Hunting and Gathering (44 page)

 
He was stupefied.

 
“Shit . . . it's—it's raw.”

“No. It's tender.”

“Why did you stop at the ankles?”

“Do you want the real reason or the one I'm going to make up?”

“The real one.”

“Because I'm bad at feet!”

“And the other one?”

“Because . . . There's not much keeping you here, or is there?”

“And what about my dog?”

“There's your dog. I drew him over your shoulder earlier.”

“Oh! This is great! He's gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous . . .”

She tore out the sheet.

 
You make this an enormous effort, she thought, grumbling, you break your back a little, you bring your subject back to life, offer them immortality and everything that might move them, and it's a scribbled sketch of their mutt . . .

I swear to God . . .

 
“Are you pleased with yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Will I have to come back?”

“Yes . . . To say good-bye and give me your address. You want something to drink?”

“No. I have to go lie down, I don't feel so hot just now.”

 
As she led him down the hall Camille suddenly struck her forehead with her fist:

“Paulette! I forgot her!”

Her room was empty.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

 
“Problem?”

“I've lost my roommate's grandmother.”

“Look. There's a note on the table.”

 
We didn't want to disterb you. She's with me. Come as soon as you can. P.S. Your friend's dog took a shit in the entranse.

75

CAMILLE spread her arms and flew above the Champ-de-Mars. She grazed the Eiffel Tower, tickled the stars and came back to earth just outside the service entrance of the restaurant.

Paulette was sitting in the boss's office.

Swollen with happiness.

 
“I forgot you.”

“No, you didn't, silly child, you were working. Is it done?”

“Yes.”

“Everything's okay?”

“I'm hungry.”

 
“Lestafier!”

“Yes, boss.”

“Make me a nice big steak, plenty rare, for the office.”

 
Franck turned around. A steak? But Paulette didn't have any teeth.

When he understood that it was for Camille, he was even more astonished.

They communicated through sign language:

Yes,
she answered, nodding her head.

But she didn't really understand the sign language for that, and so she gave him a vague acknowledgment.

 
“Uh-oh,” went the boss, handing Camille the plate, “it's none of my business, but some people have all the luck.”

 
The slab of meat was in the shape of a heart.

 
“Ah, he's really something, that Lestafier,” he sighed, “really something.”

“And he's so handsome,” added his grandmother, who had been feasting her eyes upon him for the last two hours.

“Well, I wouldn't go that far. What would you like with that steak? Go on . . . A little Côtes-du-Rhône? I'll join you for a glass . . . And you, Granny? Hasn't your dessert come yet?”

No sooner had he raised his voice than Paulette was digging into her fondant.

 
“Say,” he added, clicking his tongue, “he's really shaped up, your grandson. I hardly recognize him.” Turning to Camille: “What have you done to him?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, it's working! Keep it up. It really suits him. Nah, seriously. He's a good kid. He really is.”

Paulette was crying.

“Now what? What did I say? Drink something, for Chrissake! Drink! Maxime!”

“Yes, boss?”

“Go get me a glass of champagne, would you please.”

 
“Is that better?”

Paulette blew her nose and apologized: “If only you knew what a long, hard road it's been . . . He was expelled from his first high school, then the second, then from his training certificate, his internships, his apprenticeship, his—”

“But that's not the point!” boomed the chef. “Look at him now! Look at what a master he is! Everyone's trying to steal him from me! He'll end up with one or two medals on his butt, your little bichon frise.”

“Ah . . . not three?” Paulette asked, disappointed.

“No. He's too bad-tempered for that. And too . . . sentimental.” He winked at Camille. “By the way, is the meat any good?”

“Delicious.”

“Of course it is . . . Okay, I'm off. If you need anything, knock on the window.”

 
When he got back to the apartment, Franck went and sat at the foot of Philibert's bed; his roommate was chewing on a pencil in the light of his bedside lamp.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all!”

“We don't see much of each other anymore . . .”

“Not a great deal, you're right. Actually, are you still working on Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“Well, come and see us on Monday if you get bored.”

“What are you reading?”

“I'm writing.”

“To who?”

“I'm writing a script for my theater. I'm afraid we are all obliged to go onstage at the end of the year.”

“Will you invite us?”

“I don't know if I dare.”

“So tell me, how are things going?”

“What do you mean?”

“Between Camille and my old lady.”

“Entente cordiale.”

“You don't think Camille is fed up?”

“Would you like my honest opinion?”

“What?” urged Franck, anxious.

“She's not fed up, but she will be. Remember what you said: you promised to give her time off, two days a week. You promised to slow down at work.”

“Yeah, I know, but I—”

“Stop right there. Spare me your excuses. I'm not interested. You know, you have got to grow up a bit, dear boy. It's like this thing—” He pointed to his notebook full of crossed-out lines. “Whether we want to or not, we all have to take our turn someday.”

 
Pensive, Franck got up.

“She'd say if she was fed up, no?”

“You think so?” Philibert looked through his glasses to clean them. “I'm not so sure . . . Camille is so mysterious. Her past. Her family. Her friends. We don't know anything about this young lady. As far as I'm concerned, apart from her sketchbooks I haven't got a single clue which might conceivably enable me to formulate the slightest hypothesis as to her biography . . . No mail, no phone calls, no visitors . . . Imagine if we lost her one day, we would not even know who to turn to.”

“Don't say that.”

“Yes, I will say it. Think about it, Franck: she convinced me to take in Paulette, she went to get her, she relinquished her bedroom for her, and now she's taking care of her with an extraordinary sweetness. More than that, it's more than just taking care—she cares for her. They care for each other. I hear them laughing and babbling all day long when I'm here. Moreover, Camille is trying to get some work done in the afternoon . . . and you can't even honor your commitments.”

