Missing Person Read Online Free

He was almost shaking her, and his features contracted in a painful grin. Then, in the same fashion, he embraced the fat bald-headed man with the slant eyes, and each of the others in turn. The time for farewells, I thought. I ran back to the taxi and jumped in.
    "Quick . . . straight ahead ... in front of the Russian church..."
    Styoppa was still talking to them.
    "Do you see the tall guy in navy blue?"
    "Yes."
    "We'll have to follow him, if he's in a car."
    The driver turned round, stared at me, and his blue eyes opened wide.
    "I hope it's not dangerous, sir."
    "Don't worry," I said.
    Styoppa detached himself from the group, walked a few paces and, without turning, waved his arm. The others, standing still, watched him. The woman in the gray Musketeer's hat stood slightly to the front of the group, arched, like the figurehead of a ship, the large feather of her hat fluttering gently in the breeze.
    He took some time opening the door of his car. I think he tried the wrong key. When he was seated at the wheel, I leaned forward to the taxi driver.
    "Follow the car which the guy in navy-blue just got into."
    And I hoped I wasn't on the wrong track, since there was nothing really to indicate that this man was Styoppa de Dzhagorev.
     

4
    I T WAS NOT very hard to follow him: he drove slowly. At the Porte Maillot, he ran a red light and the taxi driver did not dare follow suit, but we caught up with him again at Boulevard Maurice-Barrès. Our two cars pulled up side by side at a crosswalk. He glanced across at me absentmindedly, as motorists do when they find themselves side by side in a traffic jam.
    He parked his car on Boulevard Richard-Wallace, in front of the apartment buildings at the end, near the Pont de Puteaux and the Seine. He started down Rue Julien-Potin and I paid off my taxi.
    "Good luck, sir," said the driver. "Be careful..
    And I felt his eyes following me as I too started down Rue Julien-Potin. Perhaps he thought I was in some danger.
    Night was falling. A narrow road, lined by impersonal apartment buildings, built between the wars, which formed a single long façade, on each side and all the way along Rue Julien-Potin. Styoppa was ten yards ahead of me. He turned right into Rue Ernest-Deloison, and entered a grocery store.
    The moment had come to approach him. But because of my shyness it was extremely hard for me, and I was afraid he would take me for a madman: I would stammer, my speech would become incoherent. Unless he recognized me at once, in which case I would let him do the talking.
    He was coming out of the grocer's shop, holding a paper bag.
    "Mr. Styoppa de Dzhagorev?"
    He looked very surprised. Our heads were on the same level, which intimidated me even more.
    "Yes. But who are you?"
    No, he did not recognize me. He spoke French without an accent. I had to screw up my courage.
    "I . . . I've been meaning to contact you for ... a long time..."
    "What for?"
    "I am writing... writing a book about the Emigration... I..."
    "Are you Russian?"
    It was the second time I had been asked this question. The taxi driver too had asked me. And, actually, perhaps I had been Russian.
    "No."
    "And you're interested in the Emigration?"
    "I . . . I . . . I'm writing a book about the Emigration. Some . . . someone suggested I come to see you . . . Paul Sonachidze..."
    "Sonachidze?..."
    He pronounced the name in the Russian way. It was very soft, like wind rustling in the trees.
    "A Georgian name ... I don't know it..."
    He frowned.
    "Sonachidze ... no ..."
    "I don't want to be a nuisance. If I could just ask you a few questions."
    "I'd be happy to answer them ..
    He smiled a sad smile.
    "A tragic tale, the Emigration ... But how is it you call me Styoppa? ..."
    "I... don't... I..."
    "Most of those who called me Styoppa are dead. The others, you can count on the fingers of one hand."
    "It was ... Sonachidze ..
    "I don't know him."
    "Can I... ask... you ... a few questions?"
    "Yes. Would you like to come up to my place? We