Ring Roads Read Online Free PDF Page B

his eyes, but that it was only pretence.
    ‘You’ll see, it’s so wonderful, taking long rides in the forest!’
    He had put on a lot of weight in ten years. I’d never seen his complexion so livid.
    ‘Are you a friend of Jean’s?’ she asked me.
    ‘Not yet, but I hope to be.’
    She seemed surprised by this reply.
    ‘And I hope that we’ll be friends, you and I,’ I added.
    ‘Of course. You’re so charming.’
    ‘Do you know this . . . Baron Deyckecaire?’
    ‘Not very well.’
    ‘What does he do, exactly?’
    ‘I don’t know; you really should ask Jean.’
    ‘I find him rather odd, myself.’
    ‘Oh, he’s probably a black marketeer . . .’
    At midnight, Murraille wanted to hear the last news bulletin. The newsreader’s voice was even more strident than usual. After announcing the news briefly, he gave forth a kind of commentary on a hysterical note. I imagined him behind his mike: sickly, in black tie and shirtsleeves. He finished with: ‘Goodnight to you all.’
    ‘Thanks,’ said Marcheret.
    Murraille led me aside. He rubbed the side of his nose, put his hand on my shoulder.
    ‘Look, what do you think . . . I’ve just had an idea . . . How would you like to contribute to the magazine?’
    ‘Really?’
    I had stuttered a little and the result was ridiculous: Re-re-really? . . .
    ‘Yes, I’d very much like to have a boy like you working on
C’est la vie
. Assuming you don’t think journalism beneath you?’
    ‘Not at all!’
    He hesitated, then in a more friendly tone:
    ‘I don’t want to make things awkward for you, in view of the rather . . .
singular
. . . nature of my magazine . . .’
    ‘I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.’
    ‘That’s very courageous of you.’
    ‘But what would you want me to write?’
    ‘ Oh, whatever you like: a story, a topical piece, an article of the “Seen & Heard” variety. Take your time.’
    These last few words he spoke with a curious insistence, looking me straight in the eye,
    ‘All right?’ He smiled. ‘So you’re willing to get your hands dirty?’
    ‘Why not?’
    We rejoined the others. Marcheret and Sylviane Quimphe were talking about a night-club which had opened in the Rue Jean-Mermoz. My father, who had joined in the conversation, said he liked the American bar in the Avenue de Wagram, the one run by a former racing cyclist.
    ‘You mean the Rayon d’Or?’ Marcheret asked.
    ‘No, it’s called the Fairyland,’ said my father.
    ‘You’re wrong, Fat Man! The Fairyland is in Rue Fontaine!’
    ‘I don’t think so . . .’ said my father.
    ‘47 Rue Fontaine. Shall we go and check?’
    ‘You’re right, Guy,’ sighed my father. ‘You’re right . . .’
    ‘Do you know the Château-Bagatelle?’ Sylviane Quimphe asked. ‘I hear it’s very amusing.’
    ‘Rue de Clichy?’ my father wanted to know.
    ‘No, no!’ Marcheret cried. ‘Rue Magellan! You’re confusing it with Marcel Dieu-donné
.
You always get everything mixed up! Last time we were supposed to meet at L’Écrin on the Rue Joubert, Monsieur here waited for us until midnight at Cesare Leone on the Rue de Hanovre. Isn’t that right, Jean?’
    ‘It was hardly the end of the world,’ grunted Murraille.
    For a quarter of an hour, they reeled off the names of bars and cabaret clubs as though Paris, France, the universe itself, were a red-light district, a vast al fresco brothel.
    ‘What about you, Monsieur Alexandre, do you go out a lot?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well then, my boy, we shall introduce you to the “heady pleasures of Parisian nightlife”.’
    They went on drinking, talking of other clubs some of whose names dazzled me: L’Armorial, Czardas, Honolulu, Schubert, Gipsy’s, Monico, L’Athénien, Melody’s, Badinage. They were all talking volubly as though they would never stop. Sylviane Quimphe unbuttoned her blouse, and the faces of my father, Marcheret and Murraille flushed an unsettling crimson hue. I dimly recognised a few more names: Le Triolet,