Free The Black Notebook by Patrick Modiano

should let your wife know Dannie is carrying identity papers in her name . . . ?”
    I could feel him “crack,” and never had that slang term seemed so appropriate. When I think back to that moment, I can even see a network of tiny fissures on the skin of his face. He seemed so worried that I felt like reassuring him. No, none of it was important.
    â€œIf you could get back that card I gave her with my wife’s name, it would be a huge help . . .”
    He knew I wasn’t a bad sort. After all, the two or three times we had seen each other, in the evening after his courses at Censier, we would talk about literature. He was fairly knowledgeable about Baudelaire, and had asked to read my notes about Jeanne Duval.
    â€œAnyway,” he said, “the others made her false papers, so she doesn’t need that card anymore . . . But be sure not to mention I told you about it . . .”
    He looked so distressed that I resolved to do him this favor, without really knowing how. I had qualms about simply rummaging through Dannie’s handbag. At first, when I would go with her to the post office, she used to hand the clerk behind the window some kind of identity card. Was it in the name of Michèle Aghamouri? Was that the name on the false papers she had gotten from the gang at the Unic Hôtel? And which of them, precisely, had done her that favor? Paul Chastagnier? Duwelz? Gérard Marciano? Personally, my money was on Georges, the man with the moon face and ice water in his veins, who was older than the others and inspired fear in them—the one about whom Paul Chastagnier had said, in response to a question of mine: “He’s no altar boy, you know . . .”
    â€œI gather you and your wife have an apartment near the Maison de la Radio . . .”
    I was afraid he would think me indiscreet. But instead, he smiled, and I sensed he was relieved to have it out in the open.
    â€œYes, that’s right . . . a tiny little place . . . We’d like to have you over sometime, my wife and I . . . but on condition that you forget I know Dannie, the Unic Hôtel, and the others while we’re there . . .”
    He had said “there” as if it were some faraway land, a neutral country where one was safe from harm.
    â€œSo basically,” I said, “you only have to cross the Seine to forget all about what you’ve left behind.”
    â€œDo you really think so?”
    I could see he wanted some kind of comfort. I believe he trusted me . . . Whenever we were alone, or walking from Place Monge to Montparnasse, we talked about literature. It wasn’t as if he could do that with the others, the ones from the Unic Hôtel. I had a hard time imagining Paul Chastagnier, or Duwelz, or Georges taking an interest in the fate of Jeanne Duval. Gérard Marciano, perhaps? One day, he had confided to me that he wanted to try being a painter, and that he knew an “artists’ joint” on Rue Delambre, the Rosebud. Many years later, in the file that Langlais handed over to me, there was a police report on Marciano with two mug shots, front and profile, and the Rosebud was mentioned as one of his hangouts.
    Aghamouri raised his eyes to me.
    â€œUnfortunately, I don’t think it’s enough just to cross the Seine . . .”
    Once again he had that timid smile that threatened to fade at any moment.
    â€œDannie isn’t the only one . . . There’s me, too, Jean—I’ve got myself in a hell of a mess . . .”
    It was the first time he called me by my given name, and I was touched. I kept quiet so that he’d go on talking. I was worried that a single word might cut short any further confidences.
    â€œI’m afraid to go home to Morocco . . . It would be the same as Paris . . . Once you’ve caught a finger in the works, it’s very hard to pull your