Free Ring Roads by Patrick Modiano

refugee.’
    ‘Good,’ said the
commissaire
.
    Then he went back to his file.
    Time passed. My father showed signs of nervousness. I think he was digging his nails into his palms. In fact he was at my mercy – and he knew it – otherwise why did he keep glancing at me worriedly? I had to face the facts: someone had pushed me so that I would fall on the tracks and be ripped to shreds by the train. And it was the man with the south-American appearance sitting beside me. The proof: I had felt his signet-ring pressing into my shoulder-blade.
    As though he could read my mind, the
commissaire
asked casually:
    ‘Do you get on well with your father?’
    (Some policemen have the gift of clairvoyance. Like the inspector from the security branch of the police force who, when he retired, changed sex and offered ‘psychic’ readings under the name of ‘Madame Dubail’.)
    ‘We get on very well,’ I replied.
    ‘Are you sure?’
    He asked the question wearily, and immediately began to yawn. I was convinced he already knew everything, but simply was not interested. A young man pushed under the métro by his father, he must have come across hundreds of similar cases. Routine work.
    ‘I repeat, if you have something to say to me, say it now.’
    But I knew that he was merely asking me out of politeness.
    He turned on his desk lamp. The other officer continued to pound on his typewriter. He was probably rushing to finish the job. The tapping of the typewriter was lulling me to sleep, and I was finding it hard to keep my eyes open. To ward off sleep, I studied the police station carefully. A post-office calendar on the wall, and a photograph of the President of the Republic. Doumer? Mac-Mahon? Albert Lebrun? The typewriter was an old model. I decided that this Sunday 17 June would be an important day in my life and I turned imperceptibly towards my father. Great beads of sweat were running down his face. But he didn’t look like a murderer.
    The
commissaire
peers over the young man’s shoulder to see where he’s got to. He whispers some instructions. Three policemen suddenly appear. Perhaps they’re going to take us to the cells. I couldn’t care less. No. The
commissaire
looks me in the eye:
    ‘ Well? Nothing you want to say?’
    My father gives a plaintive whimper.
    ‘Very well, gentlemen, you may go . . .’
    We walked blindly. I didn’t dare ask him for an explanation. It was on the Place des Ternes, as I stared at the neon sign of the Brasserie Lorraine, that I said in as neutral a tone as possible:
    ‘Basically, you tried to kill me . . .’
    He didn’t answer. I was afraid he would take fright, like a bird when you get too close.
    ‘I don’t hold it against you, you know.’
    And nodding towards the terrace of the bar:
    ‘Why don’t we have a drink? This calls for a celebration!’
    This last remark made him smile a little. When we reached the cafe table, he was careful not to sit facing me. His posture was the same as it had been in the police van: his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. I ordered a double bourbon for him, knowing how much he liked it, and a glass of champagne for myself. We raised our glasses. But our hearts weren’t in it. After the unfortunate incident in the métro, I would have liked to set the record straight. It was impossible. He revisited with such inertia that I decided not to insist.
    At the other tables, there were lively conversations. People were delighted at the mild weather. They felt relaxed. And happy to be alive. And I was seventeen years old, my father had tried to push me under a train, and no one cared.
    We had a last drink on the Avenue Niel, in that strange bar, Petrissan’s. An elderly man staggered in, sat down at our table and started talking to me about Wrangel’s Fleet. From what I could gather, he had served with Wrangel. It must have brought back painful memories, because he started to sob. He didn’t want us to leave. He clung to my arm. Maudlin and excitable,