Out of Sorts (5 page)

Overhead, a door opens. Heavy steps come to get the baby.

“It’s three-oh-five in the morning, on the dot! Welcome, dear neighbors!” And Ferdinand starts singing even louder, “It’s almost . . . like bein’ . . . in . . . love!”

Chapter Fourteen

Popped His Cherry

For Ferdinand, that baby is the greatest of misfortunes. He despises, above all else, infants. For him, they are nothing but limitations, with the added bonus of utter ingratitude. They understand nothing, they cry, they always need something. You can never rest. And when they smile, they smile at strangers as much as at their parents.
Ingrates, away with you!
Furthermore, you’re supposed to think they’re cute, gifted . . . But a human being who drools, isn’t capable of stringing three words together, and walks like a drunkard? No, Ferdinand cannot fake it!

Besides, he didn’t want kids. It was his wife who got pregnant without consulting him. OK, they’d talked about it, but nothing had been decided. He’d always told Louise, “If you want a child, you look after it. I don’t want it to change my routine. It’s already gonna cost us an arm and a leg. I think I’ll have to do overtime at the factory.”

It’s not that Ferdinand is a tightwad, but he’s thrifty. With money and emotion. And children—unless you have twelve and put them to work—cost more than they bring in! His wife had taken a bookkeeping job for extra money and, a short time later, got pregnant.

Ferdinand had been in denial about the pregnancy. As if he didn’t really believe something was going to come out of that belly—a belly that was indisputably expanding. He never wanted to prepare the nursery. He didn’t attend the birth. And when he came home to discover it was a girl, he was disappointed. He even blamed his wife. She could call it whatever she wanted. Marion . . . What an idea, honestly!

Then, there were nothing but limitations: bottles, burping, diapers, baths, insomnia, shopping, laundry . . . continuously, day and night. Ferdinand didn’t feel involved, but just seeing his wife bustle around so much made him tired. When he wasn’t at the factory, he slept on the living room sofa to catch up on his rest. Sometimes he even avoided the house.

His wife’s demeanor grew increasingly grim. She started to let herself go, like all women of a certain age—thirty years make themselves known. When he returned home after work, it was always the same scene: Louise would sulk at him, his daughter would cry at the sight of him, and at bedtime there’d be no fooling around. The beginning of the end. It’s no surprise Marion didn’t have a little brother.

The little girl grew up. She sat up in her bath, ate chunky purees, waddled like a duck, babbled in an incomprehensible language, had an imaginary best friend, played with dolls. Then there was the “why” stage, school, good grades, graduation. The first high school graduate in the Brun family.

Throughout all those years, Marion saw her parents argue daily. The plates flew from Louise as often as the insults. Her father ignored the verbal and physical attacks as best he could and was content to consider his wife crazy. The fights ended the same way every time: Louise hid in the bedroom in tears, while Ferdinand sat in the living room, a newspaper in his lap and the TV on in the background.

Marion doesn’t remember sharing anything with her father, aside from her unusual stature. As a woman, her five-foot-eleven-inch height has always been an obstacle. She forgoes high heels, which might have been able to feminize her shape. It was difficult to find a man taller than she was, and one who wasn’t intimidated by her shoulders.

Early on, Marion turned toward a career that would distance her from her parents: international diplomacy. It was hardly a surprise after spending years with parents consumed by arguing. At any rate, she’d left with the first guy who came along, a policeman she met at a nightclub. They’d danced to Chaka Khan’s “Fate.” She’d taken that as a sign and married him. Neither of the two families had been invited to the ceremony. Later she’d gotten pregnant with a boy, then had divorced amicably. When the divorce was final, she accepted a position abroad in London, then in Singapore, which wasn’t a problem for her ex-husband, who was relieved by not having to be one of those new exemplary fathers, the ones who claim to be happy about getting joint custody. Visits during school vacations suited them all just fine.

Ferdinand has never understood how his daughter could ask for a divorce and abandon her husband, whom he certainly didn’t hold dear. Marion doesn’t hold it against Ferdinand. Defying all expectations, she’s always been indulgent with her father, finding excuses for his absences, defending him against her mother.

When it was Ferdinand’s turn to get a letter from Louise demanding a divorce, he’d at first thought it was a joke. A trick played very late, over the age of eighty, when he wasn’t expecting it anymore, when he thought the worst was behind him, and the time to pay the piper had passed . . . or that the mailman had forgotten his address.

