Ring Roads by Patrick Modiano Read Free Book Online

that,’ he told me, ‘is that no one comes to meet you at the station.’ He felt out of place. He was no longer accustomed to the bright lights and the bustle. He was terrified of crossing the street, and in a blind panic on the Place de l’Opéra, asked a policeman to take his hand and lead him across. Eventually he was lucky enough to meet another former Legionnaire who ran a bar on the Rue d’Armaille. They swapped stories. The bar owner took him in, fed him, adopted the parrot, and in time Marcheret began to enjoy life again. Women found him attractive. This was in an era – so distant now – when being a Legionnaire made women’s hearts flutter. A Hungarian countess, the widow of a wealthy industrialist, a dancer at the Tabarin – in fact ‘blondes’ as Marcheret put it – fell for the charms of this sentimental soldier, who turned a healthy profit from the swooning sighs. Sometimes he would show up in night clubs in his old uniform. He was the life and soul of the party.
    Maud Gallas
. I don’t have much information on her. She tried her hand as a singer – short-lived. Marcheret told me she had managed a nightclub near the Plaine Monceau that catered exclusively to female clients. Murraille even claimed that having been charged with receiving stolen goods, she had become persona non grata in
Département de la Seine
. One of her friends had bought the Clos-Foucré from the Beausires and, thanks to her wealthy patron, she now managed the
auberge
.
    Annie Murraille
was twenty-two. A diaphanous blonde. Was she really Jean Murraille’s niece? This was something I was never able to confirm. She wanted to be a great movie actress, she dreamed of seeing ‘her name in lights’. Having landed a few minor roles, she played the lead in
Nuit de rafles
, a film completely forgotten these days. I assumed she got engaged to Marcheret because he was Murraille’s best friend. She had an enormous affection for her uncle (was he really her uncle?). If there are those who still remember Annie Murraille, they think of her as an unfortunate but poignant young actress . . . She wanted to make the most of her life . . .
    Sylviane Quimphe
I knew rather better. She came from a humble background. Her father worked as nightwatchman at the old Samson factory. She spent her whole adolescence in an area bounded to the north by the Avenue Daumesnil, to the south by the Quai de la Rapée and the Quai de Bercy. It was not the sort of area that attracted tourists. At times, it feels as though you are in the countryside, and walking along the Seine, you feel you have discovering a disused port. The elevated métro line that crosses the Pont de Bercy and the crumbling morgue buildings add to the terrible desolation of the place. But there is one magical spot in this bleak landscape that inexorably attracts dreamers: the Gare de Lyon. It was here that Sylviane Quimphe’s wanderings always took her. At sixteen, she would explore every nook and corner. Especially the main-line departure platforms. The words ‘
Compagnie internationale des wagons-lits
’ brought colour to her cheeks.
    She trudged home to the Rue Corbineau, reciting the names of towns she would never see. Bordighera-Rimini-Vienna-Istanbul. Outside her house was a little park, where, as the dark drew in, all the tedium and desolate charm of the 12th
arrondissement
was distilled. She would sit on a bench. Why had she not simply boarded some train, any train? She decided not to go home. Her father was working all night. The coast was clear.
    From the Avenue Daumesnil, she glided towards the labyrinth of streets called the ‘Chinese Quarter’ (does it still exist today? A colony of Asians had set up shabby bars, small restaurants and even – it was said – a number of opium dens). The human dreck who prowl around train stations tramped through this seedy area as through a swamp. Here, she found what she had been looking for: a former employee of Thomas Cook with a silver