Hunting and Gathering (19 page)

Silence.

“Can I have one of your beers?”

“Go ahead.”

Camille poured a glass and sat down across from him.

“Can I light a cigarette?”

“Go ahead, I said. Pretend I'm not here.”

“No, I can't do that. It's impossible. When you're in the room, there's so much electricity in the air, so much aggressive energy that I can't be natural, so . . .”

“So, what?”

“So I'm like you, would you believe, I'm tired. Not for the same reasons, I suppose. I don't work as hard, but the result's the same. Different, but the same. It's my head that's tired, know what I mean? And plus, I want to leave. I realize I'm really not cut out to live with other people and I—”

“You?”

“No, nothing. I'm tired, like I said. And you're incapable of talking to people in a normal way. You're always shouting, you're always so . . . in everyone's face . . . I guess it's because of your work, the atmosphere in the kitchen must rub off on you. I don't know, and to be honest, I don't really care. But one thing's for sure: I'm going to give you back your privacy.”

“No, I'm the one who's leaving. I have no choice, like I said. You matter more to Philou, you've become more important to him than me.

 
“That's life,” he added, laughing.

And, for the first time, they looked each other in the eye.

 
“I fed him better than you will, that's for sure! But I really don't give a fuck about Marie Antoinette's white hair. I really don't give a rat's ass about any of that and that was my undoing. Oh, hey, thanks for the stereo.”

Camille rose to her feet. “It's more or less the same one, no?”

“Probably.”

“Great,” she concluded dully. “Okay, the keys?”

“Which keys?”

“Come on.”

“Your stuff is back in your room and I made your bed for you.”

“Did you short-sheet it?”

“Shit, you really are a bitch, you know that?”

 
She was going to leave the room, when he tipped his chin toward her sketchbook:

“Are you the one who does those?”

“Where'd you find it?”

“Hey, take it easy, it was here, on the table. I just looked at it while I was waiting for you.” She was about to pick it up when he added, “If I say something nice to you, will you promise not to bite my head off?”

“You can always try.”

He took the sketchbook, flipped through a few pages, put it back down and waited a moment longer until she finally turned around. “This is brilliant, you know. Really beautiful, really well drawn. It's . . . Well, this is just me saying it, I don't know that much about it, nothing at all even—but I've been waiting for you for almost two hours, in this kitchen where you freeze your balls off, and I didn't notice the time go by. I wasn't bored for one second. I looked at all these faces, here, old Philou and all these other folks. You really captured them, you really make them look beautiful . . . And the apartment too. I've been living here for over a year and I thought it was empty—I didn't notice any of this stuff. But you—well, they're just really good.”

Camille was quiet.

“Hey, now, why are you crying?”

“Just nerves, I suppose.”

“That's a whole other ball game. You want another beer?”

“No, thanks, I'm going to bed.”

While Camille was in the bathroom she heard Franck banging loudly on Philibert's door, shouting, “C'mon, man! It's okay! She didn't disappear! You can go and take a leak now!”

 
She thought she could see the Marquis smiling at her from between his sideburns as she turned out her lamp, and she fell asleep at once.

35

THE weather was gentler. There was a gaiety, a lightness, something in the air. People were rushing around hunting for presents, and Josy B. had dyed her hair yet again. A mahogany tint, really lovely, which enhanced the frames of her glasses. And Mamadou had bought a magnificent hairpiece. One evening, between two floors, Mamadou gave them a hairdressing lesson while the four of them clinked glasses, knocking back the bottle of sparkling wine they'd bought with the money from Josy's winning lottery ticket.

“But how long do you have to stay at the hairdresser's to get the hair plucked from your forehead like that?”

“Oh, not long, two, maybe three hours. Some hairstyles take a lot longer, though. For my Sissi it took over four hours.”

“Over four hours? And what does she do all that time? Does she behave?”

“Of course not, she doesn't behave! She does like we do, she laughs, she eats, she listens to us tell our stories. We tell a lot of stories . . . lots more than you guys do.”

“And what about you, Carine? What do you do for Christmas?”

“I put on four pounds. And you, Camille, what d'you do for Christmas?”

“I lose four pounds. Just joking.”

“You going to be with your family?”

“Yes,” she lied.

“Okay, this is all very well, but,” said Super Josy, tapping on the face of her . . . etc., etc.

 
On the desk she read,
What is your name?

Maybe it was just a coincidence, but the photo of his wife and kids had vanished. Hmm, how predictable, this guy. She threw out the sheet of paper and ran the vacuum cleaner.

 
The atmosphere was lighter in the apartment too. Franck no longer slept there and was in and out like an arrow when he came for his nap in the afternoon. He hadn't even taken the new stereo out of the box.

 
Philibert never made the slightest reference to what had happened in his absence the evening he was at the Invalides. He was the sort who couldn't stand the slightest change. His equilibrium hung on a thread and Camille was just beginning to realize the magnitude of what he had done, coming to get her that night . . . How he must have had to force himself. She also thought about what Franck had said about Philibert's medication.

 
Philibert informed Camille that he was going on vacation and would be absent until mid-January.

“Are you going to your château?”

“Yes.”

“Are you glad to be going?”

“Well, I suppose I shall be glad to see my sisters.”

“What are their names?”

“Anne, Marie, Catherine, Isabelle, Aliénor and Blanche.”

“And your brother?”

“Louis.”

“Only names of kings and queens.”

“Indeed.”

“And what happened to your name?”

“Oh, my name . . . I'm the ugly duckling.”