 
Philibert put his glasses back on his nose and kept Franck in his sights for a few seconds:

“No, I'm not very proud of you, Corporal.”

 
With leaden feet, Franck went to tuck in his grandmother and switch off her television.

“Come over here,” she whispered.

Shit. Not asleep.

“I'm proud of you, my little boy.”

Well, they'd better make up their minds, he mused, putting the remote down on her night table.

“Okay, Grandma, go to sleep now.”

“Very proud.”

Yeah, sure, right.

 
Camille's door was ajar. He pushed it gently and started.

The pale light from the corridor illuminated her easel.

 
He stood there motionless for a moment.

Stupefaction, fright and bedazzlement.

 
Had she been right, yet again?

 
Could you understand things without learning about them first?

Was he not hopelessly stupid after all? Since he felt instinctively like reaching out to that sprawled, loose body on the canvas to help him back to his feet, he must not be as thick as he'd thought, no?

 
Evening spider, melancholy. He squashed it and took out a beer.

It sat there and got warm.

He shouldn't have lingered in the hallway.

All this stuff was messing with his basic navigational equipment.

Shit.

Though, actually, things were okay now. For once life was behaving itself.

He quickly moved his hand away from his mouth. He hadn't bitten his nails for eleven days. Except the little finger.

But that didn't count.

 
Grow up, grow up. That's all he'd ever done.

What would become of them all if she disappeared?

He burped. Okay, enough. I've got a crêpe batter to prepare.

The model of ultimate devotion, Franck beat the batter with a whisk so as not to disturb the others, then murmured a few secret incantations and let it rest in peace.

He covered the bowl with a clean dishcloth and left the kitchen, rubbing his hands together.

 
Tomorrow he would make her crêpes suzette, to keep her there forever.

 
Nyak, nyak, nyak
. . . Alone in front of the bathroom mirror he imitated the demonic laugh of Dick Dastardly in
Wacky Races.

Ho, ho, ho
—that was Muttley's.

 
Well, well . . . Ain't we got fun?

76

FRANCK hadn't spent the night there for a long time. His dreams were sweet.

 
He went to get croissants the next morning and they all had breakfast together in Paulette's room. The sky was deep blue. Philibert and Paulette tossed a thousand charming civilities back and forth while Franck and Camille clutched their mugs in silence.

Franck wondered whether he should change his sheets and Camille wondered whether she should change certain details. He tried to catch her eye but her mind was elsewhere. She was on the rue Séguier, in Pierre and Mathilde's living room, about to lose heart and run away.

If I change them now, I won't want to lie down this afternoon, and if I change them after my nap, that would be kind of obvious, no? I can already hear her snickering . . .

 
Or maybe I should go by the gallery? Drop my portfolio off with Sophie and then promptly leave?

 
And you know what'll probably happen anyway, we won't even get anywhere near the bed, we'll just stand there, like in a film, we'll be so, uh—

 
No, that's not a good idea. If Pierre is there, he won't let me go, he'll make me sit down and talk about it. I don't want to talk. I don't give a damn about all his prattle. He either takes it or he doesn't. Period. And he can save his endless jabber for his clients.

 
I'll take a shower in the locker room before I leave work—

 
I'll take a taxi and I'll have him double-park outside the entrance.

 
Some worried, others were carefree, but they all brushed off the crumbs with a sigh, and quietly went their separate ways.

 
Philibert was already in the entrance. He opened the door for Franck with one hand and in the other he held a suitcase.

“Are you going on vacation?”

“No, these are props.”

“Props for what?”

“For my part.”

“Holy Moses . . . What is it, like an Errol Flynn movie? Will you be swashbuckling all over the place?”

“Yes, of course! I'm going to hang by the curtain and throw myself into the crowd. Come on. Now get going or I'll run you through.”

The sky was beautiful, so Camille and Paulette went down into the “garden.”

The old lady was having more and more difficulty walking and it took them nearly an hour to go down the Allée Adrienne-Lecouvreur. Camille had pins and needles in her legs. She gave Paulette her arm and tried to match her pace to her tiny steps, and she could not help but smile when she saw the sign that read,
Reserved for Horseback Riding, Moderate Gait.
When they stopped, it was to take pictures for tourists, to let joggers pass or exchange a few casual words with various marathon runners in their Nikes.

“Paulette?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Would you be alarmed if I suggested we get you a wheelchair?”

Silence.

“Okay, then. Clearly, you would be alarmed.”

“Am I so old?” she whispered.

“No, not at all! On the contrary! But I just thought that . . . since we get bogged down with the walker, you could push the chair for a while and then when you got tired you could have a rest and I could take you with me to the ends of the earth!”

Silence.

“Paulette, I am tired of this park. I can't stand it anymore. I think I have counted every pebble, every bench and every little fence . . . There are eleven in all . . . I'm sick of these horrible tourist buses, I'm sick of all these hordes of people with no imagination, I'm sick of constantly running into the same faces. Those park wardens with their smug expressions, and that other fellow too . . . who smells of piss despite his medal from the Legion of Honor . . . There are so many other things to see in Paris—boutiques, little impasses, courtyards, covered walkways, the Luxembourg, the booksellers along the Seine, the garden outside Notre-Dame, the flower market, the riverbanks, the . . . No, really, this city is magnificent. We could go to the cinema, to concerts, listen to opera,
o mio bambino caro
and all that . . . And here we are stuck in this neighborhood for old people where the kids all dress the same and all their nannies have the same sour look on their face, and everything is so predictable. It's stifling.”