Hunting and Gathering (45 page)

Silence.

Paulette was leaning more and more heavily on Camille's forearm.

 
“Okay. I'm going to be up front with you. I'm really trying to win you over but all that's not the real reason. The truth is, I'm asking you as a favor. If we have a wheelchair with us, and you agree to sit in it from time to time, we could go to the head of the line at museums and always get in first. And, you see, that would be really amazing for me. There are a ton of exhibitions that I dream about going to, but I just don't have what it takes to stand in line.”

“You should have said so from the start, you silly child! If I can do it as a favor to you, then it's no problem at all! All I want is to keep you happy.”

 
Camille bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She lowered her head and managed to come out with a little thank-you, a bit too solemn to be entirely sincere.

Quick, quick! Strike while the iron's hot! So they hurried to the nearest pharmacy.

 
“We work a lot with this Sunrise model, Classic 160. It's a folding model and has a money-back guarantee. At about thirty pounds, it's very light and easy to maneuver. It's brand-new, wheels not included. There's a footrest that can be folded away so the patient can push with her feet. Adjustable armrests and backrest . . . Reclining seat . . . Ah, no. That's extra. The wheels are easy to remove. It all fits easily into the trunk of a car. You can also adjust the height of, uh—”

 
Paulette, who had been parked between the dry shampoos and the Scholl display, was making such a dour face that the saleswoman did not dare continue her spiel.

“Okay, I'll let you think about it . . . I have customers. Here you go, here are some brochures.”

 
Camille knelt down behind Paulette. “It's not that bad, is it?”

Silence.

“To be honest I expected something worse. It's a sporty model, and the black is quite chic . . .”

“Oh, come on. You might as well tell me it's sexy.”

“ ‘Sunrise Medical' . . . Where do they dream up these names . . . Thirty-seven, isn't that the number for the
département
where you're from?”

Paulette put on her glasses: “Where?”

“Uh . . . Chanceaux-sur-Choisille.”

“Ah! Of course! Chanceaux! I know exactly where that is!”

It was in the bag.

Thank you, God. Had it been any other
département
, they would have gone out of there with nothing more than a pedicure kit and a pair of slippers with orthopedic soles . . .

 
“How much is it?”

“Five hundred and fifty-eight euros, tax not included.”

“No, really? . . . Well, can't we—can't we rent one?”

“Not this model. The rental model is different. Sturdier, and heavier. But wait, this should all be covered by your insurance. Madame has a health plan, no?”

The saleswoman had the impression that she was talking to two half-witted old maids.

“You shouldn't have to pay for the chair yourself! Go to your doctor and ask him for a prescription. Given your condition, madame, it won't be a problem . . . Here, I'll give you this little booklet. All the references are in here. Do you have a GP?”

“Uh ...”

“If he's not used to this, show him this code: 401 A02.1. And the rest you can arrange with your insurance plan.”

“Oh, okay, and . . . how do I do that?”

Once they were out on the sidewalk, Paulette faltered.

“If you make me see a doctor, they'll send me back to the hospice.”

“Oh, Paulette dear, calm down. I promise we won't go to the doctor, I hate them as much as you do. We'll figure something out. Don't you worry.”

“They're going to find me! They're going to find me,” she sobbed.

Paulette had no appetite and lay on her bed the rest of the day.

 
“What's wrong with her?” Franck asked, worried.

“Nothing. We went to a pharmacy for a chair and as soon as the woman mentioned seeing a doctor, she started to panic.”

“What sort of chair?”

“A wheelchair!”

“What for?”

“To have wheels, stupid! So we can see the scenery!”

“Shit, what the hell are you doing? She's fine as she is! Why do you want to shake her up like a bottle of Orangina!”

“All right, you're starting to piss me off, you know that? Why don't you look after her for a change, then? Why don't you wipe her bum from time to time—you just might get some perspective! I have no trouble taking care of her, she's adorable, your grandma. But, shit, I need to move, to go for walks, get my head together! But everything's fine and dandy for you, right? There's nothing troubling you at all. You're all the same—you and Philou and Paulette—it doesn't seem to bother you guys. These four walls, some food, your job, then bedtime—that seems to be enough for you. Well, for me it isn't! I'm beginning to suffocate! And besides, I love going for walks and the weather will be nice soon . . . So I'll say it one more time: I don't mind being the nursemaid, but I also need to be able to get out sometimes. Otherwise you can just figure it out for yourselves—”

“What?”

“Nothing!”

“Don't be like this.”

“But I have to! You're so selfish that if I don't yell and scream at you, you'll never do a thing to help me!”

 
Franck went out, slamming the door, and Camille shut herself in her room.

When she came back out, there they were, both of them, in the entrance. Paulette was in seventh heaven: her little boy was looking after her.

“Hey, old lady, have a seat. It's like a motorbike: you need to tune it, if you're going to go far.”

He was crouched down fiddling with the knobs.

“Your feet feel okay like that?”

“Yes.”

“And your arms?”

“A bit too high.”

“Okay, Camille, over here. Since you're the one who'll be pushing, come here so I can adjust the handles.

 
“Perfect. Okay, I've got to get going. Come with me to work, we'll try it out.”

“Does it fit in the elevator?”

“No. You have to fold it,” he said irritably. “But isn't it better that way? She's not completely helpless as far as I know . . .

 
“Vroom, vroom. Fasten your belt, Fangio, I'm running late.”

They went through the park full speed. By the time they reached the red light, Paulette's hair was disheveled and her cheeks were pink.

“Right, I'm on my way, girls. Send me a postcard when you get to Kathmandu . . .”

