Paris Nocturne by Patrick Modiano Read Free Book Online Page B

meetings at Denfert-Rochereau. Three unobtainable books, which he said with a certain irony were his ‘early works’. Their publication dates were printed at thebottom of the covers with the name of the publisher: Au Sablier. Bouvière would have been very young then, barely twenty-two or twenty-three.
    I bought the three volumes and discovered a dedication on the flyleaf of
The Lie and the Confession
: ‘For Geneviève Dalame. This book was written when I was her age, during curfew hours. Fred Bouvière.’ The other two didn’t have dedications but, like the first, they bore the name ‘Geneviève Dalame’ in blue ink on the title page, with an address: 4 Boulevard Jourdan. It all came back to me: the face of the blonde girl with very pale skin, who was always in Bouvière’s shadow and sat next to him on the front seat of his car at the end of the meetings; the guy with the hawkish face saying to me in a low voice: ‘Her name is Geneviève Dalame.’ I asked the bouquiniste where he had found the books. He shrugged—Oh, someone moving house… Remembering the way Geneviève Dalame contemplated Bouvière, with her blue-eyed gaze, and hung on his every word, I thought it was impossible that she would have got rid of these three books. Unless she wanted to make a sudden break with an entire period of her life. Or she had died. Four Boulevard Jourdan. It was just around the corner from me when I was staying in Hôtel de la Rue de la Voie-Verte. ButI didn’t need to check; I knew the apartment block hadn’t been there for about fifteen years and that Rue de la Voie-Verte had changed name.
    I remembered that, one day back then, I was waiting to catch the number 21 bus at Porte Gentilly and she came out of the little apartment block, but I didn’t dare approach her. She was waiting for the bus, too, and we were the only ones at the bus stop. She didn’t recognise me, which was entirely understandable: in the meetings she only had eyes for Bouvière and all the other members of the group were nothing but blurred faces in the glowing halo he projected around himself.
    When the bus started moving, we were the only passengers, and I sat on the seat opposite her. I had a clear memory of the name that the hawk had whispered in my ear a few days before. Geneviève Dalame. She was absorbed in a book covered with glassine paper, perhaps the one that Bouvière had dedicated to her and written during curfew hours. I didn’t take my eyes off her. I had read, I can’t recall where, that if you stare at someone, even from behind, they will notice your presence. With her it took a long time. She didn’t even vaguely notice me until the bus was going along Rue Glacière.
    â€˜I’ve seen you in Dr Bouvière’s meetings,’ I said. Byuttering his name I thought I would gain her favour, but she gave me a guarded look. I tried to think of something to say to win her over. ‘It’s crazy…’ I said, ‘Dr Bouvière answers all of life’s questions.’ And I took on a preoccupied air, as if to merely pronounce the name Bouvière was enough to detach oneself from the everyday world and from the bus we were on. She seemed reassured. We had the same guru, we shared the same rituals and the same secrets.
    â€˜Have you been going to the meetings for long?’ she asked.
    â€˜A few weeks.’
    â€˜Would you like to have more personal contact with him?’ She asked the question with a certain condescension, as if she was the sole possible intermediary between Bouvière and the mass of disciples.
    â€˜Not just yet,’ I said, ‘I’d prefer to wait a little longer…’ My tone of voice was so solemn that she could no longer doubt my sincerity.
    She smiled at me and I believe I even detected, in her big pale-blue eyes, a kind of tenderness. But I was under no illusion. I owed it all to