Well, if this guy could help her . . . He smelled of a kind of eau de toilette whose scent remained in her memory, and much later, when she thought back to this time in her life, the smell came back to her along with the memories of her waits in the lobbies of record companies, the subways at rush hour, the station hall at Gare Saint-Lazare, the rain, and the radiator in her room that gave off too much heat because the crank to adjust it was broken off.
•
The tree-lined street that the garage was on stretched out before Louis like a country lane leading to a château or the edge of a forest. According to Bejardy, no one knew whether the street was in the seventeenth arrondissement, in Neuilly, or in Levallois, and Bejardy liked this lack of clarity.
Louis ate dinner with Odile in a restaurant at Porte de Villiers. Its sign read: À LA MARTINIQUE. Along the walls, on the faience tiles, sparkled a landscape of palm trees, sand, and emerald-colored ocean. Around nine o’clock, he left for his job.
It was not really a garage but a hangar, with an ocher-colored structure rising up beside it, its ground floor accessible directly from the hangar through an iron door. A cement staircase led up to a room on the second floor, narrow but very long. There were rows of glass cabinets along the walls, with files in them, and a magisterial desk presided over the middle of the room. Louis, looking through its drawers, which were mostly empty, had found a few sheets of stationery with the letterhead Paris Automobile Transport Company, rue Delaizement, 9 bis, and an old business card for Roland de Bejardy, 3, avenue Alphand, Paris, 16th arr., KLÉ-08-63. There were two leather armchairs and a sofa, and a telephone on the desk—the old kind, black, on a round base.
What did his work consist of? Opening the hangar doors whenever he heard the bell ring. This required no great physical effort since the doors slid open easily. Someone would drive one of the cars out of the hangar, or else bring back another. On some nights, no one rang the bell at all; on others, there were a lot of comings and goings for him to note down. Always the same faces: a man with brown hair and a mustache; two blond men, one of them with curly hair, a chubby face; a man older than the others, with a crew cut and round steel-rimmed glasses. Others whom Louis paid no attention to. He closed the doors again after they had come or gone. At the desk, he answered the phone, and the voices—maybe they belonged to the men who rang the bell at night—told him on what day and at what time he should expect which car, and Louis wrote the information down in a datebook that he showed to Bejardy later.
At first he was curious and asked questions. Bejardy explained that the business rented out “chauffeured vehicles,” but that his other “activities” did not leave him time to manage this one. Louis had noticed that, along with the large American cars, there were often Mercedes of all kinds, and no sooner had someone parked them in the hangar than someone else came to take them out.
As he got used to the routine, he stopped asking questions. It was a night watchman’s job and he had to keep himself busy until morning. Bejardy had shown him, in one of the cabinets, some large volumes bound in red leather: a complete collection of issues of a sports magazine. And Louis, leafing through them, had discovered photographs of his father competing in six-day races or sprints. Bejardy had given him permission to cut out the photos. So Louis bought an album to glue the pictures into, in chronological order, as well as every article with the least mention of his father, down to lists of racers in which his name appeared.
Odile would spend the night on the sofa with him, and often they would not answer the phone when it rang. She would bring him something to eat—a sandwich or a bar of chocolate. They made plans for the future. If she ever succeeded in recording an album, or if she got a job in a nightclub, then he wouldn’t need to work here anymore. But for now, his night watchman salary was their only source of income.
When he was alone, he cut out photographs and articles, glued them into his album, and wrote down each one’s date with a red ballpoint pen. He avoided looking through the magazines from the year in which his father and mother had been killed in a car crash, but he had looked right away at the issue published the week he was born. That night, at the Vel’ d’Hiv, after a raucous toot on a horn, the announcer had said that one of the racers, Memling, had just become a father, of a baby boy, and that they were offering a bonus prize of thirty thousand francs in the new baby’s name.
