Read Online So You Don't Get Lost in the Neighborhood by Patrick Modiano - Free Book Online Page A

anything, any more than his visiting card did, despite the fact that the address of the shop was printed on it?
    In the car, Torstel had even referred to “the house on the outskirts of Paris” where, as a child, he had seen him at Annie Astrand’s house. He, Daragane, had stayed there for almost a year. At Saint-Leu-la-Forêt. “I remember a child,” Torstel had said. “That child was you, I suppose . . .” And Daragane had replied to him curtly, as though this was nothing to do with him. It was the Sunday when he had begun to write
Le Noir de l’été
after Torstel had dropped him at square du Graisivaudan. And not for a moment had he had the presence of mind to ask him whether he remembered the woman who lived in this house, at Saint-Leu-la-Forêt, “a certain Annie Astrand”. And whether he happened to know what had become of her.
    He sat down on a garden bench, in the sunshine, near the arcades of the Galerie de Beaujolais. He must have walked for over an hour without even noticing that it was hotter still than on the other days. Torstel. Perrin de Lara. But yes, he had met Perrin de Lara one final time, in the same year as that Sunday at Le Tremblay—he was barely twenty-one—and this meeting would have vanished into
la nuit froide de l’oubli
—as the song goes—had it not been to do with Annie Astrand. One evening, he happened to be in a café on the Rond-Point des Champs-Élysées, one that had been converted into a “Drugstore” in the years that followed. It was ten o’clock. A pause before continuing his walk to square du Graisivaudan, or rather to a room in rue Coustou that he had been renting for some time at six hundred francs a month.
    He had not immediately noticed the presence, that night, of Perrin de Lara, in front of him, sitting on the terrace. Alone.
    Why had he spoken to him? He had not seen him for over ten years, and this man would certainly not recognise him. But he was writing his first book, and Annie Astrand was filling his mind in an obsessive way. Perhaps Perrin de Lara knew something about her?
    He had stood in front of his table, and the man had looked up. No, he did not recognise him.
    â€œJean Daragane.”
    â€œAh . . . Jean . . .”
    He smiled at him, a faint smile, as though he were embarrassed that someone should recognise him at that time of night, on his own, in such a place.
    â€œYou’ve grown taller over the years . . . Sit down, Jean . . .”
    He pointed to the chair, opposite him. Daragane hesitated for a fraction of a second. The glazed terrace door was ajar. All he had to do was say what he normally said: “Wait . . . I’ll be back . . .” Then go out into the open air of the night, and take a deep breath. And, most importantly, avoid any further contact with a shadow, who would be waiting over there, alone, on a café terrace, for all eternity.
    He sat down. Perrin de Lara’s Roman-statue face had become bloated and his hair had acquired a greyish tinge. He was wearing a navy-blue linen jacket that was too flimsy for the season. In front of him, a half-drunk glass of Martini, which Daragane recognised by its colour.
    â€œAnd your mother? It’s years since I’ve been in touch with her . . . You know . . . we were like brother and sister . . .”
    He shrugged, and there was an anxious expression in his eyes.
    â€œI’ve been away from Paris for a long time . . .”
    It was clear that he would have liked to tell him about the reasons for this long absence. But he remained silent.
    â€œAnd have you seen your friends Torstel and Bob Bugnand again?”
    Perrin de Lara seemed surprised to hear these two names coming from Daragane’s lips. Surprised, and suspicious.
    â€œWhat a memory you have . . . do you remember those two? . . .”
    He stared at