The Red Notebook by Antoine Laurain Read Free Book Online Page B

gloomily.
    ‘Did she see the handbag?’ Chloé immediately asked.
    ‘Why do you ask?’
    ‘Because if she saw it she’ll have freaked out.’
    Laurent looked at her, ladle in the air.
    ‘She might have been worried that you wanted to meet the woman,’ amended Chloé, enunciating carefully.
    Laurent served the pot-au-feu. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’
    Two hours had passed. The pot-au-feu had been declared ‘the best in the world’ and the message to Dominique had remained unanswered. Chloé was now curled up on the sofa in socks and T-shirt. She was watching reality TV. Women city-dwellers had come to meet farmers with the rather dubious aim of seducing them and eventually settling down with them. Between the discovery of cows’ udders and bucolic walks in the forest, the improbable couples revealed their feelings on camera, with no detail spared. How these men who lived in tiny remote villages, unable even to ride their mopeds in front of their neighbours’ windows without being immediately identified, could expose their shameless, cringe-making pick-up attempts to millions of viewers was a mystery to Laurent.
    ‘What I meant was … I do really like you …’ were the timid words of one strapping lad with a crew cut.
    ‘You do?’ said the woman wonderingly. ‘I’m very touched, Jean-Claude, but how can I put this … Let’s just be friends.’ Then she added brightly, ‘We could write to each other.’
    The farmer had taken this hard. He’d stared out at the horizon of the Auvergne hills obviously not enthralled by the prospect of an epistolary relationship.
    ‘Are you angry with me?’ simpered the woman, with the same intonation as a mother refusing her offspring another biscuit.
    ‘No, of course not,’ muttered Jean-Claude.
    ‘How long are you going to be watching that garbage?’ asked Laurent.
    ‘It’s not garbage, I love it,’ replied Chloé. Her mobile rang; her friend Charlène must be watching the same programme. ‘You’re right, totally, he looks like him, it is him,’ cried Chloé before going off into hysterical laughter.
    Laurent recalled his conversations with Pascal on their parents’ phones when they had been at the lycée together. If there was one thing that defined adolescence it was hysterical laughter. You never laughed like that again. In adolescence the brutal realisation that the world and life were completely absurd made you laugh until you couldn’t catch your breath, whereas in later life it would only result in a weary sigh.

     
     
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Subject: Question
    Good morning Jean,
    Quick question – was it you who told me you often saw Modiano in the Luxembourg Gardens in the morning?
    Laurent
     
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Hi Laurent,
    Yes, it was me. I saw him again last week. And your email is well timed. I see from Électre that you still have a copy of Paul Kavanski’s Éloge de la Beauté . One of my regular customers is desperate for it today. Could you put it aside for me?
     
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    I’ve put the Kavanski behind the till for you. What time do you see Modiano and where exactly in the gardens?
     
    From: [email protected]
    To:[email protected]
    I’ll tell my customer to come and collect it; his name is Marc Desgrandschamps. Thank you! I usually see Modiano about 9 a.m. I often pass him in front of the Orangerie. Why do you ask?

     
     
    ‘I’m not sure I can help you. I can’t really remember … Wait, yes … I do remember something. Yes … two weeks ago, perhaps a bit longer … behind Odéon; it was raining; she stopped me in the street to ask me to … sign her book. She took it out of her bag. She seemed a little shy, or … ill at ease. No, that’s not it either … it was obvious she wasn’t in the habit of doing that sort of thing; nor was I, for that