Read Online Ring Roads by Patrick Modiano - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick Modiano
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metal, we decided to go home by métro. My father seemed disappointed with his afternoon. Usually when we returned from these expeditions, he was in excellent humour and would show me his notes. He was planning to compile a ‘comprehensive’ file on the Petite Ceinture – he explained – and offer it to the public authorities.
‘We shall see what we shall see.’
What? I didn’t dare ask. But, that Sunday evening, 17 June, his brash enthusiasm had melted away. Sitting in the carriage of the Vincennes-Neuilly métro, he ripped the pages from his notebook one by one, and tore them into minute scraps which he tossed like handfuls of confetti. He worked with the detachment of a sleepwalker and a painstaking fury I had never seen in him before. I tried to calm him. I told him that it was a great pity to destroy such an important work on a whim, that I had every confidence in his talents as an organizer. He fixed me with a glassy eye. We got out at the George V station. We were waiting on the platform. My father stood behind me, sulking. The station gradually filled, as if it were rush-hour. People were coming back from the cinema or from strolling along the Champs-Élysées. We were pressed against each other. I found myself at the front, on the edge of the platform. Impossible to draw back. I turned towards my father. His face was dripping with sweat. The roar of a train. Just as it came into sight, someone pushed me roughly in the back.
Next, I find myself lying on one of the station benches surrounded by a little group of busybodies. They are whispering. One bends down to tell me that I’ve had ‘a narrow escape’. Another, in cap and uniform (a métro official perhaps) announces that he is going to ‘call the police’. My father stands in the background. He coughs.
Two policemen help me to my feet. Holding me under the arms. We move through the station. People turn to stare. My father follows behind, diffidently. We get into the police van parked on the Avenue George V. The people on the terrace outside Fouquet’s are enjoying the beautiful summer evening.
We sit next to each other. My father’s head is bowed. The two policemen sit facing us but do not speak. We pull up outside the police station at 5 Rue Clement-Marot. Before going in, my father wavers. His lips nervously curl into a rictus smile.
The policemen exchange a few words with a tall thin man. The
commissaire
? He asks to see our papers. My father, with obvious reluctance, proffers his Nansen passport.
‘Refugee?’ asks the
commissaire
. . .
‘I’m about to be naturalized,’ my father mumbles. He must have prepared this reply in advance. ‘But my son is French.’ In a whisper: ‘and a
bachelier
. . .’
The
commissaire
turns to me:
‘So you nearly got run over by a train?’ I say nothing. ‘Lucky someone caught you or you’d be in a pretty state.’
Yes, someone had saved my life by catching me just in time, as I was about to fall. I have only a vague memory of those few seconds.
‘So why is it,’ the
commissaire
goes on, ‘that you shouted out “ MURDERER!” several times as you were carried to the bench?’
Then he turns to my father: ‘Does your son suffer from persecution mania?’
He doesn’t give him time to answer. He turns back to me and asks point-blank: ‘Maybe someone behind pushed you? Think carefully . . . take all the time you need.’
A young man at the far end of the office was tapping away at a typewriter. The
commissaire
sat behind his desk and leafed through a file. My father and I sat waiting. I thought they had forgotten us, but at length the
commissaire
looked up and said to me:
‘If you want to report the incident, don’t hesitate. That’s what I’m here for.’
From time to time the young man brought him a typewritten page which he corrected with a red pen. How long would they keep us there? The
commissaire
pointed towards my father.
‘Political refugee or just refugee?’
‘Just
‘We shall see what we shall see.’
What? I didn’t dare ask. But, that Sunday evening, 17 June, his brash enthusiasm had melted away. Sitting in the carriage of the Vincennes-Neuilly métro, he ripped the pages from his notebook one by one, and tore them into minute scraps which he tossed like handfuls of confetti. He worked with the detachment of a sleepwalker and a painstaking fury I had never seen in him before. I tried to calm him. I told him that it was a great pity to destroy such an important work on a whim, that I had every confidence in his talents as an organizer. He fixed me with a glassy eye. We got out at the George V station. We were waiting on the platform. My father stood behind me, sulking. The station gradually filled, as if it were rush-hour. People were coming back from the cinema or from strolling along the Champs-Élysées. We were pressed against each other. I found myself at the front, on the edge of the platform. Impossible to draw back. I turned towards my father. His face was dripping with sweat. The roar of a train. Just as it came into sight, someone pushed me roughly in the back.
Next, I find myself lying on one of the station benches surrounded by a little group of busybodies. They are whispering. One bends down to tell me that I’ve had ‘a narrow escape’. Another, in cap and uniform (a métro official perhaps) announces that he is going to ‘call the police’. My father stands in the background. He coughs.
Two policemen help me to my feet. Holding me under the arms. We move through the station. People turn to stare. My father follows behind, diffidently. We get into the police van parked on the Avenue George V. The people on the terrace outside Fouquet’s are enjoying the beautiful summer evening.
We sit next to each other. My father’s head is bowed. The two policemen sit facing us but do not speak. We pull up outside the police station at 5 Rue Clement-Marot. Before going in, my father wavers. His lips nervously curl into a rictus smile.
The policemen exchange a few words with a tall thin man. The
commissaire
? He asks to see our papers. My father, with obvious reluctance, proffers his Nansen passport.
‘Refugee?’ asks the
commissaire
. . .
‘I’m about to be naturalized,’ my father mumbles. He must have prepared this reply in advance. ‘But my son is French.’ In a whisper: ‘and a
bachelier
. . .’
The
commissaire
turns to me:
‘So you nearly got run over by a train?’ I say nothing. ‘Lucky someone caught you or you’d be in a pretty state.’
Yes, someone had saved my life by catching me just in time, as I was about to fall. I have only a vague memory of those few seconds.
‘So why is it,’ the
commissaire
goes on, ‘that you shouted out “ MURDERER!” several times as you were carried to the bench?’
Then he turns to my father: ‘Does your son suffer from persecution mania?’
He doesn’t give him time to answer. He turns back to me and asks point-blank: ‘Maybe someone behind pushed you? Think carefully . . . take all the time you need.’
A young man at the far end of the office was tapping away at a typewriter. The
commissaire
sat behind his desk and leafed through a file. My father and I sat waiting. I thought they had forgotten us, but at length the
commissaire
looked up and said to me:
‘If you want to report the incident, don’t hesitate. That’s what I’m here for.’
From time to time the young man brought him a typewritten page which he corrected with a red pen. How long would they keep us there? The
commissaire
pointed towards my father.
‘Political refugee or just refugee?’
‘Just
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