To my surprise, one weekday evening before the accident, I bumped into Dr Bouvière on the metro. He wasn’t surprised in the slightest by our meeting and he explained that the same situations, the same faces, often reappear in our lives. He told me he would develop the theme of the ‘eternal return’ in one of our next meetings. I felt that he was on the brink of confiding in me. ‘You must have been surprised to see me in such a state the other day.’ He stared at me almost tenderly. There was not a trace of bruising left on his face or neck. ‘You see, my boy…There is something that I have been hiding from myself for a long time… something I have never admitted openly.’ Then he collected himself. He shook his head. ‘Excuse me…’ He smiled at me. He was clearly relieved to have stopped himself at the last moment from making some grave confession. He proceeded to talk too volubly about insignificant things, as if he wanted to throw me off track. He stood up and got off at Pigalle station. I was a little worried about him.
*
When I got out of the metro that afternoon, I dropped into a pharmacy. I handed over the prescription I’d been given at the clinic and asked how I should apply the dressing. The pharmacist wanted to know how I’d sustained my injury. When I explained that I’d been hit by a car, he said, ‘I hope you’re going to press charges.’ He insisted: ‘So, have you pressed charges…?’ I didn’t dare show him the piece of paper I had signed at the Mirabeau Clinic. The piece of paper seemed odd. I planned to read it again in my room with a clear head. As I left the pharmacy, he said, ‘And don’t forget to disinfect the wound with Mercurochrome every time you change the dressing.’
When I got back to the hotel, I telephoned directory enquiries to find out Jacqueline Beausergent’s phone number. Unknown at every number on Square de l’Alboni. My room seemed smaller than normal, as if I had returned after years away or even as if I had lived there in a previous life. Could it be that the accident the other night had caused such a fracture in my life that there was now a before and an after? I counted the banknotes. In any case, I had never been so rich. I could take a break from the exhausting buying and selling all over Paris, flogging to one bookshop what I had just bought at another for a tiny profit.
My ankle hurt. I didn’t have the energy to change the dressing. I lay down on my bed, hands crossed under my head, and tried to think about the past. I wasn’t used to it. For a long time, I had tried to forget my childhood, never having felt much nostalgia for it. I didn’t possess a single photo or any physical evidence from that period, apart from an old vaccination card. Yes, thinking about it, the episode outside the school with the van and the nuns came in between Biarritz and Jouy-en-Josas. So I would have been six years old. After Jouy-en-Josas, it was Paris and the primary school on Rue du Pont-de-Lodi, then different boarding schools and barracks across France: Saint Lô, Haute-Savoie, Bordeaux, Metz, Paris again, where I am now. In fact, the only mystery in my life, the only link that didn’t connect with the others, was the first accident with the van and the young woman or young girl who was late that evening because she had broken down coming from Paris. And it took the shock of the other night at Place des Pyramides for this forgotten episode to rise to the surface once again. What would Dr Bouvière have thought of it? Could he have used it as an example, along with so many others, to illustrate the theme of the eternal return in the next meeting at Denfert-Rochereau? But it wasn’t only this. It also seemed that a breach had opened up in my life onto an unknown horizon.
I got up and from the very top shelf of the cupboard I took down the navy-blue cardboard box in which I kept all the old pieces of paper that would later bear witness to my time on earth. A copy of my birth certificate, which I had just obtained from Boulogne-Billancourt Town Hall in order to obtain a passport; an academic certificate from Grenoble proving that I had passed the baccalauréat; a membership card for the Animal Protection Society; and in my military record book: my baptism certificate from Saint Martin’s Parish in Biarritz and the very old vaccination card. I opened it up and read for the first time the list of vaccinations and their dates: a certain Dr Valat had given one of them in Biarritz. Then, six months later, another vaccine, indicated by the stamp of a Dr Divoire, in Fossombronne-la-Forêt, Loir-et-Cher. Then another, many years later, in Paris… I had found a clue. It could have been a needle lost forever in a haystack, or, if I was lucky, a thread that I could trace back through time: Dr Divoire, Fossombronne-la-Forêt.