Chapter Fifteen

You Can Count Me Out

Ferdinand doesn’t know why, but when his sorrows disappeared two weeks ago, just after the infamous nocturnal musical welcome, a pain formed in the lower half of his face. On the advice of his doctor, he’s once again wearing his bandage and taking painkillers.

It’s past noon, but with his jaw swaddled, the old man dreads mealtimes, when he inevitably bites off more than he can chew. He’s resigned to swapping his usual rump steak for boiled ham, and macaroni for alphabet pasta. And he can now once again stomach things besides soup, even if he still has to eat with a spoon. It is a humiliation that feels like a foretaste of the retirement home . . . But what irritates Ferdinand the most is the pitcher of water presiding over the Formica table. The doctor was strict: no alcohol! Armed with his little spoon, Ferdinand is cautiously opening his mouth, when the doorbell rings. He freezes, then glances at the clock. It’s 12:18. The spoon remains suspended an inch from his lips. Who would dare disturb him during lunch?
I’m not home
.

But there are two additional knocks. Ferdinand groans, steps into his slippers, and shuffles to the door. When he peers out the peephole to identify the lout, he sees no one. All that fuss for nothing . . . Ferdinand is still leaning against the door, looking through the peephole, when someone rings the bell again. What kind of joke is this? The old man violently yanks open the door. There, on the doormat, is a little girl, about ten. A puny thing, in overalls and a striped shirt. She doesn’t have time to open her mouth before Ferdinand stops her cold.

“Don’t bother exerting yourself, little one. I already have my calendar for the year. You’re not too clever coming by after January.”

He’s closing the door, when a shoe gets in the way. Stunned, Ferdinand watches the little girl come inside and sit down in the kitchen.

“What are you doing? Get out of my house, kid. On the double!”

“Sorry, but your head looks like an Easter egg! If
I
had to commit suicide, I wouldn’t throw myself under a bus. Too much risk of failure, don’t you think?”

Ferdinand’s jaw is about to drop, when the little girl continues. “I brought some licorice. I thought it could be dessert for us. I bet you don’t have anything in your fridge.”

She gets up, opens it, and her cursory inspection yields a “Bingo!” Ferdinand, speechless, watches as the girl strolls around his home. No one has set foot in his kitchen for years. No one!

“You’re gonna have to do some serious cleaning before Mrs. Suarez visits you on Wednesday. Otherwise, you’re finished!” concludes the little girl, sitting back down.

Enough is enough. Ferdinand finally manages to form some words. “Hold on. Who are
you
, first of all? And what are you doing in my kitchen? And nobody talks to me like that! No way—”

“I’ve come for lunch. I don’t like the cafeteria. My name’s Juliette. I’m going to call you Ferdinand, it’ll be easier that way.”

“I’m only going to repeat this once: you pack up your bag and get the hell out of here. Such insolence!”

“I thought you might need your medicine. Don’t you? You forgot it at the pharmacy.”

Juliette puts the plastic pharmacy bag on the table. “Good thing I’m here! So, what are we eating? I’m starving. Ham and macaroni? You have a fork anywhere? I’m not really into spoons. I leave that to my sister, Emma. She’s one and a half. I think you’ve already met her, and my father, too. We just moved in upstairs, into the hairdresser’s old apartment. Apparently she decided to leave because she was getting mean. I don’t really get it.”

Ferdinand remains silent. He slumps into his chair and points to the drawer in the china cabinet where the flatware is kept. In a slightly calmer voice, he tries again. “But you can’t just turn up like this. I’m expecting company. You have to leave.”

“Bah, if there’s enough for two or three, there’s enough for four! When are your guests arriving? Don’t mind me, but school starts back up at one thirty, so I mustn’t dawdle. Fine, I’ll split it into two and you can redo it however you need to. You sure you don’t want to start? I’m not very comfortable with you looking at me like that.” She takes a bite. “Did you know they’re saying you’re a serial killer? And that you might have killed your wife? Where is your wife, Ferdinand?” the little girl inquires with her mouth full.

The old man shuts his eyes. This is just a bad dream. He’s going to wake up, and everything will be like before. He reopens his eyes. It’s 12:50 p.m., half the meal has disappeared, his stomach is crying out for food, and the little chatterbox with a vocabulary far beyond her years is still there.

