Free Paris Nocturne by Patrick Modiano Page B

find the right words, hoping he would recognise me. But he looked surprised and annoyed.
    â€˜Good to see you again,’ I said and held out my hand.
    He shook it distractedly. ‘Have we met before?’ he asked, frowning.
    â€˜The last time was not far from here. At the Mirabeau Clinic.’
    The other man stared at me coldly, too. ‘Excuse me? I don’t understand…’ There was a trace of a smile on his lips.
    â€˜Where did you say?’
    â€˜The Mirabeau Clinic.’
    â€˜You must be mistaken.’
    He looked me up and down, perhaps to gauge the threat I posed. He noticed my left shoe. I had widened the split in my moccasin—for the bandage. If I remember correctly, I had even cut away most of the leather to free my ankle and I wore it without a sock, like the bandages that thoroughbreds sometimes have wrapped around their ankles because of their fragility.
    â€˜It was the accident,’ I said. But he didn’t seem to understand. ‘Yes, the accident the other night…Place des Pyramides…’ He looked at me in silence. I got the impression he was taunting me. ‘Speaking of which,’ I said, ‘I wanted to know if there’s been any news from Jacqueline Beausergent…’
    He put a cigarette in his mouth and the other man held out a lighter, without taking his eyes off me either. ‘I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying, sir.’ His tone was quite contemptuous, the way you’d address a homeless person or a drunk.
    The boss of the café came over, surprised at the way I was behaving with a customer he seemed to respect—even fear. And it was true that there was something unsettling about this man’s face and his low, dark hairline. And even the tone of his slightly hoarse voice. But he didn’t scare me. Ever since I was a child, I’d seen so many strange men in my father’s company…This man was no more fearsome than the others.
    â€˜I also wanted to let you know…I really don’t need all this money.’ And from the inside pocket of my sheepskin jacket I took out the large wad of notes he had given me when I left the Mirabeau Clinic and which I was stillcarrying with me. He gave a disdainful flick of the hand.
    â€˜Sorry, sir…That’s quite enough.’ Then he turned back to the man next to him. They continued their conversation in hushed tones, ignoring my presence. I went and sat back down at my table. Behind the counter, the boss stared at me, shaking his head as if to say that my behaviour had been inappropriate and that I had got off lightly. Why? I would have loved to know.
    When they left the café, they didn’t even glance over at me. Through the window, I watched them walk along the pavement next to the quay. I thought about following them. No, it was better not to rush things. And already I regretted having lost my composure in front of him. I ought to have stayed in my corner, without attracting his attention, and waited until he left to follow him. And then find out who he was and see if he could lead me to her. But having wasted this chance, I feared I had burned my bridges.
    From behind the counter, the boss continued to look at me somewhat disapprovingly.
    â€˜I must have mistaken him for someone else,’ I said.
    â€˜Do you know that man’s name?’ He seemed reluctant and hesitated a moment, then he blurted it out, as if despite himself.
    â€˜Solière.’
    He said that I was lucky Solière hadn’t taken offence at my bad manners. What bad manners? A car had knocked me over the other night and I was simply trying to identify and find the driver. Was that unreasonable of me? I think I managed to convince him.
    â€˜I understand…’ He smiled.
    â€˜And who exactly is this Solière?’ I asked.
    His smile broadened. My question seemed to amuse him. ‘He’s no choirboy,’ he said. ‘No,