And first of all, where was his legation? For several days, I walked the XVIth arrondissement, since the silent, tree- lined street I saw in my mind's eye resembled the streets in this district. I was like a water-diviner watching for the slightest movement of his pendulum. At the top of each street I would stop, hoping that the trees, the buildings, would make me suddenly remember. I thought I felt something at the intersection of Rue Molitor and Rue Mirabeau and I had the sudden conviction that each evening, when I left the legation, this was the locality I found myself in.
It was night. Walking down the corridor that led to the staircase, I heard the sound of typing and stuck my head through the opening in the door. The man had already left and she was alone, sitting at her typewriter. I said good evening to her. She stopped typing and turned around. A pretty, dark-haired girl whose tropical looks I remember. She said something to me in Spanish, smiled and continued with her work. After standing awhile in the lobby, I finally decided to leave.
And I am certain that I am walking down Rue Mirabeau, so straight, so dark, so deserted that I walk faster and am afraid that being the sole pedestrian, I will be noticed. In the square, lower down, at the intersection with Avenue de Versailles, a café is still lit up.
Sometimes it occurred to me to take the opposite route and plunge into the quiet streets of Auteuil. There I felt safe, coming out into Chaussée de la Muette. I remember the tall buildings of Boulevard Êmile-Augier and the street to the right which I took. On the ground floor, a frosted-glass window, like a dentist's office, was always lit up. Denise waited for me a little further up, in a Russian restaurant.
I often mention bars or restaurants, but if it were not for a street or café sign from time to time, how would I ever find my way?
The restaurant extended into a walled garden. Through a bay, one could see the interior with its red velvet hangings. It was still day when we sat down at one of the garden tables. There was a zither player. The sound of this instrument, the evening light in the garden and the scent of foliage coming, no doubt, from the woods nearby, were all part of the mystery and the melancholy of that time. I tried to find the Russian restaurant again. No luck. The Rue Mirabeau has not changed, though. On the evenings I stayed later at the legation, I used to continue along Avenue de Versailles. I could have taken the Métro but I preferred to walk in the open air. Quai de Passy. Pont de Bir-Hakeim. Then Avenue de New-York, along which I walked the other night with Waldo Blunt, and now I understand why my heart missed a beat. Without realizing it, I was retracing my steps. How many times had I walked along Avenue de New-York ... Place de l'Alma, the first oasis. Then the trees and the coolness of the Cours-la-Reine. After crossing the Place de la Concorde, I've almost reached my goal. Rue Royale. I turn right, Rue Saint-Honoré. Left, Rue Cambon.
Not a light in Rue Cambon, except for a bluish reflection which must come from a shop window. My footsteps echo on the pavement. I am alone. Again fear seizes me, the fear I feel each time I walk down Rue Mirabeau, the fear that I will be noticed, stopped, and that they will ask for my papers. It would be a pity, just a few yards from my destination. Above all, not to run. Walk right to the end, at a steady pace.
The Hôtel Castille. I pass through the door. There is no one at the reception desk. I walk into the sitting room, long enough to recover my breath and wipe the sweat from my brow. This night too I have escaped danger. She is waiting for me up there. She is the only one to wait for me, the only one in this town who would be concerned if I vanished.
A room with light green walls. The red curtains are drawn. The light comes from a bedside lamp, to the left of the bed. I smell her perfume, a pungent scent, and all I see now is the whiteness of her skin and the beauty spot above her right buttock.
26
HE WOULD RETURN from the beach with his son, at about seven in the evening. This was the time of day he liked best. He held the child by the hand or else let him run on ahead.
The avenue was deserted, a few rays of sunlight lingered on the pavement. They walked through the arcade and the child stopped every time in front of the confectioners, Queen Astrid's. He, for his part, looked in the window of the bookshop.
That evening, a book in the window attracted his attention. The title, in garnet lettering, included the word "Castille" and while he walked under the arcade, holding his son's hand, and the latter enjoyed himself leaping the rays of sunlight which striped the pavement, the word "Castille" reminded him of a Hôtel, in Paris, near the Faubourg Saint- Honoré.
