Free Little Jewel by Patrick Modiano

abattoir.’
    The pharmacist leaned over and said, ‘Try to cheer up. Shut your eyes and think about pleasant things.’ We had reached Rue de Rivoli, before the Louvre, and the taxi was stopped at a red light, even though there were no pedestrians and no other cars. To the right was the illuminated sign of a jazz club, hidden among the dark apartment blocks. Because the bulbs in some of the letters had burned out, you couldn’t read the name of the clubanymore. I had ended up there one Sunday night, with the others, in a basement where an old orchestra was playing. If we hadn’t gone there that night, I guess they would have played to an empty house. Around midnight, I left the club with Wurlitzer, and that was, I believe, the moment when I became aware of just how lonely I was. Rue de Rivoli was empty, a freezing January night…He had suggested that we go to a hotel. I knew the hotel well, with its steep staircase and musty smell. I thought it was the sort of hotel where my mother must have ended up at the same age as me, on the same Sunday nights, when she was called Suzanne Cardères. And I didn’t see why everything had to start over again. So I fled. I ran off down Rue de Rivoli under the arcades.

    I asked the taxi driver to stop on the corner of Boulevard de Clichy. It was time to say goodbye. ‘Thank you,’ I said to the pharmacist, ‘for coming with me.’
    I was trying to think of some way I could get her to stay with me. Perhaps it wasn’t that late after all. We could have dinner together in the café on Place Blanche.
    But she was the one who took the lead. ‘I’d really like to see where you live.’
    We got out of the taxi and, just as we set off, I felt an odd sensation of lightness. It was the first time I’d walked along that street with someone. Usually, when I came home by myself at night, I would get to the corner of Rue Coustou and suddenly feel like I was leaving the present and sliding into a zone where time had stopped. And I was terrified of never being able to cross back, to return to Place Blanche, where life was being lived. I thought I would remain forever a prisoner of that little street and that room, like Sleeping Beauty. But tonight I had someone with me, and around us was nothing more than a harmless stage set cut out of cardboard. We were walking along the pavement on the right. This time I had taken her arm. She didn’t seem at all surprised to be there. We walked the length of the big building at the bottom of the street; we passed the cabaret with the shadowy entrance hall. She looked up at the sign in black letters: ZONE OUT .
    â€˜Have you been in there?’
    I told her that I hadn’t.
    â€˜It doesn’t look much fun.’
    At that time of night, going past Zone Out, I was alwaysfrightened that I’d be dragged into the hallway or, rather, sucked in, as if the laws of gravity no longer applied in that space. Out of superstition, I often walked on the opposite side of the street. The week before, I had dreamed of going to Zone Out. I was sitting there in darkness. A spotlight came on; its cold white light lit up a small stage as well as the room where I found myself at a round table. Sitting at other tables were the silhouettes of motionless men and women who I knew were no longer alive. I woke up with a start. I think I’d been screaming.
    We reached number 11 Rue Coustou.
    â€˜You’ll see…It’s quite shabby. And I’m worried that I didn’t tidy up.’
    â€˜That doesn’t matter at all.’
    I was being looked after. I no longer felt ashamed or frightened of anything. I went ahead of her on the stairs and along the corridor, but she didn’t seem to mind. She followed, nonchalant, as if she knew the way.
    I opened the door and switched on the lamp. As luck would have it, I’d made the bed and put my clothes in the wardrobe. There was just my coat hanging from