Missing Person (4 page)

"I'll go and change ... If you like, we can have dinner together..."

I remained alone, sitting on the floor, the photos scattered about me. I stacked them in the large red box and kept only two, which I put on the bed: the photo in which I appeared, next to Gay Orlov and the old man, Giorgiadze, and the one of Gay Orlov as a child at Yalta. I rose and went to the window.

It was night. The window looked out on to another open space with buildings round it. At the far end, the Seine, and to the left, the Pont de Puteaux. And the île, stretching out. Lines of cars were crossing the bridge. I gazed at the façades of the buildings, all the windows lit up, just like the window at which I was standing. And in this labyrinthine maze of buildings, staircases and elevators, among these hundreds of cubbyholes, I had found a man who perhaps ...

I had pressed my brow against the window. Below, each building entrance was lit by a yellow light which would burn all night.

"The restaurant is quite close," he said.

I took the two photos I had left on the bed.

"Mr. de Dzhagorev," I said, "would you be so kind as to lend me these two photos?"

"You can keep them."

He pointed to the red box.

"You can keep all the photos."

"But... I..."

"Take them."

His tone was so peremptory that it was impossible to argue. When we left the apartment, I was carrying the large box under my arm.

At street level, we proceeded along the Quai du Général-Kœnig.

We descended some stone steps, and there, right by the side of the Seine, was a brick building. Above the door, a sign: "Bar-Restaurant de l'île." We went in. A low-ceilinged room, and tables with white paper napkins and wicker chairs. Through the windows one could see the Seine and the lights of the Pont de Puteaux. We sat down at the back of the room. We were the only customers.

Styoppa groped in his pocket and placed in the center of the table the package I had seen him buy at the grocer's.

"The usual?" asked the waiter.

"The usual."

"And you, sir?" asked the waiter, turning to me.

"This gentleman will have the same as me."

Very swiftly the waiter brought us two servings of Baltic herring and poured some mineral water into two thimble- sized glasses. Styoppa extracted some cucumbers from the package in the center of the table and we shared them.

"Is this all right for you?" he asked me.

"Do you really not wish to keep all these souvenirs?" I asked him.

"No. They're yours now. I'm passing on the torch."

We ate in silence. A boat passed, so close, that I had time to see its occupants, framed in the window, sitting at a table and eating, just like us.

"And this . . . Gay Orlov?" I said. "Do you know what became of her?"

"Gay Orlov? I believe she's dead."

"Dead?"

"I believe so. I must have met her two or three times. I hardly knew her ... It was my mother who was a friend of old Giorgiadze. A little cucumber?"

"Thanks."

"I think she led a very restless life in America ..."

"And you don't know anyone who could give me any information about this ... Gay Orlov?"

He threw me a compassionate look.

"My poor friend ... no one ... Perhaps there's someone in America ..."

Another boat passed, black, slow, as though abandoned.

"I always have a banana for dessert," he said. "What would you like?"

"I'll have one too."

We ate our bananas.

"And this Gay Orlov's ... parents?" I asked.

"They must have died in America. One dies everywhere, you know..."

"Did Giorgiadze have any other relatives in France?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"But why are you so concerned about Gay Orlov? Was she your sister?"

He smiled pleasantly.

"Some coffee?" he asked.

"No, thanks."

"I won't either."

He wanted to pay the bill, but I forestalled him. We left the restaurant "de l'île" and he took my arm as we climbed the steps of the quay. A fog had come up, soft but with an icy feel to it. It filled your lungs with such cold that you felt you were floating on air. On the quay again, I could barely make out the buildings a few yards off.

I guided him, as if he were a blind man, to his apartment building, with the staircase entrances yellow blotches in the fog, the only reference points. He clasped my hand.

"Try to find Gay Orlov even so," he said. "Since it means so much to you ..."