Once, a man had arranged to see him at the Hôtel Castille. They had already met in Avenue Hoche offices, among all the strange people who discussed their affairs in low voices, and the man had proposed selling him a clip and two diamond bracelets, as he wanted to leave France. He had entrusted him with the diamonds, in a small leather case, and they had agreed to meet again the next evening at the Hôtel Castille, where the man lived.
The Hôtel reception desk came back to him, the tiny bar next to it, and the walled garden with its green trellises. The porter phoned up to announce his arrival, then told him the room number.
The man was stretched out on the bed, a cigarette between his lips. He was not inhaling the smoke but puffed it out nervously in dense clouds. A tall, dark-skinned man, who had introduced himself the day before, at Avenue Hoche, as the "former commercial attaché of a South American legation." He had told him only his first name: Pedro.
The man "Pedro" had sat up on the edge of the bed and given him a shy smile. He did not know why he felt drawn to him without knowing him. In this Hôtel room, "Pedro" seemed like a hunted animal. He immediately handed him the envelope with the money. The day before he had managed to sell the stones for a large profit. Here you are, he said, I've added half the profit for you. "Pedro" thanked him, putting the envelope away in the drawer of his night-table.
At that moment, he had noticed that one of the doors of the armoire facing the bed was half open. Dresses and a fur coat were hanging there. So, "Pedro" was living here with a woman. Again he thought that their situation, "Pedro's" and this woman's, must be precarious.
Stretched out on the bed again, "Pedro" lit another cigarette. He must have felt he could trust him, because he said:
"I'm more and more scared of going out..."
And he had even added:
"Some days I'm so afraid, I stay in bed ..."
After all this time, he could still hear these two sentences spoken by "Pedro" in his low voice. He had not known what to answer. He made some general comment, like: "Strange times we live in."
Then Pedro, suddenly said to him:
"I think I've found a way of getting out of France . . . With money, everything's possible ..."
He remembered that tiny snowflakes - almost raindrops - were swirling outside the window. And this snow, the night outside, the bareness of the room, made him feel he was suffocating. Was it still possible to get away, even with money?
"Yes," whispered Pedro ... "I know how to get into Portugal ... Through Switzerland ..."
The word "Portugal" had immediately conjured up the green ocean, the sun, an orange-colored drink which one sipped through a straw, seated under an umbrella. And what if he and this "Pedro" were to meet again one day, he had said to himself, in summer, in a café in Lisbon or Estoril? Nonchalantly they would squeeze the soda-syphon nozzle ... How distant it would all seem to them then, this little room in the Hôtel Castille, the snow, the dark, the gloom of this Paris winter which it was so difficult to escape ... He had left the room, saying "Good luck" to "Pedro."
What became of "Pedro"? He hoped that this man whom he had met only twice, so long ago, was as untroubled, as happy as he was himself this summer evening, with a child who stepped over the last patches of sunlight on the pavement.
27
MY DEAR GUY, thank you for your letter. I am very happy in Nice. I have found the old Russian church in Rue Longchamp where my grandmother often took me. That was the time, too, when my pa
ssion for tennis was awakened by seeing King Gustav of Sweden play ... In Nice, every street corner reminds me of my childhood.
In the Russian church I am speaking of, there is a room lined with glass-fronted book-cases. In the middle of this room, a large table which looks like a billiard-table, and some old armchairs. This is where my grandmother came every Wednesday to borrow a few books, and I always accompanied her.
The books date from the end of the nineteenth century.
And, besides, the place has kept the charm of reading-rooms of that period. I spend a lot of time there reading Russian, which I had forgotten a little.
Outside the church is a shady garden, with large palm- trees and eucalyptuses. Amid this tropical vegetation, is a birch tree with a silvery trunk. It was planted there, I suppose, to remind us of our distant Russia.
