Free Villa Triste by Patrick Modiano Page B

The brunette was married to the president of the Chavoires golf club, and yes, on occasion she flirted with that “big ox” Doudou Hendrickx. Meinthe loathed him. He was a character, Meinthe told me, who’d been doing his playboy-of-the-ski-slopes number for the past thirty years. (I thought about the hero of
Liebesbriefe auf der Berg
, Yvonne’s movie.) Hendrickx had ruled the night at L’Équipe and the Chamois in Megève in 1943, but now he was past fifty and looked more and more like “a satyr.” Again and again Meinthe punctuated his tirade by asking,in a tone heavy with irony and innuendo, “Isn’t that right, Yvonne? Isn’t that right, Yvonne?” Why? And how was it that he and Yvonne were so familiar with all those people?
    When we stepped out onto the pergola terrace at the Sainte-Rose, Yvonne was greeted with a little halfhearted applause. It came from a table of about ten people, with Hendrickx presiding. He made a sign to us. A photographer stood up and blinded us with his flash. The manager, the man called Pulli, pushed up three chairs for us and then came back with an orchid, which he offered with great enthusiasm to Yvonne. She thanked him.
    “On this great day, the honor is all mine, Mademoiselle. And brava!”
    He had an Italian accent. He made a bow to Meinthe.
    “Monsieur …?” he said to me, doubtless embarrassed at not knowing me by name.
    “Victor Chmara.”
    “Ah … Chmara?” He looked surprised and furrowed his brow.
    “Monsieur Chmara …”
    “Yes.”
    He gave me an odd look.
    “I’ll be with you right away, Monsieur Chmara …”
    And he headed for the stairs that led to the bar on the ground floor.
    Yvonne was sitting next to Hendrickx, and Meinthe and I found ourselves opposite them. Among my neighbors, I recognized the brunette from the jury, Tounette and Jackie Roland-Michel, and a man with very short gray hairand the energetic features of a former aviator or soldier: the golf club president, surely. Raoul Fossorié was at the end of the table, chewing on a match. As for the three or four other people sitting with us, including two very suntanned blondes, I was seeing them for the first time.
    There wasn’t a big crowd at the Sainte-Rose that evening. It was still early. The orchestra was playing a song much in the air back then, “L’amour, c’est comme un jour,” while one of the musicians whispered the words:
    Love, it’s like a day
    It goes away, it goes away
    Love
    Hendrickx had his right arm around Yvonne’s shoulders, and I wondered what he thought he was doing. I turned to Meinthe. He was hiding behind another pair of sunglasses, this one with massive tortoiseshell earpieces, and drumming nervously on the edge of the table. I didn’t dare speak to him.
    “So you’re happy to have your Cup?” Hendrickx asked in a wheedling voice.
    Yvonne shot me an embarrassed look.
    “I had a little something to do with it …”
    But sure, he must be a decent guy. Why was I always so distrustful of everyone?
    “Fossorié was against it. Right, Raoul? You were against it …”
    And Hendrickx burst out laughing. Fossorié inhaled a lungful of cigarette smoke. He was affecting a great calm. “Not at all, Daniel, not at all,” he said. “You’re wrong …”
    And he molded the syllables in a way I found obscene. “Hypocrite!” Hendrickx exclaimed, without any malice at all.
    This reply made the brunette laugh, along with the two tanned blondes (one of their names suddenly comes back to me: Meg Devillers) and even the fellow who looked like an ex–cavalry officer. The Roland-Michels made an effort to join in the general mirth, but their hearts weren’t in it. Yvonne winked at me. Meinthe kept drumming on the table.
    “Your favorites,” Hendrickx went on, “were Jackie and Tounette, weren’t they, Raoul?” Then, turning to Yvonne: “You should shake hands with our friends the Roland-Michels, your unsuccessful rivals …”
    Yvonne did so. Jackie put on