After the Circus Read Free Page A

said early afternoon. I’d set the phone beside me on the couch. When the clock hit three, I felt a vague disquiet that gradually worsened. I was afraid she’d never call. I tried to keep reading, in vain. Finally the telephone rang.
    She still hadn’t recovered the rest of her belongings in Saint-Leu-la-Forêt. We agreed to meet at six o’clock at the Tournon.
    I had time to stop in at Dell’Aversano’s to find out how much he intended to pay me for the fake Monticelli, little Chinese armoire, and chess pieces I’d left with him.
    I crossed over the Pont-Neuf and followed the quays. Dell’Aversano had an antiques shop on Rue François-Miron, behind the Hôtel de Ville. I had met him two months earlier while selecting some used books from the shelves near the shop entrance.
    He was a dark-haired man of about forty, with a Roman face and light-colored eyes. Hespoke French with a slight accent. He had told me he imported antiques between France and Italy, but I didn’t ask too many questions about that.
    He was expecting me. He took me for coffee on the quay near the church of Saint-Gervais. He handed me an envelope, saying he’d buy the whole lot from me for seven thousand five hundred francs. I thanked him. I could live for a long time on that amount. Besides, I would soon have to leave the apartment and fend for myself.
    As if he were reading my thoughts, Dell’Aversano asked what I planned to do with my life.
    â€œYou know, my offer still stands …”
    He smiled at me. The last time I’d visited, he had said he could find me a job in Rome, with a bookseller he knew who needed a French assistant.
    â€œHave you given it any thought? Could you see yourself living in Rome?”
    I said yes. After all, I had no reason to remain in Paris. I was sure Rome would suit me fine. It would be a new life over there. I had tobuy a map of the city, study it every day, learn the names of all the streets and squares.
    â€œDo you know Rome well?” I asked him.
    â€œYes. I was born there.”
    I could drop in on him from time to time with my map and ask him about the various neighborhoods. That way, when I arrived in the city, I wouldn’t feel disoriented.
    Would she agree to come with me? I’d talk to her about it that evening. This might solve her problems as well.
    â€œDid you live in Rome?”
    â€œOf course,” he said. “For twenty-five years.”
    â€œOn what street?”
    â€œI was born in the San Lorenzo district, and my last address was on Via Euclide.”
    I wanted to jot down the names of the district and the street, but I would try to remember them and look them up on the map.
    â€œYou can leave next month,” he said. “My friend will find you a place to live. I don’t think the work is very strenuous. You’ll be dealing with French books.”
    He took a long drag on his cigarette, then, with a graceful gesture, as if in slow motion, he brought the coffee cup to his lips.
    He told me that in Rome, when he was younger, he and his friends used to sit in a café and compete to see who could take the longest to drink an orangeade. It often lasted all afternoon.

I was early for our appointment, so I strolled along the alleys of the Jardin du Luxembourg. For the first time, it felt as if winter were approaching. Up until then, the autumn days had been sunny.
    When I left the park, darkness was falling and the guards were preparing to lock the gates.
    I chose a table at the back of the Tournon. The previous year, this café had been a refuge for me when I frequented the Lycée Henri-IV, the public library in the 6th arrondissement, and the Bonaparte cinema. I would often see a regular patron, the writer Chester Himes, always surrounded by jazz musicians and very pretty blonde women.
    I had arrived at the Tournon at six o’clock, and by six-thirty she still wasn’t there. Chester Himes was sitting on