Then I re-read the report of the accident that the huge brown-haired man had given me outside the clinic, of which he had kept a copy. At the time I hadn’t realised that it was written in my own name and began: ‘I, the undersigned…’ And the terms used implied that I was responsible for the accident… ‘As I was crossing Place des Pyramides, alongside the arcades on Rue de Rivoli and going towards Place de la Concorde, I paid no attention to the approaching sea-green Fiat automobile, licence plate 3212FX75. The driver, Jacqueline Beausergent, tried to avoid me, resulting in a collision with one of the arcades of the square…’ Yes, that must be the truth of it. The car wasn’t going fast, and I should have looked left before crossing, but that night, I was in an altered state of mind. Jacqueline Beausergent. Directory enquiries had told me that there was no one by this name in Square de l’Alboni. But that was because she wasn’t in the phone book. I asked how many street numbers there were in the square. Thirteen. With a little patience, I would surely end up finding out which one was hers.
Later on, I left my room and called directory enquiries again. No Dr Divoire in Fossombronne-la-Forêt. I walked, limping slightly, as far as the small bookshop at the beginning of Boulevard Jourdan. I bought a Michelin map of Loir-et-Cher. I turned around and walked towards Babel Café. My leg hurt. I sat at one of the tables on the indoor terrace. I was surprised when I saw on the clock that it was only seven in the evening. I was filled with sadness that Hélène Navachine had left. I wanted to talk to someone. Should I walk up to Geneviève Dalame’s building, a little further down the road? But she would be with Dr Bouvière, unless he was still in Pigalle. You have to let people live their lives. And really, I wasn’t going to call at Geneviève Dalame’s place unannounced…So I unfolded the Michelin map and spent a long time poring over Fossombronne—it was really important to me, and it made me forget my loneliness. Square de l’Alboni. Fossombronne-la-Forêt. I was about to learn something important about myself that would perhaps change the course of my life.
ON THE QUAY at the beginning of Rue de l’Alboni were two cafés facing each other. The busier was the one on the right, which sold cigarettes and newspapers. I ended up asking the boss if he knew a certain Jacqueline Beausergent. No, the name didn’t ring a bell. A blonde woman who lived in the area. She’d had a car accident. No, he didn’t think so, but perhaps I could try at the big garage, further along the quay, before the Trocadéro Gardens, the one that specialised in American cars. They had a lot of clients in the area. She had injuries on her face? That kind of thing would stand out. Go and ask at the garage. He wasn’t surprised by my question and he had replied in a courteous, slightly weary voice, but I regretted having said Jacqueline Beausergent’s name in front of him. You have to let others approach at their own pace. No sudden movements. Remain still and silent and blend into the background. I always sat at the most secluded table. And I waited. I was the type of person who would stop at the edge of a pool at dusk and allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness until I could see all the agitation beneath the surface of the still water. Going around the neighbouring streets in the area, I became more and more convinced that I would be able to find her without asking anyone anything. I had to tread carefully in this zone. It had taken me a long time to gain access to it. All my journeys across Paris, the travels during my childhood from the Left Bank to the Bois de Vincennes and the Bois de Boulogne, from south to north, the meetings with my father, and my own wanderings over the years, all of it had led me to this neighbourhood on the side of a hill, right by the Seine, a neighbourhood you could
characterise simply as ‘residential’ or ‘nondescript’. In a letter dated some fifteen years ago, but which I received only yesterday, someone had arranged to meet me here. But it wasn’t too late: there was still someone waiting for me behind one of these windows, all identical, on façades of apartment buildings that all looked the same.
*
One morning when I was sitting in the café on the right, at the corner of the quay and Rue de l’Alboni, two men came in and sat at the counter. I recognised the huge brown-haired man straightaway. He was wearing the same dark coat he’d worn on the night of the accident and when I left the Mirabeau Clinic.