“At least take some licorice. You’re gonna pass out. I bought it with my lunch money.” Juliette wipes her mouth on her sleeve and adds, “OK, I’ve gotta run now. I have to go back to the pharmacy to look for my sister’s milk. You’re welcome for the medicine. See you tomorrow at 12:15! I’ll bring the bread and dessert.”

The tsunami departs as quickly as it had come. Words like
Easter egg
,
serial killer
, and
licorice
remain in its wake. Everything spins around Ferdinand. The only thing he is certain of is that the next day at 12:15, he will not open up! The little girl had taken advantage of the element of surprise, a moment of weakness due to his accident. But the next day he will not be taken in. “Not by a child!” he rants while pounding his fist into the table. In a state of advanced hypoglycemia, he seizes the box of licorice and gulps down a piece. The rest of the box follows.

Chapter Sixteen

Fit for the Loony Bin

Ferdinand is preoccupied. He’s forgotten something but no longer knows what. That worries him. Ferdinand is a hypochondriac. This mustn’t be Alzheimer’s . . . Anything but that! Losing his mind would be the worst thing he could imagine. He’s already going deaf . . . He has to keep all his wits. And his legs, too. Otherwise he won’t be able to climb the thirteen steps up to his apartment. And he’ll have to move. Probably to the retirement home. Oh, no, anything but the retirement home.

Furthermore, he’s waiting for the silly old goose and her pathetic inspection. He’s ready to welcome her as required. Maybe
ready
isn’t the right word. Mrs. Suarez is coming at 4:00 p.m. and
nothing
is ready. He has to tidy up, take out the trash, go shopping, clean, take a bath, even wash his hair. His lair is a chaotic dump. The old lady will faint just at the smell: between the trash cans, the dust, the odor of grease and mothballs—even he recognizes it doesn’t smell like roses. Then again, if she croaks, that would solve all his problems! Well, unless she kicks the bucket in his house. Then they’d really take him for a serial killer.

It’s 11:55. He’ll never be ready . . . Barring a miracle!

Chapter Seventeen

To Beat the Band

On Tuesday, at 12:15 on the dot, Juliette appears at the door.

“Ferdinand, it’s me, Juliette. Open up! I know you’re there. I saw you skulk back from the butcher hugging the walls. I’ve brought bread!”

Behind his door, Ferdinand nods.
She can stick her bread where the sun don’t shine. Besides, I still have some left over, which will do nicely.

The little girl rings again. “If you don’t let me in, I’ll keep ringing until 1:15. Being an only child for so long has taught me patience. Open up! I have something for you . . .”

Ferdinand won’t be taken in by this little manipulator. He’s intrigued, but it’s out of the question for her to invite herself over for lunch every day. He values his peace and quiet. Anyway, he’s no cook, much less a nanny. And today he doesn’t have time for this childishness; he has other things to worry about, namely Mrs. Suarez’s visit. However, as might be gathered from his stomach’s noises, he can’t help but salivate when thinking about the previous day’s melt-in-your-mouth sweets.

A glance at the empty licorice box, and he risks asking through the door, “What have you brought that’s so extraordinary I’m going to let you in? Licorice? Because if it’s that, I’m not the least bit interested. I still have plenty. And I don’t have time to eat today, let alone babysit. For free, no less!”

“Two things. Firstly, I bet there’s nothing left in yesterday’s box. So, I bought a dessert. I changed it up. I got candied chestnuts. Secondly, I brought something else. Isn’t Mrs. Suarez coming tomorrow?”

Why yes! The silly old goose isn’t coming until tomorrow. The inspection is on Wednesday, and today is only Tuesday.
Ferdinand sighs with relief. He has more time. How could he have been mistaken? And how does the little girl know?

“Listen, Little Miss Know-It-All. Yes, Mrs. Suarez is coming tomorrow, but that’s none of your beeswax! And for your information, the licorices weren’t even that good. You can go home now and say hello to your father for me!”

Juliette remains unruffled. “I thought that apart from the white vinegar you put in your dressings you must not have much to scrub your apartment with. So I got—if you’re interested, of course—a floor cleaner, a bathroom and kitchen cleaner, a hard water treatment, a window cleaner, two sponges, three rags, and a mop. We have quite the supply at home. Our housekeeper is afraid of running out.”