•
She had hardly any time to sing between the Caucasian knife-thrower’s act and the entertainer who imitated every kind of birdcall. Vietti—the man with the manicured fingernails—was there the first night. He had told the manager of the Auteuil cabaret-restaurant about her, then taken her back to Porte Champerret at around one in the morning and told her he would record her songs soon, but first she had to “learn the ropes” a little.
Onstage she wore a very large satin skirt and a bolero studded with black beads of jet, a costume she’d borrowed from the manager.
Brossier had told Bejardy about Odile, after Bejardy had questioned Louis one morning, in the garage, on the topic of his “fiancée.” And when he heard that Odile was singing in a nightclub, he seemed amused, and decided that they absolutely must go and hear her. He reserved a table for three: himself, Brossier, and Louis.
Bejardy knew the establishment from the old days. According to him, the decor had not changed since then. There were the same dark velvet curtains and the same eighteenth-century-style paintings on all the walls: courtly portraits and amorous scenes.
“You took me here one night with Hélène and your mother,” Brossier said to him.
“You think so? We used to come here in the avenue Alphand days.”
“No, it was with Hélène and your mother. I couldn’t have been much older than you are now, Louis.”
Louis wasn’t listening to them. He was waiting anxiously for Odile to appear onstage. Up until then, Odile had not let him come see her perform; she was afraid his presence would give her stage fright. But Louis said he had no choice but to come along that night, with the people he called his “bosses.”
“It isn’t the same clientele though,” Bejardy observed, casting a cold look around.
He consulted the menu. Blinis and caviar. Krug champagne. Pierogies while they waited. He didn’t ask either Brossier or Louis what they wanted. A palpable authority emanated from his wavy black hair, his high forehead, his straight back and broad chest.
“No, not the same clientele at all.”
At the table closest to theirs, some Indonesians were ceremoniously bowing their heads before beginning their meal.
“Are they paying your fiancée well, at least?” Bejardy asked.
“I think so.”
Louis, unable to swallow even the smallest bite of food, nervously emptied his glass of champagne.
“Come on, eat,” Bejardy said, serving him a blini.
“Louis is nervous for his fiancée’s sake,” Brossier said.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be wonderful.”
The Caucasian dancers bowed, to the jerky sound of music, and the lights went down. Only a pale blue beam remained, which lit up the center of the stage. Silence. A violin. She appeared in the pale blue ring, a little stiff in her bolero and long satin dress.
“Your fiancée?” Bejardy asked.
“Yes.”
She sang. Louis knew the song by heart and was terrified that she would forget a word or abruptly stop. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands and shut his eyes. But her voice remained pure. Odile didn’t seem to have any stage fright, and her motionlessness was rather charming, especially at the end, when she sang the old Jean Sablon hit, “La Chanson des rues”:
It speaks to you of sadness,
Of dreams and loves gone by,
And of the bygone years that only
Left you wondering why . . .
She inclined her chest in a shy bow. The soft clapping from the Indonesians was drowned out by Bejardy’s “Bravo! Bravo!” Brossier waved hi
s arm and gestured for her to come join them. She took a seat next to Louis.
“This is Monsieur de Bejardy,” Louis told her. “You already know Jean-Claude Brossier.”
Bejardy shrugged. “Please, call me Roland.”
He bent forward and kissed Odile’s hand, and it was unclear whether he meant it with any irony or not.
“I liked your act very much. Especially ‘La Chanson des rues.’ ”
The bird imitator came onstage. The various calls, coos, trills, and chirps unleashed hilarity among the Indonesians. Having sat there so impassively before, they seemed unable to keep their wild laughter under control. They infected Brossier with it.
“Sorry.”
“I liked it very much,” Bejardy repeated, “and I’m sure you are going to have a wonderful career.”
“Me too, me too,” Brossier said, between tears of laughter.
The birdcalls became more and more shrill and frantic. Louis started to laugh as well. Odile, too, a nervous laugh. Then the birdcaller fell backward, as though shot through the forehead, and, lying on the ground, arms outstretched, let out an interminable ululation. He suddenly sprang up and disappeared.
