"Yes, that's right..."
"You could get as many as you wanted at the Dominican Legation..."
I stretched my hand out to the gilt box and picked up a cigarette between thumb and forefinger. I put it apprehensively in my mouth. She handed me her lighter after having lit her own cigarette. I had to try several times before I managed to get a flame. I inhaled. At once, a very painful, smarting sensation made me cough.
"I've lost the habit of it," I said.
I did not know how to get rid of this cigarette and continued to hold it between thumb and forefinger while it burnt itself out.
"So," I said, "you live in this apartment now?"
"Yes. I moved in again when I had no more news of Denise... Anyway, she'd told me before she left, that I could take the apartment back..."
"Before she left?"
"Naturally... Before you left for Megève ..."
She shrugged her shoulders, as though this must be obvious to me.
"I have the feeling I was only in this apartment a short time..."
"You stayed here several months with Denise ..
"And you lived here before us?"
She looked at me in amazement.
"Of course I did, you know that... It was my apartment ... I lent it to Denise because I had to leave Paris ..."
"Forgive me ... My mind was on something else."
"It suited Denise here ... She had room for her dressmaking ..."
A dressmaker?
"I wonder why we left this apartment," I said.
"Me too ..."
Again the questioning look. But what could I say in explanation? I knew less than she did. I knew nothing about all this. I finally put my cigarette butt, which was burning my fingers, in the ash tray.
"Did we meet before we came to live here?" I said tentatively.
"Yes. Two or three times. In your hotel..."
"What hotel."
"Rue Cambon. The Hôtel Castille. Do you remember the green room you had with Denise?"
"Yes."
"You'd left the Hôtel Castille because you didn't feel safe there ... That was why, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"It really was a strange time ..."
"What time?"
She did not answer and lit another cigarette.
"I'd like to show you some photos," I said.
From the inside pocket of my jacket, I pulled out an envelope which I was never without now and in which I had put all the photos. I showed her the one of Freddie Howard de Luz, Gay Orlov, the unknown young woman and me, taken in the "summer dining-room."
"Do you recognize me?"
She had turned to look at the photo in the sunlight.
"You're with Denise but I don't know the two others..."
So, that was Denise.
"You didn't know Freddie Howard de Luz?"
"No."
"Or Gay Orlov?"
"No."
People certainly lead compartmentalized lives and their friends do not know each other. It's unfortunate.
"I have two more photos of her."
I handed her the tiny passport photo and the other with her leaning her elbows on the railings.
"I've already seen that photo," she said ... "I think she even sent it to me from Megève ... But I don't remember what I did with it now ..."
I took the photo from her and looked at it closely. Megève. Behind Denise was a small window with wooden shutters. Yes, the shutters and the railings might well belong to a mountain chalet.
"That journey to Megève really was an odd idea," I announced suddenly. "Did Denise ever tell you what she thought of it?"
She was studying the little passport photo. I waited for her to answer, my heart beating hard. She raised her head.
"Yes .. . She spoke to me about it... She told me that Megève was a safe place... And that you could always cross the border ..."
"Yes... Of course..."
I did not dare continue. Why am I so diffident and apprehensive, when it comes to something that means a lot to me? She too - I could tell from her look - would have welcomed some explanation. The two of us remained silent. Finally, she took the plunge:
"But what did happen at Megève?"
She put this question so urgently that for the first time I felt discouraged, and even more than that, desperate, the kind of despair that overwhelms you when you realize that in spite of your efforts, your good qualities, all your goodwill, you are running into an insurmountable obstacle.
"I'll tell you about it... Another day..
There must have been something distraught in my voice or my expression, because she squeezed my arm as though to console me and said:
"Forgive me asking you indiscreet questions ... But... I was a friend of Denise …"
"I understand ..."
She had got up.
"Wait a moment..."
She left the room. I looked down at the patches of sunlight on the white wool rugs. Then at the parquet and the rectangular table, and the old mannequin which had belonged to "Denise." Surely, I must finally recognize one of the places where I had lived.
She returned, holding something in her hand. Two books. And a diary.
"Denise forgot this when she left. Here . . . you have them..."
I was surprised she had not put these souvenirs in a box, as Styoppa de Dzhagorev and the former gardener of Freddie's mother had done. Indeed, it was the first time in the course of my investigations that I had not been given a box. This thought made me laugh.
"What are you laughing at?"
"Nothing."
I studied the covers of the books. One showed the face of a Chinaman, with a moustache and bowler hat, looming out of a bluish fog. The title: Charlie Chan. The other cover was yellow and at the bottom was a design of a mask and a goose quill. The book was called, Anonymous Letters.
"Denise simply consumed detective novels..." she said. "There's this too ..."
She handed me the little crocodile-skin diary. "Thanks."
