Missing Person (5 page)

He stopped and leaned against the stone parapet of the bridge. I could not do likewise, as it made me dizzy. So, I stayed upright, standing in front of him. He seemed reluctant to speak.

"You know... I was married to her?..."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"It was in some old papers."

"We were both working in a night club, in New York... I played the piano . . . She asked me to marry her only because she wanted to stay in America, and not have any problems with the immigration people ..."

He shook his head at this memory.

"She was a strange girl. After that, she went with Lucky Luciano ... She'd known him when she was working in the Palm Island Casino..."

"Luciano?"

"Yes, yes, Luciano . . . She was with him when he was arrested, in Arkansas ... After that, she met a Frenchman and I heard she left for France with him ..."

His gaze lightened. He smiled at me.

"It's nice to be able to talk about Gay, you know..."

A Métro train passed by, overhead, in the direction of the right bank. Then a second one, going the other way. Their din drowned out Blunt's voice. He was saying something to me, I could tell by the movement of his lips. "... The prettiest girl I ever knew..."

This scrap of speech which I managed to catch made me feel keenly despondent. Here I was, half-way across a bridge, at night, with a man I did not know, trying to drag some information out of him that would tell me something about myself, and I could not hear him for the noise of trains.

"Can we perhaps move on a bit?"

But he was so engrossed that he did not answer me. It was such a long time, no doubt, since he had thought about Gay Orlov, that all his memories of her were rising to the surface and making his head spin, like a sea breeze. He stayed there, leaning against the parapet of the bridge.

"I'd appreciate it if we could move on a bit."

"Did you know Gay? Did you meet her?"

"No. That's why I need the information."

"She was a blonde ... with green eyes ... A very special blonde ... How can I describe it? An ash-blonde ..."

An ash-blonde. And who perhaps had played an important part in my life. I would have to study her photograph carefully. And, gradually, everything would come back. Unless he gave me some better clues in the end. It was already a piece of luck to have found him, Waldo Blunt.

I took his arm, as we could not stay on the bridge. We walked along the Quai de Passy.

"Did you see her again in France?" I asked him.

"No. When I got to France, she was already dead. She committed suicide ..."

"Why?"

"She often told me she was frightened of getting old..."

"When did you last see her?"

"After the business with Luciano, she met this Frenchman. We saw each other a few times in those days ..."

"Did you know the Frenchman?"

"No. She told me she was going to marry him, to get French nationality . . . She was obsessed with getting a nationality..."

"But you were divorced?"

"Of course ... Our marriage lasted six months ... Just long enough to keep the immigration authorities quiet. They'd wanted to expel her from the States ..."

I had to concentrate, so as not to lose track of his story. Especially as he had a very soft voice.

"She left for France . . . And I never saw her again . . . Until I learned ... her suicide ..."

"How did you find out?"

"Through an American friend who had known Gay and who was in Paris at the time. He sent me a small cutting from a paper ..."

"Did you keep it?"

"Yes. It must be at my place, in a drawer."

We were approaching the Trocadéro Gardens. The fountains were illuminated and there was a lot of traffic. Tourists had gathered in groups in front of the fountains and on the Pont d'Iéna. A Saturday evening in October, but because of the warmth of the air, the pedestrians, and the trees which had still not lost their leaves, it felt like a springtime weekend.

"I live a bit further on ..."

We passed the Gardens and had turned down Avenue de New-York. There, under the embankment trees, I had the unpleasant sensation that I was dreaming. I had already lived my life and was just a ghost hovering in the tepid air of a Saturday evening. Why try to renew ties which had been broken and look for paths that had been blocked off long ago? And this plump, moustachioed little man, walking beside me, hardly seemed real.

"It's funny, I've suddenly remembered the name of the Frenchman Gay knew in America ..."

"What was it?" I asked unsteadily.

"Howard ... That was his surname ... not his Christian name ... Just a moment... Howard de something ..."

I stopped and leaned closer to him.

"Howard de what?"

"De... de ... de Luz. L...U...Z... Howard de Luz..."