“You should have a little champagne,” Bejardy said to Odile. “And sing ‘La Chanson des rues’ for us again.”
She drank from Louis’s glass. Bejardy ordered another bottle.
“Have you been performing at this club a long time?”
“No, not too long,” Odile answered timidly.
“She’s going to cut a record,” Louis said. “She’s here to try out her songs.”
Odile gave him a questioning look. How long would they have to sit here with Brossier and Bejardy? Louis answered with a wink, and she smiled.
“I used to know the owner of this club, but he can’t possibly still be here,” Bejardy said. “You remember, Jean-Claude. A guy who always wore riding pants . . .”
“The one now doesn’t wear riding pants,” Odile said.
Louis poured Odile another glass of champagne, and, as if he knew that she hadn’t eaten: “You need to eat something. You must be hungry.”
“Yes, of course,” Bejardy said. “Please, have some blinis.”
He summoned the maître d’.
“But first, a toast, to your health,” Brossier said to Odile.
“To a singer of great talent,” Bejardy said.
They both raised their glasses. Odile looked at them, half curious, half amused, as though observing the frolics of two exotic animals in the zoo. She kicked Louis under the table.
“You’re right, Jean-Claude, I remember now,” Bejardy said suddenly. “We were here with Hélène and my mother . . .”
•
At around two in the morning, Bejardy invited them over for a nightcap. They hailed a taxi. During the drive, Odile fell asleep, her head on Louis’s shoulder.
Bejardy turned on all the lights in the room where he had received Louis on Louis’s first visit, and the sudden, too-bright glare was blinding. Bejardy rolled a drink cart over to them. Louis and Odile politely refused any more alcohol. Brossier and Bejardy poured themselves a little chartreuse.
“This really is a nice drink,” Brossier said after taking a sip. “You feel like you’re diving into the green . . . You should take a plunge too, Louis.”
“A real poet, isn’t he?” Bejardy said, turning to Louis and Odile. “You both look exhausted. You can sleep here, I have a guest room for friends. Yes, yes, I’d be happy if you did. It’s not a work day today.”
He stood up.
“Come with me, I’ll take you. Jean-Claude and I will do a little more work. I brought the folders.”
“Of course, Roland,” Brossier said.
They had bright eyes and the fresh, energetic look of people who had just gotten a good night’s sleep, which surprised Louis.
The bedroom was next to the living room. Its light blue walls, thick carpet, fur bedspread, and the veiled light of a bedside lamp created a gentle, relaxing atmosphere.
“The bathroom is over here . . .”
Bejardy opened a door and turned on the light, revealing a bathroom with blue mosaic walls and floor.
“Good night. You’ll be able sleep through the night for once, my dear Louis. And tomorrow, we’ll meet at Pointare, one o’clock sharp.”
This was a restaurant near the garage, where Bejardy often had lunch.
When he had left the room, they stretched out on the fur bedspread, and as though she did not have the strength to undress herself, Louis took off her shoes, then the rest. They saw their reflection in a large standing mirror.
“Your friends are working some more?” Odile asked.
“Yes.”
“What are they doing?”
“I don’t really know,” Louis said.
They heard Brossier and Bejardy talking in the living room. Later, Louis woke up and heard them still talking, their voices joined by others. He listened to the uninterrupted murmur of conversation and felt himself relax.
Odile slept. Through the window, whose curtains they hadn’t drawn, he saw the Seine and the bright building of the Citroën factory on the opposite shore.
•
Bejardy gave him Saturdays and Sundays off. Brossier was free on weekends, too, and he suggested to Louis that they spend their “moments of leisure” together. He wanted to introduce him and Odile to his fiancée. By getting closer to Brossier, Louis would surely get more information about what had prompted Bejardy to entrust him with a job, and who exactly this Roland de Bejardy was.
