Villa Triste

by Patrick Modiano

  We got off the boat at Menthon with the others. They walked ahead of us, carrying their rackets. We went along a road lined with villas whose exteriors evoked mountain chalets and where several generations of dreamy bourgeois had been coming to spend their vacations. Sometimes the houses were hidden by clusters of hawthorn or fir trees. Villa Primevère, Villa Edelweiss, Les Chamois, Chalet Marie-Rose … The others turned left on a road that led to the wire netting surrounding a tennis court. The buzz of their talk and their laughter faded away.

  The two of us turned right. A sign said GRAND HÔTEL DE MENTHON. A private road mounted a very steep slope to a graveled esplanade. From there you had a view that was just as vast as, but sadder than, the one from the terraces of the Hermitage. On this side, the shores of the lake looked deserted. The hotel was very old. In the lobby, some green plants, some rattan chairs, some big sofas covered with plaid fabric. Families would come here in July and August. The same names would recur on the register, double names, very French: Sergent-Delval, Hattier-Morel, Paquier-Panhard … And when we took a room, I thought “Count Victor Chmara” was going to stand out like a greasy stain.

  Around us, some children, their parents, and their grandparents, all of them very dignified, were getting ready to leave for the beach, carrying bags filled with cushions and towels. Several young people gathered around a tall man with very short dark hair and a khaki army shirt open over his chest. He was leaning on crutches as the others asked him questions.

  A corner room. One of the windows overlooked the esplanade and the lake; the other was blocked up. A cheval glass and a little table covered with a lace doily. A brass bed. We stayed there until nightfall.

  As we walked through the lobby, I saw them in the dining room, having their evening meal. They were all dressed in street clothes. Even the children had on ties or little dresses. And we two were the only passengers on the deck of the Amiral-Guisand. The exhausted old tub chugged back across the lake even more slowly than on the trip out. It stopped at deserted wharves and then resumed its cruise. The lights of the villas sparkled through the greenery. In the distance, the Casino, floodlit and gleaming. Some party was surely going on there that night. I would have liked the boat to stop in the middle of the lake or next to one of the half-collapsed barges. Yvonne had fallen asleep.

  We often dined with Meinthe at the Sporting Club. Outdoor tables, covered with white tablecloths. On each, a double-shaded lamp. You know the photograph from the children’s charity ball supper in Cannes on August 22, 1939, and the other one, the one I always have on me (my father’s in it, in the midst of an entire society that has vanished), taken on July 11, 1948, at the Cairo Casino the night the young Englishwoman named Kay Owen was elected “Miss Bathing Beauty”? Well, those two photographs could have been taken at the Sporting Club that year, when we used to have dinner there. Same décor. Same “blue” night. Same people. Yes, I recognized some faces.

  Every time we dined together, Meinthe wore a dinner jacket of a different color and Yvonne a muslin or crepe dress. She was fond of boleros and scarves. I was condemned to my single flannel suit and my International Bar Fly tie. The first few times, Meinthe took us to the Sainte-Rose, a lakeside nightclub located past Menthon-Saint-Bernard, in Voirens, to be exact. He knew the manager, a fellow named Pulli, who he told me was an illegal resident. But this Pulli, a paunchy man with velvety eyes, seemed to be sweetness personified. He had a lisp. The Sainte-Rose was a very “chic” place. You could find the same rich summer vacationers there as at the Sporting Club. You danced on a terrace that featured a pergola. I remember holding Yvonne close to me and thinking I could never do without the smell of her skin and her hair, and the band was playing “Tuxedo Junction.”

  All in all, we were meant to meet and hit it off.

  We’d get back very late, and the dog would be asleep in the living room. Ever since I’d moved into the Hermitage with Yvonne, his melancholy had grown worse. Every two or three hours — as regular as a metronome — he’d make a tour of the bedroom and then go lie down again. Before going back to the living room, he’d stop for a few minutes in front of our bedroom window and sit down, ears pricked, maybe following the progress of the Amiral-Guisand across the lake or contemplating the scenery. I was struck by the animal’s sad discretion and touched to observe him performing his guard duties.

