The Night Watch

by Patrick Modiano

  A little farther along. On the left, the théâtre des Ambassadeurs. They’re performing The Nightwatch, a long-forgotten operetta. There can’t be much of an audience. An elderly lady, an elderly gentleman, a few English tourists. I walk across a lawn, past the last hedge. Place de la Concorde. The street lights hurt my eyes. I stood stock still, gasping for breath. Above my head, the Marly Horses reared and strained with all their might, desperate to escape from their grooms. They seemed about to bolt across the square. A magnificent space, the only place in Paris where you feel the exhilaration you experience in the mountains. A landscape of marble and twinkling lights. Over past the Tuileries, the ocean. I was on the quarter-deck of a liner heading Northwest, taking with it the Madeleine, the Opéra, the Berlitz Palace, the church of La Trinité. It might founder at any minute. Tomorrow we would be on the ocean floor, three thousand fathoms down. I no longer feared my shipmates. The rictus grin of the Baron de Lussatz; Odicharvi’s cruel eyes; the treacherous Chapochnikoff brothers; Frau Sultana twisting a tourniquet around her upper arm and patting a vein preparing to inject herself with heroin; Zieff with his vulgarity, his solid gold watch, his chubby fingers bedecked in rings; Ivanoff and his sessions of sexuo-divine paneurhythmy; Costachesco, Jean-Farouk de Méthode, and Rachid von Rosenheim discussing their fraudulent bankruptcies; and the Khedive’s gang of thugs: Armand le Fou, Jo Reocreux, Tony Breton, Vital-Léca, Robert le Pâle, Gouari, Danos, Codébo. . . . Before long, those shadowy figures would be meat for octopuses, sharks, and moray eels. I would share their fate. Of my own free will. This was something I realised quite suddenly one night as I crossed the place de la Concorde, my arms outstretched, casting a shadow all the way to the Rue Royale, my left hand extended to the Champs-Élysées gardens, my right towards the Rue Saint-Florentin. I might have been thinking of Jesus; in fact I was thinking of Judas Iscariot. A much misunderstood man. It had taken great humility and courage to take upon himself mankind’s disgrace. To die of it. Alone. Like a big boy. Judas, my elder brother. Both of us suspicious by nature. We expected little of our fellow man, of ourselves or of any saviour. Will I have the strength to follow you to the bitter end? It is a difficult path. Night was drawing in, but my job as informant and blackmailer has accustomed me to darkness. I put from my mind my uncharitable thoughts about my shipmates and their crimes. After a few weeks hard work at the Avenue Niel, nothing surprised me anymore. Though they could come up with new poses, it would make no difference. I watched them as they bustled along the promenade deck, down the gangways, carefully noting their ruses and their tricks. A pointless task given that water was already pouring into the hold. Next would come the Grand Salon and the ballroom would be next. With the ship about to sink, I felt pity for even the most savage passengers. Any moment now, Hitler himself would come rushing into my arms, sobbing like a child. The arcades along the Rue de Rivoli. Something serious was happening. I had noticed the endless stream of cars along the outer boulevards. People were fleeing Paris. The war, probably. Some unexpected disaster. Coming out of Hilditch & Key, where I’d just picked out a tie, I studied this strip of fabric men tighten around their throats. A blue-and-white striped tie. That afternoon, I was also wearing a fawn suit and crêpe-soled shoes. In my wallet, a photograph of maman and an out-of date métro ticket. I had just had my hair cut. Such details were of no interest to anyone. People were thinking only about saving their skins. Every man for himself. Before long there was not a soul nor a car in the streets. Even maman had left. I wished that I could cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. This silence, this deserted city, was in keeping with my state of mind. I checked my tie and shoes again. The weather was sunny. The words of a song came back to me:

  Seul

  Depuis toujours . . .

  The fate of the world? I didn’t even bother to read the headlines. Besides, soon there would be no more newspapers. No more trains. In fact, maman had just managed to catch the last Paris-Lausanne express.

  Seul il a souffert chaque jour

  Il pleure avec le ciel de Paris . . .

