Missing Person by Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort Read Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Modiano, Daniel Weissbort
still anyone living in the building who would have run into Gay Orlov on the stairs, or who took the elevator with her? Or who would recognize me, as a frequent visitor?
There must have been evenings when I climbed the stairs of 25, Avenue du Maréchal-Lyautey, my heart thumping. She was waiting for me. Her windows looked out on to the racecourse. It must have been strange to see the races from up there, the horses and their tiny jockeys, like the procession of little figures moving across the end of a shooting-gallery and if you knocked them all down, you won the big prize.
In what language did we speak to each other? English? Had the photo with old Giorgiadze been taken in this apartment? How was it furnished? What could they have had to say to each other, this Howard de Luz - me? - of "a noble family" and the "confidant of John Gilbert," and a former dancer, born in Moscow, who had known Lucky Luciano in Palm Island?
Strange people. The kind that leave the merest blur behind them, soon vanished. Hutte and I often used to talk about these traceless beings. They spring up out of nothing one fine day and return there, having sparkled a little. Beauty queens. Gigolos. Butterflies. Most of them, even when alive, had no more substance than steam which will never condense. Hutte, for instance, used to quote the case of a fellow he called "the beach man." This man had spent forty years of his life on beaches or by the sides of swimming pools, chatting pleasantly with summer visitors and rich idlers. He is to be seen, in his bathing costume, in the corners and backgrounds of thousands of holiday snaps, among groups of happy people, but no one knew his name and why he was there. And no one noticed when one day he vanished from the photographs. I did not dare tell Hutte, but I felt that "the beach man" was myself. Though it would not have surprised him if I had confessed it. Hutte was always saying that, in the end, we were all "beach men" and that "the sand" - I am quoting his own words - "keeps the traces of our footsteps only a few moments."
On one side, the building faced an open space that seemed deserted. A large clump of trees, bushes, a lawn that had not been cut for a long time. A child was playing there alone, quietly, in front of a mound of sand, on this sunny late afternoon. I sat down by the lawn and lifted my head toward the building, wondering if Gay Orlov's windows looked out on this side.
9
I T is NIGHT and the opaline light in the Agency is reflected in the leather top of Huttes desk. I am seated at this desk. I am going through old street-and-trade directories, more recent ones, and noting down what I find as I go along:
H OWARD DE L UZ (Jean Simety)and M ME , born M ABEL D ONAHUE at Valbreuse, Orne. T. 21 and 23, Rue Raynouard, T. AUT. 15-28.
— CGP - MA
The social directory where this is to be found goes back thirty years. Does it refer to my father?
The same reference in successive directories. I look up the list of signs and abbreviations.
means: Military Cross.
CGP : Club du Grand Pavois, MA : Motor Yacht Club of the Cote d'Azur, and: owner of yacht.
But ten years later the following disappear: 23, Rue Raynouard T. AUT. 15-28. Also: MA and .
The following year, all that remains is: H OWARD DE Luz, M ME , born M ABEL D ONAHUE at Valbreuse, Orne. T. 21.
Then nothing at all.
Next, I consult the Parisian year-books of the last ten years. Each time, Howard de Luz's name appears in the following form:
H OWARD DE L UZ , C. 3 Square Henri-Paté. 16th - MOL50-52.
A brother? Cousin?
No reference to him in the social directories of the same years.
10
M R . H OWARD is expecting you."
No doubt the proprietress of this restaurant in Rue de Bassano: dark hair, pale eyes. She motioned to me to follow her, we went down some stairs and she led me toward the back of the room. She stopped in front of a table where a man was sitting on his own. He rose.
"Claude Howard," he said.
He motioned to the chair
There must have been evenings when I climbed the stairs of 25, Avenue du Maréchal-Lyautey, my heart thumping. She was waiting for me. Her windows looked out on to the racecourse. It must have been strange to see the races from up there, the horses and their tiny jockeys, like the procession of little figures moving across the end of a shooting-gallery and if you knocked them all down, you won the big prize.
In what language did we speak to each other? English? Had the photo with old Giorgiadze been taken in this apartment? How was it furnished? What could they have had to say to each other, this Howard de Luz - me? - of "a noble family" and the "confidant of John Gilbert," and a former dancer, born in Moscow, who had known Lucky Luciano in Palm Island?
Strange people. The kind that leave the merest blur behind them, soon vanished. Hutte and I often used to talk about these traceless beings. They spring up out of nothing one fine day and return there, having sparkled a little. Beauty queens. Gigolos. Butterflies. Most of them, even when alive, had no more substance than steam which will never condense. Hutte, for instance, used to quote the case of a fellow he called "the beach man." This man had spent forty years of his life on beaches or by the sides of swimming pools, chatting pleasantly with summer visitors and rich idlers. He is to be seen, in his bathing costume, in the corners and backgrounds of thousands of holiday snaps, among groups of happy people, but no one knew his name and why he was there. And no one noticed when one day he vanished from the photographs. I did not dare tell Hutte, but I felt that "the beach man" was myself. Though it would not have surprised him if I had confessed it. Hutte was always saying that, in the end, we were all "beach men" and that "the sand" - I am quoting his own words - "keeps the traces of our footsteps only a few moments."
On one side, the building faced an open space that seemed deserted. A large clump of trees, bushes, a lawn that had not been cut for a long time. A child was playing there alone, quietly, in front of a mound of sand, on this sunny late afternoon. I sat down by the lawn and lifted my head toward the building, wondering if Gay Orlov's windows looked out on this side.
9
I T is NIGHT and the opaline light in the Agency is reflected in the leather top of Huttes desk. I am seated at this desk. I am going through old street-and-trade directories, more recent ones, and noting down what I find as I go along:
H OWARD DE L UZ (Jean Simety)and M ME , born M ABEL D ONAHUE at Valbreuse, Orne. T. 21 and 23, Rue Raynouard, T. AUT. 15-28.
— CGP - MA
The social directory where this is to be found goes back thirty years. Does it refer to my father?
The same reference in successive directories. I look up the list of signs and abbreviations.
means: Military Cross.
CGP : Club du Grand Pavois, MA : Motor Yacht Club of the Cote d'Azur, and: owner of yacht.
But ten years later the following disappear: 23, Rue Raynouard T. AUT. 15-28. Also: MA and .
The following year, all that remains is: H OWARD DE Luz, M ME , born M ABEL D ONAHUE at Valbreuse, Orne. T. 21.
Then nothing at all.
Next, I consult the Parisian year-books of the last ten years. Each time, Howard de Luz's name appears in the following form:
H OWARD DE L UZ , C. 3 Square Henri-Paté. 16th - MOL50-52.
A brother? Cousin?
No reference to him in the social directories of the same years.
10
M R . H OWARD is expecting you."
No doubt the proprietress of this restaurant in Rue de Bassano: dark hair, pale eyes. She motioned to me to follow her, we went down some stairs and she led me toward the back of the room. She stopped in front of a table where a man was sitting on his own. He rose.
"Claude Howard," he said.
He motioned to the chair
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