronometer, his pudgy fingers encased in rings; Ivanoff and his sessions of sexuo-divine pan eurhythmics; Costachesco, Jean-Farouk de Méthode, and Rachid von Rosenheim discussing their abortive frauds; and the Khedive's gangster crew of hirelings: Armand le Fou, Jo Reocreux, Tony Breton, Vital-Léca, Robert le Pâle, Gouari, Danos, Codébo. … Before long all those sinister creatures would be meat for octopi, sharks, and moray eels. I'd share their fate. Readily. I had realized this quite suddenly one night when, with arms spread to form a cross, I was going along the Place de la Concorde. My shadow projected all the way to the Rue Royale, my left hand extended to the Champs-Élysées gardens, my right hand to the Rue Saint-Florentin. The idea of Jesus Christ might have occurred to me, but I thought of Judas Iscariot. No one had understood him. It took a good deal of humility and courage to shoulder the crushing burden of mankind's disgrace. To die of it. Alone. Like a great man. Judas, my big brother. Born skeptics, both of us. Not an ounce of trust did we place in our fellow men, in ourselves or in any likely savior. Shall I .find the strength to follow you to the very end? A difficult path. Night was coming on, but my job as informer and blackmailer made me used to the darkness. I put aside my unpleasant thoughts about my shipmates and their crimes. With a few weeks of hard work behind me at the Avenue Niel, nothing surprised me any more. Even if they came up with a new set of facial expressions, it wouldn't make any difference. I watched them moving about on the promenade deck, along the gangways, noting their coarse frivolity. A waste of time when you consider that water was already pouring into the hold. The main lounge and the ballroom would be next. With the ship about to capsize, my pity went out to the most savage passengers. Hitler himself could have come rushing into my arms crying like a child. The Arcades along the Rue de Rivoli. Something ominous was afoot. I had noticed the endless stream of cars along the outer boulevards. They were fleeing Paris. Probably the war. A sudden disaster. Coming out of Hilditch & Key, where I'd just picked out a tie, I examined this strip of fabric men loop around their necks. A blue-and-white striped tie. That afternoon I was also wearing a tan suit and crepe-soled shoes. In my wallet, a photograph of Mama and an expired métro ticket. I'd just had a haircut. These details were of no interest to anyone. People were bent only on saving their own skins. Chacun pour soi . Before long there wasn't a soul or a car on the streets. Even Mama had left. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. This silence, this deserted city,