He had received his salary the day before and managed to persuade Odile to join him. She would have to show up at the Auteuil cabaret-restaurant at around ten o’clock, and neither she nor Louis understood why Brossier had told them to meet him at the Cité Universitaire Métro station at the start of the afternoon.
The inner pocket of Louis’s jacket was bulging with fifteen hundred francs, and Odile would receive her fee after that night’s show. They were rich. And it was the first sunny day of the winter. In the train, on the Sceaux line, they felt like they were setting out on a trip.
BROSSIER was waiting for them on the platform at the Cité Universitaire station, as though they had just arrived on holiday and he, their friend, had come to meet their train. Plus, as he came up to them, he said “No luggage?” in a tone that left Louis confused, to the point where he wondered if they were really still in Paris, not at the seaside.
Even Brossier’s clothes were disconcerting. Still a Tyrolean hat with a red feather, but no boring, rumpled traveling salesman’s suit, no black socks and shoes. No. Instead, a print shirt under a white sweater, linen pants, and white sneakers, a monochrome look that Brossier seemed proud of. He hadn’t shaved. Or brushed his hair. Louis and Odile admired this new man. He walked them to the stairs leading out of the station.
“This way, my friends.”
They crossed the boulevard, led by Brossier, and entered the Cité campus.
“Here’s where I spend my weekends,” Brossier said with a smile. “Come with me, it’s this way.”
They took a path to the left between areas of grass, crossed the threshold of one of the massive buildings, and walked down a hallway, running into groups of students.
“My fiancée is waiting for us in the cafeteria. Here we are.”
The cafeteria was deserted at this early-afternoon hour. A beautiful black woman with harmonious Ethiopian features was sitting at a table all the way in the back, and Brossier walked over to her.
“This is Jacqueline, my fiancée. Odile . . . Louis . . . Jacqueline Boivin.”
She stood up and shook hands with them. She looked a little intimidated; she was around twenty years old and wearing a gray pleated skirt and a beige twinset: conservative clothes that didn’t match Brossier’s sporty look. He invited them to sit down at the table.
“I recommend the pan bagnats, they’re excellent here. Don’t you think so, Jacqueline?”
She a
greed with an almost imperceptible nod of her head.
Louis and Odile said nothing while Brossier walked over to the counter. They both smiled at Brossier’s fiancée without daring to speak, and when Louis offered her a cigarette from his pack, she refused with a furtive gesture. Brossier rejoined them, carrying a tray piled high with pan bagnats that he handed out to them. After taking a bite of his own, he said, “Juicy, aren’t they? Maybe you’d like a little harissa to make it spicier? I prefer it without.”
And he dug into the roll.
“Yes, Jacqueline is a student, she lives here at Cité Universitaire. As for me . . .”
He rummaged through his jacket pocket and took out a card that he handed to Louis.
“Look, I managed to get a student ID printed up. You need it to eat at the university cafeteria . . . and to feel like you belong.”
Louis looked at the card. It was in Brossier’s name, with his photograph, and listed a college address. Odile examined it in turn.
“And you sleep here?” she asked bluntly.
“Every weekend.”
He liked being able to reveal his secret, and he put his arm around his fiancée’s shoulders.
Odile handed him back his student card, which Brossier looked at too. He handled it carefully, even though it was encased in a plastic sheath.
“I made myself a bit younger . . . Oh, just ten years or so . . .”
“What exams are you taking this year?” Odile asked.
“The generals in literature. What are they called again, Jacqueline?”
“Propaedeutics,” Jacqueline said in a pinched voice.
He pulled her closer, and she rested her head on his shoulder.
“How did you get this card?” Louis asked.
“Bejardy knows someone. A Pole, who made false papers during the war.”
He said it unwillingly, as though it was a sore point and he was sad he wasn’t a real student.
“Jacqueline is a mathematician, just think . . . She’s taking courses at the Faculty of Sciences.”
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