Villa Triste

by Patrick Modiano

  He stressed the word Count and marked a pause after saying it. Then, turning to me: “You have before you one of France’s all-time ski champions: Daniel Hendrickx.”

  Hendrickx smiled, but I could tell he didn’t trust Meinthe’s unpredictable reactions from one minute to the next. He’d certainly known him for a good long time.

  “Of course, my dear Victor, you’re much too young for that name to mean anything to you,” Meinthe added.

  The others waited. Hendrickx got ready to absorb the coming blow with feigned indifference.

  “I don’t suppose you were born when Daniel Hendrickx won the combined …”

  “René, why do you say things like that?” Fossorié asked in a very mild, very unctuous tone, molding his syllables even more thoroughly, working his mouth so much you expected cotton candy to come out of it.

  “I was there when he won the grand slalom and the combined,” declared one of the bronzed blondes, the one named Meg Devillers. “It wasn’t so long ago.”

  Hendrickx shrugged, and as the orchestra was starting to play a slow fox-trot, he seized the moment and asked Yvonne to dance. Fossorié, escorting Meg Devillers, joined them. The golf club president led out the other bronzed blonde. And the Roland-Michels, holding hands, followed them onto the dance floor. Meinthe bowed to the brunette and said, “Well, shall we dance a little too?”

  I remained alone at the table. I didn’t take my eyes off of Yvonne and Hendrickx. From a distance, he had rather an imposing presence: he was about five feet eleven inches tall, maybe even a bit over six feet. And the light shining on the dance floor — blue with a hint of pink — softened his face, canceling its thickness and its vulgarity. He was holding Yvonne very close. What should I do? Break his jaw? My hands were trembling. I could, of course, take him by surprise and punch him right in the nose. Or I could come up behind him and smash a bottle on his skull. And what good would that do? In the first place, it would make me look ridiculous in front of Yvonne. And besides, that sort of behavior wasn’t suited to my mild temperament or my natural pessimism or a certain cowardice I couldn’t deny.

  The orchestra segued to another slow tune, and none of the couples left the dance floor. Hendrickx held Yvonne closer and closer. Why was she letting him do that? I was hoping she’d wink at me on the sly, give me a smile of complicity. No such luck. Pulli, the fat, velvet-eyed manager, cautiously approached my table. He stood right beside me, leaning on the back of one of the empty chairs. He was trying to converse with me. I felt bored by the prospect.

  “Monsieur Chmara … Monsieur Chmara …”

  Out of politeness, I turned to him.

  “Tell me, are you related to the Chmaras of Alexandria?”

  He leaned toward me avidly, and I realized why I’d chosen that name, which I thought had sprung from my imagination: it belonged to a family in Alexandria my father had often talked to me about.

  “Yes. They’re relatives of mine,” I replied.

  “So you’re originally from Egypt?”

  “More or less.”

  He smiled as though touched. He wanted to know more, and I could have talked to him about the villa in Sidi Bishr where I spent a few years of my childhood, or about the Abdeen Palace and the Auberge des Pyramides, which I very vaguely remember. And I in my turn could have asked him if he himself was related to one of my father’s shady connections, a certain Antonio Pulli, who served as King Farouk’s confidant and “secretary.” But I was too preoccupied by Yvonne and Hendrickx.

  She was still dancing with the guy, who was not only over the hill but who also certainly dyed his hair. But maybe she was doing that for some special reason she’d divulge to me later, when we were alone. Or maybe for no reason at all, just like that? What if she’d forgotten me? I’ve never had a great deal of confidence in my identity, and the thought that she might not recognize me again crossed my mind. Pulli sat down in Meinthe’s place.

  “I knew Henri Chmara in Cairo … We used to meet every evening at the Chez Groppi or the Mena House.”

  You would have thought he was telling me state secrets.

  “Wait … It was the year when the king was going around with that French chanteuse … You know the one I mean?”

  “Oh, yes …”

  He spoke more and more softly. He was afraid of invisible policemen. “And you? You lived there?”

  Only a weak pink glow now came from the spotlights trained on the dance floor. I lost sight of Yvonne and Hendrickx for an instant, but they reappeared behind Meinthe, Meg Devillers, Fossorié, and Tounette Roland-Michel. Tounette made a remark over her husband’s shoulder. Yvonne burst out laughing.