I opened it and turned over the pages. Nothing had been written there: no name, no appointments. The diary showed the days and the months, but not the year. Finally I discovered a piece of paper between the pages and unfolded it:
Republic of France
Prefecture of the Seine Department
Abstract of the records of births in the XIIIth arrondissement of Paris
Year 1917
21st December nineteen hundred and seventeen
At fifteen hours, Quai d'Austerlitz 9 A, was born Denise Yvette Coudreuse, of female sex, to Paul Coudreuse, and to Henriette Bogaerts, no profession, domicile as above
Married 3rd April 1939 in Paris (XVIIth), to Jimmy Pedro Stern.
Certified abstract
Paris - the sixteenth of June 1939
"Did you see this?" I said.
She looked at the certificate in surprise.
"Did you know her husband? This ... Jimmy Pedro Stern?"
"No."
I put the diary and the certificate into my inside pocket, with the envelope which contained the photographs, and for some reason the thought struck me that, as soon as I could, I should conceal all these treasures in the lining of my jacket.
"Thanks for giving me these souvenirs."
"You're welcome, Mr. McEvoy."
I was relieved when she repeated my name, as I had not quite caught it when she first mentioned it. I should have liked to write it down, there and then, but was unsure about the spelling.
"I like the way you pronounce my name," I said. "It's hard for a French person ... But how would you write it? People always spell it wrong when they try..."
A mischievous tone had crept into my voice. She smiled.
"M ... C ... capital E, V ... O ... Y ..." she spelled.
"In one word? Are you quite sure?"
"Absolutely," she said, as though sidestepping a trap I had set for her.
So, it was McEvoy.
"Well done," I said.
"I never make spelling mistakes."
"Pedro McEvoy... It's a strange name, all the same, don't you think? There are times when I still can't get used to it..."
"By the way, I was forgetting this," she said.
She took an envelope from her pocket.
"It's the last little note I had from Denise ..."
I unfolded the sheet of paper and read:
Megève, 14th February.
Dear Hélène,
Its decided. Tomorrow Pedro and I are crossing the border. I'll send you news from over there, as soon as possible.
In the meantime, I'll give you the telephone number of someone in Paris through whom we can correspond:
OLEG DE WRÉDÉ AUTeuil 54-73 Affectionately,
Denise
"And did you phone?"
"Yes, but each time I was told the gentleman wasn't there."
"Who was he this ... Wrédé?"
"I don't know. Denise never spoke to me about him..."
The sun had gradually deserted the room. She lit the little lamp standing on the low table at the end of the sofa.
"I should very much like to see the room where I lived," I said.
"Of course..."
We walked down a corridor and she opened a door on the right.
"There," she said. "I no longer use this room ... I sleep in the guest room ... You know ... the one that looks out on the yard..."
I stood in the doorway. It was still quite light. Purplish red curtains hung on both sides of the window. The wallpaper had a pale blue design.
"Do you remember it?" she asked.
"Yes."
A daybed against the back wall. I sat down on the edge of this bed.
"Can I sit here for a few minutes on my own?"
"Of course."
"It reminds me of 'the good times'..."
She gave me a sad look and shook her head.
"I'll make some tea..."
She left the room and I looked around me. In this room too, the parquet floor was damaged and there were pieces missing, though the gaps had not been filled. Across from the window, a marble fireplace with a mirror above it, whose gilt frame was embellished with a shell in each corner. I lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, then at the wallpaper design. I studied the latter so closely, my forehead practically touched the wall. Rustic scenes. Girls in elaborate wigs, seated on swings. Shepherds in puffed knee-breeches, playing the mandolin. Moonlit woods. None of this reminded me of anything and yet these designs must have been familiar to me when I used to sleep in this bed. I searched the ceiling, the walls, and the door area for any sign, any trace, though of what I did not know. But nothing caught my eye.
I got up and walked to the window. I looked out.
The street was deserted and darker than when I had entered the building. The policeman was still standing sentry on the opposite pavement. To the left, if I leaned out, I could see a square, also deserted, with other policemen on patrol. The windows of all these buildings seemed to be absorbing the gathering dusk. They were dark and it was clear that nobody lived around here.
Then it was as if something clicked into place. The view from this room made me feel anxious, apprehensive, a feeling I had had before. These façades, this deserted street, these figures standing sentry in the dusk disturbed me in the same insidious manner as a song or a once familiar perfume. And I was certain that I had often stood here, at this hour, motionless, watching, without making the slightest movement, and without even daring to switch on the light.
When I returned to the drawing-room, I thought no one was there any longer, but she was stretched out on the velvet sofa. She was asleep. I approached quietly, and sat down at the other end of the sofa. A tray with a tea-pot and two cups, in the center of the white wool carpet. I coughed. She did not wake up. Then I poured tea into the two cups. It was cold.
The lamp beside the sofa left a whole section of the room in darkness and I could just make out the table, the mannequin and the sewing machine, the objects which "Denise" had abandoned here. What had our evenings in this room been like? How could I find out?
I sipped the tea. I could hear her breath, almost imperceptible, but the room was so silent that the slightest sound, the slightest whisper would have stood out with disturbing clarity. What was the good of waking her? She could not tell me much. I put my cup down on the wool carpet.
