A Very Bold Leap (8 page)

Suddenly Brigitte Loiseau stood up and came towards the young couple.

“I think we’ve met,” she said, holding out her hand to Charles with a smile that just failed to mask the emotion that was running through her.

Charles jumped to his feet, his face turning scarlet, nearly overturning a glass. A hush seemed to have fallen on the conversations in the restaurant.

“Yes, madame,” he stammered.

“You’re Charles, right?”

“Yes, madame.”

She laughed. “Please, stop calling me ‘madame.’You make me feel ancient.”

“Excuse me,” Céline said, standing up. She gave Brigitte Loiseau a pinched smile and a brief nod, then turned and hurried off, leaving her purse on one of the chairs. The actress, taken aback, looked after her for a second, then turned to Charles.

“I hope …”

“No, it’s nothing,” Charles assured her. “She had to leave.”

“Can I see you sometime?”

“Whenever you like.”

She gave him a card. “You’re very kind. Call me tomorrow, if you can. I’m always home in the morning.”

She shook his hand again and returned to her table. Charles sat down and stared at the card, which trembled in his hand. Only then did he become fully aware of the possible consequences of Céline’s departure. His first impulse was to jump up and run after her, but he remained in his chair, sensing that that would only make her angrier. Besides, he hadn’t paid their bill yet. And all the eyes on him made him incapable of action.

“I’ll deal with it tomorrow,” he sighed. “She’ll have had time to calm down a bit.”

He finished his croque monsieur without enthusiasm, his hunger gone, and forced himself not to look over at Brigitte Loiseau, who was now deep in conversation with a tall, red-bearded youth with long hair — a sort of unsuccessful replica of Alfred de Musset — who had gone over to her table and was laughing too loudly. It was at this point that a series of soft, repeated coughs made him look up.

A heavy-set man in a green suit and a lemon-yellow tie was sitting at the table next to him. Charles hadn’t noticed him come in. The man nodded and smiled at Charles. The domed forehead, the round, somewhat protruding ears, the small mouth and red, fleshy lips, the full cheeks, the gleaming, bloated chin, the self-satisfied paunch and short legs, all comically reminded Charles of one of those hackysack balls that kids played with by keeping them in the air using only their knees and heels and elbows. His next thought was of “Boule-de-Suif,” a short story by Guy de Maupassant he had read and enjoyed a few years before. It was the story of a young prostitute, of course, but the woman’s surname fitted this fifty-year-old suet-ball like a glove.

“Pardon me,” the Suet-Ball said, still smiling and looking unctuously benevolent. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I do hope you’ll forgive me.”

Surprised and a bit put off, Charles shrugged, then held up his hand to signal the waiter for the bill.

“Can I offer you a cognac?” pressed the Suet-Ball, undeterred by his neighbour’s apparent lack of good manners.

“No, thank you. I have to go.”

The Suet-Ball emitted a warm chuckle and leaned farther over his table, despite the impediment presented by his abdomen. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “Bernard Délicieux, journalist. I work for
Artist’s Life
magazine. Do you know it?”

Charles nodded and allowed himself a slight smile. So far he had found the man about as interesting as a heap of pebbles, but this was different. He gave his name.

“Come on, sit down and have a cognac with me. I’ll pay, and no strings attached! I just feel like chatting for a bit.”

Charles stood. “I can’t stay long,” he said. “I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Stay as long as you like. Too bad I can’t offer a cognac to your girlfriend, as well. She is your girlfriend, I take it?”

“Yes,” Charles said, frowning slightly.

“Well, aren’t you the careful one,” said Délicieux happily. “If you only knew how harmless I am! Not only would I never hurt a fly, I couldn’t if my life depended on it! I’m totally incapable of inflicting pain. I’m much too lazy. And the flies know it, too. You can tell by the way they follow me around… Incredible, isn’t it?”

He ordered the drinks and Charles saw by the way the waiter behaved that Bernard Délicieux was not only a regular at the restaurant, but an esteemed customer as well.

“Your young friend didn’t seem to be in a very good mood when she left,” he said, turning the cognac slowly in its glass.

“Well, since you were obviously listening in on our conversation,” Charles replied acidly, “you must know why she was so upset.”

“Aha, another cunning response!” Délicieux guffawed. “Good for you, good for you! You don’t exactly run off at the mouth, do you? I like that. There are enough windbags out there already, spouting their idiocies day and night, grousing at the world three ways from Sunday…. In my line of work, I have to put up with them, what can I say? Often enough I even rely on them to make my living. Yes, you’re right, I did listen in on your conversation. I wouldn’t take it too seriously, Charles — if you don’t mind my calling you by your first name? Thanks. All women have their little jealous fits: you should
take them as proofs of their love. Because
all
women, without exception, are the jealous type, and especially those who pretend not to be! There are a thousand ways of expressing this jealousy, each one more bizarre than the last. It’s enough to make you lose … your trousers! I could tell you a tale or two …”

Charles listened as he sipped his cognac, falling more and more under the spell of his companion’s jovial charm. Every now and then he risked a glance towards Brigitte Loiseau. Alfred de Musset had left, and now she seemed to be absorbed in a serious conversation with her companion. Suddenly she turned and met Charles’s gaze, and her eyelids fluttered slightly.

