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

meet yours. They can suddenly be hostile without the slightest reason, or else they come up and speak to you, and it is very difficult to get rid of them. He always tried to lower his gaze in the street.
    â€œAnd then, they’re intending to make him redundant at the Sweerts agency . . . He’s going to find himself unemployed once again . . .”
    Daragane was struck by the weary tone her voice had taken on. He thought he could detect a note of exasperation in this weariness, and even a slight contempt.
    â€œHe thought you were going to help him . . . He has the feeling that he’s known you for a long time . . . He knows a lot about you . . .”
    She seemed to want to say more. It would soon be the time of night when the make-up starts to run and you are on the brink of revealing secrets.
    â€œWould you care for something to drink?”
    â€œOh yes . . . something strong . . . I need a fillip . . .” Daragane was amazed that at her age she should use this outmoded expression. He had not heard the word “fillip” for a long time. Perhaps Annie Astrand used it in the old days. She held her hands clasped together, as though she were trying to stop them shaking.
    In the kitchen cupboard, all he could find was a half-empty bottle of vodka and he wondered who could possibly have left it there. She had settled herself on the sofa, her legs outstretched, her back leaning against the big orange cushion. “I’m sorry, but I’m feeling a bit tired . . .”
    She gulped a mouthful down. Then another.
    â€œThat’s better. They’re dreadful, these kinds of parties . . .” She looked at Daragane, as though she wished to call him as a witness. He paused for a moment before asking her the question.
    â€œWhat parties?”
    â€œThe one I’ve just come from . . .”
    Then, in a brusque voice:
    â€œI’m paid to go to these ‘parties’. . . it’s because of Gilles . . . He needs money . . .”
    She lowered her head. She seemed to regret her remarks. She turned to Daragane, sitting opposite her on the green velvet stool.
    â€œIt’s not him you should be helping . . . it’s me . . .”
    She shot him a smile that could have been described as weak or wan.
    â€œI’m a decent girl, all the same . . . So, I ought to warn you about Gilles . . .”
    She adjusted her position and sat on the edge of the sofa so as to be right in front of him.
    â€œHe’s learnt some things about you . . . through this friend in the police . . . So, he was trying to get in touch with you . . .”
    Tiredness? Daragane no longer understood what she was saying. What could the “things” that this person had learnt about him from the police actually be? In any case, the pages from the “dossier” were not very conclusive. And he scarcely knew any of the names cited. Apart from his mother, Torstel, Bugnand and Perrin de Lara. But from so long ago . . . They had mattered so little in his life . . . Walk-on parts, long since dead. Of course, Annie Astrand was mentioned. Briefly. Her name went completely unnoticed, it was lost among the others. And on one occasion, with a spelling mistake: Astran.
    â€œDon’t worry on my behalf,” Daragane said. “I’m not frightened of anyone. And especially not blackmailers.”
    She seemed surprised that he should have used this term: blackmailer, but as though it were something obvious that she had not thought of.
    â€œI always wondered whether he hadn’t stolen your address book from you . . .”
    She smiled, and Daragane thought that she had meant this as a joke.
    â€œSometimes, Gilles frightens me . . . That’s why I stay with him . . . We’ve known each other for such a long time . . .”
    The voice