Honeymoon Read online

  Table of Contents

  i

  ii

  iii

  iv

  v

  There will be

  I was back

  I took advantage

  When I got back

  i didn't need

  Once again

  So I had planned

  I took the oil lamp

  I left my hotel room

  about: author

  HONEYMOON

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  by Sylvie Germain

  The Prospector

  by J. M. G. Le Clézio

  The Christmas Oratorio

  by Göran Tunström

  PATRICK MODIANO

  HONEYMOON

  Translated from the

  French by Barbara Wright

  Verba Mundi

  DAVID R. GODINE, PUBLISHER

  Boston

  For Robert Gallimard

  First U.S. edition published in 1995 by

  DAVID R. GODINE, PUBLISHER, INC.

  BOX 9103

  Lincoln, Massachusetts 01773

  Copyright© Editions Gallimard, 1990

  Translation copyright© HarperCollins Publishers, 1992

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

  used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without

  written permission, except in the case of brief

  quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Modiano, Patrick, 1945-

  [Voyages de noces. English]

  Honeymoon: a novel / by Patrick Modiano;

  translated by Barbara Wright

  p. cm

  ISBN 0-87923-947-6

  I. Title.

  PQ2673.03V613 1993

  84f•914-dc20 92-39175 CIP

  First American edition

  Printed the United States of America

  HONEYMOON

  THERE WILL BE more summer days, but the heat will never again be as oppressive or the streets as empty as they were in Milan that Tuesday. It was the day after the fifteenth of August. I had put my suitcase in the left luggage, and outside the station I hesitated for a moment: no one could walk in the town in that blazing sun. Five in the afternoon. Four hours to wait for the Paris train. I had to find some refuge, and I was drawn to an hotel with an imposing façade in an avenue a few hundred metres from the station.

  Its pale marble corridors protected you from the sun, and in the cool of the semi-darkness of the bar you were at the bottom of a well. Today, I see that bar as a well, and the hotel as a gigantic blockhouse, but at that moment I was content to drink a mixture of grenadine and orange juice through a straw. I listened to the barman, whose face I have completely forgotten. He was talking to another customer, and I would be quite incapable of describing that man's appearance or dress. Just one thing about him remains in my memory: his way of punctuating the conversation with a "Mah", which reverberated like the dismal bark of a dog.

  A woman had committed suicide in one of the hotel rooms two days before, on the eve of the fifteenth of August. The barman was explaining that they had called an ambulance, but in vain. He had seen the woman in the afternoon. She had come into the bar. She was on her own. After the suicide, the police had questioned him. He hadn't been able to give them many derails. A brunette. The hotel manager had been rather relieved because the event had escaped notice as there were so few guests at this time of year. There had been a paragraph, this morning, in the Corriere della Sera. A Frenchwoman. What was she doing in Milan in August? They turned to me, as if they expected me to be able to tell them. Then the barman said to me in French:

  "People shouldn't come here in August. In Milan, everything's closed in August."

  The other agreed, with his dismal "Mah!" And they both turned a reproachful eye on me, to make me fully realize that I had been guilty of an indiscretion, and even worse than an indiscretion, of a rather serious offence, in landing up in Milan in August.

  "You can check," the barman told me. "Not a single shop open in Milan today."

  I found myself in one of the yellow taxis waiting outside the hotel. Noticing that I was hesitating like a tourist, the driver offered to take me to the Piazza del Duomo.

  There was no one in the avenues, and all the shops were shut. I wondered whether the woman they had been talking about just now had also crossed Milan in a yellow taxi before going back to the hotel and killing herself. I don't believe I thought at the time that the sight of that deserted town could have induced her to come to her decision. On the contrary, if I try to find words to convey the impression Milan made on me on that sixteenth of August, the ones that immediately come to mind are: Open City. The city, it seemed to me, was allowing itself a respite, but the noise and bustle would start up again, of that I was sure.

  In the Piazza del Duomo, tourists wearing caps were wandering around outside the cathedral, and a big bookshop was lit up at the entrance to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. I was the only customer, and I browsed through the books under the brilliant light. Had she come to this bookshop on the eve of the fifteenth of August? I wanted to ask the man sitting behind a desk at the back of the shop, by the art books. But I knew hardly anything about her except that she was a brunette, and French.

  I walked down the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. Every living being in Milan had taken refuge there to escape the sun's deadly rays: children around an ice-cream seller, Japanese and Germans, Italians from the South, visiting the city for the first time. If I had been there three days before, we might perhaps have met in the gallery, that woman and I, and as we were both French we would have spoken to one another.

  Still two hours to go before the Paris train. Once again I got into one of the yellow taxis at the rank in the Piazza del Duomo, and gave the driver the name of the hotel. Night was falling. Today, the avenues, the gardens, the trams of that foreign city and the heat that isolates you even more, are for me all linked to that woman's suicide. But at the time, in the taxi, I told myself that it was just an unfortunate coincidence.

  The barman was alone. He gave me another grenadine and orange juice.

  "Well, satisfied? … The shops are shut in Milan …"

  I asked him whether the woman had been at the hotel long, the one who, as he rather deferentially put it, "had taken her own life."