The door opens like magic.
“Open sesame”
wouldn’t have been more effective. Pretending to be unmoved, Ferdinand carries on. “I was waiting for you before starting lunch, little one. It’s ready. Hurry up, it’ll get cold. Tell me, when you say window cleaner, do you think it’s worth doing the windows for Mrs. Suarez? It rained all week—that cleans them, doesn’t it?”

Juliette sits in the same blue Formica chair from the previous day, across from Ferdinand.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she says, pointing to the window, “but Mrs. Suarez does her windows every Saturday before hosting her friends. When I came yesterday, I didn’t dare say anything, but your windows are so dirty you’d think it’s night outside. Mrs. Suarez might wince at that even if the rest of the apartment is spotless. You’ll also have to clean your fridge,” she says as she puts a plastic bag inside. “She has to make sure you’re feeding yourself, so I brought you some eggs and green beans and pickles. That’ll be much better than moldy cheese and rancid butter. Will you throw them out yourself, or should I do it now?” Without waiting for a reply, she seizes the two biological weapons and dumps them into the trash bag.

Ferdinand isn’t hungry anymore with all this talk of housework. The last time he cleaned was so long ago that it depresses him thinking about scrubbing, scouring, washing, dusting . . . Taking out the trash already takes him days. Days of dithering before deciding to do it, forced by the nauseating stench emanating from the bag and filling the kitchen. To find out when Ferdinand has thrown out a bag of garbage, you only have to observe his kitchen window—when it’s open, it’s because he’s finally decided to do it, just before the bugs arrive. In his entire life he’s only done housework maybe twice, and he doesn’t have any concrete memory of it. He’s nearing the point of telling himself it wouldn’t be so bad at a retirement home. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning, laundry, or meals. Lost in thought, he pushes his plate away and rummages in the plastic bag that Juliette put in the fridge, looking for chestnuts.

Juliette asks, “You want another spoon of macaroni or can I finish it off?”

“You don’t say ‘spoon.’ You say ‘spoonful.’ Haven’t your parents taught you anything?”

“My mother is dead. My father works a lot. He’s a landscape designer, specializing in sustainable development.”

“Well, good. So you go to school. What grade are you in?”

“Fifth.”

“Fifth? You’re quite the chatterbox for your age.”

“That’s what the teacher says, too. Now it’s my turn to ask questions. Why are you all alone? Is your wife dead?”

“What makes you think I have a wife?”

“You seem like somebody who thinks his life is over. You remind me of those old people who think that each passing day isn’t worth living, that they’d be better off dead because they’ll never know happiness again. I have a book about it. It’s called
Old Age, Depression, and Addiction
.”

“Should you be reading things like that? You’ve got a screw loose, my dear, I’m telling you.”

“It was to better understand my grandmother. She was very sad when her man-friend died. What are
you
reading? Thrillers, I bet. OK, so then, what happened to your wife?”

“I don’t like to talk about it. I get angry. I have regrets. I shouldn’t have done certain things. But now it’s too late. And now it’s time to leave, Juliette. We’ll discuss literature another time.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, Ferdinand wants them back. He doesn’t want her to take them as an invitation to drop by every day for lunch—he has other things to deal with.

“OK. I’m off. By the way, do you know how to use the things I brought you?”

Ferdinand feigns indignation. Juliette continues. “In addition to the toilets, don’t forget to wipe the floor. It’s sticky—my sneakers are sticking to the parquet and a strip just got torn up. It’s not like that in people’s houses, normally.”

He finally—thankfully—closes the door on Juliette, all while calculating how long he can postpone the drudgery of housework. He decides to take a nap while listening to his favorite radio program,
True Crime
. Might as well get the pleasures in before the chores. Though no matter how much he does and redoes the calculation, he arrives at the same result: he’s behind. And he’s going to have to make compromises. Certainly on the windows, and toilets, too. For the straightening up, he’ll find a closet in which to toss everything he hasn’t found a place for in two years. As for the rest, it’s bad. Up the creek, even.

Oh, well, since he’s screwed anyway, Ferdinand settles into his armchair, puts his feet up, pulls the blanket over him, and awaits the beginning of his program, eyelids already heavy. It can all wait until tomorrow, and it’ll be for the best: the silly old goose isn’t the queen of England! A little sleight of hand, and she’ll be completely hoodwinked.