  “You understand how it is, you can’t forget Egypt … No … There are evenings when I ask myself what I’m doing here …”

  At once I asked myself the same question. Why hadn’t I stayed where I was, at the Lindens, reading my phone directories and my movie magazines? He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I don’t know what I’d give to be sitting on the terrace at the Pastroudis … How can you ever forget Egypt?”

  “But it can’t be the same anymore,” I murmured.

  “Do you really think so?”

  Out on the floor, Hendrickx was taking advantage of the semidarkness to run a hand over her behind.

  Meinthe came back to our table. Alone. The brunette was dancing with another partner. He dropped into his chair.

  “What were you talking about?” He’d taken off his sunglasses and was looking at me with a kindly smile. “I’m sure Pulli was telling you some of his Egyptian stories …”

  “This gentleman is from Alexandria, like me,” Pulli said sharply.

  “You are, Victor?”

  Hendrickx was trying to kiss her neck, but she held him off and jerked away from him.

  “Pulli’s been running this club for ten years,” Meinthe was saying. “He works in Geneva in the winter. The thing is, he’s never been able to get used to the mountains.”

  He’d noticed that I was watching Yvonne dance, and he was trying to distract my attention.

  “If you come to Geneva in the winter, Victor,” Meinthe said, “I’ll have to take you to his place. Pulli has exactly recreated a Cairo restaurant that’s not there anymore. What was its name?”

  “The Khédival.”

  “When he’s there, he imagines he’s still in Egypt, and then he doesn’t feel quite so blue. Isn’t that right, Pulli?”

  “Fuck mountains!”

  “You mustn’t ever feel blue,” Meinthe sang softly. “Never blue. Never blue. Never.”

  The dancers were beginning another dance. Meinthe leaned toward me and said, “Don’t pay any attention, Victor.”

  The Roland-Michels came back to the table. Then Fossorié and the blond Meg Devillers. And finally, Yvonne and Hendrickx. She sat down beside me and took hold of my hand. So she hadn’t forgotten me. Hendrickx was gazing at me with curiosity in his eyes.

  “You’re Yvonne’s fiancé, then?”

  “Yes indeed,” Meinthe said, not giving me time to answer. “And if everything goes well, her name will soon be Countess Yvonne Chmara. How do you like that?”

  He meant to provoke him, but Hendrickx kept the smile on his face.

  “That sounds better than Yvonne Hendrickx, don’t you think?” Meinthe added.

  “And what does this young man do in life?” Hendrickx asked pompously.

  “Nothing,” said I, screwing my monocle into my left eye. “NOTHING, NOTHING.”

  “No doubt you thought our young man was a ski instructor or a shopkeeper, like you,” Meinthe went on.

  “Shut up or I’ll break you into little pieces,” Hendrickx said, and you couldn’t tell whether it was a threat or a joke.

  Yvonne was scratching the palm of my hand with her index fingernail. Her mind was on something else. What? The simultaneous arrival of the brunette, her energetic-looking husband, and the other blonde did nothing to lighten the atmosphere. Everyone was casting sideways
glances in Meinthe’s direction. What was he going to do? Insult Hendrickx? Throw an ashtray at his head? Cause a scandal? In the end, the president of the golf club tried some social conversation: “Do you still have your practice in Geneva, Doctor?”

  Meinthe answered him like an earnest young schoolboy: “Of course, Monsieur Tessier.”

  “It’s amazing, how much you remind me of your father …”

  Meinthe smiled sadly. “Oh, no, don’t say that … my father was much better than I am.”

  Yvonne leaned her shoulder against mine, and that simple contact overwhelmed me. Who was her father? Although Hendrickx evidently liked her (or rather held her too close when they danced), I noticed that Tessier, his wife, and Fossorié hardly paid her any attention at all. Neither did the Roland-Michels. I’d even caught an expression of amused contempt on Tounette Roland-Michel’s face after Yvonne shook her hand. Yvonne didn’t belong to the same world they did. On the other hand, they seemed to consider Meinthe their equal and treat him with a certain indulgence. And what about me? Wasn’t I a “teenager” in their eyes, a devotee of rock and roll? Perhaps not. My gravity, my monocle, and my noble title intrigued them a little. Especially Hendrickx.

