Hunting and Gathering (2 page)

“Your car won't run away. We'll bring you back later.”

“All right,” she sighed, resigned. “I'll get my shopping done later.”

 
It was so uncomfortable in there. They'd pointed to a tiny stool next to the stretcher and she wedged herself in there the best she could. She clung to her handbag and nearly fell off the stool every time they went round a curve.

There was a young man in there with them. He was complaining because he couldn't find a vein in the patient's arm, and Yvonne didn't like the sound of it: “Stop your yelling,” she muttered. “Stop it . . . What are you trying to do, anyway?”

“Put her on a drip.”

“A what?”

The way the young man looked at her, she understood she'd better just be quiet and keep her little monologue to herself: “Just look at that, just look at the way he's twisting her arm, would you just look at that . . . It's awful. Better not look. Blessed Virgin, pray for . . . Hey! You're hurting her!”

 
The paramedic was on his feet, adjusting a little screw on the tube. Yvonne counted the bubbles and went on praying as best she could. It was hard to concentrate, what with the siren and all.

 
She held her friend's hand in her lap, smoothing it as if it were the hem of a skirt, mechanically. She was too sad and frightened to show any more tenderness than that . . .

 
Yvonne Carminot sighed, examining the wrinkles, the calluses, the dark spots here and there; her friend's nails were still in fairly good shape, but hard, dirty and split. She held her own hand next to Paulette's and compared them. Of course she was younger, and a little bit plumper, but above all she hadn't suffered as much as Paulette had in her time on earth. She hadn't worked as hard, she'd had a greater share of caresses. And when was the last time she'd had to toil in the garden? Her husband still grew their potatoes, but for everything else it was better to shop at Intermarket. The vegetables were already clean, and you didn't have to pull the lettuce apart to look for slugs. And then she had so many people close to her: there was dear Gilbert and Nathalie and the little ones to fuss over. Whereas Paulette—what did she have left in life? Nothing. Not a single good thing. Her husband was dead, her daughter was a slut, and her grandson never came to see her. Nothing but worries, nothing but memories, a rosary of little sorrows . . .

 
Yvonne grew thoughtful: so was that it, was that all there was to life? Such a weightless, unrewarding thing? And yet Paulette had been a beautiful woman, and a kind one, too. She used to be so radiant. But now? Where had it all gone?

 
Just then the old woman's lips began to move. Yvonne instantly abandoned her pointless philosophizing: “Paulette, it's Yvonne. Everything's fine, Paulette. I came to take you shopping and—”

“Am I dead? Is that it, am I dead?” she muttered.

“Of course not, Paulette! Of course not. The idea! You're not dead!”

“Oh,” she replied, closing her eyes. “Oh—”

There was something terrible about that “oh.” A disappointed little syllable, disheartened, so full of resignation.

Oh, so I'm not dead. I see. Too bad. Oh, forgive me.

 
Yvonne wasn't about to go along with that.

“Come on, my dear Paulette, you've got to live! You've got to live, for goodness' sake!”

 
The old woman shook her head. Almost imperceptibly, very gently. A tiny, stubborn, sad regret. A tiny revolt.

Perhaps the first.

 
Then silence. Yvonne didn't know what to say. She blew her nose, then took her friend's hand again, more delicately.

 
“They're going to put me in a home, aren't they?”

Yvonne started: “Of course they're not going to put you in a home! Not at all! Why would you say that? They're going to take care of you and that's all. In a few days you'll be back home again.”

“No. I know perfectly well I won't.”

 
“Well, I never! That's a switch! And why should I, young man?”

The paramedic was gesturing to Yvonne to speak more quietly.

“And my cat?”

“I'll look after your cat. Don't worry.”

“And what about Franck?”

“We'll call Franck, we'll call him right away. I'll take care of it.”

“I can't find his number. I've lost it.”

“I'll find it.”

“But you won't disturb him, will you? He works hard, you know.”

“Yes, Paulette, I know. I'll leave him a message. You know what it's like nowadays. Kids all have cell phones. You can't disturb them anymore.”

“You tell him that I, that I—”

Paulette began to sob.

 
The vehicle started up the drive to the hospital, and Paulette Lestafier murmured through her tears: “My garden. My house. Take me back to my house, please.”

 
Yvonne and the young stretcher-bearer were already on their feet.

4

“DATE of your last period?”

 
She was already behind the screen, struggling into her jeans. She sighed. She knew he would ask her that question, she just knew it. And yet she'd had her strategy all planned; she'd pulled her hair back in a really heavy silver barrette and stood on the fucking scale, clenching her fists to try to weigh herself down as much as possible. She'd even wiggled a bit to try to move the needle. But it hadn't worked, of course, and now she'd have to listen to a little sermon.

She knew it from the way he'd frowned a few minutes earlier when he pressed on her abdomen. Her ribs and hip bones were too prominent, her breasts were downright ridiculous and her thighs were hollowed out, and that was the last thing he wanted to see.

She fastened her belt buckle slowly. She had nothing to fear this time. This was a medical visit for work, not school. He'd give her some sweet talk for form's sake and then she'd be out of there.

 
“Well?”

 
She was sitting across from him, and she smiled.

 
That was her deadly weapon, the secret rabbit she could pull out of the hat. Smile at people when they're trying to put you on the spot: no one's ever found a better way to change the subject. Unfortunately, the jerk was familiar with the trick. He put his elbows on the desk, folded his hands, and then delivered his own disarming smile. She had no alternative but to respond. She might have expected as much: he was cute, and she couldn't help closing her eyes when he placed his hands on her stomach.

“Well? Don't lie, you hear? Otherwise I'd rather you didn't answer.”

“A long time.”

