Free Villa Triste by Patrick Modiano

march up and down in front of the jury as the other contestants had done. She leaned on the hood of the car and stood there gazing at Fouquières, Hendrickx, and the others while an insolent smile curled her lips. Then, with an unforeseeable gesture, she pulled off her turban and tossed it nonchalantly behind her. She ran a hand through her hair to spread it out over her shoulders. The dog jumped up on one of the Dodge’s fenders andimmediately assumed his sphinx position. She caressed him with a distracted hand. Behind her, Meinthe sat at the steering wheel and waited.
    When I think about her today, that’s the image that comes back to me most often. Her smile and her red hair. The black-and-white dog beside her. The beige Dodge. And Meinthe, barely visible behind the windshield. And the switched-on headlights. And the rays of the sun.
    She slowly slid toward the door and opened it without taking her eyes off the jury. Then she got back into the car. The dog leaped onto the rear seat so casually that when I evoke the scene in detail, I seem to see him jumping in slow motion. And the Dodge — but maybe one shouldn’t trust one’s memories — exits the rotary in reverse. And Meinthe (this gesture is also in slow motion) tosses a rose. It lands on Daniel Hendrickx’s jacket. He picks up the rose and stares at it dumbfounded. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He doesn’t even dare place it on the table. At last he breaks into a stupid laugh and hands the rose to his neighbor, the brunette whose name I don’t know but who must be the school board president’s wife, or the Chavoires golf club president’s wife. Or, who knows? Madame Sandoz.
    Before the car reenters the drive, Yvonne turns and waves to the jury. I even think she blows them all a kiss.
    They deliberate in undertones. Three of the Sporting Club’s swimming instructors have asked us politely to move a few meters away so as not to violate the privacy ofthe discussion. Every judge has a sheet of paper with the names and numbers of the various contestants. As each couple passed, they were supposed to be given a grade.
    The judges scribble something on bits of paper and fold them. Then they put the ballots in a pile and Hendrickx shuffles and reshuffles them with his tiny manicured hands, which contrast so strongly with his build and his thickness. He’s also in charge of counting the ballots. He announces names and numbers — Hatmer, 14; Tissot, 16; Roland-Michel, 17; Azuelos, 12 — but it’s no use straining my ears, I can’t make out most of the names. The man with the wavy coiffure and the gourmand’s lips writes the numbers in a notebook. Then there’s another animated confabulation. The most vehement talkers are Hendrickx, the brunette, and the man with the gray-blue hair. This last-named individual smiles incessantly, in order — I suppose — to display two rows of superb teeth, and he imagines he’s charming the company by looking around and batting his eyes and trying to appear ingenuous and surprised at everything. Pouty, impatient mouth. A gastronome, without a doubt. And also what’s called in slang a “lech.” There must be an ongoing rivalry between him and Doudou Hendrickx. They compete for women, I’d lay money on it. But for the moment, they affect a solemn, responsible air, like company directors at a board meeting.
    Fouquières, for his part, is completely uninterested in it all. He scribbles on his sheet of paper, his knitted brow expressing ironic disdain. What does he see? What scene from his past is he dreaming about? His last meeting with Lucie Delarue-Mardrus? Hendrickx leans toward him, veryrespectfully, and asks him a question. Fouquières replies without even looking at him. Hendrickx next goes over to query Ganonge (or Gamange), the “filmmaker,” who’s sitting at a table in the back on the right. Then he goes back to the man with the gray-blue hair. They have a brief altercation, and I hear them say the name