Little Jewel by Patrick Modiano Read Free Book Online

home country, only an outlying suburb where no one was waiting for me.
    I went through the gate and knocked on the concierge’s lodge. She poked her head through the half-open door. She seemed to recognise me, even though we had only spoken once before. She was wearing a pink woollen dressing-gown.
    â€˜I wanted to ask you about Madame…Boré.’
    I faltered over the name and feared she might not know who I was talking about. But this time she didn’t need to consult the list of tenants stuck on the door.
    â€˜The woman on the fourth floor of A?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    I’d made a point of remembering which floor. Since I’d discovered that it was the fourth, I often imagined her moving more and more slowly as she climbed the steps. One night, I even dreamed that she fell down the stairwell. WhenI woke up, I couldn’t tell if it was suicide or an accident. Or perhaps I had pushed her.
    â€˜You’ve been here before—the other day, wasn’t it…’
    â€˜Yes.’
    She smiled at me. I looked like someone she could trust.
    â€˜You know she’s up to her old tricks again…’ Her tone was indifferent, as if nothing about the woman on the fourth floor of A could surprise her. ‘Are you family?’
    I was afraid to say yes. And bring down the ancient curse on myself, the stigma from back then.
    â€˜No. Not at all.’
    In the nick of time, I had avoided being sucked into the slime.
    â€˜I know some of her family,’ I said. ‘They sent me to find out how she is…’
    â€˜What do you want me to tell you? Nothing has changed, you know.’ She shrugged. ‘She won’t even talk to me anymore. Or else she’ll have a go at me for no reason.’
    I was not surprised by anything she said. Now, even after all these years, a vision rose before me, as if it had emerged from the deep: the grimacing face, the dilated eyes, and something like spittle on those lips. And thescreeching voice, and the stream of abuse. Anyone who didn’t know her would not have been able to imagine the abrupt transformation of such a beautiful face. I could feel myself in the grip of fear again.
    â€˜Have you come to visit her?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜You need to tell her family that she isn’t paying her rent anymore.’
    Those words, and perhaps also the neighbourhood where I went to pick up the little girl every afternoon, made me think of the apartment near the Bois de Boulogne which, in spite of myself, I still remembered: the large room with three steps covered in plush; the painting by Tola Soungouroff; my bedroom, even more empty than the little girl’s. How did she pay the rent back then?
    â€˜It will be tricky to kick her out. And, anyway, she’s known around the neighbourhood. They’ve even given her a nickname…’
    â€˜What is it?’ I was genuinely curious. Was it the same one she had twenty years ago?
    â€˜They call her Death Cheater.’
    She said it kindly, as if it were a term of affection.
    â€˜Sometimes we think she’s going to give up the ghostand then the next day she’s cheerful and charming, or else she does something really nasty.’
    For me, the nickname had another meaning. I’d been under the impression that she’d died in Morocco and now I was discovering that she’d been resuscitated somewhere in the suburbs of Paris.
    â€˜Has she lived here long?’ I asked.
    â€˜Oh, yes! She was here well before me. It must be more than six years now.’
    So, she was living in this building while I was still at Fossombronne-la-Forêt. I recalled an overgrown vacant block that we called Kraut’s Field, not far from the church. On Thursday afternoons, when there was no school, we used to explore the jungle there, or play hide-and-seek. The remains of a helmet and a mouldy pea coat had been found on the block—no doubt left by a soldier at the end of the