Out of Sorts (7 page)

Chapter Twenty

Pardon?

It’s extraordinary how people can take a smile for an invitation to chat. As Ferdinand returns home from the Franprix supermarket, laden with pickles, ham, and macaroni for lunch, he suddenly finds himself nose to nose with Mrs. Claudel exiting her apartment. He faintly produces the beginnings of an almost friendly smile, then turns his back to insert his keys in the lock when his neighbor says in her strident voice, “Hello there, Mr. Brun. How did you like Katia? Was she able to put the affairs of your late canine in order?”

Ferdinand swallows wrong and coughs a little before managing to utter a few words. “Uh . . . yes. You could say she was very effective. Anyway, I think I should—”

“I’m sorry to be impolite but I’ve got to run, Mr. Brun. My fitness class starts in fifteen minutes and I’m none too fast. However, I’d be delighted to hear more about Katia’s prowess. Come over for coffee today. But no niceties. Don’t bring flowers or chocolates. I’ll say toodle-oo, now, Mr. Brun. See you at two o’clock.”

Ferdinand doesn’t have time to decline as his neighbor disappears down the stairs, without waiting for a response. As though it’s obvious Ferdinand is available, as though it’s obvious he drinks coffee, as though it’s obvious he feels like skipping his favorite radio program.

The old man has no choice: he’s going to have to bite the bullet for half an hour in exchange for the assistance Mrs. Claudel provided. It’s the least he can do.

The least he can do? Really, she didn’t make any unreasonable effort—she made a phone call! Ferdinand isn’t going to start compromising. Since his accident, the neighbor ladies have rushed—wittingly and unwittingly—into his life. First Juliette, and now Mrs. Claudel. He must face facts: he doesn’t scare anyone anymore and especially not those two. Just look at how they destabilize him and come back for more like a karate match. If Juliette has already racked up the equivalent of eight points (against Ferdinand’s zero), Mrs. Claudel achieved
ippon
in thirty seconds! No. Ferdinand must pull himself together. Regain the advantage. No one changes at his age. Let alone for the better.

In any case, Ferdinand has been intrigued since setting foot inside the old lady’s apartment. All the more so since—as far as he can see through the peephole—Beatrice Claudel seems to have very interesting days. Much more interesting than his own. The invitation is a chance to verify whether his hypotheses about his neighbor’s activities are correct.

Chapter Twenty-One

Great Caesar’s Ghost

The clock in Ferdinand’s kitchen says 2:05. He’s standing on his neighbor’s doormat, wondering if there’s still time to retreat, when the door swings wide open.

“Come on in, Mr. Brun,” Beatrice says. “Let me take your coat. Never fear, it’s not cold in here. But do my eyes deceive me? Chocolates?”

“Uh, no, they’re licorice. I know you asked me not to bring anything, but I think that’s what you do when you’re invited over. I’m not really sure anymore . . .”

“Oh, but you didn’t have to! You’ve positively splurged! And I love licorice. This makes me very happy. Thank you so much, Mr. Brun. Please sit down. Do you take sugar in your coffee?” Beatrice pushes a steaming cup toward him.

“Um, yes, please. Your apartment is really quite lovely. Very different from mine.”

“We bought it off-plan in 1957. I must still have the architect’s drawing somewhere.”

Beatrice takes something that isn’t far off from a papyrus scroll out of a drawer.

“The paper’s a bit yellow and the lines practically erased, but you can see the place’s potential, can’t you? What’s funny is we initially chose your apartment, because you have the sun longer. But there was a mix-up during the allocation and in the end your in-laws got it. We didn’t want to make a fuss, so we kept this one and had some work done before moving in. I haven’t left it since, except for vacation or to go to my second home in Dinard. I enjoy it very much. These walls watched my four children grow up—it really was a happy home. I have wonderful memories here. Today, the apartment is much too large for me all alone. But, well, I’m rarely around. I’m very busy between my activities with the parish, the gym, my book club, going out to the theater or the movies, and the bridge club. Do you play bridge, Mr. Brun?”

“Uh, it’s been so long I wouldn’t be able to remember the rules.”

“What marvelous news! A bridge player! I host a party every two weeks. I’ll expect you at the next one. It’s Tuesday night. And don’t worry about the rules: we always go over them before every game, since we’re all getting on in years. Would you like another cup? I always have a second.”

“Um, yes, your coffee is very good.”

