Missing Person. Patrick Modiano
“Yes, of course, Styoppa . . .”
Sonachidze had turned to me.
“Did you know Styoppa?”
“Perhaps,” I said carefully.
“Of course you did . . .,” said Heurteur. “You were often with Styoppa . . . I’m sure of it . . .”
“Styoppa . . .”
Judging from the way Sonachidze pronounced it, evidently a Russian name.
“He was the one who always asked the band to play ‘Alaverdi’ . . .” said Heurteur. “A Caucasian song . . .”
“Do you remember?” said Sonachidze, gripping my wrist very hard. “‘Alaverdi’ . . .”
He whistled the tune, his eyes shining. Suddenly, I too was moved. The tune seemed familiar to me.
Just then, the waiter who had served us approached Heurteur and indicated something at the far end of the room.
A woman was seated alone at one of the tables, in semi-darkness. She was wearing a pale blue dress and her chin was cupped in the palms of her hands. What was she dreaming of?
“The bride.”
“What is she doing there?” asked Heurteur.
“I don’t know,” said the waiter.
“Did you ask her if she wanted anything?”
“No. No. She doesn’t want anything.”
“And the others?”
“They ordered another dozen bottles of Krug.”
Heurteur shrugged.
“It’s none of my business.”
And Sonachidze, who had taken no notice of “the bride,” or of what they were saying, kept repeating:
“Yes . . . Styoppa . . . Do you remember Styoppa?”
He was so excited that I ended up answering, with a smile that was intended to be enigmatic:
“Yes, yes. A little . . .”
He turned to Heurteur and said in a grave tone:
“He remembers Styoppa.”
“Just as I thought.”
The white-coated waiter stood quite still in front of Heurteur, looking embarrassed.
“I think they’re going to use the rooms, sir . . . What should I do?”
“I knew this wedding party would end badly,” said Heurteur. “Well, old chap, they can do what they like. It’s none of our business.”
The bride sat motionless at the table. She had crossed her arms.
“I wonder why she’s sitting there on her own,” said Heurteur. “Anyway, it’s got absolutely nothing to do with us . . .”
And he flicked his hand, as though brushing a fly away.
“Let’s get back to business,” he said. “You admit then you knew Styoppa?”
“Yes,” I sighed.
“In other words, you were in the same crowd . . . They were quite a crowd too, weren’t they, Paul . . .?”
“Oh . . .! They’ve all gone now,” said Sonachidze gloomily. “Except for you, sir . . . I’m delighted to have been able to . . . to place you . . . You were in Styoppa’s crowd . . . You were lucky! . . . Those were much better times than now, and people were better class too . . .”
“And what’s more, we were younger,” said Heurteur, laughing.
“When are you talking about?” I asked them, my heart pounding.
“We’re not good at dates,” said Sonachidze. “But, in any case, it goes back to the beginning of time, all that . . .”
Suddenly he seemed exhausted.
“There certainly are some strange coincidences,” said Heurteur.
And he got up, went over to a little bar in a corner of the room, and brought back a newspaper, turning over the pages. Finally, he handed me the paper, pointing to the following notice:
The death is announced of Marie de Rosen, on October 25th, in her ninety-second year.
On behalf of her daughter, her son, her grandsons, nephews and grand-nephews.
And on behalf of her friends, Georges Sacher and Styoppa de Dzhagorev.
A service, followed by the interment in the Sainte-Geneviève-des-Bois Cemetery, will take place, on November 4th, at 4:00 P.M. in the cemetery chapel.
Ninth Day Divine Service will be held on November 5th, in the Russian Orthodox Church, 19 Rue Claude-Lorrain, 75016, Paris.
“Please take this announcement as the only notification.”
“So, Styoppa is alive?” said Sonachidze. “Do you still see him?”
“No,” I said.
“You’re right. One must live in the present. Jean, how about a brandy?”
“Good idea.”
From then on, they seemed completely to lose interest in Styoppa and my past. But it made no difference, since at last I was on the track.
“Can I keep the paper?” I asked casually.
“Certainly,” said Heurteur.
We clinked glasses. All that was left of what I had once been, then, was a dim shape in the minds of two bartenders, and even that was almost obliterated by the memory of a certain Styoppa de Dzhagorev. And they had heard nothing of this Styoppa since “the beginning of time,” as Sonachidze said.
“So, you’re a private detective?” Heurteur asked me.
“Not any more. My employer has just retired.”
“And are you carrying on?”
I shrugged and did not answer.
“Anyway, I should be delighted to see you again. Come back any time.”
He had got to his feet and held out his hand to us.
“Excuse me for showing you out now, but I still have my accounts to do . . . And those others with their . . . orgy.”
He gestured in the direction of the pond.
“Good-bye, Jean.”
“Good-bye, Paul.”
Heurteur looked at me thoughtfully. Speaking very softly:
“Now that you’re standing, you remind me of something else . . .”
“What does he remind you of?” asked Sonachidze.
“A customer who used to come every evening, very late, when we worked at the Hôtel Castille . . .”
Sonachidze, in his turn, looked me up and down.
“It’s possible,” he said, “that you’re an old customer from the Hôtel Castille after all . . .”
I gave an embarrassed smile.
Sonachidze took my arm and we crossed the restaurant, which was even darker than when we had arrived. The bride in the pale blue dress was no longer at her table. Outside, we heard blasts of music and laughter coming from across the pond.
“Could you please remind me what that song was that this . . . this . . .”
“Styoppa?” asked Sonachidze.
“Yes, which he always asked for . . .”
He started