Free The Black Notebook by Patrick Modiano Page B

invulnerable you think you are, there’s always a chink in the armor . . . Always . . . Be careful, Jean.”
    It was as if he envied me for having “clean hands” and was anticipating the moment when I’d finally get them dirty. His voice grew increasingly distant. And, as I write these lines, that voice is as feeble as the ones that reach you very late at night on the radio, buried in static. I believe I already felt that way at the time. It seems to me that back then I saw them all as if they were behind the glass partition of an aquarium, and that glass stood between them and me. So it is that in dreams you watch others live through the uncertainties of the present, while you know the future. You try to persuade Mme du Barry not to return to France, to keep her from being guillotined. This evening, I think I’ll take the metro to Jussieu. As the stations roll by, I will travel back in time. I’ll find Aghamouri sitting at that same spot near the bar, in his camel coat, his black briefcase lying flat on the table—the black briefcase that might or might not have contained his course notes from Censier, which he said would help him pass his “foundation” exams. I wouldn’t have been surprised if instead he had pulled out wads of cash, a gun, or files to pass on to that Moroccan friend from the Cité Universitaire, the one who worked as a “security adviser” at the embassy . . . I’ll make him come with me to Jussieu station and we’ll take the opposite journey, forward in time. We’ll get off at Église-d’Auteuil, the end of the line. A quiet evening in a peaceful, almost rustic square. I’ll tell him, “This is the situation. You’re in the Paris of today. You no longer have anything to fear. Anyone who posed a threat is long dead. You’re out of harm’s way. There are no more phone booths. To call me, at any hour of the day or night, you use this thing.” And I’ll hand him a cell phone.
    â€œYes . . . Be careful, Jean . . . When you were at the Unic Hôtel, I saw you talking a few times with Paul Chastagnier . . . He’ll get
you
involved in some nasty business too.”
    It was late. People were exiting the Lutèce Theater. No one was left at the dining tables facing us. Aghamouri seemed even more anxious than at the beginning of our conversation. I sensed that he was afraid to go outside, that he’d stay in this café until closing time.
    I asked him again:
    â€œAnd what about Dannie? . . . Do you really think that ugly incident you were talking about . . .”
    He didn’t leave me time to finish. He said sharply:
    â€œIt could cost her dearly . . . Even with false papers, they could still find her . . . It was a mistake to bring her to the Unic Hôtel and introduce her to the others . . . but it was just to give her a break . . . She should have left Paris right away . . .”
    He had forgotten my presence. No doubt he repeated the same words to himself when he was alone at that hour of night. Then he shook his head as if snapping out of a bad dream.
    â€œI mentioned Paul Chastagnier . . . But the most dangerous one of all is Georges . . . He provided Dannie with the false papers. He has major backers in Morocco and knows that friend from the embassy . . . They want me to do something for them . . .”
    He was on the verge of telling me everything, but he stopped himself.
    â€œI don’t get why a boy like you should hang out with those people . . . I had no choice, but what about you?”
    I shrugged.
    â€œYou know,” I said to him, “I don’t hang out with anyone. Most people I couldn’t care less about. Except for Restif de La Bretonne, Tristan Corbière, Jeanne Duval, and a few others.”
    â€œIf that’s true, you’re very lucky