  She’d put on a beach robe with big orange and green stripes and lie across the bed to smoke a cigarette. On her night table, along with a lipstick or an atomizer, there were always wads of banknotes lying around. Where did that money come from? How long had she been staying at the Hermitage? “They” had put her up there for the duration of the film. But now that it was finished? It was very important to her — she explained — to spend the “season” in this resort town. The “season” was going to be “very brilliant.” “Resort,” “season,” “very brilliant,” “Count Chmara” — who was lying to whom in this foreign language?

  But maybe she just needed company? I showed myself attentive, considerate, tactful, and passionate, as one is at eighteen. On those first evenings, when we weren’t discussing her “career,” she’d ask me to read her a page or two of André Maurois’s History of England. Every time I started to read, the Great Dane would immediately appear in the doorway to the living room, sit, and gravely regard me. Yvonne, lounging in her beach robe and frowning slightly, would listen. I never understood why she, who had never read anything in her life, liked that historical work so much. When I asked, she gave me vague answers: “It’s very good, you know”; “André Maurois is a very great writer.” I believe she’d found the History of England in the lobby of the Hermitage, and I think the volume became a sort of talisman for her, a lucky charm. From time to time, she’d tell me, “Don’t read so fast,” or ask me the meaning of a sentence. She wanted to learn the History of England by heart. I assured her André Maurois would be glad to know that. So then she started asking me questions about the author. I explained that Maurois was a very gentle Jewish novelist much interested in female psychology. One evening she asked me to write him a note: “Monsieur André Maurois, I am an admirer of yours. I am reading your History of England, and I would love to have your autograph. Respectfully, Yvonne X.”

  He never responded. Why not?

  How long had she known Meinthe? Forever. He too — it appeared — had an apartment in Geneva, and they were practically inseparable. Meinthe practiced, “more or less,” medicine. In the pages of the Maurois book, I found a visiting card engraved with these three words: “Doctor René Meinthe,” and on the bathroom shelf, among the beauty products, a prescription from “Doctor R. C. Meinthe” for sleeping pills.

  Furthermore, every morning when we woke up we’d find a letter from Meinthe under the door. I’ve kept a few of those letters; time has not dissipated their vetiver scent. I wondered where that fragrance came from. From the envelope, from the paper, or, you never know, from the ink Meinthe used? Here’s one letter, chosen at random: “Will I have the pleasure of seeing you two this evening? I must spend this afternoon in Geneva. I shall telephone you at the hotel around nine o’clock. With love, your René M.” And another: “Forgive me for not having given you any signs of life, but I haven’t left my room for forty-eight hours. It occurred to me that in three weeks I shall be twenty-seven years old. And that I shall be a very old, very old person. I’ll see you very soon. Love from your godmother, René.” And this one, addressed to Yvonne in a more nervous hand: “Do you know who I just saw in the lobby? That prick François Maulaz. And he wanted to shake my hand. No, no, never. Never. He can drop dead!” (the last word underlined four times). There were many other letters.

  The two of them often talked about people I didn’t know. I recall a few names: Claude Brun, Paulo Hervieu, a certain “Rosy,” Jean-Pierre Pessoz, Pierre Fournier, François Maulaz, “Miss Carlton,” and someone called Doudou Hendrickx, whom Meinthe qualified as a “swine.” I quickly realized that they were locals, that they all or
iginally came from the town we were in, a summer vacation spot doomed to turn back into a boring little burg at the end of every October. Meinthe said that Brun and Hervieu had “gone up” to Paris, that Rosy had taken over her father’s hotel in La Clusaz, and that “that prick” Maulaz, the bookseller’s son, carried on openly every summer at the Sporting Club with a member of the Comédie-Française. All those people must have been their friends since childhood or adolescence. Whenever I asked a question, Meinthe and Yvonne would act evasive and interrupt their private conversation. Then I remembered what I’d learned from Yvonne’s passport and imagined each of them at the age of fifteen or sixteen, in the winter, leaving the Regent cinema.

