Little Jewel by Patrick Modiano Read Free Book Online Page B

while, I had no idea whether she was still there,or if she had left me alone in that huge apartment.
    â€˜What’s her place like?’ I asked.
    â€˜Two small rooms and a kitchen with a shower.’
    Her mattress was more than likely on the floor, next to the electricity socket. That way, it would be easier to turn on the electric blanket.
    â€˜You should go up and see her. It would be a surprise for her to have a visitor.’
    If we found ourselves face to face, she wouldn’t even know who I was. She had forgotten Little Jewel and all the hopes she had invested in me when she gave me that name. Unfortunately for her, I had not become a famous artist.
    â€˜Can you do me a favour?’ The concierge rummaged in the big box again and held out an envelope. ‘It’s a reminder about her bills. I don’t dare give it to her in person, or she’ll swear at me again.’
    I took the envelope and crossed the courtyard. As I stepped onto the entrance porch of Staircase A, I felt something pressing down inside my chest; I could scarcely breathe. It was one of those staircases with cement steps and a metal handrail, like in schools or hospitals. On each landing, bright, almost white light shone through a big window. I stopped on the first landing. There was a door on eachside, and one in the middle, all made of the same dark wood, with the names of the tenants marked on them. I tried to get my breath back, but the feeling of constriction was getting worse and I was frightened I was going to suffocate. To calm myself down, I imagined what the name on her door would be. Her real one or her stage name? Or just: THE KRAUT or DEATH CHEATER . In the days when I was called Little Jewel and I would come home alone to our building near the Bois de Boulogne, I used to stay back in the lift for a long time. It had a black metal gate, and to enter you had to push two glass swing doors. Inside, there was a red velvet bench, glass panels on each side, and a neon globe in the ceiling. It was like a bedroom. My clearest memories are of the lift.
    On the second landing, I felt the pressure stifling me again. So I tried to recall the other staircase, with its thick red carpet and copper banisters: on each floor there was only one large door with two panels. White.
    I was seized by vertigo. I stepped away as far as I could from the handrail and flattened myself against the wall. But I was determined to climb the whole way. In the back of my mind was the voice of Madame Valadier—Véra—telling me about the little girl: ‘I often send her round the block at night…She wants to practise so she’s not frightenedanymore.’ Well, it was the same for me. I would continue on up, I would go right to Death Cheater’s door, and I would ring the buzzer in bursts until she opened. And, just as the door opened, I would compose myself and say coolly, ‘You shouldn’t use an electric blanket. It’s a really stupid thing to do.’ And I’d watch dispassionately as her face grew pale and distorted with anger. I remembered that she was not keen on people talking to her about mundane details. But that was back when we were in the big apartment, when she wanted to remain mysterious.
    I had reached the fourth floor. There were three doors there, too, but the dirty beige paintwork on the doors and walls was flaking off. A light bulb hung from the ceiling. A piece of graph paper was sticky-taped to the left-hand door. In black ink, in messy handwriting, was the word BORÉ.
    Rather than climbing a staircase, the impression I had was of having descended into a well. It had taken twelve years for the white door with two panels to become this old flaking door, in the weak light of the bulb, and for the little gold plaque, engraved with the name COMTESSE SONIA O’DAUYÉ , to become nothing more than a scrap of paper from a schoolbook with that unprepossessing name scrawled across it: BORÉ