The Black Notebook Read Online Free PDF

remembered the ponds, not far from the house, that reminded me of that region. But it doesn’t matter what the Michelin map says: for me, that house would always remain located in an imaginary enclave in Sologne.
    Last night, I traced on the map, with my index finger, the route from Paris to Feuilleuse. I traveled back in time. The present no longer counted, with its indistinguishable days in their doleful light, which must be the light of old age, when you feel as if you’re merely living on. I told myself I was going to rediscover the row of trees, the white fences. The dog would come up to me slowly along the path. I often thought that, apart from us, he was the house’s only inhabitant, even its owner. Each time we returned to Paris, I would say to Dannie, “We should bring the dog with us.” He stationed himself in front of the gray car to witness our departure. And then, when we were in the car and the doors had shut, he headed back toward the hut that served as a woodshed, where he slept when we were away. And, each time, I was sorry to return to Paris. I had asked Dannie if we could stay longer in that house. We could, she said, but not right away. I had been mistaken or had misunderstood: there was no connection between the “person” on Avenue Victor-Hugo to whom she paid frequent visits and this house. The owner—it was a woman—was abroad for the time being. She explained that she’d met her the year before when she was looking for work. But she didn’t say what kind of work. Neither Aghamouri nor any of those I referred to as the “Montparnasse gang”—Paul Chastagnier, Duwelz, Gérard Marciano, and other silhouettes whom I often saw in the lobby of the Unic Hôtel—knew about this house. “So much the better,” I said. She smiled. Apparently, she felt the same way. One evening, we lit a fire and sat on the large couch in front of the fireplace, the dog at our feet, and she told me she was sorry she’d borrowed the gray car from Paul Chastagnier. And she added that she wanted nothing more to do with those “losers.” I was amazed to hear her use that term, as she normally chose her words so carefully and kept her opinions to herself. Once again, I didn’t have the curiosity to ask what her exact relation was with those “losers” and why she had taken a room at the Unic Hôtel on Aghamouri’s say-so. To tell the truth, in the calm of that house, protected by its curtain of trees and white fences, I no longer felt like asking any questions.
    Still, one afternoon, we were coming back from a walk on the road to Moulin d’Etrelles—the names we think we’ve forgotten, or that we never speak for fear of becoming too emotional, suddenly resurface, and they aren’t so painful after all—with the dog trotting on ahead, beneath the autumn sun. No sooner had we shut the front door behind us than we heard the sound of an approaching car. Dannie grabbed my hand and pulled me upstairs. In the bedroom, she signaled for me to sit and she took up position by the window. The engine shut off. A door slammed. The sound of footsteps from the graveled part of the path. “Who is it?” I asked. She didn’t answer. I slid over to another window. A large black car of American make. It looked as if someone was still behind the wheel. The doorbell buzzed. Twice. Three times. Downstairs, the dog was barking. Dannie was frozen, gripping the curtain with one hand. A man’s voice: “Is anyone there? Is anyone there? Can you hear me?” A loud voice with a slight Belgian or Swiss accent, or else that international accent of people whose native language you never know, and who don’t know it themselves. “Is anyone there?”
    The dog barked all the harder. It had remained in the hallway, and if we hadn’t shut the door properly, it could open it with its paw. I whispered, “You