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with the third suitcase in his hand (it was lighter than the others because it contained only my toilet things), and I would have really liked to know what had given me the strength to get that far alive. Madame Buffaz handed me the bill, which I paid with averted eyes. Then she went into the lounge and slammed the door behind her. Meinthe leaned against the wardrobe trunk, rolled-up handkerchief in hand, patting his forehead with the precise little gestures of a woman powdering her face.
    “We must go on, my boy,” he said, pointing at my baggage. “Must go on …”
    We hauled the wardrobe trunk to the steps outside. The Dodge was parked near the Lindens’s gate, and I could make out what looked like Yvonne’s silhouette in the front seat. She was smoking a cigarette, and then she waved at us. Somehow or another we managed to hoist the trunk onto the backseat. Meinthe collapsed against the steering wheel while I went to fetch the three suitcases from the entrance hall of the hotel.
    Someone was standing stiffly at the reception desk: the man with the spaniel face. He took a few steps toward me and stopped. I knew he wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out. I thought he was going to resort to that baying sound he made, the soft, prolonged moaning I was doubtless the sole person to hear (the other pensioners at the Lindens would go on with their canasta game or their chitchat). He remained where he was, frowning, his mouth half open, making increasingly violent efforts to speak. Or was he nauseated and heaving, unable to vomit? He bent forward, practically choking. After a few minutes, he regained his composure and said in a hollow voice, “You’re leaving just in time. Goodbye, Monsieur.”
    He held out his hand. He was wearing a rough tweed jacket and cuffed beige linen trousers. I admired his shoes: grayish suede, with very, very thick crepe soles. I was certain I’d met this man before I ever lodged at the Lindens, it must have been about ten years before. And suddenly … Yes, yes, they were the same shoes, and the man holding out his hand to me was the same one who’d so fascinated me as a child. He used to come to the Tuileries every Thursday and Sunday with a miniature boat (a faithful reproductionof the
Kon-Tiki
) and watch it float across the pond, changing his observation post, using a stick to push the boat away when it ran aground on the stone rim of the pond, checking the condition of a mast or a sail. Sometimes a group of children and even a few grown-ups gathered to observe this activity, and he’d glance at them furtively as though mistrusting their reactions. When someone asked him about the boat, his mumbled reply was yes, it was a very long, very complicated piece of work, building a
Kon-Tiki
, and as he spoke, he’d caress his toy. Around seven in the evening, he’d pick up his boat and sit on a bench to dry it with a terry cloth towel. Then he’d walk away in the direction of Rue de Rivoli, his
Kon-Tiki
under his arm. Later I must often have thought about that silhouette, moving off into the twilight.
    Should I remind him of our meetings? But he’d surely lost his boat. I said, “Goodbye, Monsieur,” in my turn, took hold of the first two suitcases, and slowly crossed the garden. He walked beside me in silence. Yvonne was sitting on the Dodge’s front fender. Meinthe was at the wheel with his head resting on the back of the seat and his eyes closed. I loaded the two suitcases into the trunk. The spaniel-faced man watched all my movements with avid interest. When I crossed the garden again, he went ahead of me, turning around from time to time to make sure I was still there. He snatched up the last suitcase and said, “Allow me.”
    It was the heaviest of the three, the one with the phone books. He put it down every five meters to catch his breath. Every time I made a move to pick it up myself, he said, “Please, Monsieur …”
    He was adamant about wrestling it