Free After the Circus by Patrick Modiano Page A

ashtray. She was looking down. Was she trying to avoid the man’s eyes?
    He was facing us, over there, at the table in back. The other two, a brunette of about thirtyand a blond man with a narrow face and aquiline nose, were in profile.
    The woman had a loud voice. The man seemed younger than on the enlarged identity photo.
    I stood up, my palms moist.
    I moved forward. I was standing next to their table. They stopped talking.
    I leaned toward him:
    â€œI have a message for you.”
    â€œA message from whom?”
    He had a high-pitched voice, as if strangled, and he seemed annoyed that I should come bother him.
    â€œFrom Pierre Ansart. He’s waiting for you in the car on the corner.”
    I stood stiffly, straining to articulate the syllables as clearly as possible.
    â€œAnsart?”
    His face expressed the discomfiture of someone being reprimanded when and where he least expected it.
    â€œHe wants to see me right now?”
    â€œYes.”
    He glanced anxiously toward the entrance.
    â€œExcuse me for a moment,” he said to his two companions. “I just have to go say hello to a friend who’s waiting outside.”
    The other two gave me a condescending once-over: was it because of my extreme youth and careless attire? It occurred to me that I could be identified later. Had they noticed Gisèle’s presence?
    He stood up and slipped on his navy blue overcoat. He turned toward the blond man and said:
    â€œBook a table for tonight … There’ll be eight of us …”
    â€œThat’s silly,” the woman said. “We could have dinner at my place …”
    â€œNonsense … Back in a minute …”
    I remained standing firmly in front of them. He said to me:
    â€œSo where is this car?”
    â€œI’ll show you.”
    I walked ahead of him to the exit. Gisèle was waiting, standing by our table with the dog. He seemed surprised by her presence. I held the door and let the two of them pass.
    The car pulled up. They had parked on the corner of Rue de Longchamp. Jacques de Bavière was standing, leaning slightly against the carriage. Ansart got out, leaving the front door open, and waved his arm at us. The street was brightly lit. In the cold, limpid air, the car stood out starkly against the building façades and sections of wall.
    The man walked toward them, and we remained in place on the sidewalk. He had forgotten us. He, too, raised his arm, waving at Ansart.
    He said:
    â€œThis is a surprise …”
    He and Ansart chatted in the middle of the street. We could only hear the murmur of their voices. We could have joined them. It would only have taken a few steps. But I sensed that if we went toward them, we would be entering a dangerzone. Besides, neither Ansart nor Jacques de Bavière was paying us the slightest attention. Suddenly, they were far away, in another space—I’d say, in another time—and today that scene has frozen forever.
    Even the dog, which wasn’t on its leash, stood still, at our sides, as if he, too, could sense an invisible boundary between them and us.
    Jacques de Bavière opened one of the rear doors and let the man get in, then sat next to him. Ansart took his seat in front. The one at the wheel hadn’t left the car and I couldn’t make out his face. The doors shut. The car made a U-turn and headed down Rue de la Ferme toward the Seine.
    I watched it go until it disappeared around the corner of the quay.
    I asked Gisèle:
    â€œWhere do you think they’re going?”
    â€œThey’re taking him to Rue Raffet …”
    â€œBut he told his friends he’d be right back …”
    And yet, they hadn’t forced him into the car.It was probably Ansart who had persuaded him to go with them, during their brief conversation in the middle of the street.
    â€œMaybe I should go tell the other two not to wait,” I said.
    â€œNo … Let’s not get mixed