Howard de Luz... the name was striking... half English ... half French ... or Spanish ...

"And his first name?"

"I don't know..."

He made a helpless gesture.

"You don't know what he looked like, physically?"

"No."

I would show him the photo of Gay, old Giorgiadze, and the one I thought was myself.

"And what did this Howard de Luz do?"

"Gay told me he belonged to a noble family ... He did nothing."

He gave a short laugh.

"Ah, yes ... just a moment... It's coming back to me ... He'd spent a lot of time in Hollywood ... And there, Gay told me, he was the confidant of the actor, John Gilbert..."

"John Gilbert's confidant?"

"Yes ... Toward the end of Gilbert's life ..."

Traffic on Avenue de New-York was moving fast but made no sound you could hear, and this increased the dream-like feeling. Cars flowed along in a muffled, fluid world, as though skimming over water. We reached the foot-bridge, before the Pont d'Alma. Howard de Luz. It might be my own name. Howard de Luz. Yes, the sound of it stirred something in me, something as fleeting as moonlight passing over some object. If I was this Howard de Luz, I had shown a certain originality in my life style, since, among so many more reputable and absorbing professions, I had chosen that of being John Gilbert's confidant.

Just before we reached the Museum of Modern Art, we turned down a narrow street.

"Here's where I live," he said.

The elevator light did not work and the automatic time- switch light went out just as we started on our way up. In the dark, we heard laughter and music.

The elevator stopped, and I could feel Blunt, next to me, trying to find the handle of the landing gate. He opened it and I jostled him leaving the elevator, as it was pitch dark. The laughter and music came from the floor we were on. Blunt turned a key in a lock.

He left the door ajar behind us and we were in the middle of an entrance hall, weakly lit by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Blunt stood there, nonplussed. I wondered if I hadn't better take my leave. The music was deafening. Coming from inside the apartment, a young red-haired woman in a red bathing-wrap appeared. She considered us both, eyes wide with astonishment. The very loosely fitting wrap revealed her breasts.

"My wife," said Blunt.

She gave me a slight nod and with both hands drew the collar of the wrap closer.

"I didn't know you were coming back so early," she said.

All three of us stood there, without moving, under the light which cast a pallid glow over our faces, and I turned to Blunt.

"You could have warned me," he said to her.

"I didn't know..."

A child caught out telling lies. She lowered her head. The deafening music had stopped and a tune, played on the saxophone, followed, so pure it melted into the air.

"Are there many?" asked Blunt.

"No, no ... a few friends ..."

A head appeared in the narrow opening of the door, a blonde with very short hair and pale, almost pink lipstick. Then another head, dark hair, dull complexion. The light from the bulb gave these faces the look of masks, and the dark-haired woman smiled.

"I must return to my friends ... Come back in two or three hours..."

"All right," said Blunt.

She left the entrance-hall preceded by the two others and shut the door. Bursts of laughter and the sound of a chase could be heard. Then, the deafening music again.

"Come on!" said Blunt.

Once again we were on the staircase landing. Blunt pressed the automatic time-switch and sat down on a step. He motioned to me to sit down beside him.

"My wife's a lot younger than me ... thirty years difference . . . You should never marry a woman a lot younger than you ... Never ..."

He had laid a hand on my shoulder.

"It never works ... There's not a single case of its working ... Remember that, old chap ..."

The light went out. Blunt evidently had no wish to switch it on again. Neither did I, for that matter.

"If Gay could see me ..."

He burst out laughing at the thought. Strange laughter, in the dark.

"She wouldn't know me ... I've put on nearly sixty pounds, since..."

A burst of laughter, but different from the first one, more tense, strained.

"She'd be very disappointed ... Think of it. A bar room pianist..."

"But why disappointed?"

"And in a month, I'll be out of work ..."

He gripped my arm, round the biceps.

"Gay thought I was going to be the new Cole Porter..."

Female screams, suddenly. It came from Blunts apartment.

"What's going on?" I said.

"Nothing, they're enjoying themselves."