  The sort of sad, sweet song I liked. Unfortunately, this was no time for romance. We were living – it seemed to me – through a tragic era. You don’t go around humming pre-war tunes when everything around you is dying. It was the height of bad manners. Was it my fault? I never had much of a taste for anything. Excepting the circus, operettas and the music hall.

  By the time I reached the Rue de Castiglione, it was dark. Someone was following close behind. A tap on the shoulder. The Khedive. I had been expecting this meeting. At that very moment, on that very spot. A nightmare where I knew every twist and turn in advance. He grabs my arm. We get into a car. We drive through the Place Vendôme. Street lights cast a strange bluish glow. A single window in the Hôtel Continental is lit. Blackout. Better to get used to it, mon petit. The Khedive laughs and turns the dial on the radio.

  Un doux parfum qu’on respire

  c’est

  Fleur bleue . . .

  A dark mass looms in front of us. The Opéra? The church of La Trinité? On the left, a neon sign reads FLORESCO’S. We are on the Rue Pigalle. He floors the accelerator.

  Un regard qui vous attire

  c’est

  Fleur bleue . . .

  Darkness once more. A huge red lantern outside L’Européen on the Place Clichy. We must be on the Boulevard des Batignolles. Suddenly the headlights pick out railings and dense foliage. The Parc Monceau?

  Un rendez-vous en automne

  c’est

  Fleur bleue . . .

  He whistles along to the chorus, nodding his head in time. We are driving at breakneck speed. ‘Guess where we are, mon petit?’ He swerves. My shoulder bumps against his. The brakes screech. The light in the stairwell is not working. I grope my way, clutching the banister. He strikes a match, and I just have time to read the marble plaque on the door: ‘Normand-Philibert Agency’. We go in. The stench – more nauseating than ever – catches in my throat. Monsieur Philibert is standing in the doorway, waiting. A cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. He winks at me and, despite my weariness, I manage a smile: maman would have reached Lausanne by now, I think. There, she’d have nothing to fear. Monsieur Philibert shows us into his office. He complains about the fluctuations in electricity. The quavering glow from the brass light overhead does not seem unusual. It had always been like that at 177 Avenue Niel. The Khedive proposes champagne and produces a bottle from his left jacket pocket. As of today, our ‘agency’ – it appears – is about to expand considerably. ‘Recent events’ have worked to our advantage. The office is moving to an hôtel particulier at 3 bis Square Cimarosa. No more small-time work. We’re in line for some important work. It’s even possible that the Khedive will be named préfet de police. In these troubled times, there are positions to be filled. Our job: to carry out investigations, searches, interrogations, and arrests. The ‘Cimarosa Square Bureau’ will operate on two levels: as an unofficial wing of the police and as a ‘purchase office’ stocking goods and raw materials that will shortly be unobtainable. The Khedive has already hand-picked some fifty people to work with us. Old acquaintances. All of them, along with their identification photos, are on file at 177 Avenue Niel. Having said this, Monsieur Philibert hands us a glass of champagne. We toast our success. We will be – it seems – kings of Paris. The Khedive pats my cheek and slips a roll of bills into my inside pocket. The two men talk amongst themselves, review the files and the appointment books, make a few calls. Now and then I hear a burst of voices. Impossible to tell what is being said. I go into the adjoining room, which we use as our ‘clients’ waiting room. Here they would sit in the battered leather chairs. On the walls, a few colour prints of grape picking. A sideboard and assorted pine furniture. Beyond the far door, another room with an en-suite bathroom. I would regularly stay back at night to put the files in order. I worked in the waiting room. No one would ever guess that this apartment housed a detective agency. It was previously occupied by a re
tired couple. I drew the curtains. Silence. Flickering light. A smell of withered things. ‘Dreaming, mon petit?’ The Khedive laughs and adjusts his hat in the mirror. We go through the waiting room. In the hall, Monsieur Philibert snaps on a flashlight. We are having a house-warming tonight at 3 bis Cimarosa Square. The owners have fled. We have taken over their house. A cause for celebration. Hurry. Our friends are waiting for us at L’Heure Mauve, a cabaret club on the Champs-Élysées . . .

