Hunting and Gathering (48 page)

“Leonardo who?”

“Leonardo da Vinci. When he came along I rebelled right away. As long as we were just doing the minor masters, sketches of sketches, prints of prints or touch-ups of touch-ups, we could fob off our illusions onto the less scrupulous dealers; but this was going too far. I said as much but no one listened. Vittorio was getting too greedy. I don't know exactly what he was doing with his money but the more he made, the more he was short of it. He must have had his weaknesses too. So I kept my mouth shut. It wasn't my problem, after all. I went back to the Louvre, to the graphic arts departments, and I got access to certain documents and learned them by heart. Vittorio, he-a wanted one-a little thing-a. ‘You see thata study? You getta inspired, but thata character, you keepa her for me-a.' In those days we had already left the hotel and were living in a big furnished apartment. I did as he asked and I waited. He was more and more nervous. He spent hours on the phone, wore out the carpet, cursed the Madonna. One morning he burst into my room like a madman: ‘I have to go, but you don'a move from here, all right? You don'a go out-a, as long as I don'a tell you. You understan'? You don'a move-a!' That evening I got a call from some guy I didn't know: ‘Burn everything,' and he hangs up. Right. I gathered up a packet of lies and destroyed them in the kitchen sink. And I went on waiting. Several days. I didn't dare go out. I didn't dare look out the window. I turned completely paranoid. But at the end of a week I left. I was hungry, I needed to smoke, and I had nothing left to lose. I went back to Meudon on foot and I found the house all closed up with a For Sale sign on the gate. Had she died? I climbed over the wall and slept in the garage. I came back to Paris. As long as I kept walking, I could stay on my feet. I hung around the building in case Vittorio had come back. I had no money, no direction, no way to get my bearings, nothing. I spent two more nights outdoors in my ten-thousand-franc cashmere and I bummed cigarettes and got my coat stolen. The third night I rang the bell at Pierre and Mathilde's and collapsed outside their door. They fixed me up and got me this place to live here, on the eighth floor. A week later I was still sitting on the floor wondering what sort of job I could do. All I knew was that I never wanted to do art again in my life. But I wasn't ready to go back out into the world yet either. People frightened me. So I became a nighttime cleaning operative. I lived like that for a little over a year. In the meantime I found my mother. She didn't ask any questions. I never knew if it was indifference or just discretion. I didn't scratch the surface, I didn't dare: she was all I had left.

“It was so ironic . . . I had done everything I could to get away from her and there I was, back at square one, minus a few dreams. I pretended to live, rule number one, no drinking alone, and I found an emergency exit in my thirty square feet under the roof. And then I got sick at the beginning of the winter and that's when Philibert carried me down the stairs to the room next door. The rest you know.”

Long silence.

“Well,” said Franck, several times. “Well, well.”

He sat up and folded his arms over his chest.

“Well. Talk about a life. That's crazy. And now? What are you going to do now?”

Camille didn't answer.

 
She was asleep.

He pulled the duvet up to just below her nose, took his things and tiptoed out. Now that he knew her, he didn't dare lie down beside her. Anyway, she was taking up all the space.

 
All the space.

81

FRANCK was lost.

He wandered through the apartment for a while, went to the kitchen, opened the cupboards and closed them again, shaking his head.

On the windowsill the lettuce heart was all wilted. He threw it into the garbage, then went and sat back down to finish his drawing. He hesitated over the eyes. Should he draw two black dots at the end of the horns, or one single one underneath?

Shit. Even in the snail department he was a failure.

Okay, just one then. It was cuter.

 
He got dressed. Pushed his motorbike past the concierge's loge, tense with apprehension. Pikou watched him go by without making a sound. That's it, good boy, that's the way. This summer you'll have a little Lacoste to seduce the Pekinese bitches. He went another few yards before he dared kick-start, then set off into the night.

 
He took the first street to the left and rode straight on. When he reached the sea, he put his helmet on his lap and watched the fishermen maneuvering offshore. He used the moment to say a few words to his motorbike. So that it would have some understanding of the situation . . .

And he felt a little like breaking down.

Too much wind, maybe.

 
He gave himself a good shake.

 
Aha! That's what he'd been looking for earlier on: a coffee filter! His thoughts were clearing. He walked along the port until he came to the first bar that was open and he drank a cup of java amidst the gleaming oilskins. Raising his eyes, he discovered an old acquaintance in the reflection of the mirror: himself.

“Hey, what's up? Look at you!”

“Yeah, hey.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came here to drink a coffee.”

“Say, you don't look so good.”

“Tired.”

“Still gallivanting around?”

“No.”

“C'mon . . . weren't you with a girl tonight?”

“She wasn't really a girl.”

“What was she, then?”

“Don't really know.”

“Hey, take it easy, man. Hey,
patronne
! Add a drop of something to his cup, my friend here is feeling down.”

“No, no, it's okay.”

“What's okay?”

“Well, everything.”

“What's the matter, Lestaf?”

“Feel sick.”

“Ooh, you wouldn't be in love, maybe?”

“Could be.”

“Well, well. That's good news! Be happy, man! Be happy! Climb up on the bar! Sing!”

“Stop it.”

“What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing. She—she's good, this one. Too good for me, at any rate.”