The parquet creaked under me just as I was leaving the room and stepping into the corridor.
Groping, I looked for the door, then the time-switch on the stairway. I shut the door as quietly as possible. Hardly had I opened the other door, the glass-paneled one, to cross the entrance-hall, than something again clicked into place, as it had done when I looked out of the window of the room. The entrance-hall was lit by a globe in the ceiling which shed a white light. Gradually, my eyes got used to this too- bright light. I stood there, gazing at the gray walls and the shining panels of the door.
A mental picture flashed before me, like those fragments of some fleeting dream which one tries to hold on to in waking, so as to be able to reconstruct the whole dream. I saw myself, walking through a dark Paris, and opening the door to this building in Rue Cambacérès. Then my eyes were suddenly blinded and for a few seconds I could see nothing, so great was the contrast between this white light and the night outside.
What period did this go back to? To the time when my name was Pedro McEvoy and I came back here every evening? Did I recognize the entrance, the big rectangular door-mat, the gray walls, the globe-lamp in the ceiling, with a brass ring around it? Behind the glass panels of the door, I could see the staircase and I wanted to climb it slowly, to go through all the motions I used to and retrace my steps.
I believe that the entrance-halls of buildings still retain the echo of footsteps of those who used to cross them and who have since vanished. Something continues to vibrate after they have gone, fading waves, but which can still be picked up if one listens carefully. Perhaps, after all, I never was this Pedro McEvoy, I was nothing, but waves passed through me, sometimes faint, sometimes stronger, and all these scattered echoes afloat in the air crystallized and there I was.
16
HÔTEL CASTILLE, Rue Cambon. Across from the reception desk, a morning-room. In the glass-fronted bookcase, L. de Viel-Castel's History of the Restoration. Perhaps, one evening, I had taken down one of these volumes before going up to my room, and had forgotten the letter, photograph, or telegram I had used to mark my place in it. But I don't have the audacity to ask the porter if I can leaf through the seventeen volumes.
At the back of the hotel, a courtyard surrounded by a wall with green, ivy-covered trellises. Ochre paving-stones underfoot, the color of tennis court gravel. Tables and garden chairs.
So, I had lived here with this Denise Coudreuse. Did our room look out on to Rue Cambon or the courtyard?
17
9A, QUAI D'AUSTERLITZ. A three-storyed building with the main entrance opening on to a yellow-walled passageway. A café whose sign reads A la Marine. Behind the glass door hangs a notice in bright red letters: "MEN SPREEKT VLAAMCH."
A dozen or so people crowded around the bar. I sat down at one of the empty tables, against the back wall, on which was a large photograph of a port: ANTWERP, as it said under the photo.
The customers at the bar were talking in very loud voices. They all worked locally, no doubt, and were having their pre-dinner drink. By the glass door, a slot machine with a man in a navy blue suit and tie standing at it, his clothing standing out among the lumber-jackets, leather jackets, or overalls worn by the others. He was playing calmly, pulling the spring rod back with an easy movement.
The cigarette and pipe smoke irritated my eyes and made me cough a little. There was a smell of lard in the air.
"What would you like?"
I had not seen him coming up. I had even thought that no one would come to ask me what I wanted, so little notice had been taken of my presence at a table in the
rear.
"An espresso," I said.
He was a short man, of about sixty, with white hair, his red face already flushed by the various aperitifs he had no doubt imbibed. His light blue eyes seemed even paler against the ruddiness of his complexion. There was something jolly in these crockery tints - white, red and blue.
"Excuse me ..." I said, just as he was about to return to the bar. "What does the notice on the door mean?"
"Men Spreekt Vlaamch?"
He had pronounced these words in a resounding voice.
"Yes."
"It means: Flemish spoken."
At that, he left me and made for the bar with a rolling gait. Without any fuss he eased aside the customers in his path.
He returned with the cup of coffee, which he held in both hands, his arms stretched out in front of him, as though he was trying not to drop the cup.
"Here you are."
He placed the cup in the center of the table, breathing as hard as a marathon runner at the end of the race.
"Does the name ... COUDREUSE ... mean anything to you?"
I had put the question bluntly.
He sank into the chair opposite me and folded his arms.
He was still breathing hard.
"Why? You knew... Coudreuse?"
"No, but I've heard about him in the family."
His color was brick-red now and sweat was standing out on the wings of his nose.
"Coudreuse ... He used to live up there, on the second floor..."
He had a slight accent. I swallowed a mouthful of coffee, determined to let him talk, since another question might put him off.
"He worked at the Gare d'Austerlitz . . . His wife was from Antwerp, like me ..."
"He had a daughter, didn't he?"
He smiled.
"Yes. A pretty little thing ... Did you know her?"
"No, but I heard about her ..."
"What's happened to her?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out."
"She used to come here every morning for her father's cigarettes. Coudreuse smoked Belgian cigarettes - Laurens ..."
He was caught up in his memories and, like me, I think, no longer heard the bursts of talk and laughter nor the machine-gun rattle of the slot machine close by.
Missing Person Page 7