Out of Sorts (9 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Each More Than the Last

There are days when everything smiles at you, when the planets align.

While Mrs. Suarez is very ill and very, very far away (that is, at the hospital following a heart attack), Ferdinand discovers among his mail an exquisite invitation to lunch from Mrs. Claudel. She requests that he join her “in all simplicity” to share lunch the next day, a Saturday, to recover together from the emotional past several weeks.

It’s been decades since Ferdinand was invited to lunch. The octogenarian is flattered because he knows how important weekend lunches are to his neighbor. He wonders if he’ll be good company. What does she talk about with her grandchildren? Literature, movies, travel?

Ferdinand panics. He’s already not the talkative type. Mrs. Claudel is the sort to talk enough for two, but she seems to have a high opinion of him, and would expect him to say something, though he has nothing to offer. He’s even lied to her, notably when he asked for help regarding the housekeeper. He’s afraid she’ll discover he’s not interested in much, or at least anything he’d like to share on a first date.

His life stopped when his wife left him. Louise would say it had stopped years earlier, when Marion left, that moment when couples realize they have nothing in common without their child. Plus Ferdinand is about as old as the hills, and Beatrice talks about things on the Internet that he doesn’t understand. In any case, what’s the point of trying? At his age, learning is meaningless. Unless he really does have ten years left to live . . .

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A Real Lady-Killer

The Sunday following lunch with Mrs. Claudel isn’t a day like any other: everything must be perfect. Ferdinand wants to show himself in the best light. He opens his closet and chooses a brown checked shirt, ironed and put away a long, long time ago. He unfolds it. A musty smell wafts up. Isn’t it a bit too large now? A little cologne will take care of the first problem. As for the second, the jacket will hide the turned-up sleeves. The pair of clean, pleat-front pants is all set. The jacket will be his everyday one, because Ferdinand doesn’t have any others. A bow tie will bring the whole look together. But where is that damned tie? He hasn’t used it since . . . his wedding! Fifty-eight years ago?
Oh my, not the time to think about that.

Underneath a mountain of clothes—each piece more faded and holey than the last—is a brown velvet bow tie, which has been resting in peace for more than half a century. Doubt suddenly strikes him. Will Ferdinand remember how to tie the knot? He stands in front of the mirror, hung by its chain on the window’s
espagnolette
lock. His eyes have darker circles beneath them than usual; a pink scar sweeps across his right jawline, a souvenir from his bus accident. He looks a fright, but it could be worse. His complexion isn’t as pale as he’s used to. He did well to snag a little of Beatrice’s tanner on the sly.

He ties the velvet bow around his shirt collar and contemplates the result: the monochromatic browns suit him to a T. All that’s missing is a little blue to bring out his eyes. His cloth handkerchief, which is usually lodged in the pocket of his gray sweatpants, takes up residence in the front pocket of his jacket. And voilà! Ferdinand is ready. And stressed out. What if nothing goes as planned?
Come on, come on, get a grip, Ferdinand! Now’s not the time to lose your nerve.

Summoning his courage, and holding the roses by their stems, the thorns determined to leave him with an indelible memory of this day, Ferdinand walks the five yards that separate his door from the one he’s so often spied upon. He rings the doorbell. Not a sound from inside. He rings a second time. Nothing. On the fourth ring, the door opens at last, revealing a terribly drowsy Beatrice in a pale pink wool bathrobe. Her eyes, without glasses, open wide upon seeing Ferdinand.

Beatrice has never seen Ferdinand like this, wearing something other than his perpetual shapeless brown pants. She’s never seen a proper shirt on Ferdinand, either, let alone what appears to be a bow tie—not very conventional these days, but it’s the idea that counts.

However, what touches the old lady is the awkwardness and fragility radiating from him. He has an almost stupid expression: smile plastered to his lips, eyes benevolent and soft. But what’s more unexpected is his hair. It’s back to being brown overnight. Out with the Bill Clinton–style white! In with the Silvio Berlusconi brown!

