Free Best European Fiction 2013 by Unknown Page A

precise instant the sound of a violin became audible—a marvelous music, an air of such exquisite purity that it seemed to be emerging from another world. Two steps from the old streetcar there appeared to the spectators a young woman dressed in a superb white fur coat, followed by a violinist playing as he walked. Perhaps they’d stepped from one of the tall houses lining the street, whose gray façades gleamed softly in the cold. They advanced toward the audience; then, leaving the street, they entered the theater, finally reaching the row where the man who had wanted to leave, and the one who’d prevented him, were still standing. The violin’s tone quavered like a magic crystal in the frosty air of the theater.
    – You desire, Monsieur, to leave our show, said the young woman in a slightly histrionic tone. It’s possible, of course—but you should know that it will entail certain risks, certain dangers. Follow me, if you will.
    – Listen, I …
    – Since you’ve expressed the wish to leave our show, follow me. I’m here to attempt to satisfy you.
    – It’s so cold, and I thought …
    – Your reasons don’t matter, Monsieur. Your name, please?
    – Traumont, Michel Traumont.
    – You want to leave our show. Very well—follow us, Monsieur Michel Traumont. I beg you, my friends, put your weapons away and sit down again, she added, addressing the extras, who immediately obeyed: Monsieur Traumont will follow us without your assistance, I’m certain of that.
    – But I mean, I …
    – Follow us, Monsieur Traumont. This way.
    Accompanied by the violinist, who hadn’t ceased his playing for a moment, and followed by Michel Traumont, who didn’t dare protest, the woman once again traversed the theater, stepped back into the street, and approached the old streetcar.
    – Halt! Where are you going?
    This time the violinist’s bow stopped short, and that sudden cessation of music ran like a shock through the audience. One of the streetcar’s pursuers had left the line formed by his companions, and advanced a few steps. He brandished his revolver at Traumont.
    The young woman stepped between them:
    – Monsieur Michel Traumont has expressed the desire to leave our show. It’s my role to show the exit to whoever does so.
    A burst of applause rang out from the extras in the theater, and the pursuer holstered his pistol, took his place once again in the line.
    – This play is truly curious.
    – And you’re sure Traumont isn’t an actor?
    – Impossible.
    – My nose is going to freeze.
    – Cold blood—you would’ve done better to stay at home. Much warmer.
    – You don’t find all of this a touch unsettling?
    In the first row of the audience, a man, still young but with a severe expression, rose with evident haste, as if propelled by too stiff a spring. One might have imagined he’d only just realized what role he had to play—unless, of course, it was all just a part of the show. In a voice marked by emotion—unless, of course, it was merely a sign of that nervousness that attends a first performance, and particularly a performance for which one hasn’t prepared—he delivered his line:
    – It is my role, this evening, to administer the exit exam. Take the violin, Monsieur Traumont.
    Traumont looked down at him with an indecisive air. Then he glanced at the young woman, who waited, still smiling. Then at the musician, who was offering him the violin. Then, once more, at the man who had called out from the first row. He addressed himself to the latter:
    – Look, this whole thing is completely insane. I was cold, I just wanted to go home …
    – Cher Monsieur, the young woman broke in, I told you, your reasons don’t matter at all. Don’t speak anymore, don’t say a single thing, you can be sure that nobody here is interested.
    And as if to emphasize these last words she gently shook her head, communicating as she did a particularly graceful motion to her long black hair, which cascaded down upon