“Since I get a lot of visitors—my grandchildren mostly—it’s in my best interest to have decent coffee. On the other hand, you’ll forgive me for not offering you a cigar, as I’d prefer the smell of tobacco not permeate the living room. My great-grandson is coming shortly.”

“No problem, I don’t smoke cigars anyhow. What made you think otherwise?”

“I thought I’d smelled cigar smoke in the stairwell behind you.”

“Oh, yes . . . yes! To tell you the truth, I hate the smell of cigars, and pipe smoke even more, but I sometimes light one, to make me look interesting, I suppose.”

“Why not! I’ll let you have a second helping of licorice, Mr. Brun. I’m putting three aside for my great-grandson. Look, these are pictures of my grandchildren in the digital frame. They’re not in order, but they give you an idea. They grow up so fast. There, that’s me at the seaside, with them. Now I have to put on a wet suit to go swimming. As I get older, I find the sea colder than before.”

“So many people! Who’s the young woman next to you? She looks like the journalist Claire Chazal.”

“One of my daughters-in-law. Why?”

“No reason. She’s a beautiful woman, Claire Chazal—blond, elegant. Definitely my type. And who’s the lady who looks like you, in that picture in the black frame on the sideboard?”

“My sister. She’s just left us. I’m still quite grieved by her loss. We used to see each other every day. It’s even harder than my poor husband’s death, because at the time, with four children, I didn’t have any choice but to go on.
The show must go on
, as the youngsters say,” adds Beatrice in a thick British accent.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stir up painful memories.”

“My sister was an old lady, like me, and she was lucky enough not to be sick. You prepare yourself for that fateful day, but you can’t help being sad when it arrives. That’s life. And she had been less physically fit for a few years. She went in her sleep, at the age of eighty-nine. I like to think she went dreaming. ‘A good death,’ according to her grandchildren. She had thirty-four of them, you know.”

“Thirty-four grandchildren! But how many children did she have?”

“Eight. I can’t even tell you how many people that makes at family reunions. Next to her, I have a tiny little family, and it’s already complicated to see everybody. Of course, you can’t keep some of them from leaving to go live abroad—it would be selfish and unfair. Me, I’ve already lived my life, and fully. But it’s always a blow to my morale to learn when one is moving away. It might be the last time I see them. For them, two years isn’t so long. For me, every week is a gift. Fortunately we have Skype, Facebook, iPhones, and tablets, so I get news from them regularly. But it’s not the same.”

“What did you say?
Skip
? Like the laundry detergent? Never heard of it.”

“No,
Skype
, with a
Y
. Like the sky. It’s for telephoning everywhere in the world with the computer. It’s free. And it’s very practical because there’s video. You can see each other, and very well at that!”

“Sounds a bit like
Total Recall
with Arnold Schwarzenegger, when he made a call with a video intercom.”

“Huh, I don’t know that film. And I’m not too fond of the former California governor . . .”

“He’s better known for his movies and his past work as a bodybuilder than for his political activities, anyway. But it’s true that it made quite a stir in France when he outlawed the sale of foie gras in California.”

“I’m enjoying your company, Mr. Brun. You’re so refreshing. I won’t deny it’s more difficult for me to have a nice time with people my age. I won’t insult you by saying ‘
our
age,’ Mr. Brun,” jokes the nonagenarian. “But barely a week goes by anymore without an invitation to a funeral or learning one of my friends has Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, or cancer. Just this morning I learned my sister-in-law isn’t doing well. They found something. I’m keeping faith, but it’s hard when you see your loved ones, even very young, taken before you. The secret to not sinking into despair is to learn to live with it and accept that death is part of life. ‘Growing old means seeing others die.’ I don’t know anymore who said that, but I find it very apt. Don’t you think, Mr. Brun?”

Beatrice continues without giving Ferdinand a chance to respond.

“And it’s essential, of course, to find stimulating occupations so as not to end up with a stunted brain. Or infantilized by our own children. I’m outraged to see how some people—not mine, fortunately—behave: they order children’s portions on our behalf in restaurants, or tell us ‘never mind’ as soon as we mishear something at the table. It’s true, isn’t it? All right, I’ll stop bothering you. I invited you over to talk about Katia and then I bore you stiff with family stories. So how did the big spring cleaning go?”

“Very well. I wanted to thank you, Mrs. Claudel, for your help. Without you, and Katia, of course, I wouldn’t have managed. I think I’ll ask her for help with the housework on a more regular basis, if that doesn’t bother you . . .”