“What’s going on, Ferdinand? Why are you ringing my bell at seven thirty in the morning? Has there been a problem since our lunch yesterday? Did the sushi give you indigestion? Still annoyed you didn’t manage to eat with chopsticks? I’m teasing you. You look . . . strange,” continues Beatrice, noticing the orange spots on his face, as if he had spent time under a defective UV lamp.

“No, on the contrary, everything’s fine. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so good! Here. These are flowers. I didn’t quite know what to get. I know you buy a lot of chrysanthemums, but the florist suggested roses.”

“You shouldn’t have. You’re crazy! Is there a special reason, Ferdinand? Come sit in the living room.”

“I don’t really know how to tell you what I’ve come here to say, but, uh . . .”

“Then say nothing. I get it.”

“Really?”

Seated on the sofa, Ferdinand moves his hand toward Beatrice’s. Their wrinkled fingers brush against each other. Ferdinand looks at Beatrice tenderly, and she smiles at him. The scene is comical: an old lady in a bathrobe hosting a gentleman of a certain age dressed to the nines, timidly touching the tips of their fingers together.

Beatrice draws her hand back suddenly.

“No, Ferdinand. No! You’ve shown me that in life it’s sometimes preferable to say no. Today I owe you that honesty. This is not a good idea, and deep down, I’m sure you know it, too. I’ve lost too many friends, and then heaven sends me a fantastic person. I refuse to lose you, too. We’ve lived long enough, the both of us, to know that love stories end badly.”

“But we have so much in common . . .”

“And we’ll continue to. I don’t want that to change. Love, that’s not for me anymore. And let’s be reasonable—I’m much too old for you. You’ve told me yourself that your type are the pretty young things fifty years old!”

“I thought so, too, but—”

“Ferdinand, no. I’m touched, really I am, and also a bit embarrassed. But I love only one man now: God. I’m still delighted to see that your heart has learned to love again. When you’re ready, I could introduce you to lots of my lady friends from the retirement home, but only one of them is your type—she looks like Claire Chazal . . .”

“Oh, no, not those crazy old ladies. They’re too old. They’re all at least eighty! It’s you, Beatrice, who pleases me, and if you tell me no, that’s it for us. I’ll be more alone than ever.”

Beatrice gets up and heads for the door.

“Don’t speak such nonsense, my dear man. I’m sorry but I have to get ready now. My grandchildren are coming over for lunch and I need to be at the market when it opens to find some cod. We’ll see each other on Tuesday for our card game. I’m counting on you. Don’t let our friends come over for a three-person bridge party! And promise me one thing: don’t put on your Ferdinand act. Stop crossing things off as soon as they don’t turn out the way you want. You have to learn to swallow your pride sometimes. To know how to lose. All right, see you Tuesday. Our new player will be there. Good-bye, Ferdinand!”

Ferdinand finds himself on the threshold of Beatrice’s door, roses in hand and heart on his sleeve. That damned bridge party. He won’t go. It’s over with Beatrice!

Ferdinand goes back home, humiliated. He doesn’t understand how he misinterpreted her signals. They were so clear. She gave him come-hither eyes! He was sure of it. Or is she one of those women who constantly changes her mind?

What bothers him the most is that he’s going to have to move. He has his pride, and he can no longer cross paths with her every day on the landing. There are a lot of people to avoid! Mrs. Suarez, Beatrice . . . But the real question is, where will he go? From the other side of the door, you’d think you were listening to a telephone conversation. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. It would be more practical if Beatrice was the one to go, right? She has a beach house. And if I leave, Juliette will be sad. I’m like the grandfather she never had. And fine, I’d miss her, too. I really like that kid. She has a certain je ne sais quoi that reminds me of myself at her age. I’d pass on her family, but that little girl . . . She’ll fare well in life. I just hope she’ll be happier and luckier in love than I was.

“But what did I do to the Good Lord for life to dog me so? What did I do to deserve this? Could anything worse happen to me?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Goose Is Cooked

On Monday, once lunch with Juliette is over, Ferdinand settles into his armchair and pulls the blanket up over his legs. A lukewarm cup of coffee in hand, he listens to the radio. Every day, at 2:00 p.m., his favorite program,
True Crime
, starts. He wouldn’t miss an episode for anything in the world. However, he has trouble following the detective stories to the end, digestion often getting the better of him. He loves the sensation of weightlessness, of dizziness, that envelops him at naptime. He also loves the warmth of waking up, his slow state of half-consciousness. His postlunch naps constitute his best sleep, as his nights are often short.

