Free So You Don't Get Lost in the Neighborhood by Patrick Modiano Page A

. . . Or perhaps in ten years’ time . . .”
    Daragane did not know how to answer him and he stood there, on the pavement, gazing after him. Wearing his far too flimsy coat, the man receded into the distance. He walked beneath the trees very slowly and, at the moment that he was about to cross avenue de Marigny, he almost lost his balance, propelled forward by a puff of wind and an armful of dead leaves.
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    BACK AT HOME, HE LISTENED TO THE ANSWERING machine to find out whether Chantal Grippay or Gilles Ottolini had left a message. None. The black dress with swallows was still lying on the back of the sofa and the orange cardboard folder was in the same place on his desk, by the telephone. He took out the photocopies.
    Not a great deal, at first sight, about Annie Astrand. And yet there was. The address of the house at Saint-Leu-la-Forêt was mentioned: “15 rue de l’Ermitage”, followed by a comment that an investigation had taken place there. It had happened in the same year that Annie had taken him to the Photomaton shop and when she had been searched at the customs post at Ventimiglia. Her brother Pierre (6 rue Laferrière, Paris IXe) was mentioned as was Roger Vincent (12 rue Nicolas-Chuquet, Paris XVIIe), whom they wondered might not be her “protector”.
    It even specified that the house at Saint-Leu-la-Forêt was in the name of Roger Vincent. There were also copies of a much older report from the Criminal Investigation Department, Vice Squad, Investigation and Information Bureau, concerning the aforementioned Astrand Annie living in a hotel, 46 rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, on which was written: “Known at the Étoile Kléber”. But all this was unclear, as though someone—Ottolini?—when copying out documents from the archives in a hurry, had skipped words and had jumbled together certain sentences taken at random that had no connection one with the other.
    Was it really worthwhile burying oneself in this dense and viscous mass again? As he continued with his reading, Daragane experienced a feeling similar to that of the previous day when he tried to decipher the same pages: sentences you hear in a semi-slumber, and the few words you do remember in the morning make no sense. All this, strewn with specific addresses—15 rue de l’Ermitage, 12 rue Nicolas-Chuquet, 46 rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette—probably in order to find reference points in this shifting sand.
    He was sure that he would tear up these pages over the coming days and that this would make him feel better. Between now and then, he would leave them on his desk. One final reading might conceivably help him discover hidden clues that would put him on the trail of Annie Astrand.
    He needed to find the envelope that she had sent him, years ago, containing the passport photos. On the day he received it, he had consulted the current street directory. No Annie Astrand at number 18 rue Alfred-Dehodencq. And since she had not given him her phone number, all he could do was write to her . . . But would he receive an answer from her?
    That evening, in his study, all this seemed so long ago . . . It was already ten years since the beginning of the new century . . . And yet, at a bend in the road, or spotting a passing face—and often it only required an unexpected word in a conversation or a note of music—the name, Annie Astrand, came back into his memory. But it happened increasingly seldom and more and more briefly, a bright signal that faded immediately.
    He had hesitated whether to write to her or send her a telegram. 18 rue Alfred-Dehodencq. PLEASE GIVE PHONE NUMBER. JEAN. Or a pneumatic dispatch, of the kind that people still sent in those days. And then he, who neither liked unexpected visits nor people who suddenly accost you in the street, had decided to call at that address.
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    IT WAS IN AUTUMN, ON ALL SAINTS’ DAY. IT WAS sunny, that afternoon. For