Free After the Circus by Patrick Modiano

mollify me and didn’t really believe it. A last beam of sunlight bathed the tip of the Ile de la Cité, just at the end of the Vert-Galant park. There were only a few passersby left on the quay and the booksellers were closing their stalls. I heard the clock on the Institut chime five P.M .

We had decided to leave the dog in the apartment, intending to come back and get him as soon as we could. But the moment we shut the door, he started barking and whining incessantly, so we had to resign ourselves to taking him with us to the appointment.
    It was still light when we arrived at the Bois de Boulogne. We were early, so we stopped in front of the old Château de Madrid. We walked in the clearing lined with umbrella pines up to the Saint-James pond, where I had watched the ice skaters one winter in my childhood. The smell of wet earth and the gathering dark again reminded me of bygone Sunday evenings, so much so that I felt the same muted anxiety as I used to feel at the thought of returning to boarding school the next morning. Of course, the situation was different now; I was walking in the Bois de Boulogne with her and not with my father, or with my pals Charell or Karvé. Butsomething similar was hovering in the air, the same odor, and it was also a Sunday.
    â€œLet’s get going,” she said.
    She, too, looked anxious. To steady my nerves, I kept my eyes fixed on the dog running ahead of us. I asked whether we should take the car. She said it wasn’t worth it.
    We walked down Rue de la Ferme. Now she had the dog on a leash. We went past the entryway of the Charells’ building, then past the Howlett riding stables, which looked abandoned. The Charells had surely moved away. They belonged to that category of people who never really settle anywhere. Where could Alain Charell have been this evening? Somewhere in Mexico? I heard a distant clacking of horseshoes. I turned around: two riders, visible only in silhouette, had just appeared at the end of the street. Was one of them the man we had to approach in a little while?
    Gradually they moved closer to us. There was still time to turn back, take the car, leave it in front of the building on Rue Raffet, vanish with the dog and never be heard from again.
    She gave my arm a tight squeeze.
    â€œThis won’t take long,” she said.
    â€œYou think so?”
    â€œOnce we’ve talked to this guy, we leave the café and let them sort out the rest themselves.”
    The two riders had turned right, into narrow Rue Saint-James. The clacking of horseshoes faded away.
    We had reached the café. Farther on, in the part of Rue de la Ferme nearer the Seine, I noticed Ansart’s car. Someone was sitting on one of the fenders. Jacques de Bavière? I wasn’t sure. Two silhouettes occupied the front seats.
    We went in. I was surprised by how fancy the place was: I’d expected just a simple café. A bar and round tables made of mahogany. Armchairs of slightly worn leather. Wood paneling on the walls. In the brick fireplace, they had lit a fire.
    We took our seats at the table closest to the door. Around us were a few patrons, but I didn’t recognize our man among them.
    The dog had lain down submissively at our feet. We ordered two coffees and I paid thecheck, so that we could leave as soon as we had delivered our message to the unknown man.
    Gisèle pulled Grabley’s cigarettes from the pocket of her raincoat and lit one. She inhaled, clumsily. Her hand was shaking.
    I asked:
    â€œAre you afraid?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    The door opened and three people walked in, a woman and two men. One of them was definitely the man in the photo: wide forehead, very dark hair, brushed back.
    They were having a lively conversation. The woman burst out laughing.
    They sat at a table in back, near the fireplace. The man had removed his navy blue overcoat. He was not wearing riding breeches.
    Gisèle stubbed out her cigarette in the