Villa Triste Read Online Free Page A

sprinkled with very faint freckles. There was fighting in Algeria, apparently.
    Night came. And Meinthe was waiting for us in the lobby. He wore a white linen suit with a turquoise scarf impeccably knotted around his neck. He’d brought some cigarettes from Geneva and insisted we should give them a try. But we didn’t have a moment to lose — he said — or we’d be late for Madeja’s (or Madeya’s) party.
    This time we zoomed down Boulevard Carabacel at top speed. Meinthe, his cigarette holder dangling from his lips, accelerated into the curves, and I don’t know by what miracle we reached Avenue d’Albigny safe and sound. I turned to Yvonne, and I was surprised to see that there was not the slightest expression of fear on her face. I’d even heard her laugh once when the car swerved.
    Who was this Madeja (or Madeya) person whose party we were going to? Meinthe told me he was an Austrian filmmaker. He’d just finished shooting a film in these parts — in La Clusaz, to be specific, a ski resort twentykilometers away — and Yvonne had played a part in it. My heart beat faster.
    “You’re in the movies?” I asked her.
    She laughed.
    “Yvonne is going to be a very great actress,” Meinthe declared, trampling the accelerator pedal to the floor.
    Was he serious? A
movie actress
? Maybe I’d already seen her picture in
Cinémonde
, or in the cinema yearbook I’d discovered in the depths of an old bookstore in Geneva, the book I would page through during my nights of insomnia. In the end, I knew the names and addresses of the actors and “technicians.” Some of them remain in my memory:
    JUNIE ASTOR: Photograph by Bernard and Vauclair. 1 Rue Buenos-Ayres, Paris VII.
    SABINE GUY: Photograph by Teddy Piaz. Comedy — Song — Dance. Films:
Les Clandestins … The Babes Make the Law … Miss Catastrophe … La Polka des menottes … Hi Doc … etc
.
    GORDINE (SACHA FILMS): 19 Rue Spontini, Paris XVI. KLE. 77–94. M. Sacha Gordine, MGR.
    Did Yvonne have a “movie name” I might know? When I asked her that, she murmured, “It’s a secret,” and placed a finger on her lips.
    Meinthe added, with a distressingly high, thin laugh, “You understand, she’s here incognito.”
    We followed the lakeshore road. Meinthe slowed and switched on the radio. The air was warm, and we slipped through that limpid, satiny night, like no night I’ve ever known since, except in the Egypt or Florida of my dreams. The dog had set his chin in the hollow of my shoulder, and his breath was scorching me. The gardens to our right sloped down to the lake. Past Chavoires, the road was lined with palms and umbrella pines.
    We passed the village of Veyrier-du-Lac and turned onto a steep uphill road. The front entrance of the villa stood below the level of the road. An inscription on a wooden panel named the place: THE LINDENS (the same name as my hotel). A fairly wide gravel drive, bordered by trees and a mass of neglected vegetation, led to the very threshold of the villa, a big white building in the style of Napoleon III, with pink shutters. A few cars were parked close together. We crossed the hall and stepped into what must have been the salon. There, in the filtered light of two or three lamps, I made out about ten people, some standing near the windows and others lolling on a white sofa, which was apparently the only piece of furniture. They were filling their glasses and carrying on animated conversations in German and French. A tune came from a record player on the floor, a slow melody accompanying a singer who kept repeating, in a very deep voice,
    Oh, Bionda Girl … 
    Oh, Bionda Girl … 
    Bionda Girl … 
    Yvonne took my arm. Meinthe cast rapid glances all around, as if looking for someone, but no member of thatgathering paid us the slightest attention. We stepped through a French window onto a veranda with a green wooden balustrade. There were some deck chairs and wicker armchairs. A Chinese lantern cast