Dare I confess it, Guy - I have applied for the position of librarian? If it works out, as I hope it will, I shall be delighted to receive you in one of my childhood haunts.
After many vicissitudes (I have not had the courage to tell the priest that I was a private detective by profession), I am returning to my roots.
You were right to tell me that in life it is not the future which counts, but the past.
As regards what you have asked me, the best thing, I think, would be to apply to De Swert's agency, "In the family interest." I have, therefore, written to him, as he is, I believe, well placed to answer your question. He will send you information very promptly.
Yours,
Hutte
P.S. As regards the so-called "Oleg de Wrédé," whom we have not yet been able to identify, I have some good news: you will receive a letter in the n.5ext post, which will give you information about him. As a matter of fact, I questioned some old members of the Russian colony in Nice, at random, thinking that "Wrédé" had a Russian - or Baltic - sound to it, and by chance I came across a Mrs. Kahan, for whom this name held certain memories. Bad memories, as it turns out, which she would rather forget, but she promised me to write to you and tell you all she knew.
28
Subject: COUDREUSE, DENISE, YVETTE.
Born at: PARIS, 21st December, 1917, to Paul COUDREUSE and Henriette, née BOGAERTS.
Nationality: FRENCH.
Married, 3rd April, 1939 at the town-hall of the XVIIth arrondissement to Jimmy Pedro Stern, born 30 th September, 1912 in Salonica (Greece), of Greek nationality.
Miss Coudreuse has resided successively:
9, Quai d'Austerlitz, Paris 13 97, Rue de Rome, Paris 17
Hôtel Castille, Rue Cambon, Paris 8
10A, Rue Cambacérès, Paris 8
Miss Coudreuse modeled for fashion photographs under the name of "Muth." After this, she worked evidently for the dress designer, JF, 32, Rue la Boétie, as a mannequin; then she was associated with a certain Van Allen, a Dutch subject, who, in April 1941, opened a fashion house at 6, Square de l'Opéra, Paris 9. The latter establishment was short-lived and closed in January 1945.
Miss Coudreuse disappeared while attempting to cross the Franco-Swiss border clandestinely, in February 1943. Investigations pursued in Megève (Haute-Savoie) and Annemasse (Haute-Savoie) have yielded no results.
29
Subject: STERN, Jimmy, Pedro.
Born at: SALONICA (GREECE), 30th September, 1912, to
GEORGES STERN and GIUVIA SARANO.
Nationality: GREEK.
Married, 3rd April 1939, at the town-hall of the XVIIth arrondissement to Denise Yvette Coudreuse, of French nationality.
It is not known where Mr. Stern resided in France. A single form, dating from February 1939, indicates that a Mr. Jimmy Pedro Stern lived at that time at:
Hôtel Lincoln 24, Rue Bayard, Paris 8.
This is, moreover, the address which appears on the marriage certificate issued at the town hall of the XVIIth arrondissement. The registration form of the Hôtel Lincoln contained the following:
Name: STERN, Jimmy, Pedro.
Address: Via delle Botteghe Oscure, 2 Rome (Italy).
Profession: broker.
Mr. Jimmy Stern seems to have disappeared in 1940.
30
Subject: MCEVOY, Pedro.
It has been very hard to find any information about Mr. Pedro McEvoy, either at police headquarters or at the general information bureau. It has been reported to us that a Mr. Pedro McEvoy, a Dominican subject, and working at the Dominican Legation in Paris, resided in December 1940, at 9, Rue Julien-Potin, at Neuilly (Seine).
After that, we lose sight of him.
In all probability, Mr. Pedro McEvoy left France before the last war.
He may also be a person using an assumed name and carrying false papers, as was common at the time.
31
IT WAS Denise's birthday. A winter evening, with the snow falling on Paris, turning to slush. People were swallowed up by Métro entrances and walked briskly. The shop windows of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré were lit up. Christmas was approaching.
I went into a jeweler's, and I can still see the man's face. He had a beard and wore tinted glasses. I bought a ring for Denise. When I left the shop, the snow was still falling. I was afraid Denise would not be at our meeting place and for the first time it occurred to me that we might lose each other in this town, among all these hurrying shadows.
