Read Online Villa Triste by Patrick Modiano - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick Modiano
Ads: Link
the woman of humbler origins, both good at sports. And following my habit of setting everything somewhere, I imagined them living in a “cozy” little apartment on Rue du Docteur Blanche, in Auteuil.
Other contestants followed in their turn. Alas, I’ve forgotten all but a few of them. The thirtyish Eurasian woman, for example, with her fat, red-haired escort. They were in an aqua-green Nash convertible. When she got out of the car, she took one robotic step toward the jury and then stopped. She was seized with nervous trembling. Her panic-stricken eyes darted all around her, but she didn’t move her head. The big redhead in the Nash called to her: “Monique … Monique … Monique …” and it sounded like a lament, an entreaty meant to soothe an exotic and mistrustful animal. He too got out of the car and took her by the hand. He pushed her gently down onto her seat. She burst into tears. Then they roared away, wheels spinning in the gravel, nearly sideswiping the jury when they turned. They were followed by a nice sexagenarian couple whose namesI remember: Jackie and Tounette Roland-Michel. They drove up in a gray Studebaker and presented themselves to the judges together. Tall and red haired with an energetic, equine face, she was dressed in tennis clothes. He was of medium stature, with a little mustache, a substantial nose, a mocking smile, and the physique of a real Frenchman as imagined by a Californian film producer. An important couple, for sure, because the guy with the gray-blue hair announced: “Our friends Tounette and Jackie Roland-Michel.” Three or four members of the jury (among them the brunette and Daniel Hendrickx) applauded. As for Fouquières, he didn’t even deign to honor them with a glance. They inclined their heads in a synchronized bow. They looked quite fit, the two of them, and most pleased with themselves.
“Number 32. Mademoiselle Yvonne Jacquet and Doctor René Meinthe.” I thought I was going to faint. At first I couldn’t see anything, as if I’d suddenly jumped up after spending the whole day lying on a sofa. And the voice that pronounced their names reverberated on all sides. I gripped the shoulder of someone sitting in front of me and realized too late that it was André de Fouquières. He turned around. I stammered some feeble excuses. It was impossible for me to remove my hand from his shoulder. I had to lean back and bring my arm to my chest, little by little, tensing my body to combat the heavy torpor I felt. I didn’t see them drive up in the Dodge. Meinthe stopped the car in front of the jury. The headlights were on. My faintness gave way to a sort of euphoria, in which my perceptions became abnormally sharp. Meinthe sounded the horn three times, andseveral judges looked somewhat astonished. Fouquières himself seemed interested. Daniel Hendrickx had a smile on his face, but in my opinion it was forced. Besides, was it really a smile? No, a frozen sneer. They didn’t budge from the car. Meinthe was flashing the headlights on and off. What did he think he was doing? He turned on the windshield wipers. Yvonne’s face was smooth, impenetrable. And suddenly, Meinthe jumped. A murmur ran through the jury, the spectators. There was no comparison between this jump and the one he’d made at Friday’s “rehearsal.” Not content with clearing the door, he bounded up over it, rose into the air, spread his legs crisply, and made a nimble landing, all in one fluid movement, a single electrical discharge. And I could sense so much rage, nervousness, and fanciful provocation in his gesture that I applauded. He walked around the Dodge, stopping from time to time and standing stock-still, as though he were crossing a minefield. Every member of the jury was watching him, openmouthed. He seemed to be in certain danger, and when he finally opened the door, some judges breathed a sigh of relief.
She got out in her white dress. The dog followed her languidly. But she didn’t
Other contestants followed in their turn. Alas, I’ve forgotten all but a few of them. The thirtyish Eurasian woman, for example, with her fat, red-haired escort. They were in an aqua-green Nash convertible. When she got out of the car, she took one robotic step toward the jury and then stopped. She was seized with nervous trembling. Her panic-stricken eyes darted all around her, but she didn’t move her head. The big redhead in the Nash called to her: “Monique … Monique … Monique …” and it sounded like a lament, an entreaty meant to soothe an exotic and mistrustful animal. He too got out of the car and took her by the hand. He pushed her gently down onto her seat. She burst into tears. Then they roared away, wheels spinning in the gravel, nearly sideswiping the jury when they turned. They were followed by a nice sexagenarian couple whose namesI remember: Jackie and Tounette Roland-Michel. They drove up in a gray Studebaker and presented themselves to the judges together. Tall and red haired with an energetic, equine face, she was dressed in tennis clothes. He was of medium stature, with a little mustache, a substantial nose, a mocking smile, and the physique of a real Frenchman as imagined by a Californian film producer. An important couple, for sure, because the guy with the gray-blue hair announced: “Our friends Tounette and Jackie Roland-Michel.” Three or four members of the jury (among them the brunette and Daniel Hendrickx) applauded. As for Fouquières, he didn’t even deign to honor them with a glance. They inclined their heads in a synchronized bow. They looked quite fit, the two of them, and most pleased with themselves.
“Number 32. Mademoiselle Yvonne Jacquet and Doctor René Meinthe.” I thought I was going to faint. At first I couldn’t see anything, as if I’d suddenly jumped up after spending the whole day lying on a sofa. And the voice that pronounced their names reverberated on all sides. I gripped the shoulder of someone sitting in front of me and realized too late that it was André de Fouquières. He turned around. I stammered some feeble excuses. It was impossible for me to remove my hand from his shoulder. I had to lean back and bring my arm to my chest, little by little, tensing my body to combat the heavy torpor I felt. I didn’t see them drive up in the Dodge. Meinthe stopped the car in front of the jury. The headlights were on. My faintness gave way to a sort of euphoria, in which my perceptions became abnormally sharp. Meinthe sounded the horn three times, andseveral judges looked somewhat astonished. Fouquières himself seemed interested. Daniel Hendrickx had a smile on his face, but in my opinion it was forced. Besides, was it really a smile? No, a frozen sneer. They didn’t budge from the car. Meinthe was flashing the headlights on and off. What did he think he was doing? He turned on the windshield wipers. Yvonne’s face was smooth, impenetrable. And suddenly, Meinthe jumped. A murmur ran through the jury, the spectators. There was no comparison between this jump and the one he’d made at Friday’s “rehearsal.” Not content with clearing the door, he bounded up over it, rose into the air, spread his legs crisply, and made a nimble landing, all in one fluid movement, a single electrical discharge. And I could sense so much rage, nervousness, and fanciful provocation in his gesture that I applauded. He walked around the Dodge, stopping from time to time and standing stock-still, as though he were crossing a minefield. Every member of the jury was watching him, openmouthed. He seemed to be in certain danger, and when he finally opened the door, some judges breathed a sigh of relief.
She got out in her white dress. The dog followed her languidly. But she didn’t
Similar Books
