Free The Night Watch by Patrick Modiano

just had my hair cut. Such details were of no interest to anyone. People were thinking only about saving their skins. Every man for himself. Before long there was not a soul nor a car in the streets. Even maman had left. I wished that I could cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. This silence, this deserted city, was in keeping with my state of mind. I checked my tie and shoes again. The weather was sunny. The words of a song came back to me:
    Seul
    Depuis toujours . . .
    The fate of the world? I didn’t even bother to read the headlines. Besides, soon there would be no more newspapers. No more trains. In fact, maman had just managed to catch the last Paris-Lausanne express.
    Seul il a souffert chaque jour
    Il pleure avec le ciel de Paris . . .
    The sort of sad, sweet song I liked. Unfortunately, this was no time for romance. We were living – it seemed to me – through a tragic era. You don’t go around humming pre-war tunes when everything around you is dying. It was the height of bad manners. Was it my fault? I never had much of a taste for anything. Excepting the circus, operettas and the music hall.
    By the time I reached the Rue de Castiglione, it was dark. Someone was following close behind. A tap on the shoulder. The Khedive. I had been expecting this meeting. At that very moment, on that very spot. A nightmare where I knew every twist and turn in advance. He grabs my arm. We get into a car. We drive through the Place Vendôme. Street lights cast a strange bluish glow. A single window in the Hôtel Continental is lit. Blackout. Better to get used to it,
mon petit
. The Khedive laughs and turns the dial on the radio.
    Un doux parfum qu’on respire
    c’est
    Fleur bleue . . .
    A dark mass looms in front of us. The Opéra? The church of La Trinité? On the left, a neon sign reads FLORESCO’S. We are on the Rue Pigalle. He floors the accelerator.
    Un regard qui vous attire
    c’est
    Fleur bleue . . .
    Darkness once more. A huge red lantern outside L’Européen on the Place Clichy. We must be on the Boulevard des Batignolles. Suddenly the headlights pick out railings and dense foliage. The Parc Monceau?
    Un rendez-vous en automne
    c’est
    Fleur bleue . . .
    He whistles along to the chorus, nodding his head in time. We are driving at breakneck speed. ‘Guess where we are,
mon petit
?’ He swerves. My shoulder bumps against his. The brakes screech. The light in the stairwell is not working. I grope my way, clutching the banister. He strikes a match, and I just have time to read the marble plaque on the door: ‘Normand-Philibert Agency’. We go in. The stench – more nauseating than ever – catches in my throat. Monsieur Philibert is standing in the doorway, waiting. A cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. He winks at me and, despite my weariness, I manage a smile: maman would have reached Lausanne by now, I think. There, she’d have nothing to fear. Monsieur Philibert shows us into his office. He complains about the fluctuations in electricity. The quavering glow from the brass light overhead does not seem unusual. It had always been like that at 177 Avenue Niel. The Khedive proposes champagne and produces a bottle from his left jacket pocket. As of today, our ‘agency’ – it appears – is about to expand considerably. ‘Recent events’ have worked to our advantage. The office is moving to an
hôtel particulier
at 3
bis
Square Cimarosa. No more small-time work. We’re in line for some important work. It’s even possible that the Khedive will be named
préfet de police
. In these troubled times, there are positions to be fi lled. Our job: to carry out investigations, searches, interrogations, and arrests. The ‘Cimarosa Square Bureau’ will operate on two levels: as an unofficial wing of the police and as a ‘purchase office’ stocking goods and raw materials that will shortly be unobtainable. The Khedive has already hand-picked some fifty people to work with us. Old acquaintances. All of