Charles was in no doubt that the Suet-Ball had invited him to his table to dig up material for an article, having also overheard his conversation with Brigitte Loiseau. And sure enough, after a long preamble composed of cock-and-bull stories and amusing anecdotes, the name Brigitte Loiseau crossed the journalist’s lips. But Charles ignored it, having no intention of betraying his Blond Angel! He amused himself by toying with his companion’s thinly disguised curiosity, and the latter soon realized he was wasting his time and gave up with good grace. His metier demanded patience. Someone whose lips were sealed on Sunday would often enough be spilling his guts on Tuesday.

“So, Charles, what do you do? You’re a student, I presume?”

Charles was pleased with himself for the way he was handling this wily old fox, and the cognac was going to his head. He talked eagerly about having sent his first novel to a publisher, mentioned that he was already well into his second, said how much he loved books, described his difficult childhood, the people who had helped him and those who had tried to take advantage of him, recounted the tricks he had played to revenge a wrong or to get out of a dangerous situation, but carefully avoided any mention of the time he had been involved with trafficking prescription drugs. Bernard Délicieux listened, cognac in hand and a wide, beaming smile on his face, charmed by his new acquaintance’s lively frankness.

“You’re a good storyteller, my friend,” he said when, just before midnight, Charles stood up to leave. “I’m sure you must be a good writer. Here, let me give you my card. If I can ever be of service to you, don’t hesitate to call. Nothing would give me more pleasure. And if you ever feel like a good glass of cognac, you know where to find me …”

Brigitte Loiseau had left the restaurant a bit earlier, without looking in Charles’s direction. Had she been worried about his chatting with the journalist?

Did she suspect him of being a leaky bucket? He strode down rue Saint-Denis towards the Mont-Royal metro station, going over in his mind the events of this bizarre evening: his conversation with his idol, Céline going off in a huff, his meeting with an amiable blowhard. What sort of mood would Céline be in tomorrow? But any anxiety he felt about that was almost completely overshadowed by thoughts of the call he would be making in the morning to his Blond Angel.

After a night of much tossing and sudden, bolt-upright awakenings, Charles was about to pick up the receiver to call the actress when the telephone rang. It was the notary, Parfait Michaud, and he sounded excited.

“Something strange and wonderful has happened, my boy. Can you come over to my office right away?”

“Sorry, no, I have to meet someone,” Charles replied, wanting to reserve as much time as possible for Brigitte Loiseau.

“Well, how about noon, then? Come and have lunch with us after your meeting. I can’t wait to talk to you, Charles.”

When he put down the phone, Charles picked up the card the actress had given him. After gazing at it thoughtfully for quite a while the previous night, he had placed it on his bedside table before going to sleep. Now he looked at his watch: ten to eight. Would it be impolite to call so early? What kind of welcome would he get? The way she had batted her eyelids when she’d seen him sitting at Bernard Délicieux’s table had tortured him all night. She must have taken him for Judas in the act of betraying her for a few pieces of silver.

He drank two cups of coffee to give himself courage, smoked a cigarette, then dialled Brigitte Loiseau’s number. The series included three lucky 7s, which in Charles’s mind conferred a formidable if not sacred character to his enterprise.

“Hello?” The voice was female and slightly common.

“Madame Loiseau?”

Silence at the other end. Then a slight click and the voice, coming from far off, calling, “Madame Loiseau!” but gently, with an attempt at sounding distinguished. But he also detected a note of exasperation.

“Everyone calls her,” Charles told himself, “everyone… I’m just a microbe in her eyes, a dog fart, a rusty old nail.”

“Yes?”

It was her voice, lovely and smiling and golden, with a certain erotic undertone that instantly grabbed his attention.

“Hello, madame. It’s Charles Thibodeau.” His own voice had become a choked whisper. “I hope I’m not calling too early, madame?”

The actress laughed. “Charles, do you think we could get back on a first-name basis, as we once were? For one thing, it would get rid of this ridiculous ‘madame’ stuff.”

Seconds went by as Charles tried to regain his composure and, with it, his courage.

“Well, if you insist, er, Brigitte, it’s fine by me,” he finally managed.

Then he burst into a long, breathless declaration that he had not said a word about her to the journalist he’d met at L’Express, not a word, in fact he had not even let on that he had ever had anything to do with her except on the vague, occasional, and superficial occasions when he’d worked as a street vendor. The journalist hadn’t believed him at first, but Charles had stuck to his story despite the best efforts of his companion to draw more information out of him.

Brigitte Loiseau remained silent for a moment, then spoke in a voice that sent a thrill of pleasure down the length of Charles’s body. “Do you think we could get together for a coffee somewhere, say, at nine o’clock?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“What say we meet at… La Brioche Lyonnaise, on Saint-Denis just up from de Maisonneuve? I think I remember that you live near a metro station, is that right?”

“Yes,” Charles lied. “Very near. That’s great. I know the place. I’ll be there.”

He then called Fernand Fafard and told him he wouldn’t be able to get to work until the early afternoon.

“All right,” said the hardware-store owner, without asking any questions. “It’s bad timing, because we have two big shipments coming in this morning, but we’ll try to manage somehow.”

“I wonder what’s up?” the hardware-store owner muttered to himself when he had hung up. “He sounds pretty excited… I hope he’s not about to serve us another bowl of dog-turd soup …”