After the Circus (8 page)

“To the Tomate!” said Grabley, raising his glass.

The small brunette raised hers as well, as if in defiance. Gisèle and I sat still. So did the dog. Their glasses clinked. There was a long silence. We were all under the wan light of the ceiling bulb, as if celebrating some mysterious birthday.

“Please excuse me,” Gisèle said, “I'm dead on my feet.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday, we can all go to the Tomate to watch Sylvette,” Grabley said.

And once again, I thought of all those bygone Sunday evenings.

I slept fitfully. Several times I awoke with a start, and reassured myself that she was still beside me in bed. I had a temperature. The room had turned into a train compartment. The silhouettes of Grabley and the small brunette appeared in the window frame. They were standing on the platform, waiting for us to depart. They were each holding a paper cup and they raised their arms in a toast, as if in slow motion. I could hear Grabley's half-muffled voice:

“We can all meet tomorrow at the Tomate …”

But I knew full well we wouldn't show up. We were leaving Paris for good. The train jerked to a start. The buildings and houses of the suburbs stood out one last time, black against a crepuscular sky. We were squeezed together in a couchette and the jostling carriage shook us violently. The next morning, the train would stop at a platform flooded in sunlight.

It was Sunday. We got up very late, feeling as if we had the flu. We had to find an open pharmacy in the neighborhood where we could buy some aspirin. And anyway, we needed to walk the dog.

Grabley had already gone out. He had left a note, lying conspicuously on the office couch.

My dear Obligado,

You aren't up yet, and I have to go to eleven o'clock Mass at Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

Your father called this morning, but I could barely hear him because he was calling from an outdoor phone booth: the car horns and traffic covered his voice.

On top of which, we were cut off, but I'm sure he'll call back. Life in Switzerland must not be easy for him. I tried to convince him not to go there. It can be a tough place if you don't have the cash …

We're expecting you this evening without fail, at the Tomate. The last two shows are at eight and ten-thirty. Take your pick.

Afterward, we're going to have a late supper in the neighborhood. I hope you can join us.

Henri

There was an open pharmacy on Rue Saint-André-des-Arts. We went to take the aspirin in a café on the quay, then walked to the Pont de la Tournelle after letting the dog off the leash.

It was nice out, as it had been the previous day, but colder, like a sunny day in February. Soon it would be spring. At least, I comforted myself with that illusion, as the prospect of spending the entire winter in Paris without knowing whether I could stay in the apartment made me uneasy.

As we walked, we began to feel better. We had lunch in a hotel on the Quai des Grands-Augustins called the Relais Bisson. When we saw how expensive the dishes were, we ordered just some soup, a dessert, and a little chopped meat for the dog.

And the afternoon drifted by in a gentle torpor on the bed in the fifth-floor
bedroom, and, later, listening to the radio. We had plugged in the one in the office. I remember that it was a program about jazz musicians.

Suddenly, the charm evaporated: In an hour, we'd have to keep the appointment Ansart had set for us.

“How about if we just stood him up?” I asked.

She paused a moment. I could feel her giving in.

“If we do, we can never see them again, and we'd have to leave the car on Rue Raffet.”

She took a cigarette from a pack of Camels that Grabley had left behind. She lit it and sucked in a puff. She coughed. It was the first time I'd ever seen her smoke.

“It would be stupid to break it off with them …”

I was disappointed that she'd changed her mind. She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray.

“We'll do what they want, and then I'll ask Ansart for a lot of money so we can go to Rome.”

I had the impression she was only saying that
to mollify me and didn't really believe it. A last beam of sunlight bathed the tip of the Ile de la Cité, just at the end of the Vert-Galant park. There were only a few passersby left on the quay and the booksellers were closing their stalls. I heard the clock on the Institut chime five
P.M
.

We had decided to leave the dog in the apartment, intending to come back and get him as soon as we could. But the moment we shut the door, he started barking and whining incessantly, so we had to resign ourselves to taking him with us to the appointment.

It was still light when we arrived at the Bois de Boulogne. We were early, so we stopped in front of the old Château de Madrid. We walked in the clearing lined with umbrella pines up to the Saint-James pond, where I had watched the ice skaters one winter in my childhood. The smell of wet earth and the gathering dark again reminded me of bygone Sunday evenings, so much so that I felt the same muted anxiety as I used to feel at the thought of returning to boarding school the next morning. Of course, the situation was different now; I was walking in the Bois de Boulogne with her and not with my father, or with my pals Charell or Karvé. But
something similar was hovering in the air, the same odor, and it was also a Sunday.

“Let's get going,” she said.

She, too, looked anxious. To steady my nerves, I kept my eyes fixed on the dog running ahead of us. I asked whether we should take the car. She said it wasn't worth it.

We walked down Rue de la Ferme. Now she had the dog on a leash. We went past the entryway of the Charells' building, then past the Howlett riding stables, which looked abandoned. The Charells had surely moved away. They belonged to that category of people who never really settle anywhere. Where could Alain Charell have been this evening? Somewhere in Mexico? I heard a distant clacking of horseshoes. I turned around: two riders, visible only in silhouette, had just appeared at the end of the street. Was one of them the man we had to approach in a little while?

Gradually they moved closer to us. There was still time to turn back, take the car, leave it in front of the building on Rue Raffet, vanish with the dog and never be heard from again.

She gave my arm a tight squeeze.

“This won't take long,” she said.

“You think so?”

“Once we've talked to this guy, we leave the café and let them sort out the rest themselves.”

The two riders had turned right, into narrow Rue Saint-James. The clacking of horseshoes faded away.

