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Authors: Patrick Modiano
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match, and in an attempt todistract Yvonne, I pointed out that one of the men resembled the French comic actor Fernandel. “What if it’s him?” I suggested. But Yvonne didn’t hear me. Her hands were shaking. Meinthe concealed his anxiety behind a little cough. He turned on the radio, which drowned out the monotonous and exasperating sound of the tennis balls. We stayed there unmoving, the three of us, our hearts beating, as we listened to a news bulletin. Finally, the loudspeaker announced, “Will the contestants for this year’s Houligant Elegance Cup please make themselves ready.” Then, two or three minutes later: “Couple number 1, Madame and Monsieur Jean Hatmer!” Meinthe grimaced nervously. I kissed Yvonne and wished her good luck, and then I took an alternate path to the Sporting Club restaurant. I was feeling pretty emotional myself.
The jury was seated behind a row of white wooden tables, each adorned with a green-and-red parasol. A great press of spectators crowded around. Some were lucky enough to be sitting down and drinking aperitifs; others remained on their feet, dressed in their beach attire. In accordance with Meinthe’s wishes, I slipped through the throng and got as close to the judges as I could, close enough to spy on them.
I immediately recognized André de Fouquières, whose photographs I’d seen on the covers of his works (my father’s favorite books, which he’d recommended to me, and which had given me great pleasure). Fouquières wore a Panama hat with a navy blue silk band. His chin rested on the palm of his right hand, and his face expressed elegant weariness. He was bored. At his age, all these summerholidaymakers in their bikinis and their leopard-skin swimsuits looked like so many Martians. Nobody here to talk to about Émilienne d’Alençon or La Gándara. Except for me, had the occasion arisen.
The man in his fifties with the leonine head, blond hair (did he dye it?), and suntanned skin: Doudou Hendrickx, for sure. Talking nonstop to his neighbors, laughing loudly. He had blue eyes and emitted an aura of healthy, dynamic vulgarity. A woman, a brunette very bourgeois in appearance, was smiling knowingly at him: the Chavoires golf club president’s wife, or the tourist office president’s wife? Madame Sandoz? Gamange (or Gamonge), the cinema man — that must have been the guy with the tortoiseshell glasses and the business suit: gray with narrow white stripes, double-breasted jacket. If I make an effort, a personage of about fifty, with wavy gray-blue hair and a greedy mouth, appears before me. He kept his nose in the air, and his chin too, doubtless wishing to look energetic and supervise everything. The sub-prefect? Monsieur Sandoz? And what about José Torres, the dancer? No, he hadn’t come.
Already a garnet-red Peugeot 203 convertible was proceeding up the drive. It came to a halt in the middle of the rotary, and out stepped a woman wearing a puffy dress and carrying a miniature poodle in one arm. The man remained behind the wheel. The woman took a few steps in front of the jury. She was wearing black shoes with stiletto heels. A peroxide blonde of the type supposedly preferred by ex–King Farouk of Egypt, about whom my father had spoken so often and whose hand he claimed to have kissed. The man with wavy gray-blue hair announced “Madame JeanHatmer” in a toothy voice, molding each syllable of the name. She let go her miniature poodle, which landed on its paws, and began to walk, trying to imitate runway models in fashion shows: eyes vacant, head afloat. Then she got back into the Peugeot. Feeble applause. Her husband had a crew cut. I noticed how tense his face was. He backed up and executed a deft U-turn; you could tell he considered it a point of honor to drive as well as possible. He must have polished his Peugeot himself, to make it shine so bright. I decided they were a young married couple, the man an engineer from a respectable upper-middle-class family,
The jury was seated behind a row of white wooden tables, each adorned with a green-and-red parasol. A great press of spectators crowded around. Some were lucky enough to be sitting down and drinking aperitifs; others remained on their feet, dressed in their beach attire. In accordance with Meinthe’s wishes, I slipped through the throng and got as close to the judges as I could, close enough to spy on them.
I immediately recognized André de Fouquières, whose photographs I’d seen on the covers of his works (my father’s favorite books, which he’d recommended to me, and which had given me great pleasure). Fouquières wore a Panama hat with a navy blue silk band. His chin rested on the palm of his right hand, and his face expressed elegant weariness. He was bored. At his age, all these summerholidaymakers in their bikinis and their leopard-skin swimsuits looked like so many Martians. Nobody here to talk to about Émilienne d’Alençon or La Gándara. Except for me, had the occasion arisen.
The man in his fifties with the leonine head, blond hair (did he dye it?), and suntanned skin: Doudou Hendrickx, for sure. Talking nonstop to his neighbors, laughing loudly. He had blue eyes and emitted an aura of healthy, dynamic vulgarity. A woman, a brunette very bourgeois in appearance, was smiling knowingly at him: the Chavoires golf club president’s wife, or the tourist office president’s wife? Madame Sandoz? Gamange (or Gamonge), the cinema man — that must have been the guy with the tortoiseshell glasses and the business suit: gray with narrow white stripes, double-breasted jacket. If I make an effort, a personage of about fifty, with wavy gray-blue hair and a greedy mouth, appears before me. He kept his nose in the air, and his chin too, doubtless wishing to look energetic and supervise everything. The sub-prefect? Monsieur Sandoz? And what about José Torres, the dancer? No, he hadn’t come.
Already a garnet-red Peugeot 203 convertible was proceeding up the drive. It came to a halt in the middle of the rotary, and out stepped a woman wearing a puffy dress and carrying a miniature poodle in one arm. The man remained behind the wheel. The woman took a few steps in front of the jury. She was wearing black shoes with stiletto heels. A peroxide blonde of the type supposedly preferred by ex–King Farouk of Egypt, about whom my father had spoken so often and whose hand he claimed to have kissed. The man with wavy gray-blue hair announced “Madame JeanHatmer” in a toothy voice, molding each syllable of the name. She let go her miniature poodle, which landed on its paws, and began to walk, trying to imitate runway models in fashion shows: eyes vacant, head afloat. Then she got back into the Peugeot. Feeble applause. Her husband had a crew cut. I noticed how tense his face was. He backed up and executed a deft U-turn; you could tell he considered it a point of honor to drive as well as possible. He must have polished his Peugeot himself, to make it shine so bright. I decided they were a young married couple, the man an engineer from a respectable upper-middle-class family,
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