“Not at all. That's just bullshit. Nobody's ever too good for anyone. Particularly women!”

“She's not a woman, I said.”

“She's a guy?”

“No!”

“She's an android? Lara Croft?”

“Better than that.”

“Better than Lara Croft? Way to go. Has she got anything on top?”

“A thirty-four-A, I'd say.”

He smiled. “Ah, right. If you fall for a breadboard, you're in deep shit. I see your problem.”

“No, you don't, you don't see a thing!” he said irritably. “You never get it, and you're always shooting your big stupid mouth off so no one will notice! Ever since you were a kid you've been pissing everyone off. I feel sorry for you, you know that? That girl, when she talks to me, half the words she uses I don't understand at all. I feel like a piece of shit next to her. If you knew all the stuff she's been through in her life. Shit, I'm really not up to this. I think I'll have to drop the whole idea.”

His reflection pouted.

“What?” grumbled Franck.

“You're a bastard.”

“I've changed.”

“Naw . . . just tired.”

“I've been tired for twenty years.”

“What's she been through?”

“Nothing but shit.”

“Well, hey! That's good, no? You have something else to give her!”

“What?”

“Yo! You doing this on purpose or what?”

“No.”

“You are. You're doing this on purpose so I'll feel sorry for you. Think about it. I'm sure you'll come up with something.”

“I'm afraid.”

“That's a good sign.”

“Yes, but if I—”

The
patronne
stretched.

“Gentlemen, the bread's here. Who'd like a sandwich? Young man?”

“Thanks, I'll be okay.”

Yeah, I'll be okay.

As I head straight for disaster, or elsewhere . . .

We'll see.

 
They were setting up the market. Franck bought some flowers off the back of a truck—got change, young man?—and flattened them beneath his jacket.

 
Flowers, that was a good beginning, no?

Got change, young man? And how, old girl! And how!

 
And for the first time in his life, he found himself heading for Paris as the sun rose.

Philibert was taking a shower. Franck took Paulette her breakfast and kissed her, rubbing her jowls. “So, Grandma, isn't this nice?”

“Hey, you're frozen. Where on earth have you been this time?”

“Doesn't matter,” he said, getting up.

 
His sweater reeked of mimosas. For lack of a vase he cut a plastic bottle in half with the bread knife.

“Hey, Philou?”

“Hold on, I'm spooning out my Nesquik. Have you made up the shopping list?”

“Yeah. How do you spell Riviera?”

“With a capital R and no accents.”

“Thanks.”

Some mimosas like they have on the
Riviera
. He folded the note and placed it with the vase by the drawing of the little snail.

 
He shaved.

“Where were we?” asked the other guy, back there in the mirror.

“Nah, it's okay now. I'll manage.”

“Okay, then. Well, good luck.”

 
Franck made a face.

It was the aftershave.

 
He was ten minutes late and the meeting had already started.

“Here's lover boy,” announced the boss.

He sat down with a smile.

82

AS he did whenever he was exhausted, Franck burned himself badly. His
commis
insisted on having a look at it and in the end he held out his arm in silence. He didn't have the energy to complain, or to feel the pain. He was a burned-out machine. Out of order, out of juice, out of trouble, out of everything.

 
He came home, unsteady on his feet, and set his alarm to be sure he wouldn't sleep through until the next morning; yanked his shoes off without undoing the laces; and fell into bed with his arms across his chest. Now, yes, his hand was throbbing and he stifled a
lllsssh
of pain before dropping off.

 
He had been sleeping for over an hour when Camille—so light it could be no one else—came to see him in a dream.

 
Alas, he could not see whether she was naked. She was stretched out on top of him. Thigh against thigh, belly against belly and shoulder against shoulder.

She had her lips by his ear and she was saying, “Lestafier, I'm going to rape you.”

He smiled in his sleep. First of all because this was one fine hallucination and second of all because her breath was tickling him so badly he wanted to climb the walls.

“Yes. Let's get it over with. I'm going to rape you so I'll have a good reason to take you in my arms. But whatever you do, you mustn't move. If you fight back, I'll smother you, sweetness.”

He wanted to pull everything together, his body, his hands, his sheets, to be sure not to wake up, but someone had him pinned down by the wrists.

 
The pain made him realize he wasn't dreaming and because he was in pain, he understood his happiness.

 
When she put her palm on his, Camille felt the gauze:

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

 
And she began to move.

So did he.

“No, no,” she scolded, “let me.”

She spat out a piece of plastic, slipped on the condom, settled against his neck, a bit lower down too, and passed her hands under the small of his back.

After a short, silent to-and-fro, she grasped his shoulders, arched her back and came in less time than it takes to write it.

“Already?” he asked, a bit disappointed.

“Yes . . .”

“Oh.”

“I was just too hungry.”

Franck closed his arms around her back.

“Sorry,” she added.

“Not a valid excuse, mademoiselle. I am going to file a complaint.”

“With pleasure.”

“No, not right away. I'm too comfortable for the moment. Stay like that, I beg of you. Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“I just got burn ointment all over you.”

“So much the better.” She smiled. “It could always come in handy.”

Franck closed his eyes. He'd hit the jackpot. A sweet, intelligent, mischievous girl. Oh, thank you, God, thank you. It was too good to be true.