  “You were a skiing champion?” I asked him.

  “Yes,” Meinthe answered, “but that’s all lost in the mists of time.”

  “Just imagine,” Hendrickx said to me, laying his hand on my forearm, “I met this whippersnapper” — he gestured toward Meinthe — “when he was five years old. He was playing with dolls.”

  Fortunately, the orchestra launched into a cha-cha-cha at that moment. It was past midnight, and customers were arriving in clusters. They were bumping into one another on the dance floor. Hendrickx hailed Pulli.

  “Bring us some champagne and tell the orchestra …”

  He winked at Pulli, who responded with a vaguely military salute, forefinger above eyebrow.

  “Doctor, do you think aspirin is good for circulation problems?” asked the president of the golf club. “I read some such thing in Science and Life.”

  Meinthe hadn’t heard him. Yvonne laid her head on my shoulder. The orchestra stopped playing. Pulli brought a tray with glasses and two bottles of champagne. Hendrickx stood up and waved his arms. The couples on the dance floor, as well as the other guests, turned toward our table.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Hendrickx proclaimed, “we are going to drink to the health of the triumphant winner of the Houligant Cup, Mademoiselle Yvonne Jacquet.”

  He motioned to Yvonne to stand up. We all got to our feet. We clinked glasses, and as I could feel everyone’s eyes on us, I faked a coughing fit.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Hendrickx resumed, speaking emphatically, “I ask you for a round of applause for the young and lovely Yvonne Jacquet.”

  People shouted “bravas” all around us. She pressed against me shyly. My monocle had fallen out. The clapping continued at length, and I didn’t dare budge an inch. I fixed my eyes in front of me, on Fossorié’s massive hair, on its cunning, multiple, intertwined undulations, on the curious blue-gray mane that looked like a finely wrought helmet.

  The orchestra came back and the music started again. A very slow cha-cha-cha, in which you could make out the melody of “April in Portugal.”

  Meinthe stood up. “If it’s all right with you, Hendrickx,” he said (using the formal vous for the first time), “I am going to leave you and this elegant company.” He turned to Yvonne and me: “Do you want a ride back?”

  I said yes docilely. Yvonne stood up too. She shook hands with Fossorié and the president of the golf club, but she didn’t dare say goodbye to the Roland-Michels or the two bronzed blondes.

  “And when’s the wedding going to be?” Hendrickx asked, pointing a finger at us.

  “As soon as we get the hell out of this shitty little French village,” I said very fast.

  They all gaped at me.

  Why had I spoken so stupidly and crudely about a French village? I still ask myself that, and I apologize. Meinthe himself looked sorry to see me in this new light.

  “Come on,” Yvonne said, taking me by the arm. Hendrickx remained speechless, staring, wide-eyed.

  I bumped into Pulli without meaning to.

  “Are you leaving, Monsieur Chmara?” he asked, trying to restrain me and pressing my hand.

  “I’ll be back, I’ll be back,” I told him.

  “Oh, please do come back. We can talk some more about all those things …”

  And he made an evasive gesture. We crossed the dance floor. Meinthe was marching behind us. Now the spotlights were making it look as though big snowflakes were falling on the dancing couples. Yvonne was hauling me along, and we had trouble getting through the crowd.

  Before going down the steps, I tried to take a last look at the table where we’d been sitting.

  All my rage had dissolved, and I regretted my loss of self-control.

  “Are you coming?” Yvonne said. “Are you coming?”

  “What are you thinking, Victor?” Meinthe asked, tapping me on the shoulder.

  I stayed there at the top of the stairs, hypnotized once again by Fossorié’s hair. It was gleaming. He must have smeared it with some kind of phosphorescent brilliantine. How much effort, how much patience, to erect that gray-blue edifice every morning.

  Back in the Dodge, Meinthe said our evening had been a stupid waste of time. Daniel Hendrickx was to blame for recommending that Yvonne should come and telling her that all the contest judges would be there, as well as several journalists. It was a mistake ever to believe “that scumbag.”