And I no longer remember if, that evening, my name was Jimmy or Pedro, Stern or McEvoy.
32
VALPARAISO. She is standing, at the back of the tram, near the window, in the crush of passengers, squeezed between a little man with dark glasses and a dark-haired woman with the head of a mummy, who gives off a scent of violets.
Soon nearly all of them will get off at the Plaza Echaurren and she will be able to sit down. She comes into Valparaiso only twice a week to do her shopping, since she lives on the heights of the Cerro Alegre district. She rents a house there, in which she has set up her dancing school.
She does not regret having left Paris, five years ago now, after breaking her ankle, when she knew she would never dance again. She decided to leave then, to cut all ties with what had been her life. Why Valparaiso? Because she knew someone there, a former member of Cuevas's ballet.
She no longer expects to return to Europe. She will remain up there, giving her lessons, and will finally forget the old photographs of herself on the walls, dating from when she was a member of Colonel de Basil's company.
She only occasionally thinks of her life before the accident. Everything is confused in her mind. She mixes up names, dates, places. And yet, one memory returns to her regularly, twice a week, at the same time and same place, a memory more vivid than the others. It is when the tram stops, as now, at the bottom of the Avenida Errazuriz. This shady avenue, sloping gently upward, reminds her of Rue Jouy-en-Josas, where she lived as a child. She can still see the house, on the corner of Rue du Docteur-Kurzenne, the weeping willow, the white gate, the Protestant church below, and right at the bottom, the Robin Hood Inn. She remembers a Sunday, different from the others. Her godmother had come to fetch her.
She knows nothing about this woman, except her first name: Denise. She had a convertible. That Sunday, a dark- skinned man accompanied her. All three of them had gone to have an ice cream and they had taken a boat out, and in the evening, when they left Versailles to take her back to Jouy-en-Josas, they had stopped at a fair. She and her godmother, Denise, had climbed into a bumper-car, while the dark- skinned man watched.
She would have liked to have known more about it. What were their names? Where did they live? What had happened to them after all this time? These were the questions she asked herself as the tram continued along the Avenida Errazuriz, climbing toward the Cerro Alegre district.
33
THAT EVENING, I was sitting at a table in the wine-bar-cum-grocery to which Hutte had introduced me and which was situated on Avenue Niel, just opposite the agency. A counter and, on the shelves, exotic food products: teas, Turkish delight, rose-petal preserves, Baltic herring.
The place was frequented by ex-jockeys, talking over old times and showing each other dog-eared photographs of horses whose carcasses had long ago been cut up for meat.
Two men, at the bar, were speaking under their breath. One of them was wearing an overcoat that was the color of dead leaves and reached down almost to his ankles. He was short, like most of the customers. He turned around, no doubt to see what time the clock over the entrance showed, and his gaze fell on me.
His face grew very pale. His mouth hung open and his eyes stared.
He approached me slowly, frowning. He stopped at my table.
"Pedro."
He fingered the material of my jacket, at the height of my biceps.
"Pedro, it's you?"
I hesitated before answering. He seemed put out.
"Excuse me," he said. "But aren't you Pedro McEvoy?"
"Yes," I said shortly. "Why?"
"Pedro, you ... you don't recognize me?"
"No."
He sat down opposite me.
"Pedro ... I'm ... André Wildmer ..."
He was upset. He took my hand.
"André Wildmer... The jockey... Don't you remember me?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "There are gaps in my memory. When did we meet?"
"But you must know... Freddie and I..."
This name had the effect of an electric shock on me. A jockey. The gardener at Valbreuse had spoken to me of a jockey.
"That's funny," I said. "Someone spoke to me about you ...At Valbreuse..."
His eyes misted over. The drink? Or was it emotion?
"Oh, come on, Pedro ... Don't you remember when the three of us, you, me, and Freddie, used to go to Valbreuse?..."
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