  7.

  If I could find one of the tourist information office’s programs — white cover and, in green, the Casino and the silhouette of a woman drawn in the style of Jean-Gabriel Domergue — I could read the list of festivities and their exact dates, and that would give me some reference points.

  One evening we went to see Georges Ulmer, who was singing at the Sporting Club. I believe this happened at the beginning of July, and it must have been five or six days after I’d moved in with Yvonne. Meinthe went with us. Ulmer wore a very creamy light blue suit I couldn’t take my eyes off of. That velvety blue had a hypnotic power over me, so much so that I nearly fell asleep staring at it.

  Meinthe suggested we have a drink. In the semidarkness, surrounded by dancing people, I heard them talk about the Houligant Cup for the first time. I remembered the light airplane and its enigmatic streamer. Yvonne was concerned about the Houligant Cup. It was the prize in a sort of concours d’elegance. According to Meinthe, you had to own a luxury automobile to take part in the competition. Would they use the Dodge, or would they rent a car in Geneva? (It was Meinthe who raised this question.) Yvonne wanted to try her luck. The jury was composed of various well-known personalities: the president of the Chavoires golf club and his wife; the president of the tourist information office; Haute-Savoie’s sub-prefect; André de Fouquières (I jumped when I heard that name and asked Meinthe to repeat it: yes, it was indeed André de Fouquières, long known as “the arbiter of elegance,” whose interesting memoirs I’d read); Monsieur and Madame Sandoz, the managers of the Windsor Hotel; the former skiing champion Daniel Hendrickx, owner of very chic sports shops in Megève and l’Alpe d’Huez (the man Meinthe called a “swine”); a film director whose name has escaped me (something like Gamonge or Gamace); and, finally, the dancer José Torres.

  Meinthe too was excited about the contest, delighted by the prospect of competing for the Cup as Yvonne’s gallant cavalier. His role would be limited to driving the car up the Sporting Club’s long gravel drive and stopping in front of the jury. Then he was to get out and open Yvonne’s door for her. The Great Dane would naturally be part of the show.

  Meinthe assumed an air of mystery and, with a wink, handed me an envelope: the list of contestants for the Cup. He and Yvonne were the last couple entered, number 32. “Doctor R. C. Meinthe and Mademoiselle Yvonne Jacquet” (her family name has just come back to me). The Houligant Cup was awarded on the same date each year for “beauty and elegance.” The organizers of the contest managed to create a fair amount of hype for their event, so much so that — as Meinthe explained to me — it sometimes got mentioned in the Paris newspapers. According to him, taking part in it would be an excellent career move for Yvonne.

  And when we got up from the table to dance, she couldn’t stop asking me what I thought: should she, yes or no, compete for the Cup? A serious problem. There was confusion in her look. I saw Meinthe sitting there alone with his “light” port. He was shading his eyes with his left hand. Could he possibly be crying? Now and then he and Yvonne seemed vulnerable and disoriented (disoriented is the exact word).

  But of course she had to take part in the Houligant Cup. Of course. It was important for her career. With a little luck, she’d be Miss Houligant. Indeed she would. Besides, they had all started off that way.

  Meinthe decided to use the Dodge. If he got it polished the day before the contest, it was still capable of making a positive impression. The beige convertible hood was practically new.

  As the days passed and Sunday July 9 got closer and closer, Yvonne showed ever-increasing signs of nervousness. She knocked over glasses, she couldn’t sit still, she spoke harshly to the dog. And in return he would give her a look both merciful and mild.

  Meinthe and I tried to reassure her. Competing for the Cup would certainly be less demanding than making the movie. Five little minutes. A few steps in front of the jury. Nothing else. And, should she lose, the consolation of knowing that among all the contestants, she was the only one who’d already acted in a film. A professional, in a way.

