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

Daragane, whose gaze made him feel uncomfortable.
    â€œNo . . . I don’t see them anymore . . . It’s incredible what good memories children have . . . And you, what’s new?”
    Daragane could sense a note of bitterness in this question. But perhaps he was mistaken, or else in Perrin de Lara’s case was it simply the effect of a Martini drunk on his own, at ten o’clock at night, in autumn, on the terrace of a café?
    â€œI’m trying to write a book . . .”
    He wondered why he had admitted this.
    â€œAh . . . like the time when you were jealous of Minou Drouet?”
    Daragane had forgotten this name. But yes, this was the little girl of his own age who had once published the anthology of poems,
Arbre, mon ami
.
    â€œLiterature’s a very difficult thing . . . I suppose you must have realised this already . . .”
    Perrin de Lara’s voice had taken on a moralising tone that surprised Daragane. The little he knew of him and the childhood memory he retained of him would have led him to think that this man was rather frivolous. The sort of person who perches his elbow on marble fireplaces. Had he, like his mother and Torstel, and possibly Bob Bugnand too, belonged to the “Chrysalis Club”?
    He eventually said to him:
    â€œSo, after all this time away, you’ve come back to Paris for good?”
    The man shrugged and looked at Daragane with a haughty expression, as though the latter had lacked respect.
    â€œI don’t know what you mean by ‘for good’.”
    Daragane did not know either. He had simply said that for the sake of conversation. And the man was very touchy . . . He felt like standing up and saying to him: “Well, good luck, monsieur . . .” and, before going through the glazed terrace door, he would smile and wave to him, as though on a railway station platform. He restrained himself. Patience was required. He may know something about Annie Astrand.
    â€œYou used to give me advice about reading . . . Do you remember?”
    He did his best to speak with emotion. And it was true, after all, that when he was a child this shadowy figure had given him La Fontaine’s
Fables
in the Classiques Hachette collection with their pale green covers. And some time later, the same man had recommended that he read
Fabrizio Lupo
when he was older.
    â€œYou really do have a good memory . . .”
    His tone had softened, and Perrin de Lara was smiling at him. But the smile was slightly strained. He leant over towards Daragane:
    â€œI have to tell you . . . I no longer recognise the Paris in which I lived . . . Five years away were enough . . . I feel as though I’m in a foreign city . . .”
    He clenched his jaws as if to prevent the words tumbling from his lips in a confused stream. He had probably not spoken to anyone for a long time.
    â€œPeople no longer reply to telephone calls . . . I don’t know whether they’re still alive, whether they’ve forgotten me, or whether they don’t have time anymore to take a call . . .”
    His grin had grown broader, his expression gentler. Perhaps he meant to cushion the sadness of his words, a sadness that was in keeping with the deserted terrace where the lighting created pools of dim light.
    He seemed to regret having confided these matters. He sat up straight and looked over towards the glazed terrace door. In spite of the coarsening of his face and the grey curls that now made his hair look like a wig, he retained that statuesque stillness that he often displayed ten years ago, one of the rare images of Jacques Perrin de Lara that Daragane remembered. And he also had the habit of frequently turning his head in profile when speaking to people, as he did at this moment. He must have once been told that he had a rather fine profile, but all those who had told him so were