  The following week the Khedive orders me to gather information for the ‘agency’ on the activities of a certain Lieutenant Dominique. We received a memorandum on him with his address, a photo, and the comment: ‘Keep under surveillance’. I have to find some way of introducing myself to the man. I go to his house at 5 rue Boisrobert, in the 15th arrondissement. A modest little building. The Lieutenant himself answers the door. I ask for Mr Henri Normand. He tells me I’ve made a mistake. Then I blurt out my whole story: I’m an escaped POW. A friend said that if I ever managed to escape, I should get in touch with Monsieur Normand, 5 rue Boisrobert. He would keep me safe. My comrade had clearly given me the wrong address. I don’t know a soul in Paris. I have no money. I don’t know where to turn. He studies me thoughtfully. I squeeze out a couple of tears to convince him. Next thing I know I’m in his office. In a deep, clear voice he tells me that a boy my age should not let himself be discouraged by the catastrophe that has beset our country. He is still weighing me up. Then, suddenly, he asks: ‘Do you want to work with us?’ He is head of a group of ‘tremendous’ guys. Many of them escaped prisoners like myself. Boys from Saint-Cyr Military Academy. Regular officers. A handful of civilians. All raring to go. The best of the best. We are waging a covert war against the powers of evils that have temporarily triumphed. A daunting task, but to brave hearts nothing is impossible. Goodness, Freedom, and Moral Standards will soon be re-established. Lieutenant Dominique swears as much. I don’t share his optimism. I’m thinking about the report I’ll need to turn in to the Khedive this evening at Square Cimarosa. The Lieutenant gives me a few other facts: he refers to the group as CKS, the Company of the Knights of the Shadows. There is no way they can fight out in the open. This is a subterranean war. We will constantly be hunted. All the members of the group have taken the name of a métro station as a code name. He will introduce them to me shortly: Saint-Georges. Obligado. Corvisart. Pernety. There are more. As for me, I will be known as the ‘Princesse de Lamballe’. Why ‘Princesse de Lamballe’? A whim of the Lieutenant. ‘Are you prepared to join our network? Honour demands it. You should not hesitate for a moment. So – what’s your answer?’ I reply: ‘Yes,’ in a hesitant voice. ‘Don’t ever waver, lad. I know that these are sad times. Thugs and gangsters are running the show. There’s a stench of decay in the air. But it won’t last. Have a little fortitude, Lamballe.’ He suggests I stay with him at the Rue Boisrobert, but I quickly invent an elderly uncle in the suburbs who will put me up. We agree to meet tomorrow afternoon at the Place des Pyramides in front of the statue of Joan of Arc. ‘Farewell, Lamballe.’ He gives me a piercing look, his eyes narrow, and I can’t bear the glint of them. He repeats: ‘Farewell, LAM-BALLE,’ emphasizing each syllable in a strange way: LAM-BALLE. He shuts the door. Night was drawing in. I wandered aimlessly through these unfamiliar streets. They would be waiting for me at Square Cimarosa. What should I tell them? To put it bluntly, Lieutenant Dominique was a hero. As was every member of his group . . . But I still need to make a report to the Khedive and Monsieur Philibert. The existence of the CKS came as a surprise to them. They were not expecting such an extensive operation. ‘You will need to infiltrate the group. Try to get their names and addresses. It could make for a fine haul.’ For the first time in my life, I had what people call a pang of conscience. A fleeting pang, as it turned out. I was given an advance of one hundred thousand francs against the information I was to obtain.