  "No, no … Three days before she took her own life …" "Where was she from?"

  "From Paris. She was going to join some friends on holiday in the South. In Capri… That's what the police said … Someone is supposed to be coming from Capri tomorrow to sort out all the problems …"

  To sort out all the problems! What did these lugubrious words have in common with the azure, the sea grottoes, the summer gaiety that Capri conjured up?

  "A very pretty woman … She was sitting there …"

  He pointed to a table, right at the back.

  "I gave her the same drink as you …"

  Time for my train. It was dark outside, but the heat was as stifling as it had been in the middle of the afternoon. I crossed the avenue, my gaze fixed on the monumental façade of the station. In the enormous left-luggage hall I searched all my pockets for the ticket that would enable me to regain possession of my suitcase.

  I had bought the Corriere della Sera. I wanted to read the paragraph about that woman. She had no doubt arrived from Paris at the platform where I now was, and I was going to make the journey in reverse, five days later … What a strange idea to come and commit suicide here, when friends are waiting for you in
Capri … What had caused her to do it I might never know.

  I WAS BACK in Milan again last week, but I didn't leave the airport. It wasn't as it had been eighteen years earlier. Yes: eighteen years, I counted them on my fingers. This time I didn't take a yellow taxi to drive me to the Piazza del Duomo and the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. It was raining, heavy June rain. Barely an hour's wait, and I would board a plane to take me back to Paris.

  I was in transit, sitting in a big glazed lounge in Linate. I thought about that day eighteen years before, and for the first time in all those years, the woman who "took her own life" – as the barman had put it – really began to preoccupy me.

  I had bought the return air ticker for Milan at random the day before, in a travel agency in the Rue Jouffroy. When I got home I had hidden it at the bottom of one of my suitcases because of Annette, my wife. Milan. I had chosen that destination at random, out of three others: Vienna, Athens, Lisbon. It didn't matter which city. The only problem was to choose a plane leaving at the same time as the one I was supposed to be raking for Rio de Janeiro.

  They had come with me to the airport: Annette, Wetzel and Cavanaugh. They were showing signs of the artificial gaiety I had often observed at the start of our expeditions. Personally, I have never liked going away, and that day I liked it even less than usual. I wanted to tell them that we were too old for the profession that can only be described by the antiquated name of "explorer". How much longer would we go on showing our documentary films in the Salle Pleyel or in the provincial cinemas that were becoming fewer all the time? When we were very young we had wanted to follow the example of our elders, but it was already too late for us. There was no more virgin territory to explore.

  "Be sure and phone us as soon as you get to Rio …" Wetzel had said.

  It was to have been a routine expedition: a new documentary I was to make which was to be called, like so many others: In the footsteps of Colonel Fawcett, an excuse to film a few villages bordering the Mato Grosso plateau. This time I had decided that I wouldn't be seen in Brazil, but I didn't dare confess it to Annette and the others. They wouldn't have understood. And anyway, Annette was waiting for me to leave, so as to be alone with Cavanaugh.

  "Remember us to the crew in Brazil," Cavanaugh said.

  He was referring to the film crew who had already left, and were waiting for me on the other side of the Ocean at the Hotel Souza in Rio de Janeiro. Well, they'd have to wait a long time for me … After forty-eight hours they would begin to feel vaguely worried. They'd phone Paris. Annette would answer, Cavanaugh would pick up the earpiece. Disappeared, yes, I'd disappeared. Like Colonel Fawcett. But with this difference: I had vanished at the very start of the expedition, which would worry them even more, because they would discover that my seat in the Rio plane hadn't been occupied.

  I told them I'd rather they didn't see me into the departure lounge, and I turned round towards their little group with the thought that I would never see them again in my whole life. Wetzel and Cavanaugh still looked very dashing, no doubt because of our profession which wasn't really a profession, but simply a way of pursuing childhood dreams. How much longer would we go on being old young people? They waved goodbye to me. I was moved by Annette. She and I were exactly the same age, and she'd become one of those slightly faded Danish beauties who used to attract me when I was twenty. They were older than I was at that time, and I was grateful for their tender protection.

  I waited until they left the building and then made my way towards the boarding gate for the Milan plane. I could have gone straight back to Paris on the sly. But I felt I had to put a distance between them and me first.

  •

  For a moment, in that transit lounge, I was tempted to leave the airport and follow the same itinerary through the streets of Milan as in the past. But that was pointless. She had come to die here by chance. It was in Paris that I had to pick up her traces.

  During the return journey I let myself drift into a state of euphoria such as I hadn't experienced since my first trip to the Pacific Islands when I was twenty-five. There had been many other journeys after that one. Was it the example of Stanley, or Savorgnan de Brazza, of Alain Gerbault, whose exploits I had read of in my childhood? Above all, it was the need to escape. I felt it in me, more violently than ever. There, in the plane taking me back to Paris, I had the impression of having escaped further even than if I had flown, as I should have, to Rio.

