After the Circus Read Free

right. I’m sure I’ll be getting a call.”
    He imitated my father when he wanted to appear serious and responsible, but it rang even less true than the original.
    â€œAnd what sort of young lady is she?”
    His face took on the unctuous expression with which he suggested, every Sunday morning, that I go to Mass with him.
    â€œFirst of all, she’s not a young lady.”
    â€œIs she pretty?”
    I saw on his face the smug, flattering smile of the traveling salesman in some random station bar who over a beer tells you how he got lucky.
    â€œMy
girlfriend last night wasn’t too bad either …”
    His tone became aggressive, as if we were suddenly in competition. I no longer remember what I felt at the time, with that seated man, in the empty office that looked as if it had been vacated at a moment’s notice, its furniture and paintings pawned or repossessed. He was my father’s stand-in, his factotum. They had met when very young on a beach on the Atlantic coast, and my father had corrupted this petty bourgeois Frenchman. For thirty years, Grabley had lived in his shadow. The only habit he retained from his childhood and good upbringing was to attend Mass every Sunday.
    â€œWill you introduce me to your girlfriend?”
    He gave me a complicit wink.
    â€œWe could even go out together, if you like … I’m fond of young couples.”
    I pictured us, her and me, in Grabley’s car as it crossed over the Seine and headed toward Pigalle. A young couple. One evening I’d accompaniedhim to the Deux Magots, before he headed off on his usual “rounds.” We were sitting near the windows. I had been surprised to see him greet in passing a couple of about twenty-five: the woman blonde and very graceful, the man dark and overly elegant. He had even gone to talk to them, standing next to their table, while I watched from my seat. Their age and appearance marked such a sharp contrast with Grabley’s old-world manners that I wondered what fluke could have brought them together. The man seemed amused by what Grabley was saying, but the woman was more detached. Taking his leave, Grabley had shaken the man’s hand and given the woman a ceremonious nod. When we left, he introduced them to me, but I’ve forgotten their names. Then he’d told me that the “young man” was a “very useful contact” and that he’d met him during his “rounds” in Pigalle.
    â€œYou seem pensive, Obligado … Are you in love?”
    He had gotten up and was standing in front of me, hands in the pockets of his bathrobe.
    â€œI need to spend all day at the office. I have to sift through the paperwork from seventy-three and move it out.”
    That was an office my father had rented on Boulevard Haussmann. I often used to go meet him there at the end of the afternoon. A corner room with a very high ceiling. Daylight entered through four French windows overlooking the boulevard and Rue de l’Arcade. Filing cabinets against the walls and a massive desk with an assortment of inkwells, blotters, and a writing case.
    What did he do there? Each time, I would find him on the telephone. After thirty years, I happened across an envelope, on the back of which was printed the name of an ore refining company, the Société Civile d’Etudes et Traitements de Minerais, 73 Boulevard Haussmann, Paris 8.
    â€œYou and your girlfriend can come pick me up at seventy-three. We’ll go have dinner together …”
    â€œI don’t think she’s free this evening.”
    He seemed disappointed. He lit a cigarette.
    â€œWell, anyway, call me at seventy-three to let me know your plans … I’d love to meet her …”
    I was thinking I had to keep a bit of distance, or else we’d have him on our backs nonstop. But I’ve never been very good at saying no.

I remained in the office, reading and waiting for her call. She had