So You Don't Get Lost in the Neighborhood by Patrick Modiano Read Free Book Online

was more and more hoarse, and he feared that this confiding of secrets might go on until morning. Could he maintain his attention and listen until it was over?
    â€œHe didn’t go to Lyon for his work, but to gamble at the casino . . .”
    â€œThe casino at Charbonnières?”
    The phrase had come to his lips very quickly, and he was surprised by the word “Charbonnières”, which he had forgotten and which now came back again from the past. When they had set off to go gambling at the casino at Charbonnières, Paul and the others left on the Friday in the early afternoon, and they returned to Paris on the Monday. So, that meant almost three days spent with Chantal at the room in square du Graisivaudan.
    â€œYes, he went to the casino at Charbonnières. He knows a croupier down there . . . He always returns from the casino at Charbonnières with a little more money than usual.”
    â€œAnd you don’t go with him?”
    â€œNever. Except at the beginning, when we first knew one another . . . I used to wait for him for hours at the Cercle Gaillon . . . There was a waiting room for the women . . .”
    Had Daragane misunderstood? “Gaillon”—like “Charbonnières”—was a name that he was familiar with in the past. Chantal used to join him unexpectedly in the room in square du Graisivaudan and would say to him: “Paul’s at the Cercle Gaillon . . . We can spend the evening together . . . And even the night . . .”
    So, did the Cercle Gaillon still exist? Unless the same ridiculous words that you have heard in your youth return like an old tune or a stammer, many years later and towards the end of your life?
    â€œWhen I am on my own in Paris, they make me join in slightly unusual parties . . . I accept because of Gilles . . . He always needs money . . . And now it will be worse because he’ll find himself without a job . . .”
    Yet how had he come to be on close terms with Gilles Ottolini and this Chantal Grippay? In the past, new encounters were often blunt and frank—two people who collide with one another in the street, like the bumper cars of his childhood. Here, everything had happened gently, a lost address book, voices on the telephone, a meeting in a café . . . Yes, it all had the lightness of a dream. And the pages of the “dossier” had also given him a strange sensation: because of certain names, and especially that of Annie Astrand, and all those words piled on top of each other without double-spacing, he suddenly found himself confronted with certain details of his life, but reflected in a distorting mirror, with those disjointed details that pursue you on nights when you have a temperature.
    â€œHe’s coming back from Charbonnières tomorrow . . . at about midday . . . He’ll be pestering you again . . . Whatever you do, don’t tell him we’ve seen each other.”
    Daragane wondered whether she was being honest and whether she might not let Ottolini know about her visit to him that night. Unless it could have been Ottolini who had asked her to carry out this assignment. In any case, he was sure of being able to get rid of them sooner or later, as he had done with many people during the course of his life.
    â€œIn short,” he said cheerfully, “you’re a couple of criminals.”
    She appeared astounded by these words. He regretted them immediately. She was hunched up and for a moment he thought she was about to dissolve into tears. He leant over towards her, but she avoided his gaze.
    â€œAll this, it’s because of Gilles . . . I had nothing to do with it . . .”
    Then, after a moment’s hesitation:
    â€œBe careful of him . . . He’ll want to see you every day . . . He won’t give you a moment’s peace . . . The guy is