The Night Watch by Patrick Modiano Read Free Book Online

Don’t misunderstand me: I don’t belong to the Animal Protection Society or the League of Human Rights. What do I do? I wander through this desolate city. At night, at about nine o’clock, when the blackout has plunged it into the darkness, the Khedive, Philibert and the others gather around me. The days are white and fevered. I need to find an oasis or I shall die: my love for Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. I suppose even Hitler himself felt the need to relax when he petted his dog. I PROTECT THEM. Anyone who tries to harm them will have to answer to me. I fondle the silencer the Khedive gave me. My pockets are stuffed with cash. I have one of the most enviable names in France (I stole it, but in times like these, such things don’t matter). I weigh 90kg on an empty stomach. I have velvety eyes. A ‘promising’ young man. But what exactly was my promise? The Good Fairies gathered around my cradle. They must have been drinking. You’re dealing with a formidable opponent. So KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF THEM! I first saw them on the platform at Grenelle métro station and realised that it would take only a word, a gesture to break them. I wonder how they came to be there, still alive. I remembered the cat saved from drowning. The blind red-headed giant’s name was Coco Lacour, the little girl – or the little old lady – was Esmeralda. Faced with these two people, I felt pity. I felt a bitter, violent wave break over me. As the tide ebbed, I felt my head spin: push them onto the tracks. I had to dig my nails into my palms, hold by whole body taut. The wave broke over me again, a tide so gentle that I closed my eyes and surrendered to it.
    Every night I half-open the door to their rooms as quietly as I can, and watch them sleep. I feel my head spinning just as it did that first time: slip the silencer out of my pocket and kill them. I’ll break my last moorings adrift and drift towards the North Pole where there are no tears to temper loneliness. They freeze on the tips of eyelashes. And arid sorrow. Two eyes staring at parched wasteland. If I hesitate at the thought of killing the blind man and the little girl – or the little old lady – how then can I betray the Lieutenant? What counts against him is his courage, his composure, the elegance that imbues his every gesture. His steady blue eyes exasperate me. He belongs to that ungainly breed of heroes. Yet still, I can’t help seeing him as a kindly elderly lady. I don’t take men seriously. One day I’ll fi nd myself looking at them – and at myself – the way I do at Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. The toughest, the proudest ones will seem like frail creatures who need to be protected.
    They played mah-jongg in the living room before going to bed. The lamp casts a soft glow on the bookshelves and the full-length portrait of Monsieur de Bel-Respiro. They moved the pieces slowly. Esmeralda tilted her head while Coco Lacour gnawed on his forefinger. All around us, silence. I close the shutters. Coco Lacour quickly nods off. Esmeralda is afraid of the dark, so I always leave her door ajar and the light on in the hallway. I usually read to her for half an hour from a book I found in the nightstand of this room when I appropriated this house:
How to Raise Our Daughters
, by Madame Léon Daudet. ‘It is in the linen closet, more than anywhere else, that a young girl begins to sense the seriousness of domestic responsibilities. For is not the linen closet the most enduring symbol of family security and stability? Behind its massive doors lie orderly piles of cool sheets, damask tablecloths, neatly folded napkins; to my mind, there is nothing quite so gratifying to the eye as a well-appointed linen closet . . .’ Esmeralda has fallen asleep. I pick out a few notes on the living room piano. I lean up against the window. A peaceful square of the kind you only find in the 16th
arrondissement
. The leaves of the trees brush against the windowpane. I would like to think of this house as