  Place des Pyramides. You try to forget the past, but your footsteps invariably lead you back to difficult crossroads. The Lieutenant was pacing up and down in front of the statue of Joan of Arc. He introduced me to a tall lad with close cropped blond hair and periwinkle eyes: Saint-Georges, a Saint-Cyr graduate. We went into the Tuileries gardens and sat down at a kiosk near the merry-go-round. It was a familiar setting of my childhood. We ordered three bottles of fruit juice. When he brought them, the waiter told us this was the last of their pre-war supply. Soon there would be no more fruit juice. ‘We’ll manage without,’ said Saint-Georges with a smile. The young man seemed very determined. ‘So you’re an escaped prisoner?’ he said. ‘Which regiment?’ ‘Fifth Infantry,’ I replied in a toneless voice, ‘but I’d rather not think about that anymore.’ With a supreme effort, I added: ‘I want only one thing, to carry on the struggle to the end.’ This profession of faith seemed to convince him. He gave me a handshake. ‘I’ve rounded up a few members of the network to introduce to you,’ the Lieutenant told me. ‘They’re waiting for us at the Rue Boisrobert.’ Corvisart, Obligado, Pernety, and Jasmin are there. The Lieutenant talks about me enthusiastically: about my distress after our defeat. My determination to fight on. The honour and the solace I felt that I was now a member of the CKS. ‘All right, Lamballe, we are going to assign you a mission.’ A number of individuals, he explains, have been exploiting recent events to indulge their worst instincts. Hardly surprising given the troubling and unsettling times we are experiencing. These thugs have been afforded complete impunity: they have been issued with warrant cards and gun licences. They are engaged in an odious repression of patriots and honest folk and have committed all manner of crimes. They recently commandeered an hôtel particulier at 3 bis Cimarosa Square in the 16th arrondissement. Their office is publicly listed as the ‘Inter-commercial Company Paris-Berlin-Monte Carlo’. These are all the facts I have. Our duty is to neutralize them as quickly as possible. ‘I’m counting on you, Lamballe. You’re going to have to infiltrate this group. Keep us informed about plans and their activities. It’s up to you, Lamballe’. Pernety hands me a cognac. Jasmin, Obligado, Saint-Georges, and Corvisart give me a smile. Later, we are walking back along the Boulevard Pasteur. The Lieutenant had insisted on going with me as far as the Sèvres-Lecourbe métro. As we say goodnight, he looks me straight in the eye: ‘A delicate mission, Lamballe. A kind of double-cross. Keep me informed. Good luck, Lamballe.’ What if I told him the truth? Too late. I thought of maman. At least, I knew she was safe. I had bought her a villa in Lausanne with the money I had made at Avenue Niel. I could have gone to Switzerland with her but, out of apathy or indifference, I stayed here. As I have already said, I didn’t worry much about the fate of the world. Nor was I particularly concerned about my own fate. I just drifted with the current. Swept along like a wisp of straw. That evening I tell the Khedive about me meeting with Corvisart, Obligado, Jasmin, Pernety, and Saint-Georges. I don’t yet know their addresses, but it should not take long to get them. I promise to deliver the information on these men as quickly as possible. And on the others to whom the Lieutenant will doubtless introduce me. The way things are going, we should reel in ‘a fine haul’. He repeats this, rubbing his hands. ‘I knew you’d win them over with those choirboy good looks.’ Suddenly my head starts spinning. Suddenly I inform him that the ringleader is not, as I had thought, the Lieutenant. ‘Who then?’ I’m teetering on the brink of an abyss; a few steps are all it would take to step back. ‘WHO?’ But no, I haven’t got the strength. ‘WHO?’ ‘A man named LAM-BALLE. LAM-BALLE.’ ‘Well, we’ll get hold of him, don’t worry. Find out as much as you can about him.’ Things were getting complicated. Was it my fault? Each camp had set me up as a double agent. I didn’t want to let anyone down – not the Khedive and Philibert any more than the Lieutenant and lads from Saint-Cyr. You have to choose, I told myself. A squire in the ‘Company of the Knights of the Shadows’ or a hired agent for a dubious agency on Cimarosa Square? Hero or traitor? Neither one nor the other. A number of books provided me with a cleared perspective: Anthology of Trait