A man's voice bellowing: "Are you going to let me in? Are you going to let me in, Dany?" Laughter. A door slamming.

"Dany's my wife," whispered Blunt.

He rose and switched on the light.

"Let's get a breath of air."

We crossed the esplanade of the Museum of Modern Art and sat down on the steps. I watched the cars further down, moving along Avenue de New-York, the only sign of life. Everything about us was deserted, frozen. Even the Eiffel Tower, which I could make out on the other side of the Seine, the Eiffel Tower generally so reassuring, looked like a hulk of oxidized scrap-iron.

"You can breathe here," said Blunt.

And indeed a warm breeze was playing over the esplanade, among the statues which looked like shadowy blotches, and the big columns at the far end.

"I'd like to show you some photographs," I said to Blunt.

I took an envelope from my pocket, opened it and drew out two photographs: the one of Gay Orlov, with old Giorgiadze and the man I believed to be myself, and the one of her as a little girl. I handed him the first photograph.

"Can't see anything here," muttered Blunt.

He flicked a cigarette-lighter but had to try several times, as the wind kept blowing out the flame. He shielded it with the palm of his hand and moved the lighter closer to the photograph.

"Do you see that man?" I said. "On the left . . . The extreme left..."

"Yes."

"Do you know him?"

"No."

He was bent over the photograph, his hand like an eye- shade against his forehead, to shield the flame.

"Don't you think he looks like me?"

"I don't know."

He scrutinized the photograph for another few seconds and handed it back to me.

"Gay was just like that when I knew her," he said sadly.

"Here, this is one of her as a child."

I handed him the other photograph and he examined it by the lighter flame, his hand still shielding it, pressed against his forehead, looking like a watchmaker engaged in a particularly delicate operation.

"She was a pretty little girl," he said. "Do you have any other photos of her?"

"Unfortunately not... Do you?"

"I had a photograph of our wedding, but I lost it in America ... I even wonder if I've kept the newspaper cutting of her suicide ..."

His American accent, which had been imperceptible at first, was growing stronger and stronger. Fatigue?

"Do you often have to wait like this, before you can go home?"

"More and more. And yet it all started so well. . . My wife used to be very nice ..."

He lit a cigarette with difficulty, because of the wind.

"Gay would be amazed if she saw me like this ..."

He drew closer to me and laid a hand on my shoulder.

"She had the right idea, old man, don't you think - to disappear before it gets too late?"

I looked at him. Everything about him was round. His face, his blue eyes and even the thin moustache, cut in an arc. His mouth too, and his plump and dimpled hands. He made me think of those balloons children hold on a string and which they sometimes release to see how high they will climb. And the name, Waldo Blunt, bulged, like one of those balloons.

"I'm dreadfully sorry I haven't been able to tell you much about Gay, old man ..."

I could sense him weighed down with fatigue, dejected, and yet I watched him very closely for fear that a puff of wind across the esplanade might carry him off, leaving me alone with my questions.

8

T
H
E
AVENUE
skirts the Auteuil race-course. On one side, a bridle path, on the other blocks of flats all built on the same pattern with open spaces between. I passed in front of these deluxe barracks and took up a position facing the one where Gay Orlov committed suicide: 25, Avenue du Maréchal-Lyautey. Which floor? The caretaker would certainly have changed since then. Was there still anyone living in the building who would have run into Gay Orlov on the stairs, or who took the elevator with her? Or who would recognize me, as a frequent visitor?

There must have been evenings when I climbed the stairs of 25, Avenue du Maréchal-Lyautey, my heart thumping. She was waiting for me. Her windows looked out on to the racecourse. It must have been strange to see the races from up there, the horses and their tiny jockeys, like the procession of little figures moving across the end of a shooting-gallery and if you knocked them all down, you won the big prize.

In what language did we speak to each other? English? Had the photo with old Giorgiadze been taken in this apartment? How was it furnished? What could they have had to say to each other, this Howard de Luz - me? - of "a noble family" and the "confidant of John Gilbert," and a former dancer, born in Moscow, who had known Lucky Luciano in Palm Island?