Free Ring Roads by Patrick Modiano Page B

experience an unprecedented ‘crisis of values’. Whatever it takes, I will try to stay calm.
    Marcheret. He claps you on the back and calls you ‘Chalva, old man’. And to me: ‘Good evening, Monsieur Alexandre, will you have an Americano?’ – and I’m forced to drink this sickly cocktail in case he takes offence. I’d like to know what your business is with this ex-Legionary. A currency racket? The sort of stock market scams you used to make? ‘And two more Americanos!’ he yells at Grève, the
maître d’hotel
. Then turning to me: ‘Slips down like mother’s milk, doesn’t it?’ I drink it down, terrified. Beneath his joviality, I suspect that he is particularly dangerous. It’s a pity that our relationship, yours and mine, doesn’t extend beyond strict politeness, because otherwise I’d warn you about this guy. And about Murraille. You’re wrong to hang around with such people, ‘papa’. They’ll end up doing you a nasty turn. Will I have the strength to play my role as guardian angel to the bitter end? I don’t get any encouragement from you. I scan your face for a friendly look or gesture (even if you don’t recognize me, you might at least notice me), but nothing disturbs your Ottoman indifference. I ask myself what I’m doing here. All these drinks are ruining my health, for a start. And the pseudo-rustic décor depresses me terribly. Marcheret makes me promise to try a ‘Pink Lady’, whose subtle pleasures he introduced to ‘all his Bouss-Bir friends’. I’m afraid he’s going to start talking about the Legion and his malaria again. But no. He turns to you:
    ‘Well, have you thought about it, Chalva?’
    You answer in an almost inaudible voice:
    ‘Yes, I’ve thought about it, Guy.’
    ‘We’ll split it fifty-fifty?’
    ‘You can count on me, Guy.’
    ‘I do a lot of business with the Baron,’ Marcheret tells me. ‘Don’t I, Chalva? Let’s drink to this! Grève, three vermouths please!’
    We raise our glasses.
    ‘ Soon we’ll be celebrating our first billion!’
    He gives you a hearty slap on the back. We should get away from this place as quickly as possible. But where would we go? People like you and me are likely to be arrested on any street corner. Not a day goes by without police round-ups at train stations, cinemas and restaurants. Above all, avoid public places. Paris is like a great dark forest, filled with traps. We grope our way blindly. You have to admit it takes nerves of iron. And the heat doesn’t make things easier. I’ve never known such a sweltering summer. This evening, the temperature is stifling. Deadly. Marcheret’s collar is soaked with sweat. You’ve given up mopping your face and drops of sweat quiver for an instant at the end of your chin then drip steadily on to the table. The windows of the bar are closed. Not a breath of air. My clothes stick to my body as though I’d been caught in a downpour. Impossible to stand. Move an inch in this sauna and I would surely melt. But you don’t seem unduly bothered: I suppose you often got heatwaves like this in Egypt, huh? And Marcheret – he assures me that ‘it’s positively freezing compared with the desert’ and suggests I have another drink. No, really, I can’t drink any more. Oh come now, Monsieur Alexandre . . . a little Americano . . . I’m afraid of passing out. And now, through a misty haze, I see Murraille and Sylviane Quimphe coming towards us. Unless it is a mirage. (I’d like to ask Marcheret if mirages appear like that, through a mist, but I haven’t got the strength.) Murraille holds out his hand to me.
    ‘How are you, Serge?’
    He calls me by my ‘Christian name’ for the first time; this familiarity makes me suspicious. As usual he’s wearing a dark sweater with a scarf tied round his neck. Sylviane Quimphe’s breasts are spilling out of her blouse and I notice that she isn’t wearing a bra, because of the heat. But then why does she still wear her jodhpurs and