ors from Alcibiades to Captain Dreyfus; The Real Joanovici; The Mysteries of the Chevalier d’Eon; Fregoli, the Man from Nowhere. I felt a kinship with all those men. I am no charlatan. I too have experienced what people call ‘deep emotion’. Profound. Compelling. There is only one emotion of which I have first hand knowledge, one powerful to make me move mountains: FEAR. Paris was sinking deeper into silence and the blackout. When I talk about this period, I feel as though I’m talking to a deaf man, that somehow my voice isn’t loud enough, I WAS SHIT SCARED. The métro slowed as it approached the Pont de Passy. Sèvres-Lecourbe – Cambronne – La Motte-Picquet – Dupleix – Grenelle – Passy. In the morning, I would take the opposite route, from Passy to Sèvres-Lecourbe. From Cimarosa Square in the 16th arrondissement to rue Boisrobert in the 15th. From the Lieutenant to the Khedive. From the Khedive to the Lieutenant. The swinging pendulum of a double agent. Exhausting. Breathless. ‘Try to get the names and addresses. Looks like this could be a fine haul. I’m counting on you, Lamballe. You’ll get us information on those gangsters.’ I would have liked to take sides, but I had no more loyalty to the ‘Company of the Knights of the Shadows’ than I had to the ‘Inter-commercial Company Paris-Berlin-Monte Carlo’. Two groups of lunatics were pressuring me to do contradictory things, they would run me down until I dropped dead from exhaustion. I was a scapegoat for these madmen. I was the runt of the litter. I didn’t stand a chance. The times we were living through required exceptional qualities for heroism or crime. And here I was, a misfit. A weathervane. A puppet. I close my eyes and summon up the smells, the songs of those days. Yes, there was a whiff of decay in the air. Especially at dusk. But I confess, never was twilight more beautiful. Summer lingered, refusing to die. The deserted boulevards. Paris vacant. The sound of a clock tolling. And that smell that clung to the facades of the buildings, to the leaves of the chestnut trees. As for the songs, they were: ‘Swing Troubadour’, ‘Étoile Rio’, Je n’en Connais pas la Fin’, ‘Réginella’ . . . Remember. The lavender glow of the lights in the métro carriage making it hard to distinguish the other passengers. On my right, close at hand, the searchlight atop the Eiffel Tower. I was on my way back from the Rue Boisrobert. The métro came to a shuddering halt on the Pont de Passy. I was hoping it would never move again, that no one would come to rescue me from this no man’s land between the two banks. Not a flicker. Not a sound. Peace at last. Fade into the half-light. Already I was forgetting the sharp tone of their voices, the way they thumped me on the back, the way they pulled me in opposite directions, tied me in knots. Fear gave way to a kind of numbness. My eyes followed the path of the searchlight. It circled and circled like a nightwatch on his rounds. Wearily. The bright beam faded as it turned. Soon, there would only be a faint, almost imperceptible shaft of light. And I, too, after my endless rounds, my countless comings and goings, would finally melt into the shadows. Without ever knowing what it was all about. Sèvres-Lecourbe to Passy. Passy to Sèvres-Lecourbe. At 10 a.m. every morning, I would report to headquarters on the Rue Boisrobert. Warm welcoming handshakes. Smiles and confident glances from those brave boys. ‘What’s new, Lamballe?’ the Lieutenant would ask. I was giving him increasingly detailed information on the ‘Inter-commercial Company, Paris-Berlin-Monte Carlo’. Yes, it was a police unit entrusted with doing ‘dirty jobs’. The two directors, Henri Normand and Georges Philibert, hired thugs from the underworld. Burglars, pimps, criminals scheduled to be deported. Two or three had been sentenced to death. All of them had been issued with warrant cards and gun licences. A shady underworld operated out of Cimarosa Square. The hucksters, heroin addicts, charlatans, whores who invariably come to the surface in ‘troubled times.’ Knowing they were protected by officers in high places, these people committed terrible acts of violence. It even appeared that their chief, Henri Normand, had influence with the préfecture de police and the public prosecutor office, if such bodies still existed. As I went on with my story, I watched dismay and disgust spread over their faces. Only the Lieutenant remained inscrutable. ‘Good work, Lamballe! Keep at it. And write up a complete list of the members of the agency.’