“That's obvious”—he grimaced—“that's obvious. One hundred and five pounds and five foot nine, at this rate you'll be able to fit between the glue and the poster before long.”

“What poster?” she asked naively.

“On a billboard.”

“Oh, I see! Excuse me, I wasn't familiar with that expression.”

 
He was about to say something but changed his mind. He reached over for his prescription pad, sighed, then once again looked her straight in the eyes.

“Are you eating?”

“Of course I'm eating!”

A sudden wave of weariness came over her. She was sick of all this talk about her weight, downright fed up. For nearly twenty-seven years everyone had been bugging her about it. Couldn't they just let up? She was here, for God's sake! She was alive, after all. Doing as much as anyone else. She was just as cheerful, sad, brave, vulnerable and exasperating as any other young woman. There was a person inside her! There was somebody there!

 
For pity's sake, couldn't they talk to her about something else for a change?

“You do agree, one hundred and five pounds isn't a lot.”

“Yes,” she conceded, defeated, “yes, I agree. It's been a long time since I weighed that little. I . . .”

“You?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“I . . . I've had better times in my life, I think.”

He didn't react.

“Will you make out the certificate for me?”

“Yes, yes, you'll get your certificate,” he replied, shrugging. “Uh, what did you say the name of the company was?”

“Which company?”

“This one, where we are, I mean yours—”

“All-Kleen.”

“Sorry?”

“All-Kleen.”

“Capital A l-l-c-l-e-a-n.”

She corrected him: “No, it's k-l-e-e-n. I know, it doesn't make sense. They should have called it All-clean c-l-e-a-n, but I think they wanted something different . . . It's more professional, more, uh, tuhrendy . . .”

He didn't get it.

“And what do they do exactly?”

“Who?”

“This company.”

She leaned back, stretching her arms out in front of her, and, with dead seriousness, in a flight attendant's voice, began to recite the mission statement of her new job:

“ ‘Ladies and gentlemen, All-Kleen will satisfy your every need where cleaning is concerned. For individuals or businesses, in your home or office, with clients as diverse as property managers, professional offices, agencies, hospitals, housing developments, apartment buildings and workshops, All-Kleen will be there on the spot to offer you immediate satisfaction. All-Kleen tidies, cleans, sweeps, vacuums, waxes, scrubs, disinfects, shines, polishes, deodorizes and leaves you with a healthy environment. We adapt our schedule to fit your needs, and we are flexible and discreet. Our work is meticulous; our rates are competitive. All-Kleen—professionals at your service!' ”

 
She'd delivered this remarkable spiel in one breath. Her classy little doctor sat there speechless, then:

“Is that some kind of joke?”

“Course not. Anyway, you're about to meet the dream team, they're waiting just outside the door.”

“And what's your role in all that?”

“I just told you.”

“That's what you do, really?”

“Yup, I tidy, clean, sweep, vacuum, wax—the whole nine yards.”

“You're a cleaning la—”

“Uh-uh. I'm a cleaning operative, if you don't mind.”

He couldn't tell if she was serious.

“Why are you doing it?”

She opened her eyes wide.

“Well, what I mean is, why are you doing
this job
? And not something else?”

“Why shouldn't I?”

“Well, wouldn't you rather be doing something a bit more—”

“Rewarding?”

“Yes.”

“No, I wouldn't.”

He sat like that a little while longer, his pencil in the air, his mouth open; then he looked at his watch to read the date, and questioned her without raising his head:

“Last name?”

“Fauque.”

“First name?”

“Camille.”

“Date of birth?”

“February 11, 1977.”

 
“There you go, Ms. Fauque, you're fit for work.”

“Great. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing—that is, All-Kleen pays.”

“Aaah, All-Kleen!” she exclaimed, getting up with a theatrical gesture. “Here I come, one hundred percent fit to clean your toilet!”

 
He walked her to the door.

He wasn't smiling anymore, and had put his conscientious big-shot doctor mask back on.

 
As he was opening the door for her, he held out his other hand:

“A few pounds, won't you try? For my sake?”

She shook her head. That sort of thing was a waste of time with her. Blackmail and sympathy—she'd had her fair share.

“I'll see what I can do,” she said. “I'll try.”

Samia went in after her.

 
Camille went down the steps of the van, feeling her jacket pockets for a cigarette. Fat Mamadou and Carine were sitting on a bench, making comments about the people walking by, and complaining because they wanted to go home.

“Well?” laughed Mamadou. “What the hell were you doin' in there? I got my train to catch! He put a spell on you or what?”

Camille sat on the ground and smiled. Not the same kind of smile, a transparent smile, this time. She couldn't mess with Mamadou, she was much too smart for her.

 
“Is he nice?” asked Carine, spitting out a bit of chewed fingernail.

“Fabulous.”

“I knew it!” said Mamadou triumphantly. “I was sure! Didn't I tell you and Samia she was stark naked in there?”

“He'll make you stand on the scale.”

“Who, me?” cried Mamadou. “Me? He thinks I'm gonna get on his scale?”

Mamadou weighed at least two hundred pounds. She pounded her thighs. “Not on your life! If I get on that scale, I'll flatten it and him along with it! What else did he do?”

“Maybe he'll give you a shot,” suggested Carine.

“A shot for what?”

“No, no shots,” Camille reassured her. “He'll just listen to your heart and lungs.”

“Oh, that's okay.”

“And he'll touch your tummy.”

“What?!” She frowned. “Oh no, just let him try! If he touches my tummy, I'll eat him alive. Little white doctors, they taste good.”

She exaggerated her accent and rubbed the colorful cloth of her dress.

“Yeah, they make
real
good eatin'. So the old folks used to say. Fry 'em up with manioc and chicken combs. Mmmm-mm!”

“And what about that Bredart, what's he gonna do to her?”