Hunting and Gathering (36 page)

“Ah, my fine young lady, you must taste this. Any fair maid who declines shall remain a virgin.”

“Okay, then, just a drop.”

Camille ensured her deflowering under the wily gaze of her neighbor, an old geezer who had only a tooth and a half, and then she took advantage of the general confusion to go up to bed.

She collapsed onto her bed in a heap and, lulled by the joyful clamor which wafted through the floorboards, nodded off.

 
She was sound asleep when he came to curl up next to her. She grunted.

“Don't worry. I'm too drunk, I won't do anything,” he murmured.

 
As she had her back to him, he placed his nose on her neck and slid his arm underneath her to be as close to her as possible. Short strands of her hair tickled his nostrils.

“Camille?”

Was she asleep? Was she pretending? No answer either way.

“I like being with you.”

A little smile.

Was she dreaming? Was she asleep? Who knows . . .

 
At noon, when they finally awoke, Camille and Franck were on separate mattresses. Neither of them mentioned it.

Hangovers, confusion, fatigue; they put back the mattress, folded the sheets, took turns in the bathroom and got dressed in silence.

 
The stairway seemed unusually treacherous, and Jeannine handed each of them a big mug of black coffee without saying a word. Two other women were already seated at the end of the table, starting in on the sausage. Camille turned her chair to face the fireplace and drank her coffee, her mind empty. Clearly she'd had a drink too many, and she closed her eyes between each sip of coffee. So this was the price you paid to lose your virginity . . .

 
The kitchen smells made her nauseous. She got up, poured another mug of coffee, reached for her tobacco in her coat pocket and went to sit in the yard on the pig bench.

Franck came to join her after a few minutes.

“May I?”

She moved over.

“Headache?”

She nodded.

“You know, I . . . I have to go see my grandmother now. So we have three options: either I leave you here and come back for you in the afternoon, or I take you with me and you wait somewhere, long enough for me to chat with her a bit, or I drop you at the station on the way and you go back to Paris on your own.”

She didn't answer right away. Put down her mug, rolled a cigarette, lit it and exhaled a long, satisfying puff. “What's your preference?”

“I don't know,” he lied.

“I don't really feel like staying here without you.”

“Okay, I'll drop you at the station, then. State you're in, the ride will be really unbearable. You'll feel even colder if you're tired.”

“Fine,” she answered.

Shit.

 
Jeannine insisted. Yes, yes, a piece from the fillet, I'll wrap it up for you. She walked with them down the lane, took Franck in her arms and whispered a few words that Camille could not hear.

 
And when he put his foot down at the first stop sign before the main road, she lifted their visors:

“I'm coming with you.”

“You sure?”

She nodded under the helmet and was abruptly projected backwards. Oops. Life was accelerating all of a sudden. Right . . . Never mind.

She squeezed up against him and gritted her teeth.

58

“YOU want to wait for me in a café?”

“No, no, I'll find a spot downstairs.”

 
They'd walked only three paces along the hallway when a woman in a sky blue smock rushed up. She looked hard at Franck and shook her head sadly: “She's starting up again.”

He sighed.

“Is she in her room?”

“Yes, but she's bundled everything up again and she refuses to let anyone touch her. She's been lying there with her coat on her lap since yesterday evening.”

“Has she eaten?”

“No.”

“Thanks.”

He turned to Camille. “Can I leave my stuff with you?”

“What's going on?”

“What's going on is that Paulette is starting to seriously piss me off with this game of hers.”

He was white as a sheet.

“I don't even know if it's a good idea to see her. I'm lost, I don't know what to do.”

“Why is she refusing to eat?”

“Because she thinks I'll take her home. She does this to me every time now. You know, I just feel like taking off, right now.”

“You want me to come with you?”

“That won't change a thing.”

“No, it might not, but it'll distract her.”

“You think?”

“Sure, why not. Come on.”

 
Franck went in first and announced in a high-pitched voice:

“Grandma, it's me. I brought you a surpr—”

He didn't have the courage to finish.

The old woman was sitting on her bed, staring at the door. She was wearing her coat, her shoes, her scarf and even her little black pillbox. A poorly closed suitcase was at her feet.

 
“It breaks my heart . . .” Another impeccably apposite expression, thought Camille, who felt her own heart crumbling suddenly.

Paulette was so sweet with her clear eyes and her pointed face. A little mouse. A little Celestine in desperate straits.

 
Franck acted as if there were nothing wrong.

“Well, then! You're dressed too warmly again!” he joked, quickly removing her coat. “But it's not as if they don't heat the place. What's the temperature in here? It's got to be at least eighty. But I told them downstairs, I told them they had the heat up way too high, but they never listen. We've just come from slaying the pig over at Jeannine's, and I can tell you that even in the room where they smoke the sausages it's not as hot as in here. How you doing, anyway? Hey, look at that, what a nice bedspread you've got. Does this mean you finally got your catalog from La Redoute? Took them long enough. And what about the stockings, did I get you the right ones? You know you don't write very clearly. And didn't I look like a dork when I asked the salesgirl for some Monsieur Michel toilet water. She gave me this side-long look as if I had rocks in my head so I showed her your paper. She had to go get her glasses and all. You can't imagine the shambles until finally she figured it out, you'd written
Mont-Saint
Michel. How're we supposed to know, huh? Here it is, anyway. Lucky it didn't break.”

He put her slippers on for her and chattered away, getting drunk on his own words so he wouldn't have to look at her.