  •

  I know a lot of hotels in suburban Paris, and I had decided to switch regularly. The first in which I took a room was the Dodds Hotel, at the Porte Dorée. There I ran no risk of bumping into Annette. After I had left, Cavanaugh had certainly taken her to his flat in the Avenue Duquesne. Perhaps she hadn't heard of my disappearance right away, because no one – not even Wetzel – knew that she was Cavanaugh's mistress, and the phone must have rung in vain at our place, in the Cité Véron. And then, after a few days of their honeymoon, she would finally have gone back to the Cité Véron where a telegram – I suppose – would be waiting for her: "Rio crew very worried. Jean not on plane 18th. Phone Hotel Souza Rio urgently." And Cavanaugh would have gone to join her at the Cité Véron, to share her distress.

  Personally, I don't feel the slightest bit distressed. But elated, highly elated. And I refuse to allow all this to be over­dramatized: I'm too old, now. As soon as I run out of cash I shall try to come to an understanding with Annette. A phone call to the Cité Véron wouldn't be wise, because of Cavanaugh's presence. But I shall easily find a way to make a secret date with Annette. And I shall ensure her silence. Up to her, from then on, to discourage anyone who might want to go and look for me. She's clever enough to cover my tracks, and to cover them so successfully that it will be as if I had never existed.

  •

  It's a fine day today, at the Porte Dorée. But the heat isn't as oppressive and the streets are not as empty as in Milan that day eighteen years ago. Over there, on the other side of the Boulevard Soult and the square with the fountains, groups of tourists are crowding round the entrance to the zoo, and others are going up the steps to the former Colonial Museum. It has played a part in our lives, that museum, which Cavanaugh, Wetzel and I used to visit as children, and the zoo too. There we dreamed of far-off countries, and of expeditions from which there was no return.

  And here I am, back at my point of departure. I too, in a few minutes, will buy a ticket to visit the zoo. A few weeks from now there'll probably be a short article in some paper or other announcing the disappearance of Jean B. Annette will follow my instructions and get them to believe that I vanished into thin air during my last trip to Brazil. Time will pass, and I shall appear after Fawcett and Mauffrais in the list of lost explorers. No one will ever guess that I landed up on the outskirts of Paris, and that that was the aim of my journey.

  Obituary writers imagine that they can summon up the whole course of a life. But they know nothing. Eighteen years ago, lying on my couchette, I read the paragraph in the Corriere della Sera. My heart missed a beat: the woman who had taken her life, as the barman had put it, was somebody I had known. The train stayed in the station in Milan for a long time, and I was so shattered that I wondered whether I oughtn't to leave the carriage and go back to the hotel, as if I still had a chance to see her again.

  The Corriere della Sera had got her age wrong. She was forty-five. They called her by her maiden name, though she was still married to Rigaud. But who was to know that, apart from Rigaud, me, and a bureaucrat or two? Could they really be blamed for such a mistake, and after all wasn't it more reasonable to give her maiden name, the one she had gone by for the first twenty years of her life?

  The hotel barman had said that someone was going to come "to sort out all the problems". Was that Rigaud? As the train began to move, I imagined myself face to face with a Rigaud who would no longer have been the same man that he was six years before, given the circumstances. Would he have recognized me? In the six years since they had crossed my path,
Ingrid and he, I hadn't seen him again.

  But I had seen Ingrid once in Paris. Without Rigaud.

  A silent, moonlit suburb was going slowly by outside the window. I was alone in the compartment. I had only switched on the night-light above my couchette. I would only have had to arrive in Milan three days earlier, and I could have met her in the hotel lobby. I had thought the same thing, that afternoon, in the taxi taking me to the Piazza del Duomo, but I hadn't known then that it was Ingrid.

  What would we have talked about? And what if she had pretended not to recognize me? Pretended? But she must already have been feeling so far away from everything that she wouldn't even have noticed me. Or if she had, she would have exchanged a few strictly conventional words with me before leaving me for ever.

  •

  You can no longer climb the big rock in the zoo, the one they call the Chamois' Rock, by the steps inside it. It's in danger of collapsing, and is enveloped in a kind of net. The cement is cracked in places, revealing the rusty iron rods in the armature. But I was glad to see the giraffes and elephants again. Saturday. A lot of tourists were taking photos. And families who hadn't gone on holiday yet, or who wouldn't be going, were coming into the Vincennes Zoo as if it were a summer resort.

  At the moment I'm sitting on a bench facing Lake Daumesnil. Later, I shall go back to the Dodds Hotel, which is very near, in one of those blocks flanking the former Colonial Museum. From my bedroom window I shall look out at the square and the play of the fountains. Could I have imagined, at the time I met Ingrid and Rigaud, that I'd land up here, at the Porte Dorée, after more than twenty years of journeys in far-off countries?

  When I got back from Milan that summer, I wanted to find out more about Ingrid's suicide. The phone number she'd given me when I had seen her alone in Paris, for the first and last time, didn't answer. And in any case, she'd told me that she no longer lived with Rigaud. I found another number, the one Rigaud had scribbled down when they had taken me to the station in Saint-Raphaël, six years before. KLÉBER 83–85.