  We ought not to be unprepared, Meinthe opined, and he proposed a dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon, on a wide, shaded avenue behind the Alhambra Hotel. I sat on a garden chair and represented the jury. The Dodge slowly moved forward. Yvonne fixed her lips in a strained smile. Meinthe drove with his right hand. The dog turned his back to them and remained immobile, like a figurehead on a ship.

  Meinthe pulled up directly in front of me and, bracing his left hand on the car door, sprang vigorously over it. He landed elegantly, legs together, back straight. He dipped his head, sketching a bow, walked around the Dodge with neat little steps, and deftly opened Yvonne’s door. She got out, holding the dog tightly by the collar, and took a few timid steps. The Great Dane cast his eyes down. They got back in the car, and Meinthe leaped over the driver’s door again, regaining his post behind the wheel. I admired his agility.

  He was determined to repeat this act in front of the jury. Couldn’t wait to see the look on Doudou Hendrickx’s face.

  The evening before, Yvonne wanted to drink champagne. Then she slept restlessly. She was the little girl on the day of the school pageant, almost in tears before stepping up onto the stage.

  Meinthe had made a morning appointment with us: in the lobby, ten o’clock sharp. The Cup was scheduled to begin at noon, but he needed some time beforehand to see to certain details: general inspection of the Dodge, various instructions for Yvonne, and maybe also some stretching exercises.

  He insisted on being present at Yvonne’s final preparations. When she hesitated between a fuchsia turban and a big straw hat, he cut her off impatiently: “The turban, my dear, the turban.” She’d chosen a white linen coat dress. Meinthe was wearing a sand-colored shantung suit. I’ve got a good memory for clothes.

  We went out into the sun, Yvonne, Meinthe, the dog, and I. I’ve never known such a July morning, either before or since. A light breeze stirred the big flag flying from the top of a mast in front of the hotel. Blue and gold. What country’s colors were those?

  We coasted down Boulevard Carabacel.

  The other contestants’ cars were already parked on both sides of the very wide drive that led to the Sporting Club. Upon hearing their names and numbers called out over a loudspeaker, the couples had to present themselves at once before the members of the jury, who were installed on the restaurant terrace. As the drive ended in a rotary below them, they would be looking down on the proceedings.

  Meinthe had ordered me to place myself as close as possible to the jury and to observe the competition for the Cup in meticulous detail. I was to pay particular attention to Doudou Hendrickx’s face when Meinthe performed his acrobatic routine. If necessary, I could jot down some notes.

  We sat in the Dodge and waited. Yvonne virtually glued her forehead to the rearview mirror and checked her makeup. Meinthe had donned some strange steel-rimmed sunglasses and was patting his chin and temples with his handkerchief. I stroked the dog, who turned upon each of us, one by one, a look of desolation. We were parked alongside a tennis court where four players — two men and two women — were engaged in a match, and in an attempt to distract Yvonne, I pointed out that one of the men resembled the French comic actor Fernandel. “What if it’s him?” I suggested. But Yvonne didn’t h
ear me. Her hands were shaking. Meinthe concealed his anxiety behind a little cough. He turned on the radio, which drowned out the monotonous and exasperating sound of the tennis balls. We stayed there unmoving, the three of us, our hearts beating, as we listened to a news bulletin. Finally, the loudspeaker announced, “Will the contestants for this year’s Houligant Elegance Cup please make themselves ready.” Then, two or three minutes later: “Couple number 1, Madame and Monsieur Jean Hatmer!” Meinthe grimaced nervously. I kissed Yvonne and wished her good luck, and then I took an alternate path to the Sporting Club restaurant. I was feeling pretty emotional myself.

  The jury was seated behind a row of white wooden tables, each adorned with a green-and-red parasol. A great press of spectators crowded around. Some were lucky enough to be sitting down and drinking aperitifs; others remained on their feet, dressed in their beach attire. In accordance with Meinthe’s wishes, I slipped through the throng and got as close to the judges as I could, close enough to spy on them.