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

sat down again on the edge of the bed. Daragane had the impression that she had closed this window so that they should not be heard.
    â€œBefore working for Sweerts, Gilles wrote articles on racecourses and horses for magazines and specialist papers.”
    She paused like someone who is about to let you into a secret.
    â€œWhen he was very young, he went to the school for jockeys at Maisons-Laffitte. But it was too tough . . . he had to give it up . . . You’ll see, if you read the book . . .”
    Daragane listened to her carefully. It was strange to enter into people’s lives so quickly . . . He had thought that this would be unlikely to happen to him any longer at his age, through weariness on his part and because of the feeling that other people slowly grow away from you.
    â€œHe used to take me to race meetings . . . He taught me to gamble . . . It’s a drug, you know . . .”
    All of a sudden, she seemed sad. Daragane wondered whether she might be seeking some sort of support from him, material or moral. And the solemnity of these words that had just crossed his mind made him want to laugh.
    â€œAnd do you still go and place bets at race meetings?”
    â€œLess and less since he’s been working at Sweerts.”
    Her voice had dropped. Perhaps she feared that Gilles Ottolini might walk into the room unexpectedly and catch them both by surprise.
    â€œI’ll show you the notes that he put together for his article . . . Perhaps you’ve known all these people . . .”
    â€œWhat people?”
    â€œFor instance, the person whom he spoke to you about . . . Guy Torstel . . .”
    Once again, she leant back on the bed and took from beneath the bedside table a sky-blue cardboard folder which she opened. It contained typewritten pages and a book which she handed to him:
Le Noir de l’été
.
    â€œI’d prefer you to keep it,” he said brusquely.
    â€œHe marked the page where you mention this Guy Torstel . . .”
    â€œI’ll ask him to photocopy it. That will save me from having to reread the book . . .”
    She seemed astonished that he should not want to reread his book.
    â€œIn a moment, we’ll also go and make a photocopy of the notes he made so that you can take them with you.”
    And she pointed to the typewritten notes.
    â€œBut all this must remain between ourselves . . .” Daragane was feeling slightly uncomfortable sitting on his chair and, so as to appear more composed, he leafed through Gilles Ottolini’s book. In the chapter on “Racecourses”, he came across two words printed in capital letters: LE TREMBLAY. And these words triggered something in him, without him quite knowing why, as though he was gradually being reminded of a detail that he had forgotten.
    â€œYou’ll see . . . It’s an interesting book . . .”
    She looked up at him and smiled.
    â€œHave you lived here long?”
    â€œTwo years.”
    The beige walls that had certainly not been repainted for years, the small desk, and the two windows that overlooked a courtyard . . . He had lived in identical rooms, at the age of this Chantal Grippay, and when he was younger than her. But at the time it was not in the eastern districts of the city. Rather more to the south, on the outskirts of the 14th or the 15th arrondissement. And towards the north-east, square du Graisivaudan, which by a mysterious coincidence she had mentioned earlier. And also, at the foot of the butte Montmartre, between Pigalle and Blanche.
    â€œI know that Gilles called you this morning before setting off for Lyon. Did he say anything in particular?”
    â€œJust that we would be seeing one another again.”
    â€œHe was frightened that you might be angry . . .”
    Perhaps Gilles Ottolini was aware of their meeting today. He was reckoning that she