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habits a bit. I began to think about Rigaud. I knew in advance
that he wouldn't stop occupying my mind the next day and
the following days. If he was alive, and in Paris, I would only
have to take the metro and pay him a visit, or even dial eight
digits on a telephone to hear his voice. But I didn't think it
would be as simple as that.
After dinner I went to the booth in the brasserie to consult
the Paris phone book. It was eight years old. I read the long
list of Rigauds more carefully than I had the first time. I
stopped at a Rigaud whose Christian name wasn't
mentioned. 20, Boulevard Sault. 0 -28. Phone numbers
3 7- 7
5
that year still had only seven digits. 0 was the former DO AN
3 7
code. I wrote down the address and number.
None of the other Rigauds in the directory seemed to me
to be the right one, because of their profession or their address
in Paris, or because of the simple indication: M. and Mme
Rigaud. What had struck me was the absence of a Christian
name, and the address in the Boulevard Sault.
I went out of the brasserie, intending to walk to 20, Boul
evard Sault. The sun had disappeared but the sky was still
blue. Before the street lights went on, I would take advantage
of the moment, the time of day I like best. Not quite daylight.
Not yet dark. A feeling of respite and calm comes over you,
and that's the moment to lend an ear to echoes that come from
afar.
20, Boulevard Sault was a group of blocks in depth, access
to which was by a side path. I had been afraid that the name
Rigaud might be that of a shop, but I didn't see any at that
address. The windows of the block facing the street were not
yet lit up. I was reluctant to venture into the side path for fear
a resident might ask me what I was doing there. Of course I
could always say: "I'm looking for Monsieur Rigaud."
I contented myself with sitting on a bench outside number
74
20. The street lights came on. I didn't rake my eyes off the
fac;ade, or the entrance ro the side path. On the first floor,
one window was now lit up, both halves thrown wide
open because of the hear. Someone was living in that
litrle Aar, which I imagined consisted of two empty rooms.
Rigaud?
I thought of all the travel stories I had found so gripping
as an adolescent, and in particular of one book by an English
man: he described the mirages he had been a victi m of in his
travels across the desert. On the jacket there was a phoro of
him dressed as a Bedouin, surrounded by a group of oasis
children. And I felr like laughing. Why go so far, when you
can have the same experience in Paris, sitring on a bench in the
Boulevard Soulr? Wasn't that lighted window, behind which I
was persuading myself of Rigaud's presence, just as great a
mirage as the one that dazzles you in the middle of the desert?
"
The next morning, at about ten, I returned to 20, Boulevard
Soult. I went through the front door of the block facing the
street. On the left, a little notice was hanging on the door
knob of the concierge's lodge. On it was writren: "Please
enquire at the service station, 1 6, Boulevard Soult."
Two men were chatting by the petrol pump, one in blue
dungarees, the other in a white shirt and grey trousers. The
first looked like a Kabyle, the other had white hair combed
back, blue eyes and a blotchy complexion. He looked about
seventy, and the Kabyle about twenty years younger.
"Can I help you?"
It was the Kabyle in the blue dungarees who had asked this.
"
"I'm looking for the concierge of number 20.
"That's me."
The white-haired man greeted me with a very brief nod,
his cigarette in the corner of his lips.
7
5
"I just wanted to ask you something . . . About a Monsieur
gau d . . . "
He paused for thought.
"Rigaud? What do you actually want with him?"
He was holding his cigarette between his fingers.
"I'd like to see him."
His fixed look made me feel ill at ease. The Kabyle too was
looking at me curiously.
"But he hasn't lived here for ages . . . "
He treated me to an indulgent smile, as if he were in the
presence of a half-wit.
"The flat hasn't been lived in for at least thirty years . . . I
don't even know whether Monsieur Rigaud is still alive . . ."
The Kabyle in the blue dungarees seemed totally indifferent
to Rigaud's fate. Unless he was being tactful and pretending
not to listen to us.
"And anyway, I'd rather not know . . . I have the impres
sion that the flat belongs to me . . . I have the key, and I do
the cleaning . . ."
"Did you know Monsieur Rigaud?" I asked, my hea beating.
"Yes . . . Do you know how long I've been the concierge
here?"
He stuck his chest out slightly, looking hard at us one after
the other, the Kabyle and me.
"Guess . . ."
The Kabyle shrugged his shoulders. I remained silent.
He came nearer, until he was almost pressing himself
against me.
"How old would you say I am?"
He was still sticking out his chest, and looking me straight
in the eyes.
"Guess . . ."
"Sixty."
"I am seventy-five, Monsieur."
He stepped back from us after this revelation, as if to check
on the effect he had produced. Bur the Kabyle remained
unmoved. I forced myself to say:
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