Today, the program reexamines “The Case of the Red Sweater,” a classic. The enigmatic piece of clothing has just been discovered as Ferdinand, drowsy, snuggles farther into the soft cushions. The investigation moves forward, the shocking testimony piles up, his eyelids grow heavy. A suspect is identified, the police conduct a search, yelling, “Police, open up! I know you’re in there!” Ferdinand descends into a warm torpor. The police threaten to break down the door; the suspect doesn’t open up despite blows that make the walls shake. Ferdinand tries to resist, he knows he’s going to miss the end of the story and Ranucci’s death sentence—one of the last Frenchmen to be guillotined. Too bad, he remembers the case perfectly, except that the suspect was also named Ferdinand . . .

The case stalls. The police still can’t get into the suspect’s home. “Open up, Ferdinand, open up!” The amount of time spent in front of that door starts to bore him. The policeman’s summons is unconvincing. “Police! Open up. Ferdinand, open up. It’s Eric. I know you’re in there. It’s time for your radio program.”

Christian! Ranucci’s name was Christian. In the very depths of his unconsciousness, that information seems important, but Ferdinand no longer knows why. All of a sudden, his cup—which had remained in his hand—tips over. Ferdinand then realizes that a raving lunatic is in the midst of banging away at the door.
His
door. The old man stands still and straight as an arrow, a foot and a half from the intruder trying to gain entrance to his home.

“Police! Open up, Ferdinand. It’s Eric. I know you’re in there. I heard you walking around.”

Dumbfounded, the old man closes his eyes to pull himself together, then protests, “How do you like that for manners? The police just start breaking down your door ’cause you don’t open it fast enough. I was having a little snooze—that’s still legal in France, isn’t it? The police are so damn lovely! What are you doing at my place, Super Cop? I’m an honest citizen. You can leave now, Eric. I’m not letting you in. No way I’m going to your cursed home for old fools. I made the effort Marion asked me to, no matter what report the old goose might’ve given to get rid of me. You can’t detain someone by force!”

In a menacing voice, Eric retorts, “Well, that’s what we’re going to find out. I have a warrant for your arrest. If you don’t let me in, I’ll enter by force.”

Ferdinand isn’t the least bit impressed.

“Is that so? They’re sending the police now, and with an arrest warrant to boot. All that just to fill the retirement homes! Nice profession. The police have fallen far.” Ferdinand opens the door. “You can make your inspection. Everything’s spic-and-span, like Marion wanted. I don’t know what Mrs. Suarez made up this time. I scoured every room from top to bottom. Fine, I just spilled some coffee, but the fridge is full, I took a bath yesterday, I helped Mrs. Claudel carry up her groceries. And I’m doing very well, better than I have in a long time.”

“I’m happy for you, but there’s been a misunderstanding. I’ve come to take you down to the station, not to look over the premises.”

“To the station?”

“You’ve been accused of the murder of Mrs. Suarez. Two witnesses have come forward and they’re positive you explicitly and publicly threatened Mrs. Suarez with death less than twelve hours before she died.”

Eric pulls Ferdinand out of the apartment and takes out the handcuffs.

“Please come quietly.” Noting the attention of bystanders gathering on the stairs, he calls out, “Everybody return to your homes. Let the police do their work, thank you.”

Hands cuffed behind his back and urged to move forward, Ferdinand tries to understand. “Is this a bad joke? Am I on hidden camera? What murder? What witnesses? Mrs. Suarez isn’t dead—she had a heart attack and is under observation at the hospital!”

“That would suit you, but no. Mrs. Suarez didn’t survive. Now we have a death, which to us seems intentional, and the evidence is working against you. The medical examiner will issue his report soon, which we expect will confirm our suspicions. And
you’ll
spend the rest of your days rotting in prison. The retirement home wasn’t so bad as all that, eh?” finishes Eric, with a vindictive little smile.