•
That first visit, I spent a long time waiting at the Condé. She didn’t come. I would have to be patient. It would wait for another day. I watched the customers. Most of them weren’t more than twenty-five years old. A nineteenth-century novelist might have described them as “the student bohemians.” But few of them, in my opinion, were enrolled at the Sorbonne or the École des Mines. I must admit that watching them up close, I didn’t have high hopes for their futures.
Two men came in, one shortly after the other. Adamov and the dark-haired fellow with the flowing walk who had written a few books under the name Maurice Raphaël. I knew Adamov at first sight. In bygone days, he was almost always at the Old Navy Café, and his stare was one you didn’t forget. I believe I had done him a favor to help sort out his living situation, back when I still had a few contacts at the Renseignements Généraux. As for Maurice Raphaël, he too was a regular in the bars of the area. I’ve heard that he had been in some trouble after the war under a different name. Back in those days, I was working for Blémant. They both came up and leaned their elbows on the bar. Maurice Raphaël remained standing, rather stiffly, and Adamov hauled himself up onto a barstool, wincing in pain. He hadn’t yet remarked my presence. Would my face still bring anything back for him? Three young people, including a blond girl with bangs wearing a worn raincoat, joined them at the bar. Maurice Raphaël held out a pack of cigarettes and looked at them with an amused smile. Adamov showed himself to be less at ease with them. His intense stare made you think he was somewhat frightened by them.
I had two photo-booth pictures of this Jacqueline Delanque in my pocket. Back when I worked for Blémant, he had always been surprised at how easily I could identify someone. All it took was for my eyes to pass over a face once for it to remain engraved in my memory. Blémant had often kidded me about my ability to immediately recognize someone from afar, whether it was in three-quarter profile or even from behind. So I wasn’t the least bit worried. As soon as she came into the Condé, I would know it was her.
Dr. Vala turned towards the bar and our eyes met. He gave a friendly wave. I suddenly had the urge to walk over to his table and tell him that I had a private question to ask him. I would have taken him aside and showed him the photos. “You know her?” Really, it would have been helpful to find out a bit more about this girl from one of the customers at the Condé.
•
As soon as I learned the address of her hotel, I had made my way there. I had chosen the middle of the afternoon, as it would be more likely that she was out. At least so I hoped. Then I would be able to ask the front desk a few questions about her. It was a sunny autumn day and I decided to make the trek on foot. I set out from the quays and slowly made my way inland. By rue du Cherche-Midi, the sun was in my eyes. I went into Au Chien Qui Fume and ordered a cognac. I was anxious. I surveyed avenue du Maine from the window. All I needed to do was to walk down the left sidewalk and I’d reach my destination. No reason to feel anxious. As I continued along the avenue, I regained my calm. I was nearly certain she wouldn’t be there, and in any case, I wouldn’t go into the hotel to ask questions this time, I would wander around outside as if I were on a stakeout. I had plenty of time. I had been paid for it.
When I reached rue Cels, I decided to be clear in my mind about things. A calm and gray street, it reminded me not only of a village or a suburb but of those mysterious regions they call “the borderlands.” I went straight to the front desk. No one. I waited about ten minutes, hoping that she wouldn’t appear. A door opened and a woman with short dark hair, dressed all in black, came to the reception desk. I said in a pleasant voice: “This is regarding Jacqueline Delanque.”
I figured she had registered here under her maiden name.
She smiled at me and took an envelope from one of the pigeonholes behind her.
“Are you Monsieur Roland?”
Now who was this? Just in case, I gave a vague nod of the head. She handed me the envelope, on which was written in blue ink: “For Roland.” The envelope wasn’t sealed. On a large sheet of paper, I read:
Roland, come and meet me after five o’clock at the Condé. If you can’t, call me at AUTEUIL 15–28 and leave me a message.
It was signed “Louki.” A pet name for Jacqueline?
I folded the sheet up and slid it into the envelope, handing it back to the brunette.
“Excuse me. There’s been a mix-up. This isn’t for me.”
She didn’t react at all but mechanically replaced the letter in the pigeonhole.
“Has Jacqueline Delanque lived here a long time?”
She hesitated a moment and then replied affably, “For about a month.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
She seemed indifferent to me and ready to answer all of my questions. She gave me a weary look.
“Thank you very much,” I said to her.
“You’re welcome.”
I didn’t want to linger, as this Roland could arrive at any time. I went back out onto avenue du Maine and followed it in the direction from which I’d come. At Au Chien Qui Fume, I ordered another cognac. I looked up the Condé’s address in the directory. It was in the Quartier de l’Odéon. Four o’clock in the afternoon, I had a bit of time to kill, so I placed a call to AUTEUIL 15–28. A terse voice that reminded me of a speaking clock: “La Fontaine Garage, how can I help you?” I asked for Jacqueline Delanque. “She’s stepped out a moment. Can I take a message?” I was tempted to hang up, but I forced myself to reply. “No, no message. Thank you.”
Above all, it’s necessary to determine people’s itineraries with as much precision as possible in order to understand them better. I repeated to myself, in a low voice: “Hotel rue Cels. La Fontaine Garage. Café Condé. Louki.” And then, that part of Neuilly between the Bois de Boulogne and the Seine, where that fellow had asked me to meet him to talk about his wife, the aforementioned Jacqueline Choureau, née Delanque.
•
I can’t remember who recommended that he talk to me. It doesn’t really matter. He probably found my address in the directory. I had taken the Métro well before the appointed time. It was a direct line. I got off at Sablons and walked around for nearly half an hour. I had a habit of getting to know the lay of the land before jumping straight into the thick of things. In the past, Blémant criticized me for it and thought that I was wasting my time. Dive in, he told me, rather than running in circles around the edge of the pool. Personally, I felt the opposite way. No sudden movements, but instead a passivity and slowness that allow you to be softly penetrated by the spirit of the place.
The scents of autumn and the country were in the air. I followed the avenue that ran along the Jardin d’Acclimatation, only I stuck to the other side next to the Bois de Boulogne and the bridle path. I would have loved it if it were just a casual stroll.