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

the first time in his life, the words “All Saints” did not instil in him a feeling of sadness. At place Blanche, he had taken the métro. Two changes were required. At Étoile and Trocadéro. On Sundays and public holidays, the trains took a long time coming, and he thought to himself that he would have been unable to have seen Annie Astrand again except on a public holiday. He counted the years: fifteen, since the afternoon she had taken him to the Photomaton shop. He remembered a morning, at the gare de Lyon. They had both boarded the train, a crowded train on the first day of the summer holidays.
    While waiting for the train at Trocadéro station, he had a sudden doubt: she might not be in Paris that day. After fifteen years, he would no longer recognise her.
    There were railings at the end of the street. Behind them were the trees in the Ranelagh gardens. Not a single car the entire length of the pavement. The silence. Hard to imagine anyone living here. Number 18 was at the very end, on the right, before the railings and the trees. A white building, or rather a large house with two storeys. At the entrance door, an intercom. And a name, alongside the single button of this intercom: VINCENT .
    The building seemed to him to be deserted, like the street. He pressed the button. From the intercom, he heard a crackling sound, which could have been the rustle of the wind in the trees. He leant forward and, enunciating the syllables clearly, he said twice: “JEAN DARAGANE”. A woman’s voice, partly muffled by the noise of the wind, replied: “First floor.”
    The glazed door opened slowly and he found himself in a white entrance hall lit by a wall lamp. He did not take the lift and went up by the right-angled staircase. When he reached the landing, she was standing at the half-open door, her face partly hidden. Then she drew back the door and stared at him as though she had difficulty recognising him.
    â€œCome in, Jean dear . . .”
    A timid, but slightly husky voice, just as it had been fifteen years ago. The face had not altered either, nor had the expression. Her hair was not as short. It reached down to her shoulders. How old was she now? Thirty-six? In the hallway, she was still looking at him with curiosity. He tried to think of something to say to her:
    â€œI didn’t know whether I should press the button that said ‘Vincent’. . .”
    â€œMy name is Vincent now . . . I’ve even changed my first name, would you believe . . . Agnès Vincent . . .”
    She showed him into the adjoining room, which was probably used as a drawing room, although the only furniture consisted of a sofa and, next to it, a floor lamp. A large bay window through which he could see trees that had not lost their leaves. It was still light. Glimmers of sunshine on the wooden floor and on the walls.
    â€œSit down, Jean dear . . .”
    She sat down at the other end of the sofa, as if to observe him better.
    â€œDo you remember Roger Vincent, perhaps?”
    Scarcely had she uttered this name than he did in fact remember an American car, a convertible, parked outside the house at Saint-Leu-la-Forêt, and in the driver’s seat sat a man, whom he had assumed, at first, was also American on account of his height and a slight accent when he spoke.
    â€œI got married a few years ago to Roger Vincent . . .”
    She looked at him and she had an embarrassed smile on her face. So that he should forgive her for this marriage?
    â€œHe’s in Paris less and less . . . I think he’d be glad to see you again . . . I phoned him the other day and I told him that you had written a book . . .”
    One afternoon, at Saint-Leu-la-Forêt, Roger Vincent had come to collect him outside school in his convertible American car. It glided so quietly along rue de l’Ermitage that you could not hear the sound of the