Free Night Rounds by Patrick Modiano Page B

probably all it would take to save me. " WHO ?" But I haven't the strength. " WHO ?" "Someone called LAM-BALLE . LAMBALLE ." We'll get hold of him, all right. Try to identify him." Things were getting complicated. Was I to blame? Each of them had set me up as a double agent. I didn't want to let anyone down. The Khedive and Philibert any more than the Lieutenant and his Saint-Cyr boys. You'll have to choose, I told myself. "Knight of the Shadows" or hired agent for a den of thieves on Cimarosa Square? Hero or stool pigeon? Neither. Some books gave me a few ideas about my problem: Anthology of Traitors from Alcibiades to Captain Dreyfus ; The Real Joanovici ; The Mysterious Knight of Eon ; Fregoli , the Man from Nowhere . I felt a bond with all those people. Yet I'm no jokester. I, too, have experienced what's known as a deep emotion. Profound. Compelling. The only one I have .firsthand knowledge of, powerful enough to make me move mountains: FEAR . Paris was settling deeper into silence and the blackout. When I speak of those days I have the feeling I'm talking to deaf people or that my voice isn't loud enough. I WAS PET-RI-FIED. The métro slowed down as it approached the Pont de Passy. Sèvres-Lecourbe / Cambronne / La Motte-Picquet / Dupleix / Grenelle / Passy. Mornings I'd go the opposite way, from Passy to Sèvres-Lecourbe. From Cimarosa Square in the 16 th District to rue Boisrobert, 15 th District. From the Lieutenant to the Khedive. From the Khedive to the Lieutenant. The pendulum path of a double agent. Exhausting. Breath coming short. "Try to get the names and addresses. Looks like a fine haul. I'm counting on you, Lamballe. You'll get us information on those gangsters." I would have liked to take sides, but I had no more interest in the "Ring of the Knights of the Shadows" than in the "Paris-Berlin-Monte Carlo Intercommercial Company." A handful of cranks were out to corner me and would hound me until I dropped in my tracks. I was undoubtedly the scapegoat for all these madmen. I was the weakest of the lot. I didn't stand a chance of surviving. The times we lived in demanded extraordinary feats of heroism or crime. And there I was, a total miscast. Weathercock. Puppet. I close my eyes to recall the scents and songs of those days. Yes, there was a whiff of rot in the air. Especially at dusk. I must say the twilight was never more beautiful. Summer lingered on and would not die. Vacant avenues. Paris without people. A clock tolling. And that omnipresent odor clinging to the façades of buildings and the leaves of the chestnuts. As for the songs, they were: "Swing Troubadour," "Star of Rio," "I Don't Know How It Will End," "Reginella." … Remember. The lights in the métro cars were tinted lavender, so it was hard to distinguish the other passengers. On my right, so close at hand, the searchlight atop the Eiffel Tower. I was returning from the Rue Boisrobert. The métro came to a halt on the Pont de Passy. I was hoping it would never start up again and that no one would come to snatch me from this nether world between two shores. Nothing stirred. Not a sound. Peace at last. Dissolve myself in the dusk. I forgot the sharp flare of their voices, the way they thumped me on the back, their relentless tugging and twisting that tied me in knots. My fear gave way to a kind of numbness. I followed the searchlight's path. Round and round it circled like a watchman on his night beat. Wearily. Its beam would gradually fade, until just a feeble shaft of light remained. I, too, after countless rounds, endless trips and returns, would finally vanish into the shadows. Without ever knowing what it was all about. Sèvres-Lecourbe to Passy. Passy to Sèvres-Lecourbe. About ten o'clock each morning I'd appear at headquarters on the Rue Boisrobert. Warm welcoming handshakes. Smiles and confident glances from those gallant fellows. "What's new, Lamballe?" the Lieutenant would ask me. I was giving him increasingly detailed information on