Villa Triste by Patrick Modiano

Author:Patrick Modiano [Modiano, Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 978-1-59051-768-0
Publisher: Other Press
Published: 2016-05-31T04:00:00+00:00

The orchestra came back and the music started again. A very slow cha-cha-cha, in which you could make out the melody of “April in Portugal.”

Meinthe stood up. “If it’s all right with you, Hendrickx,” he said (using the formal vous for the first time), “I am going to leave you and this elegant company.” He turned to Yvonne and me: “Do you want a ride back?”

I said yes docilely. Yvonne stood up too. She shook hands with Fossorié and the president of the golf club, but she didn’t dare say goodbye to the Roland-Michels or the two bronzed blondes.

“And when’s the wedding going to be?” Hendrickx asked, pointing a finger at us.

“As soon as we get the hell out of this shitty little French village,” I said very fast.

They all gaped at me.

Why had I spoken so stupidly and crudely about a French village? I still ask myself that, and I apologize. Meinthe himself looked sorry to see me in this new light.

“Come on,” Yvonne said, taking me by the arm. Hendrickx remained speechless, staring, wide-eyed.

I bumped into Pulli without meaning to.

“Are you leaving, Monsieur Chmara?” he asked, trying to restrain me and pressing my hand.

“I’ll be back, I’ll be back,” I told him.

“Oh, please do come back. We can talk some more about all those things …”

And he made an evasive gesture. We crossed the dance floor. Meinthe was marching behind us. Now the spotlights were making it look as though big snowflakes were falling on the dancing couples. Yvonne was hauling me along, and we had trouble getting through the crowd.

Before going down the steps, I tried to take a last look at the table where we’d been sitting.

All my rage had dissolved, and I regretted my loss of self-control.

“Are you coming?” Yvonne said. “Are you coming?”

“What are you thinking, Victor?” Meinthe asked, tapping me on the shoulder.

I stayed there at the top of the stairs, hypnotized once again by Fossorié’s hair. It was gleaming. He must have smeared it with some kind of phosphorescent brilliantine. How much effort, how much patience, to erect that gray-blue edifice every morning.

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