We had reached the café. Farther on, in the part of Rue de la Ferme nearer the Seine, I noticed Ansart's car. Someone was sitting on one of the fenders. Jacques de Bavière? I wasn't sure. Two silhouettes occupied the front seats.

We went in. I was surprised by how fancy the place was: I'd expected just a simple café. A bar and round tables made of mahogany. Armchairs of slightly worn leather. Wood paneling on the walls. In the brick fireplace, they had lit a fire.

We took our seats at the table closest to the door. Around us were a few patrons, but I didn't recognize our man among them.

The dog had lain down submissively at our feet. We ordered two coffees and I paid the
check, so that we could leave as soon as we had delivered our message to the unknown man.

Gisèle pulled Grabley's cigarettes from the pocket of her raincoat and lit one. She inhaled, clumsily. Her hand was shaking.

I asked:

“Are you afraid?”

“Not at all.”

The door opened and three people walked in, a woman and two men. One of them was definitely the man in the photo: wide forehead, very dark hair, brushed back.

They were having a lively conversation. The woman burst out laughing.

They sat at a table in back, near the fireplace. The man had removed his navy blue overcoat. He was not wearing riding breeches.

Gisèle stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. She was looking down. Was she trying to avoid the man's eyes?

He was facing us, over there, at the table in back. The other two, a brunette of about thirty
and a blond man with a narrow face and aquiline nose, were in profile.

The woman had a loud voice. The man seemed younger than on the enlarged identity photo.

I stood up, my palms moist.

I moved forward. I was standing next to their table. They stopped talking.

I leaned toward him:

“I have a message for you.”

“A message from whom?”

He had a high-pitched voice, as if strangled, and he seemed annoyed that I should come bother him.

“From Pierre Ansart. He's waiting for you in the car on the corner.”

I stood stiffly, straining to articulate the syllables as clearly as possible.

“Ansart?”

His face expressed the discomfiture of someone being reprimanded when and where he least expected it.

“He wants to see me right now?”

“Yes.”

He glanced anxiously toward the entrance.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said to his two companions. “I just have to go say hello to a friend who's waiting outside.”

The other two gave me a condescending once-over: was it because of my extreme youth and careless attire? It occurred to me that I could be identified later. Had they noticed Gisèle's presence?

He stood up and slipped on his navy blue overcoat. He turned toward the blond man and said:

“Book a table for tonight … There'll be eight of us …”

“That's silly,” the woman said. “We could have dinner at my place …”

“Nonsense … Back in a minute …”

I remained standing firmly in front of them. He said to me:

“So where is this car?”

“I'll show you.”

I walked ahead of him to the exit. Gisèle was waiting, standing by our table with the dog. He seemed surprised by her presence. I held the door and let the two of them pass.

The car pulled up. They had parked on the corner of Rue de Longchamp. Jacques de Bavière was standing, leaning slightly against the carriage. Ansart got out, leaving the front door open, and waved his arm at us. The street was brightly lit. In the cold, limpid air, the car stood out starkly against the building façades and sections of wall.

The man walked toward them, and we remained in place on the sidewalk. He had forgotten us. He, too, raised his arm, waving at Ansart.

He said:

“This is a surprise …”

He and Ansart chatted in the middle of the street. We could only hear the murmur of their voices. We could have joined them. It would only have taken a few steps. But I sensed that if we went toward them, we would be entering a danger
zone. Besides, neither Ansart nor Jacques de Bavière was paying us the slightest attention. Suddenly, they were far away, in another space—I'd say, in another time—and today that scene has frozen forever.

Even the dog, which wasn't on its leash, stood still, at our sides, as if he, too, could sense an invisible boundary between them and us.

Jacques de Bavière opened one of the rear doors and let the man get in, then sat next to him. Ansart took his seat in front. The one at the wheel hadn't left the car and I couldn't make out his face. The doors shut. The car made a U-turn and headed down Rue de la Ferme toward the Seine.

I watched it go until it disappeared around the corner of the quay.

I asked Gisèle:

“Where do you think they're going?”

“They're taking him to Rue Raffet …”

“But he told his friends he'd be right back …”

And yet, they hadn't forced him into the car.
It was probably Ansart who had persuaded him to go with them, during their brief conversation in the middle of the street.

“Maybe I should go tell the other two not to wait,” I said.

“No … Let's not get mixed up in this …”

I was surprised by her categorical tone, and I got the distinct impression she knew more than I did.

“You really think we shouldn't tell them?”

“No, of course not … They won't trust us … and they'll ask questions …”

I pictured myself standing next to their table, explaining that their friend had left in a car. And the questions would rain down like blows, increasingly numerous and insistent:

You're sure you saw him leave? Who with?

Who gave you this message?

Where do these people live?

Who are you, anyway?

And I, unable to flee the avalanche of their questions, my legs leaden as in a nightmare.

“We shouldn't stay here,” I said to her.

They could have come out at any moment to look for their friend. We took Rue de la Ferme toward the Bois. As we passed by the Charells' old building, I wondered what Alain would have thought of all this.

I felt uneasy. A man had taken his leave of two people, saying he'd be “back in a minute.” Instead, he had been made to get in a car that had headed off toward the Seine. We were, she and I, witnesses but also accessories to this disappearance. It had all happened in a street in Neuilly, near the Bois de Boulogne, a neighborhood that reminded me of other Sundays … I used to walk in the alleys of the Bois with my father and one of his friends, a very tall, thin man, who had retained, from a time of former prosperity, only a fur coat and a blazer, which he wore according to the season. At the time, I had noticed how threadbare his clothes were. We would walk him home in the evening, to his hotel in Neuilly that looked like a boardinghouse. His room, he said, was small but adequate.