I watched him entering the lighted entrance hall. He stopped and waved to me. I stood, motionless, the large red box under my arms, like a child returning from a birthday party, and I felt certain at that moment that he was saying something else to me but that the fog was muffling the sound of his voice.

5

A
POSTCARD
showing the Promenade des Anglais. Summertime.

My dear Guy, your letter arrived safely. Here, every day is like the next, but Nice is a very lovely town. You must come and visit me. Strangely enough, I run into people on the street I have not seen for thirty years, or who I thought were dead. We give each other quite a turn. Nice is a city of ghosts and specters, but I hope not to become one of them right away.

As to the woman you are looking for, the best thing would be to phone Bernardy, Mac Mahon 00-08. He has kept in close contact with people in the various departments. He will be happy to advise you.

Hoping to see you in Nice, my dear Guy, I remain yours most sincerely and affectionately,

Hutte

P. S. As you know, the premises of the Agency are at your disposal.

6

23rd October 1965

S
UBJECT
: O
RLOV
,
Mara, called "Gay"
O
RLOV
.

B
ORN
IN
: M
OSCOW
(Russia), in 1914, daughter of Kyril
O
RLOV
and Irene
G
IORGIADZE
.

N
ATIONALITY
:
stateless. (Miss Orlov's parents and she herself, as Russian refugees, were not recognized by the Government of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics as its nationals.) Miss Orlov had an ordinary residence permit. Miss Orlov evidently arrived in France, in 1936, from the United States. In the U.S.A. she entered into marriage with a Mr. Waldo Blunt, then divorced.

Miss Orlov resided successively at:

The Hôtel Châteaubriand, 18 Rue du Cirque, Paris 8

53 Avenue Montaigne, Paris 8

25
Avenue du Maréchal-Lyautey, Paris
16

Before coming to France, Miss Orlov was a dancer in the United States. In Paris, there was no visible source of income, although she led a life of luxury.

Miss Orlov died in
1950
at her home,
25
Avenue du Maréchal-Lyautey, Paris
16,
of an overdose of barbiturates.

Mr. Waldo Blunt, her ex-husband, has resided in Paris since
1952
and has worked in various night club establishments as a professional pianist. He is an American citizen. Born 30th September
1910,
in Chicago. Residence permit no.
534
HC
828.

Attached to this typewritten memorandum, a visiting-card bearing Jean-Pierre Bernardy's name and the words:

"This is all the information available. My best wishes.

Regards to Hutte."

7

 A
NOTICE
on the glass-fronted door announced,"Waldo Blunt at the piano from six to nine every evening in the Hilton Hotel bar."

The bar was packed and the only free seat was at the table of a Japanese with gold-rimmed spectacles. He did not seem to understand me when I bent over him and asked if I might sit down, and when I did, he took no notice.

American and Japanese customers came in, hailed each other and spoke louder and louder. They stood about between the tables. Several, glass in hand, leaned on the backs or arms of chairs. One young woman was even perched on the knees of a gray-haired man.

Waldo Blunt arrived a quarter of an hour late and sat down at the piano. A small plump man with receding hair and a thin moustache. He was wearing a gray suit. First he turned his head and cast a glance around the tables where people were crowding. He stroked the keys of the piano with his right hand and played a few random chords. I happened to be sitting at one of the closest tables.

He began a tune which, I believe, was
"Sur les quais du vieux Paris
," but the noise of conversation and the bursts of laughter made the music barely audible, and even close to the piano, I could not catch all the notes. He continued imperturbably, sitting bolt upright, his head bent. I felt sorry for him: I supposed that at one time in his life he had been listened to when he played the piano. Since then, he must have got used to this perpetual buzz, drowning out his music. What would he say, when I mentioned Gay Orlov's name? Would it temporarily jolt him out of the apathetic state in which he played? Or would it no longer mean anything to him, like these notes, unable to still the hum of conversation?

