The Statement Read Online Free PDF Page B

big names like Lacroix and Saint Laurent. They were well able to support her. But she didn’t get on with her mother. So she said. T didn’t want to know all that shit. It was her business, not his. Today, as he let himself into her apartment, he thought it would be nice if you could deal with girlfriends the way Pochon dealt with him. No confidences, no family histories, no questions asked. Not that he told Janine what he was doing. He was a medical school dropout, he told her. He told her he was living off his parents. He said he wasn’t proud, like her. He took an allowance from them and spent it. ‘I bet you do,’ Janine said. ‘They must be rich.’
     
    For the last few weeks he had been staying at Janine’s place. Now, when he went back there from the Place de l’Alma, he wrote her a note, saying he’d ring her sometime after nine. He went on from there to the little room he rented in the Hôtel Terminus where he packed a bag with what he’d need. Then, to kill the time before his meeting, he went to see a film that was playing on the Champs-Elysées. It was an American film, guns, guns, guns, a load of rubbish. But he liked American films. Lots of bullets. Cars crashing into each other. Actors bouncing around like acrobats. Nothing to do with real life.
     
    It was beginning to get dark when he arrived at 6 Rue St  Thomas d’Aquin. It was the real old style, a building with a big dark courtyard. He walked across the courtyard and looked up. There were very few lights on in the apartments above. There was no name on Apartment Number 5. He rang and at once the buzzer sounded, letting him in. There was no lift, but there was a good carpet runner on the wide flight of stairs. The names on the apartments on the second and third floors were French. No foreigners. No offices. When he reached the fourth floor there were two apartments, both with handsome mahogany front doors. One of the doors was open and an old man stood there, waiting. He was wearing a brown cardigan over dark evening trousers, a formal evening shirt, black tie. His hair was grey and he had a grey moustache. He didn’t look Jewish, but then, T thought, a lot of Jews don’t look Jewish, especially if they’re bon chic, bon genre like this one.
    The old man didn’t introduce himself. He simply said, ‘Come in.’
    The apartment was large. T saw, ahead, a drawing room with two wall niches containing Roman busts, crossed swords on a wall, antique lamps, good heavy old furniture, Turkish carpets and rugs, oil paintings of classical scenes and, on a table in the front hall, a jumble of silver-framed photographs. The largest photograph was of a chic wedding. The bride and bridesmaids wore short frocks, thirties-style. Beside the wedding photo was one of an officer in a dress uniform. It was a photograph of his host.
    ‘This way,’ the old man said. He led T through the drawing room. In a dining room off to the side, T saw a large mahogany table set for six, with an elaborate floral centrepiece, crystal glasses for four different kinds of wine, heavy silver service plates. With this sort of set-up there must be servants. But there were no servants in sight.
    ‘In here.’
    The old man now opened the door of a room with leather armchairs and sofa, walls lined with books, a library ladder stretching to the ceiling, a great teak desk littered with papers. Old money, T decided. If he’s Jewish, he’s Jewish like the Rothschilds.
    ‘Please sit down.’
    The old man now went to the big desk and took out a large manila envelope. He brought it to T, taking from it a passport, a set of plane tickets and a French driving licence. The passport was dark blue with CANADA in gold lettering on the front. He opened it at a page showing T’s photograph and a name: Michael Leavy .
    ‘Sign on the opposite page of the passport. Signature of bearer. Michael Leavy. That’s also the name on the driver’s licence and your airline ticket. You know about this, of