Free Missing Person by Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort Page B
Authors: Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort
it and turned over the pages. Nothing had been written there: no name, no appointments. The diary showed the days and the months, but not the year. Finally I discovered a piece of paper between the pages and unfolded it:
Republic of France
Prefecture of the Seine Department
Abstract of the records of births in the XIIIth arrondissement of Paris
Year 1917
21st December nineteen hundred and seventeen
At fifteen hours, Quai d'Austerlitz 9 A , was born Denise Yvette Coudreuse, of female sex, to Paul Coudreuse, and to Henriette Bogaerts, no profession, domicile as above
Married 3rd April 1939 in Paris (XVIIth), to Jimmy Pedro Stern.
Certified abstract
Paris - the sixteenth of June 1939
"Did you see this?" I said.
She looked at the certificate in surprise.
"Did you know her husband? This ... Jimmy Pedro Stern?"
"No."
I put the diary and the certificate into my inside pocket, with the envelope which contained the photographs, and for some reason the thought struck me that, as soon as I could, I should conceal all these treasures in the lining of my jacket.
"Thanks for giving me these souvenirs."
"You're welcome, Mr. McEvoy."
I was relieved when she repeated my name, as I had not quite caught it when she first mentioned it. I should have liked to write it down, there and then, but was unsure about the spelling.
"I like the way you pronounce my name," I said. "It's hard for a French person ... But how would you write it? People always spell it wrong when they try..."
A mischievous tone had crept into my voice. She smiled.
"M ... C ... capital E, V ... O ... Y ..." she spelled.
"In one word? Are you quite sure?"
"Absolutely," she said, as though sidestepping a trap I had set for her.
So, it was McEvoy.
"Well done," I said.
"I never make spelling mistakes."
"Pedro McEvoy... It's a strange name, all the same, don't you think? There are times when I still can't get used to it..."
"By the way, I was forgetting this," she said.
She took an envelope from her pocket.
"It's the last little note I had from Denise ..."
I unfolded the sheet of paper and read:
Megève, 14th February.
Dear Hélène,
Its decided. Tomorrow Pedro and I are crossing the border. I'll send you news from over there, as soon as possible.
In the meantime, I'll give you the telephone number of someone in Paris through whom we can correspond:
O LEG DE W RÉDÉ AUTeuil 54-73 Affectionately,
Denise
"And did you phone?"
"Yes, but each time I was told the gentleman wasn't there."
"Who was he this ... Wrédé?"
"I don't know. Denise never spoke to me about him..."
The sun had gradually deserted the room. She lit the little lamp standing on the low table at the end of the sofa.
"I should very much like to see the room where I lived," I said.
"Of course..."
We walked down a corridor and she opened a door on the right.
"There," she said. "I no longer use this room ... I sleep in the guest room ... You know ... the one that looks out on the yard..."
I stood in the doorway. It was still quite light. Purplish red curtains hung on both sides of the window. The wallpaper had a pale blue design.
"Do you remember it?" she asked.
"Yes."
A daybed against the back wall. I sat down on the edge of this bed.
"Can I sit here for a few minutes on my own?"
"Of course."
"It reminds me of 'the good times'..."
She gave me a sad look and shook her head.
"I'll make some tea..."
She left the room and I looked around me. In this room too, the parquet floor was damaged and there were pieces missing, though the gaps had not been filled. Across from the window, a marble fireplace with a mirror above it, whose gilt frame was embellished with a shell in each corner. I lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, then at the wallpaper design. I studied the latter so closely, my forehead practically touched the wall. Rustic scenes. Girls in elaborate wigs, seated on swings. Shepherds in puffed
Republic of France
Prefecture of the Seine Department
Abstract of the records of births in the XIIIth arrondissement of Paris
Year 1917
21st December nineteen hundred and seventeen
At fifteen hours, Quai d'Austerlitz 9 A , was born Denise Yvette Coudreuse, of female sex, to Paul Coudreuse, and to Henriette Bogaerts, no profession, domicile as above
Married 3rd April 1939 in Paris (XVIIth), to Jimmy Pedro Stern.
Certified abstract
Paris - the sixteenth of June 1939
"Did you see this?" I said.
She looked at the certificate in surprise.
"Did you know her husband? This ... Jimmy Pedro Stern?"
"No."
I put the diary and the certificate into my inside pocket, with the envelope which contained the photographs, and for some reason the thought struck me that, as soon as I could, I should conceal all these treasures in the lining of my jacket.
"Thanks for giving me these souvenirs."
"You're welcome, Mr. McEvoy."
I was relieved when she repeated my name, as I had not quite caught it when she first mentioned it. I should have liked to write it down, there and then, but was unsure about the spelling.
"I like the way you pronounce my name," I said. "It's hard for a French person ... But how would you write it? People always spell it wrong when they try..."
A mischievous tone had crept into my voice. She smiled.
"M ... C ... capital E, V ... O ... Y ..." she spelled.
"In one word? Are you quite sure?"
"Absolutely," she said, as though sidestepping a trap I had set for her.
So, it was McEvoy.
"Well done," I said.
"I never make spelling mistakes."
"Pedro McEvoy... It's a strange name, all the same, don't you think? There are times when I still can't get used to it..."
"By the way, I was forgetting this," she said.
She took an envelope from her pocket.
"It's the last little note I had from Denise ..."
I unfolded the sheet of paper and read:
Megève, 14th February.
Dear Hélène,
Its decided. Tomorrow Pedro and I are crossing the border. I'll send you news from over there, as soon as possible.
In the meantime, I'll give you the telephone number of someone in Paris through whom we can correspond:
O LEG DE W RÉDÉ AUTeuil 54-73 Affectionately,
Denise
"And did you phone?"
"Yes, but each time I was told the gentleman wasn't there."
"Who was he this ... Wrédé?"
"I don't know. Denise never spoke to me about him..."
The sun had gradually deserted the room. She lit the little lamp standing on the low table at the end of the sofa.
"I should very much like to see the room where I lived," I said.
"Of course..."
We walked down a corridor and she opened a door on the right.
"There," she said. "I no longer use this room ... I sleep in the guest room ... You know ... the one that looks out on the yard..."
I stood in the doorway. It was still quite light. Purplish red curtains hung on both sides of the window. The wallpaper had a pale blue design.
"Do you remember it?" she asked.
"Yes."
A daybed against the back wall. I sat down on the edge of this bed.
"Can I sit here for a few minutes on my own?"
"Of course."
"It reminds me of 'the good times'..."
She gave me a sad look and shook her head.
"I'll make some tea..."
She left the room and I looked around me. In this room too, the parquet floor was damaged and there were pieces missing, though the gaps had not been filled. Across from the window, a marble fireplace with a mirror above it, whose gilt frame was embellished with a shell in each corner. I lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, then at the wallpaper design. I studied the latter so closely, my forehead practically touched the wall. Rustic scenes. Girls in elaborate wigs, seated on swings. Shepherds in puffed
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