Missing Person (13 page)

All this must have been at the beginning, when Denise and I had just met.

25

I
TURNED
OFF
the light, but instead of leaving Hutte's office, I remained a few moments in the dark. Then I turned the light on again, and turned it off again. A third time, I turned on the light. And off. Something was stirring in me: I saw myself turning off the light in a room the size of this one, at some indeterminate period. And I did this every evening, at the same time.

The street lamp in Avenue Niel makes the wood of Hutte's desk and armchair glow. In that other time too, I used to stand motionless for a few moments after having switched off the light, as though I was apprehensive about going out. There was a glass-fronted bookcase against the back wall, a gray marble mantelpiece with a mirror above it, a desk with numerous drawers and a settee, near the window, where I often lay down to read. The window looked out on to a silent street, lined with trees.

It was a small town-house, which served as premises for a South American legation. I no longer remember in what capacity I occupied an office of this legation. A man and a woman I hardly ever saw were in other offices next to mine and I used to hear them typing.

Very occasionally I would see people who wanted visas. It came back to me suddenly as I rummaged in the biscuit box which the Valbreuse gardener had given me and studied the Dominican Republic passport and the photographs. But I was acting for someone else, whose office I was using. A consul? A chargé d'affaires? I have not forgotten that I used to phone him for instructions. Who was he?

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

H
E
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

M
Y
DEAR
G
UY
, 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 passion 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:
C
OUDREUSE
,
D
ENISE
, Y
VETTE
.

Born at
:
P
ARIS
, 21st December, 1917, to Paul
C
OUDREUSE
and Henriette, née
B
OGAERTS
.

Nationality:
F
RENCH
.

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

10
A
, 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
: S
TERN
,
Jimmy, Pedro.

Born at
:
S
ALONICA
(G
REECE
), 30th September, 1912, to

G
EORGES
S
TERN
and G
IUVIA
S
ARANO
.

Nationality
:
G
REEK
.