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

home?”
    â€œNow?”
    â€œYes. Now.”
    He told her the address, the entry code, the floor. Had he surfaced from his dream? Annie Astrand’s face had seemed so close a moment ago . . . She was at the wheel of her car, outside the house at Saint-Leu-la-Forêt, he was sitting on the front seat beside her, and she was speaking to him, but he could not hear the sound of her voice.
    On his desk, the photocopies, in a muddle. He had forgotten that he had scored blue lines through them. And the name: Annie Astrand, which leapt out at you, because it was circled in red . . . He would have to avoid showing that to Gilles Ottolini. This red circle might give him a lead. Any cop would have put the question if he had come across it, after slowly leafing through the pages.
    â€œWhy have you highlighted this name?”
    He glanced over at the hornbeam whose leaves were motionless, and this reassured him. This tree was a sentry, the only person who watched over him. He went and stood at the window overlooking the street. No cars went by at this time and the streetlamps gleamed pointlessly. He saw Chantal Grippay who was walking along the pavement on the opposite side, and she seemed to be looking at the numbers of the buildings. She was holding a plastic bag in her hand. He wondered whether she had walked here from rue de Charonne. He heard the porte cochère shutting suddenly and her footsteps on the staircase, a very slow footstep, as though she were hesitating to come up. Before she rang the bell, he opened the door and she gave a start. She was still wearing a black blouse and black trousers. She seemed to him as shy as she had been the first time, at the café on rue de l’Arcade.
    â€œI didn’t want to disturb you so late . . .”
    She stood at the doorstep with an apologetic air, not moving. He took her arm to lead her in. Otherwise, he had the feeling that she would have done an about-turn. In the room he used as a study, he pointed her to the sofa where she sat down, and she placed her plastic bag beside her.
    â€œSo, have you read it?”
    She had asked the question in an anxious tone of voice. Why did she attach such importance to it?
    â€œI’ve read it, but I can’t really be of any help to your friend. I don’t know these people.”
    â€œEven Torstel?”
    She looked him straight in the eyes.
    The interrogation would start again, without interruption, until the morning. Then, at about eight o’clock, the doorbell would ring. It would be Gilles Ottolini, back from Lyon, who would come and take over from her.
    â€œYes, even Torstel.”
    â€œWhy use this name in a book, if you hadn’t known him?”
    She had adopted a falsely naive tone.
    â€œI choose names at random, by looking at the telephone directory.”
    â€œSo, you can’t help Gilles.”
    He came and sat down beside her on the sofa and brought his face closer to hers. Once again, he saw the scar on her left cheekbone.
    â€œHe wants you to help him write . . . He thought that you were very closely involved with everything noted down in these papers . . .”
    At that moment, he had the feeling that the roles were being reversed and that it would not take much to “crack” her, according to the expression he had once heard among a particular milieu. Beneath the glow of the lamp, he noticed the rings under her eyes and the quivering of her hands. She seemed to him paler than she had a moment ago, when he had opened the door to her.
    On his desk, the pages that he had struck through in blue pencil were clearly visible. But for the time being she had not noticed anything.
    â€œGilles has read all your books and he has made enquiries about you . . .”
    These words made him feel slightly uneasy. He had had the misfortune to attract the attention of someone who would not let go of him from now on. Rather like certain people whose eyes