“Don't say that, Philibert. You know, I don't understand much about your aristocracy business and I've never had much time for your names beginning with ‘de.' To tell you the truth, I even think it's a little bit ridiculous when you get down to it, a bit . . . old-fashioned, but one thing is for sure: you, Philibert, are a prince. A real prince.”

“Oh”—he blushed—“a modest gentleman, a little provincial country squire at best . . .”

“A fine little gentleman, that's for sure. Hey, don't you think we could cut the formality and start saying
tu
to each other next year?”

“Ah! My little suffragette is back! Always another Revolution! I'd find it really hard to say
tu
to you.”

“Well, I wouldn't. I would like to be able to speak to you the way I'd speak to a friend and say, Philibert, thanks for all you—
tu
—have done for me, because you may not know it, but in a way you've saved my life . . .”

He didn't answer. He was staring at the floor, once again.

36

CAMILLE got up early to see Philibert off at the station. He was such a bundle of nerves that she had to take his train ticket out of his hand to get it stamped for him. They went for a cup of hot chocolate but he didn't touch it. As the departure time drew near, she saw his face grow tense. His tics returned, and the man sitting opposite her was once again the sad sack from the supermarket. A tall young man who was needy and gauche and who had to keep his hands in his pockets to keep from scratching his own face when he adjusted his glasses.

She put a hand on his arm:

“You okay?”

“Oh, yes, fine, you've got an eye on the time, right? Right?”

“Shh,” she scolded gently. “Everything's going to be fine. Everything is fine.”

He tried to agree.

“Is it that stressful to be going to see your family?”

“N-no,” he said, while nodding yes with his head.

“Think about your little sisters.”

He smiled.

“Which one is your favorite?”

“The—the youngest.”

“Blanche?”

“Yes.”

“Is she pretty?”

“She's—she's more than pretty. She—she's really gentle with me.”

 
Farewell kisses were out of the question, but Philibert grabbed her by the shoulder when they were on the platform:

“You—you'll take good care of yourself, won't you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to be with your f-family?”

“No.”

“No?” He made a face.

“I don't have any little sisters to make the rest easier to bear . . .”

“I see.”

 
From the window, he lectured her:

“Above all, d-don't let our little Escoffier in-intimidate you, all right?”

“I won't,” she reassured him.

He added something which she did not hear because of the loudspeakers. To be on the safe side she nodded yes, yes, and the train pulled away.

She decided to walk back, but took a wrong turn without realizing it. Instead of heading left down the boulevard Montparnasse as far as the École Militaire, she went straight and ended up on the rue de Rennes. It was because of the boutiques, the Christmas garlands, the atmosphere.

She was like an insect, drawn to the light and the warm blood of the crowds.

 
Camille wanted to be one of them, to be like them—busy, excited, in a hurry. She wanted to go into shops and buy silly things so she could spoil the people she loved. She began to walk more slowly: who, in fact, did she love? Come on, come on, she scolded, lifting the collar of her jacket, don't start, please, there were Mathilde and Pierre and Philibert and her comrades of the mop. Surely here in this jewelry store she could find a trinket for Mamadou, who was so careful about her looks. And for the first time in a very long time, Camille did the same thing everyone else was doing at the same time everyone else was doing it: she was walking along, trying to figure out how much her bonus would be. For the first time in a very long time she stopped thinking about tomorrow. And that wasn't just an expression. She really stopped thinking about
tomorrow
, about the very next day.

For the first time in a long time the very next day seemed . . . conceivable. Yes, that was exactly it: conceivable. She had a place where she liked to live. A strange, idiosyncratic place, like the people living there. She closed her fist around the keys in her pocket and looked back on the last few weeks. She had met an extraterrestrial. An odd but generous individual, who stood a thousand leagues above the horde and yet did not act the least bit conceited. Then there was that other strange bird. Well, with him it was a bit more complicated. She didn't see what you could get out of him other than stories about bikers and sauté pans, but at least he'd been moved by her sketchbook, well, moved was a bit strong perhaps, let's just say affected. He was a bit more complicated but probably simpler too: the operating instructions seemed to be fairly basic . . .

Yes, she had come quite a way, she thought, shuffling along behind the strolling shoppers.

 
This time last year she had been in such a pitiful state that she couldn't say her own name to the fellow from the emergency rescue who'd picked her up, and the year before that she'd been working so hard she didn't even realize it was Christmas; her “benefactor” had been careful not to remind her for fear she might not keep up the pace. So what: she could say it now, no? She could say those few words which would have singed her lips not so very long ago: she was fine, she felt fine, and life was beautiful. There, she'd said it. C'mon, stop blushing, you fool. Don't look back. No one heard you muttering your inane gibberish, rest assured.

 
She was hungry. She went into a bakery and bought a few
chouquettes
. Perfect little
choux
pastry things, light and sweet. She stood licking her fingertips for a long time before she dared go back into a store to look for some small presents for everyone. Perfume for Mathilde, jewelry for the girls, a pair of gloves for Philibert and some cigars for Pierre. How conventional could you get? These were the easiest Christmas presents on earth and they were perfect presents.

 
Camille finished her shopping near the Place Saint-Sulpice and walked into a bookstore. Here too, it was her first visit in a long time. For so long she hadn't dared go into places like this. It was hard to explain, but it hurt too much, it—No, she couldn't bring herself to say it. Such a weight of sadness, such cowardice, the risks she had no longer wanted to take. Going into bookstores, cinemas, exhibitions, or even just glancing in the windows of art galleries: that had meant pointing to her own mediocrity, her spinelessness, it had meant reminding herself that one day she had thrown in the towel, in despair, and that she couldn't remember what it was like, before . . .