Night Rounds

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Authors: Patrick Modiano
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symbolized my state of mind. I examined my tie and shoes again. The sun was nice and warm. The words of a song came back to me:
    Seul
    Depuis toujours…..
    What was happening to the world? I didn't even read the headlines. Anyway, there wouldn't be any more newspapers. Or trains. In fact, Mama had taken the last ParisLausanne Express.
    Seul il a souffert chaque jour
    Il pleure avec le ciel de Paris …..
    A sad, sweet song, the kind I liked. Unfortunately, it was no time for romance. We were living – it seemed to me – in a tragic era. You don't go around humming nostalgic pre-war tunes when there's wholesale agony everywhere you turn. I had no sense of decorum. Am I to blame? I never had much taste for anything. Except the circus, comic operas, and musicals.
    By the time I reached the Rue de Castiglione, night had fallen. Someone was following me. A slap on the shoulder. The Khedive. I was expecting that we would meet. At that moment, on that very spot. A nightmare: this menace was no stranger to me. He takes my arm. We get into a car. We cross the Place Vendôme. The street lights cast an eerie blue glow. A single window alight in the Hotel Continental. Blackout. You'll have to get used to it, my boy. He laughs and turns on the radio.
    Un doux parfum qu'on respire
    c'est
    Fleur bleue …..
    A dark mass looms in front of us. The Opéra? The Church of La Trinité? On the left, Floresco's brightly lit sign. We're on the Rue Pigalle. He speeds up.
    Un regard qui vous attire
    c'est
    Fleur bleue…..
    He whistles the refrain softly, pumping his head in tempo. We race along at a dizzying speed. He starts to turn. My shoulder butts against his. The brakes screech. The hall lights on the landings don't work. I grope my way up the stairs clutching the banister. He strikes a match, just giving me time to glance at the marble plaque on the door: "Normand-Philibert Agency." We walk in. The smell turns my stomach – more nauseating than ever. Mr. Philibert is standing in the entrance. He was waiting for us. A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. He winks at me and I, despite my weariness, manage a smile: I was thinking that Mama had already reached Lausanne. There, she'd have nothing to fear. Mr. Philibert takes us into his office. He complains about the irregular electricity. This shaky light from the bronze ceiling fixture doesn't surprise me. It had always been like that at 177 Avenue Niel. The Khedive offers us champagne and produces a bottle from his left jacket pocket. As of today, our "agency" – so it seems – is due for a sizable expansion. Recent events have worked out to our advantage. We're moving into a private house at 3 bis Cimarosa Square. No more of this small-time stuff. We're in line for some important work. It's even possible that the Khedive will become police commissioner. Now's the chance to move ahead, in these troubled times. Our job: to carry out various investigations, searches, interrogations, and arrests. The "Cimarosa Square Bureau" will operate on two levels: as an arm of the police and as a "purchase office" carrying goods and raw materials that will shortly be unobtainable. The Khedive has already picked out some fifty people to work with us. Old acquaintances of his. All of them, along with their identification photos, are on file at 177 A venue Niel. Having said this, Mr. Philibert hands us a glass of champagne. We drink to our success. We will be – so it seems – the rulers of Paris. The Khedive pats my cheek and slips a roll of bills into my inside breast pocket. The two of them talk, look over some files and appointment books, make telephone calls. Now and then a burst of voices reaches me. Impossible to follow their conversation. I go into the adjoining room, our "clients' " waiting room. There they'd sit in the worn leather chairs. On the walls, a few colored prints of harvest scenes. A sideboard and pine furniture. Beyond the far door, a room and bathroom. I used to stay on

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