Missing Person. Patrick Modiano
the large box under my arm.
At street level, we proceeded along the Quai du Général-Kœnig.
We descended some stone steps, and there, right by the side of the Seine, was a brick building. Above the door, a sign: “Bar-Restaurant de l’Île.” We went in. A low-ceilinged room, and tables with white paper napkins and wicker chairs. Through the windows one could see the Seine and the lights of the Pont de Puteaux. We sat down at the back of the room. We were the only customers.
Styoppa groped in his pocket and placed in the center of the table the package I had seen him buy at the grocer’s.
“The usual?” asked the waiter.
“The usual.”
“And you, sir?” asked the waiter, turning to me.
“This gentleman will have the same as me.”
Very swiftly the waiter brought us two servings of Baltic herring and poured some mineral water into two thimble-sized glasses. Styoppa extracted some cucumbers from the package in the center of the table and we shared them.
“Is this all right for you?” he asked me.
“Do you really not wish to keep all these souvenirs?” I asked him.
“No. They’re yours now. I’m passing on the torch.”
We ate in silence. A boat passed, so close, that I had time to see its occupants, framed in the window, sitting at a table and eating, just like us.
“And this . . . Gay Orlov?” I said. “Do you know what became of her?”
“Gay Orlov? I believe she’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“I believe so. I must have met her two or three times. I hardly knew her . . . It was my mother who was a friend of old Giorgiadze. A little cucumber?”
“Thanks.”
“I think she led a very restless life in America . . .”
“And you don’t know anyone who could give me any information about this . . . Gay Orlov?”
He threw me a compassionate look.
“My poor friend . . . no one . . . Perhaps there’s someone in America . . .”
Another boat passed, black, slow, as though abandoned.
“I always have a banana for dessert,” he said. “What would you like?”
“I’ll have one too.”
We ate our bananas.
“And this Gay Orlov’s . . . parents?” I asked.
“They must have died in America. One dies everywhere, you know . . .”
“Did Giorgiadze have any other relatives in France?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“But why are you so concerned about Gay Orlov? Was she your sister?”
He smiled pleasantly.
“Some coffee?” he asked.
“No, thanks.”
“I won’t either.”
He wanted to pay the bill, but I forestalled him. We left the restaurant “de l’Île” and he took my arm as we climbed the steps of the quay. A fog had come up, soft but with an icy feel to it. It filled your lungs with such cold that you felt you were floating on air. On the quay again, I could barely make out the buildings a few yards off.
I guided him, as if he were a blind man, to his apartment building, with the staircase entrances yellow blotches in the fog, the only reference points. He clasped my hand.
“Try to find Gay Orlov even so,” he said. “Since it means so much to you . . .”
I watched him entering the lighted entrance hall. He stopped and waved to me. I stood, motionless, the large red box under my arms, like a child returning from a birthday party, and I felt certain at that moment that he was saying something else to me but that the fog was muffling the sound of his voice.
5
A POSTCARD showing the Promenade des Anglais. Summertime.
My dear Guy, your letter arrived safely. Here, every day is like the next, but Nice is a very lovely town. You must come and visit me. Strangely enough, I run into people on the street I have not seen for thirty years, or who I thought were dead. We give each other quite a turn. Nice is a city of ghosts and specters, but I hope not to become one of them right away.
As to the woman you are looking for, the best thing would be to phone Bernardy, Mac Mahon 00-08. He has kept in close contact with people in the various departments. He will be happy to advise you.
Hoping to see you in Nice, my dear Guy, I remain yours most sincerely and affectionately,
Hutte
P. S. As you know, the premises of the Agency are at your disposal.
6
23rd October 1965
SUBJECT: ORLOV, Mara, called “Gay” ORLOV.
BORN IN: Moscow (Russia), in 1914, daughter of Kyril ORLOV and Irene GIORGIADZE.
NATIONALITY: stateless. (Miss Orlov’s parents and she herself, as Russian refugees, were not recognized by the Government of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics as its nationals.) Miss Orlov had an ordinary residence permit. Miss Orlov evidently arrived in France, in 1936, from the United States. In the U.S.A. she entered into marriage with a Mr. Waldo Blunt, then divorced.
Miss Orlov resided successively at:
The Hôtel Châteaubriand, 18 Rue du Cirque, Paris 8
53 Avenue Montaigne, Paris 8
25 Avenue du Maréchal-Lyautey, Paris 16
Before coming to France, Miss Orlov was a dancer in the United States. In Paris, there was no visible source of income, although she led a life of luxury.
Miss Orlov died in 1950 at her home, 25 Avenue du Maréchal-Lyautey, Paris 16, of an overdose of barbiturates.
Mr. Waldo Blunt, her ex-husband, has resided in Paris since 1952 and has worked in various night club establishments as a professional pianist. He is an American citizen. Born 30th September 1910, in Chicago.
Residence permit no. 534HC828.
Attached to this typewritten memorandum, a visiting-card bearing Jean-Pierre Bernardy’s name and the words:
“This is all the information available. My best wishes. Regards to Hutte.”
7
A NOTICE on the glass-fronted door announced, “Waldo Blunt at the piano from six to nine every evening in the Hilton Hotel bar.”
The bar was packed and the only free seat was at the table of a Japanese with gold-rimmed spectacles. He did not seem to understand me when I bent over him and asked if I might sit down, and when I did, he took no notice.
American and Japanese customers came in, hailed each other and spoke louder and louder. They stood about between the tables. Several, glass in hand, leaned on the backs or arms of chairs. One young woman was even perched on the knees of a gray-haired man.
Waldo Blunt arrived a quarter of an hour late and sat down at the piano. A small plump man with receding hair and a thin moustache. He was wearing a gray suit. First he turned his head and cast a glance around the tables where people were crowding. He stroked the keys of the piano with his right hand and played a few random chords. I happened to be sitting at one of the closest tables.
He began a tune which, I believe, was “Sur les quais