“Not in the slightest, Mr. Brun. I know she’s already extremely busy, even on the weekends, but she’ll find a slot for you, I’m sure of it. Now, what about you? I don’t mean to be nosy, but you’ve been living in the apartment across the way for two years, and we’ve spoken to each other three times at most. All I know about you is that it was your in-laws’ apartment. Do you have children?”

“I have a daughter and a grandson. That’s all. And they both live in Singapore, so we don’t see each other often, unlike you and your family.” Then, under the influence of panic, Ferdinand hears himself say, “So, what happened to your sister-in-law? Maybe I can do something?” Avoiding talking about his wife causes him to say anything.

“My sister-in-law is the last person really close to me I have left. Close to my age, I mean. Even though she’s ninety years old and has all her wits, she’s entering a retirement home because she’s going blind. That reminds me of my mother. She also lost her sight suddenly. A problem with the optic nerve. She could only see like a horse with blinders on. The doctors had said it could wait until after vacation. And then at the beginning of August, curtains! She couldn’t see a thing anymore except blue. Who knows why? With my sister, they made her move to an apartment close to us, so we could take care of her. But a few months after her move, she left us. Grief took her away: she could no longer remember her children’s faces, or those of her grandchildren. She would tell me I was so beautiful, but she couldn’t see my features anymore, my smiles . . . It pains me to think back on it. Oh, I don’t know what you’re doing to me, I’m all nostalgic. Usually I’m much more cheerful. I’m ashamed to have invited you over to tell you my sorrows.”

“It’s nothing. We all have our moments of weakness. You just heard about your sister-in-law, it’s still fresh.”

“Oh my goodness! We’ve been chitchatting away, and it’s already four o’clock! I have to pick up my great-grandson at school. His parents are on a business trip, so he’s sleeping here tonight. I always tell them they work too much. It wasn’t like that back in our day, was it?”

“I don’t know about you, but the factory was intense. What was your profession, Mrs. Claudel?”

“I have a law degree. I’m very proud to say I was the first woman admitted to the bar. Unfortunately, life made it so I could never practice. My husband’s death, the children to raise, you know . . . I’ll bore you another time with my old lady tales. I’m counting on you for our bridge party in two weeks. But we’ll run into each other again before then. I’m so happy you made the first move . . . Ferdinand. I feel we have a lot in common. It was a shame to live so close and never exchange more than five words, don’t you think? I’ll see you out. Thanks again for the licorice. My great-grandson will have a feast. I’ll tell him it comes from the nice neighbor.”

As the door shuts behind him, Ferdinand can’t help but smile and repeat Mrs. Claudel’s last words. “Nice neighbor.” It’s the first time those words have been used to describe him! If only Marion could hear that. And if only Mrs. Claudel could be the one reporting to Marion rather than that silly old goose Mrs. Suarez. The best would be for the concierge to disappear from view, permanently, a bit like that horrible story about sudden blindness that had bowled him over.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Waiting for Godot

Ferdinand took offense at first, but now he’s uneasy. Juliette hasn’t come yet today, a Thursday. What if something has happened to her? It’s bound to be serious, otherwise she would have let him know.

But Juliette hasn’t shown up, not for lunch, nor after school. Ferdinand would like her to come, that’s all. So, after
Questions for a Champion
, he takes a deep breath and goes to ring at her door. A man around forty years old opens it—his face is familiar.

“Yes, what is it? Can I help you? Hang on . . . who are you?”

Damn . . . Juliette’s father! Ferdinand had nearly forgotten he’d been cold with him. Juliette has little in common with her unbearable little sister and her father, who thinks himself more courteous than everyone else, greeting his neighbors from day one.
If he could have given me a few more days, I might have welcomed him differently, but right then, with the noise from the move, the forced exile to the church, the crying baby, and fatigue on top of it all, it was too much!

This is what Ferdinand tries to explain to Antoine, who is horrified by the incoherence of the old man’s remarks. When Ferdinand eventually lets slip that he wants to know how Juliette is doing, because she didn’t come over today, and that he’d bought her caramels, Antoine can’t grasp the friendly, innocent nature of the situation.

“Get away from my home this minute, you dirty pervert. I forbid you to come near my daughter. I was told to be wary of you, but I would never have thought Juliette gullible enough to fall into your grubby paws.”

Just then, the little girl appears at the end of the hallway, one arm in a sling, the other gesturing. Ferdinand can’t make out if she’s saying “what are you doing here?” or “I’ll come by later” or even “sorry about my father . . .” But the door slams in Ferdinand’s face, so he doesn’t hear Antoine pick up the phone to call the police station.