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

With dreams, thought Daragane, one is never really certain what they’re to do with. A dream? All would become clear at daybreak. And yet sitting here, opposite him, there was nothing ghostly about her. He was not sure whether voices could be heard in dreams, but he could hear Chantal Grippay’s husky voice very clearly.
    â€œI’ve got one piece of advice for you: don’t answer his phone calls anymore . . .”
    She was leaning towards him and speaking in a very low voice, as though Gilles Ottolini were standing behind the door.
    â€œYou must leave messages for me on my mobile . . . When he’s no longer there, I’ll call you back . . . I’ll keep you informed about what he’s planning to do. In that way, you’ll be able to avoid him . . .”
    This girl was clearly very considerate, but Daragane would have liked to explain to her that he could cope on his own. He had come across other Ottolinis in his life. He knew a great many buildings in Paris that had two entrances, and thanks to them he was able to shake people off. And so as to make people think that he had gone out, he often kept the lights switched off at home, because of the two windows that overlooked the street.
    â€œI lent you a book and told you that Gilles had written it . . .
Le Flâneur hippique
. . .”
    He had forgotten the existence of this book. He had left it in the orange cardboard folder when he took out the photocopies.
    â€œIt’s not true . . . Gilles makes people think he wrote this book because its author has the same name as him . . . but not the same first name . . . And, what’s more, the guy’s dead . . .”
    She rummaged in the plastic bag that she had put down beside her on the sofa. From it, she brought out the black satin dress with two yellow swallows that Daragane had noticed in her room in rue de Charonne.
    â€œI forgot my pair of high-heeled shoes at these people’s place . . .”
    â€œI know that dress,” Daragane said.
    â€œEach time I go to these people’s parties, they want me to wear it.”
    â€œOdd sort of dress . . .”
    â€œI found it at the bottom of an old cupboard in my room . . . There’s a label on the back.”
    She handed him the dress and on the label he read: “Silvy-Rosa. Fashion design. Rue Estelle. Marseille.”
    â€œPerhaps you wore it in an earlier life . . .”
    He had said the same thing to her, yesterday afternoon, in the room in rue de Charonne.
    â€œDo you think so?”
    â€œA feeling . . . because of the label, which is very old . . .”
    She in turn looked at the label suspiciously. Then she put down the dress, beside her, on the sofa.
    â€œWait . . . I’m coming back . . .”
    He left the study to ascertain whether he had left the light on in the kitchen. The window there overlooked the street. Yes, he had left the light on. He switched it off and stood by the window. A moment ago, he had imagined that Ottolini was keeping watch outside. Such thoughts come to you very late, when you have not slept, thoughts that you once had long ago, as a child, that frighten you. No-one. But he could be hiding behind the fountain or, on the right, behind one of the trees in the square.
    He stood there for a long time, very upright, his arms folded. He saw nobody in the street. No cars went by. Had he opened the window, he would have heard the murmur of the fountain and he would have wondered whether he was not in Rome rather than Paris. Rome, from where a long time ago he had received a postcard from Annie Astrand, the last sign of life he had had of her.
    When he returned to his study, she was stretched out on the sofa, clad in that strange black satin dress with two yellow swallows. He was confused for a moment. Was she wearing that dress when he had opened the door to her? No, she