I tried to keep calm. He hadn’t noticed me. I could see both of them from behind, sitting at the counter. They were speaking quietly. The other man was taking notes in a pad, nodding from time to time as he listened to the huge brown-haired man. I was at a table quite close to the counter, but I didn’t catch a word of what they said. Why had he seemed like a ‘huge brown-haired man’ the first time I’d seen him, when the woman and I were side by side on the sofa in the lobby and he’d walked towards us? The shock of the accident must have blurred my vision. And the other day, leaving the clinic, I still wasn’t quite feeling myself. In fact, he had a certain elegance, but his low hairline and features had something brutal about them and reminded me of an American actor whose name I’ve forgotten.
I hesitated for a few moments. But I couldn’t let the chance slip by. I got up and propped my elbows on the counter next to him. He half-turned his back to me and I leaned over to attract his attention. It was the other man who noticed that I wanted to talk to him. He tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at me. He turned to face me. I remained silent, but I don’t think it was only out of timidity. I was trying to find the right words, hoping he would recognise me. But he looked surprised and annoyed.
‘Good to see you again,’ I said and held out my hand.
He shook it distractedly. ‘Have we met before?’ he asked, frowning.
‘The last time was not far from here. At the Mirabeau Clinic.’
The other man stared at me coldly, too. ‘Excuse me? I don’t understand…’ There was a trace of a smile on his lips.
‘Where did you say?’
‘The Mirabeau Clinic.’
‘You must be mistaken.’
He looked me up and down, perhaps to gauge the threat I posed. He noticed my left shoe. I had widened the split in my moccasin—for the bandage. If I remember correctly, I had even cut away most of the leather to free my ankle and I wore it without a sock, like the bandages that thoroughbreds sometimes have wrapped around their ankles because of their fragility.
‘It was the accident,’ I said. But he didn’t seem to understand. ‘Yes, the accident the other night…Place des Pyramides…’ He looked at me in silence. I got the impression he was taunting me. ‘Speaking of which,’ I said, ‘I wanted to know if there’s been any news from Jacqueline Beausergent…’
He put a cigarette in his mouth and the other man held out a lighter, without taking his eyes off me either. ‘I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying, sir.’ His tone was quite contemptuous, the way you’d address a homeless person or a drunk.
The boss of the café came over, surprised at the way I was behaving with a customer he seemed to respect—even fear. And it was true that there was something unsettling about this man’s face and his low, dark hairline. And even the tone of his slightly hoarse voice. But he didn’t scare me. Ever since I was a child, I’d seen so many strange men in my father’s company…This man was no more fearsome than the others.
‘I also wanted to let you know…I really don’t need all this money.’ And from the inside pocket of my sheepskin jacket I took out the large wad of notes he had given me when I left the Mirabeau Clinic and which I was still carrying with me. He gave a disdainful flick of the hand.
‘Sorry, sir…That’s quite enough.’ Then he turned back to the man next to him. They continued their conversation in hushed tones, ignoring my presence. I went and sat back down at my table. Behind the counter, the boss stared at me, shaking his head as if to say that my behaviour had been inappropriate and that I had got off lightly. Why? I would have loved to know.
When they left the café, they didn’t even glance over at me. Through the window, I watched them walk along the pavement next to the quay. I thought about following them. No, it was better not to rush things. And already I regretted having lost my composure in front of him. I ought to have stayed in my corner, without attracting his attention, and waited until he left to follow him. And then find out who he was and see if he could lead me to her. But having wasted this chance, I feared I had burned my bridges.
From behind the counter, the boss continued to look at me somewhat disapprovingly.
‘I must have mistaken him for someone else,’ I said.
‘Do you know that man’s name?’ He seemed reluctant and hesitated a moment, then he blurted it out, as if despite himself.
‘Solière.’
He said that I was lucky Solière hadn’t taken offence at my bad manners. What bad manners? A car had knocked me over the other night and I was simply trying to identify and find the driver. Was that unreasonable of me? I think I managed to convince him.
‘I understand…’ He smiled.
‘And who exactly is this Solière?’ I asked.
His smile broadened. My question seemed to amuse him. ‘He’s no choirboy,’ he said. ‘No, he’s no choirboy…’ I could tell from his evasive tone that I wouldn’t get any more out of him.
‘Does he live in the neighbourhood?’