  “As you well know, my dear,” Meinthe added in an exasperated voice. “Did he at least give you the check?”

  “Of course.”

  And then I got the scoop about the great triumph: Hendrickx had created the Houligant Cup five years before. In alternate years it was awarded in winter, at l’Alpe d’Huez or Megève. He’d begun this undertaking out of snobbism (he chose prominent socialites as judges), as a way of getting publicity (the newspapers that reported on the Cup would quote him, Hendrickx, and cite his athletic accomplishments), and because of his hankering for pretty girls. Given the promise of winning the Cup, any idiot would yield to him. The check was for 800,000 francs. In the jury’s deliberations, Hendrickx’s word was law. Fossorié would have liked the Elegance Cup, which was a big hit every year, to be a bit more dependent on the tourist office. That was the reason for the muted rivalry between the two men.

  “Ah, yes, my dear Victor,” Meinthe concluded, “now you see how petty the provinces are.”

  He turned and favored me with a sad smile. We’d arrived in front of the Casino, and Yvonne asked Meinthe to drop us off there. We’d walk back to the hotel, we said.

  “Call me tomorrow, you two.” He seemed woebegone because we were leaving him on his own. He leaned out the window: “And forget this dreadful evening.”

  Then he sped off, as if he wanted to tear himself away from us. He took Rue Royale, and I wondered where he would spend the night.

  We admired the changing colors of the fountain for a few minutes. We got as close to it as we could, and water droplets sprayed our faces. I shoved Yvonne. She struggled and cried out. Then she tried to take me by surprise and push me too. Our shouts of laughter echoed across the deserted esplanade. Not far away, the waiters at the Taverne were just about finished clearing the tables. The night was warm, and I felt a kind of intoxication at the thought that the summer had hardly begun and that we still had days and days ahead to spend together, and evenings when we could go out for walks or stay in the room and listen to the muffled, idiotic plunking of the tennis balls.

  On the first floor of the Casino, the bay windows were all lit up: the baccarat room. You could see silhouettes. We walked around the building, which had CASINO inscribed in round letters on its façade, and we passed the entrance to the Brummel Lounge, where the music we heard was coming from. Yes, that was a summer of music
, there were tunes and songs in the air, always the same ones.

  We walked along Avenue d’Albigny on the left-hand sidewalk, which bordered the garden of the prefecture. Not many cars passed us, only a few in either direction. I asked Yvonne why she let Hendrickx put his hand on her behind. She answered that it didn’t mean anything. She had to be nice to Hendrickx, because he’d let her win the Cup, and he’d given her a check for 800,000 francs. I told her that in my opinion, a girl should ask for a lot more than 800,000 francs to let someone “grope her butt,” and that in any case the Houligant Elegance Cup was of no interest to anyone. Not to anyone at all. Except for a few stray provincials scattered on the shores of a godforsaken lake, nobody knew that Cup existed. It was grotesque, the Houligant Cup. And pathetic. Wasn’t it? In the first place, what did anybody in this “Savoyard backwater” know about elegance? What? She answered in a pinched little voice, saying she found Hendrickx “very attractive” and was thrilled to have danced with him. I said — making an effort to articulate the syllables, but it was no use, I swallowed half of them anyway — that Hendrickx had a bull’s head and “a saggy ass, like all the French.” “But you’re French too,” she said. “No. No. I’ve got nothing to do with the French,” I said. “You French, you’re incapable of understanding true nobility, true —” She burst out laughing; I didn’t intimidate her. So, faking extreme coldness, I declared that in the future she’d be best advised not to boast too much about the Houligant Elegance Cup, if she didn’t want people making fun of her. There were lots of girls who had won ridiculous little prizes like that shortly before sinking into utter oblivion. And how many others had accidentally got a part in a worthless film like Liebesbriefe auf der Berg? Their cinematic career had come to an end right there. Many were called. Few were chosen. “You think the movie’s worthless?” she asked. “Totally.” That one made her suffer, I think. She walked on without saying anything. We sat on the bench in the chalet and waited for the cable car. With meticulous care, she tore an old cigarette pack into tiny shreds. As she proceeded, she placed the little pieces of paper on the ground, and they were like a pile of confetti. Her concentration moved me so much that I kissed her hands.