 
Franck had already gone a few yards when he turned around:

“Hey, Camille! Don't forget about this evening.”

“What?”

“The crêpes.”

“Shit!” She put her hand to her mouth. “I'd forgotten . . . I can't be there.”

He was suddenly a few inches shorter.

“It's important, I can't cancel. It's for work.”

“And Paulette?”

“I asked Philou to take over.”

“Okay, well, never mind. We'll just eat them without you.”

 
He was stoical in his despair, the only sign of his discomfort a slight grimace as he walked away.

The label on his new underwear was itchy.

77

MATHILDE Daens-Kessler was the prettiest woman Camille had ever known. Tall, much taller than her husband, very slender, very lively, and very cultured. She flitted across our little planet as if she scarcely realized where she was; she was interested in everything, could be amazed by the smallest things, knew how to have fun, grew gently indignant, sometimes laid her palm over your hand, always spoke in a soft voice, knew four or five languages fluently, and hid her intentions behind a discouraging smile.

She was so lovely that it had never even occurred to Camille to sketch her.

It was too risky. She was too full of life.

 
A little sketch, once. Her profile. The bottom of her chignon and her earrings. Pierre had stolen it from Camille, but it wasn't Mathilde. Her husky voice was missing, and her brilliance, and the deep dimples when she laughed.

Mathilde had the kindness, arrogance and offhand manner of those who are born in finely woven sheets. Her father had been an important art collector; she had always been surrounded by beautiful things, and had never had to count anything in her life—neither possessions, nor friends, still less her enemies.

She was rich, and Pierre was enterprising.

When he spoke, she was silent and covered up his indiscretions when his back was turned. He was always on the lookout for fresh talent. He was unerring in his judgment: he was the one who had launched Voulys and Barcarès, for example, and she did her utmost to keep them.

She kept the ones she wanted.

 
Camille remembered well the first time they met. It had been at the École des Beaux-Arts during an exhibition of year-end projects. A sort of aura preceded them: the formidable dealer and Witold-Daens's daughter . . . Their visit had been much awaited. They were feared by most, and their slightest reaction was anxiously anticipated. When they came to greet her and her crowd of grungy fellow artists, Camille felt miserable. She lowered her head when she shook Mathilde's hand, and awkwardly evaded a few compliments, looking for a mouse hole to escape into.

That was in June nearly ten years ago. There were swallows giving a concert in the courtyard of the school; and everyone drank a watery punch while listening devoutly to Kessler's remarks. Camille didn't hear a thing. She was staring at his wife. That day Mathilde wore a blue tunic and a wide silver belt with tiny little bells which tinkled furiously whenever she moved.

It was love at first sight . . .

 
Afterwards they were invited to a restaurant on the rue Dauphine and, at the end of a dinner accompanied by plenty of wine, Camille's boyfriend had urged her to open her portfolio. She had refused.

A few months later, she went to see them. Alone.

Pierre and Mathilde owned drawings by Tiepolo, Degas and Kandinsky, but they had no children. Camille never dared to bring up the subject, nor did she resist when they cast their net round her and reeled her in. Later she turned out to be such a disappointment that the holes in the net were stretched wide . . .

“It's utterly insane! What you're doing is utterly insane!” Pierre shouted.

“Why can you not love yourself? Why?” added Mathilde, more gently.

 
She did not go to the opening nights.

 
When the two of them were alone, Pierre continued to voice his regret:

“Why?”

“She never had enough love,” answered his wife.

“From us?”

“From anyone.”

He collapsed against her shoulder and moaned, “Oh, Mathilde, my lovely woman . . . Why did you let this one get away?”

“She'll be back.”

“No. She's going to ruin everything.”

“She'll be back.”

 
She had come back.

 
“Is Pierre not here?”

“No, he's having dinner with his Englishmen. I didn't tell him you were coming, I wanted to see you on my own for a bit.”

Then, glancing down at Camille's portfolio: “But—did you bring something?”

“Nah, it's nothing. Just a little thing I promised him the other day.”

“Can I see?”

Camille didn't answer. Then, “Okay, I'll wait for him.”

“Is it something you've done?”

“Uh-huh.”

“My God. When he finds out you didn't come empty-handed, he'll scream with despair. I'm going to call him.”

“No, no!” begged Camille. “Leave it! It's nothing, really. It's between us. A sort of receipt, for the rent.”

“Okay, then. Right. Let's eat.”

 
Everything in their place was beautiful—the view, the
objets
, the rugs, the paintings, the dishes, the toaster—everything. Even their toilets were beautiful. There was a plaster reproduction of the quatrain Mallarmé had composed for his own toilet:

 
The first time she'd seen it, she was filled with awe: “Did you—did you buy a chunk of Mallarmé's shitting room?”

“Of course not,” Pierre laughed. “It's just that I know the fellow who made the cast . . . Have you been to Mallarmé's house? In Vulaines?”

“No.”

“We'll take you there someday. You would love it there. Absolutely
love
it.”

 
And everything was as it should be. Even their toilet paper was softer than any other . . .

 
Now Mathilde seemed delighted: “You look lovely! Really, you look great! This short hair really suits you. You've put on weight, no? I'm so happy to see you looking like this. So happy, really! I've missed you so much, Camille. If you only knew how they wear me out sometimes, all those geniuses. The less talent they have, the more noise they make. Pierre doesn't care, he's in his element, but as for me, Camille, I . . . It gets so boring. Come, sit here next to me, tell me what's new.”

“No, I'm no good at that . . . I'll show you my sketchbooks.”

 
Mathilde turned the pages and Camille commented on them.

 
And as she introduced her little universe like this, she really understood how much it meant to her.