‘He used to live around here, but not any more, I don’t think,’ he said.
‘And do you know if he’s married?’
‘I couldn’t tell you.’
Other customers arrived and interrupted our conversation. He had forgotten about me, anyway. It was presumptuous of me to think he gave a second thought to my exchange with Solière. Customers come and go, they whisper among themselves. There’s shouting too. Sometimes, very late at night, the police have to be called. In all the commotion, the comings and goings, a few faces, a few names stand out. But not for very long.
*
I thought that, with a little luck, the car would turn up again, parked somewhere in the neighbourhood. I walked up to the big garage on the quay and asked the petrol-pump assistant if, among his customers, he knew of a blonde woman who had recently been in a car accident and had injuries to her face. She drove a sea-green Fiat. He thought about it for a moment. No, he couldn’t help me. There was so much traffic on the quay…You’d think it was a motorway. He didn’t even notice his customers’ faces anymore. Far too many customers. And Fiats. And so many blonde women… Then I ended up further down the quay, in the Trocadéro Gardens. I thought it was the first time I’d walked in the gardens, but in front of the aquarium building, a vague childhood memory came back to me. I bought a ticket and went in. I stayed a long time watching the fish behind the glass. Their phosphorescent colours reminded me of something. Someone had brought me here, but I couldn’t say exactly when. Before Biarritz? Between Biarritz and Jouy-en-Josas? Or was it shortly after I returned to Paris, just before I had quite reached the age of reason?
I thought it was around the same time as when I was hit by the van outside the school. And then, contemplating the fish in silence, I remembered the café boss’s reply when I asked him who exactly the man named Solière was: ‘He’s no choirboy.’ I had been a choirboy, at one point in my life. It was not something I ever thought about, and the memory of it came back to me suddenly. It was at midnight mass in a village church. Although I searched through my memory, it could only have been Fossombronne-la-Forêt, where the school and the convent were, as well as a certain Dr Divoire, who directory enquiries had told me was no longer in the phone book. She was the only one who could have taken me to midnight mass and to the Trocadéro aquarium. Under the van’s tarpaulin, she held my hand and leaned
over me.
The memory was far more distinct in this silent space, illuminated by the light of the tanks. Returning from midnight mass, along a small street, up to the front door of the house, someone was holding my hand. It was the same person. And I had come here during the same period, I had contemplated the same multicoloured fish gliding by behind the glass in silence. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear footsteps behind me and to see her coming towards me when I turned around, as if all those years amounted to nothing. What’s more, we made the journey from Fossombronne-la-Forêt to Paris in the same car as the one that hit me on Place des Pyramides, a sea-green car. It had never stopped driving around the streets of Paris at night, looking for me.
When I left the aquarium, I was overwhelmed by the cold. Along the paths and lawns of the gardens, there were little piles of snow. The sky was a limpid blue. I felt I could see clearly for the first time in my life. This blue, against which the Palais de Chaillot was sharply silhouetted, this bracing cold after years and years of torpor…The accident the other night had come at the right time. I needed a shock to wake me out of my lethargy. I couldn’t carry on walking around in fog. And it happened a few months before I turned twenty-one. What a strange coincidence. I’d been saved just in time. That accident would probably be one of the most defining events of my life. A return to order.
The school and the van with a tarpaulin: it was the first time I revisited the past. It was triggered by the shock of the accident the other night. Until that point I had lived from one day to the next. I’d been driving on a road covered with black ice in what could have been described as zero-visibility conditions. I’d had to avoid looking back. Perhaps I’d turned onto a bridge that was too narrow. It was impossible to turn around. One glance in the rear-view mirror and I would have been consumed by vertigo. But now I could look back over those unfortunate years without fear. It was as though someone other than myself had a bird’s eye view of my life, or that I was looking at my own X-ray against a backlit screen. Everything was so clear, the lines so precise and pure…Only the essential elements were left: the van, the face leaning over me under the tarpaulin, ether, midnight mass and the walk home up to the front gate of the house where her room was on the first floor, at the end of the corridor.
Paris Nocturne Page 6