So You Don't Get Lost in the Neighborhood Read Free Page A

thought that it was Gilles Ottolini once again. But no, a female voice.
    â€œChantal Grippay. Do you remember? We saw each other yesterday with Gilles . . . I don’t want to disturb you . . .”
    The voice was faint, muffled by interference.
    A silence.
    â€œI should very much like to see you, Monsieur Daragane. To talk to you about Gilles . . .”
    The voice was clearer now. Evidently, this Chantal Grippay had overcome her shyness.
    â€œYesterday evening after you left, he was worried that you might be angry with him. He’s spending two days in Lyon for his work . . . Could we see one another in the late afternoon?”
    The tone of voice of this Chantal Grippay had become more confident, like a diver who has paused for a few moments before jumping into the water.
    â€œSome time around five o’clock, would that suit you? I live at 118 rue de Charonne.”
    Daragane jotted down the address on the same page that contained the name Guy Torstel.
    â€œOn the fourth floor, at the end of the corridor. The name’s written on the letter box down below. It says Joséphine Grippay, but I’ve changed my first name . . .”
    â€œAt 118 rue de Charonne. At six in the evening . . . fourth floor,” Daragane repeated.
    â€œYes, that’s right . . . We’ll talk about Gilles . . .”
    After she had hung up, the phrase she had just uttered, “We’ll talk about Gilles”, echoed in Daragane’s head like the ending of an alexandrine. He must ask her why she had changed her first name.
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    A brick building, taller than the others and slightly set back. Daragane preferred to climb the four storeys on foot rather than take the lift. At the end of the corridor, on the door, a visiting card in the name of “Joséphine Grippay”. The first name “Joséphine” was scratched out and replaced, in violet ink, by “Chantal”. He was on the point of ringing, but the door opened. She was wearing black, as at the café the other day.
    â€œThe bell doesn’t work anymore, but I heard the sound of your footsteps.”
    She was smiling and she remained standing there, in the doorway. It was as though she were unsure whether to let him enter.
    â€œWe can go and have a drink somewhere else, if you like,” said Daragane.
    â€œNot at all. Come in.”
    A medium-sized room and, on the right, an open door. It apparently led to the bathroom. A light bulb was hanging from the ceiling.
    â€œThere’s not much room here. But it’s easier for us to talk.”
    She walked over to the small pale wooden desk between the two windows, drew out the chair and placed it by the bed.
    â€œDo sit down.”
    She herself sat on the edge of the bed, or rather of the mattress, for the bed did not have a base.
    â€œIt’s my room . . . Gilles found something larger for himself in the 17th, square du Graisivaudan.”
    She looked up to speak to him. He would have preferred to sit on the floor, or next to her, on the edge of the bed.
    â€œGilles is counting on you a great deal to help him write this article . . . He’s written a book, you know, but he didn’t dare tell you . . .”
    And she leant back on the bed, reached out her arm and picked up a book with a green cover on the bedside table.
    â€œHere . . . Don’t tell Gilles that I lent it to you . . .”
    A slim volume entitled
Le Flâneur hippique
, the back cover of which indicated that it had been published three years earlier by Sablier. Daragane opened it and glanced at the contents list. The book consisted of two main chapters: “Racecourses” and “School for Jockeys”.
    She gazed at him with her slightly slanting eyes.
    â€œIt’s best that he doesn’t know we’ve seen one another.”
    She stood up, went to close one of the windows that was half-open and