The bar had gradually emptied. The only ones left now were the Japanese with the gold-rimmed spectacles, myself, and at the back of the room, the young woman I had seen perched on the lap of the gray-haired gentleman and who was now seated next to a fat, red-faced man in a light blue suit . . . They were speaking German. And very loudly. Waldo Blunt was playing a slow tune which I knew well.

He turned toward us.

"Would you like me to play anything in particular, ladies and gentlemen?" he asked in a cold voice with a trace of an American accent.

The Japanese next to me did not react. He remained motionless, his face smooth, and I was afraid he might topple from his seat at the slightest breath of air, since he was clearly an embalmed corpse.

"'Sag warum
,' please," the woman huskily called from the back.

Blunt gave a slight nod and started playing
"Sag warum"
The light in the bar dimmed, as it sometimes does in dance halls at the first notes of a slow step. The couple took the opportunity to kiss and the woman's hand slid into the opening of the fat, red-faced man's shirt, then lower down. The gold-rimmed spectacles of the Japanese flashed. At his piano, Blunt looked like an automaton being jolted spasmodically:
"Sag warum"
requires an endless thumping out of chords.

What was he thinking about? Behind him, a fat, red-faced man stroked a blonde's thigh and an embalmed Japanese had been sitting in his chair in the Hilton bar for several days. I was sure he was thinking about nothing. He was enveloped in a fog of indifference that grew thicker and thicker. Did I have the right to rouse him from it, to force him to think of something painful?

The fat, red-faced man and the blonde left the bar, no doubt to take a room. The man was pulling her by the arm and she almost stumbled. The Japanese and I were the only ones left.

Blunt again turned to us and said in his cold voice:

"Would you like me to play something else?"

The Japanese made no movement.

"'
Que reste-t-il de nos amours,'
please," I said.

He played the tune in a strangely slow manner, and the melody seemed drawn out, trapped in a swamp from which the notes had trouble freeing themselves. From time to time he paused, like an exhausted walker who staggers a little. He looked at his watch, rose abruptly, and inclined his head for our benefit:

"Gentlemen, it is 9 o'clock. Good night."

He left. I fell into step behind him, leaving the embalmed Japanese in the crypt of the bar.

He walked down the corridor and crossed the deserted lounge.

I caught up with him.

"Mr. Waldo Blunt?... I would like to speak to you."

"What about?"

He threw me a hunted look.

"About someone you used to know ... A woman called Gay. Gay Orlov..."

He stopped short in the middle of the lounge.

"Gay..."

He stared as though the light of a projector had been turned on his face.

"You ... you knew... Gay?"

"No."

We had left the Hôtel. There was a line of men and women in gaudy evening attire - long, green or pale-blue, satin dresses, and garnet-colored dinner-jackets - waiting for taxis.

"I don t want to trouble you ..."

"You're not troubling me," he said in a preoccupied tone. "It's such a long time since I've heard Gay mentioned . . . But who are you?"

"A cousin of hers. I ... I'd like to find out a few things about her ..."

"A few things?"

He rubbed his temple with his forefinger.

"What do you want to know?"

We had turned into a narrow street which ran alongside the Hôtel and led to the Seine.

"I must be getting home," he said.

"I'll walk with you."

"So, you're Gay's cousin, really?"

"Yes. The family would like some information about her."

"She's been dead a long time."

"I know."

He was walking at a rapid pace and I had trouble following him. I hurried to keep up with him. We had reached the Quai Branly.

"I live over there," he said, pointing to the other bank of the Seine.

We stepped out on to the Pont Bir-Hakeim.

"I won't be able to give you much information" he said. "I knew Gay a very long time ago."

He had slowed down, as if he felt safe. Perhaps he had been walking quickly until then because he thought he was being followed. Or to shake me off.

"I didn't know Gay had any family," he said.

"Yes ... she did ... on the Giorgiadze side ..."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Giorgiadze family ... Her grandfather was called Giorgiadze..."

"Oh, I see ..."