“Are you young Camille?” Paulette asked, with a lovely smile.

“Uh, yes.”

“Come over here so I can see you.”

Camille sat down next to her.

She took her hands: “But you're freezing.”

“It's the motorbike.”

“Franck?”

“Yes?”

“Well, make us some tea, for heaven's sake! We have to get this little child warm!”

He exhaled. Thank you, God. The worst was over. He put her things in the wardrobe and looked around for the kettle.

“Take some ladyfingers from my night table.” Then, turning back to her: “So it's you. You're Camille. Oh, I'm so happy to see you.”

“So am I. Thank you for the scarf.”

“Oh, that reminds me, just a second.”

She got up and came back with a whole bagful of old knitting catalogs.

“My friend Yvonne brought me these catalogs for you. Tell me what you'd like. But no moss stitch, all right? I don't know how to do that one.”

March, 1984. Oh-kaay . . .

Camille slowly turned the dog-eared pages.

“That's a nice one, no?”

Paulette pointed to an incredibly ugly cardigan with cables and golden buttons.

“Uh . . . I'd prefer a big sweater actually.”

“A big sweater?”

“Yes.”

“Big in what way?”

“Oh, you know, like a turtleneck?”

“Well, keep turning, let's look at the men's designs.”

“That one.”

“Franck, my rabbit: my glasses?”

How happy he was to hear her speak like that. That's good, Grandma, keep on like that. Give me orders, make me look ridiculous in front of her, treat me like a baby, but just don't cry. I beg you. Please, no more crying.

 
“Well. All right. I'll leave you. I'm going to take a leak.”

“You do that, leave us.”

He smiled.

What a relief; what a happy relief.

 
He closed the door behind him and out in the corridor he leapt in the air. He would have kissed the first bedridden invalid who came along. Shit, what joy. “Leave us,” she had said. Yes, girls, I'll leave you! Fuck, that's all I ask! That is all I ask!

Thank you, Camille, thank you. Even if you never come again, we'll have three months of reprieve with your sweater. The yarn, the color, trying it on. Conversations guaranteed for a good while yet. Okay, which way were the toilets already?

 
Paulette settled into her armchair and Camille sat with her back to the radiator.

“Are you all right on the floor?”

“Yes.”

“Franck always sits like that too.”

“Did you have a cookie?”

“Four!”

“That's good.”

 
They looked at each other and said a host of silent things. They talked about Franck, to be sure, about distance, youth, certain landscapes, death, solitude, the passing of time, the happiness of being together and the relentless struggle of life—without uttering a single word.

Camille really wanted to draw her. Paulette's face evoked little blades of grass from the roadside, wild violets, forget-me-nots, buttercups. A soft face, open, gentle, luminous, fine like Japanese paper. The lines of sorrow disappeared behind the vapor rising from the tea, and gave way to a thousand little kindnesses at the corners of her eyes.

Camille thought she was lovely.

 
Paulette was thinking exactly the same thing. She was so graceful, this young thing, so calm and elegant in her vagabond's trappings. She wished it were spring so she could show her the garden, the quince branches in bloom and the scent of the seringa. No, this girl was not like other girls.

An angel from heaven, who had to wear huge bricklayer's boots to stay down here among us.

 
“Did she go out?” asked Franck, looking worried.

“No, no, I'm here,” answered Camille, lifting an arm from behind the bed.

 
Paulette smiled. No need for glasses to see certain things. A great feeling of peace settled on her chest. She had to resign herself. She was going to resign herself. She had to accept it, finally. For his sake. For herself. For everyone.

No more seasons. All right . . . That's the way it was. Everyone got their turn. She wouldn't bother him anymore. She wouldn't think about her garden every morning. She'd try not to think about anything. His turn to live, now.

His turn to live.

 
Franck told her about the day at the farm with a fresh new cheer-fulness, and Camille showed her the sketches.

“What's this?”

“A pork bladder.”

“And that?”

“Revolutionary slipper-boot-clogs!”

“Who's this little boy?”

“I, uh, can't remember his name now.”

“And this?”

“That is Spider-Man. Not to be confused with Batman.”

“How wonderful to be so gifted.”

“Oh, this is nothing.”

“I wasn't talking about your drawings, young lady, I was referring to the way you see things. Ah! Here's dinner. You'd better think about heading home, you youngsters. It's already dark out.”

 
Wait . . . She's telling us to leave? Franck was floored. And so flustered that he had to hold on to the curtain to get to his feet, and he pulled the curtain rod off its fitting.

“Shit!”

“Leave it, never mind, and stop talking like a hoodlum, won't you?”

“I'll stop.”

He looked down, with a smile. Thatta girl, Paulette. Thatta girl. Don't mind me. Shout. Fuss. Moan. Come back this way.

 
“Camille?”

“Yes?”

“May I ask you a favor?”

“Of course!”

“Call me when you get home, just to reassure me. He never calls me and I . . . Or if you prefer, just let it ring once and hang up, that way I'll understand and I'll be able to fall asleep.”

“I promise.”

 
They were still in the corridor when Camille realized she'd forgotten her gloves. She hurried back to the room and saw that Paulette was already at the window to watch them leave.

“I—my gloves.”

The old lady with the pink hair did not have the cruelty to turn around. She merely raised a hand and nodded her head.

 
“It's horrible,” she said while he was kneeling by his antitheft lock.

“No, don't say that, she was really great today! Thanks to you, actually. Thank you.”

“No, it was horrible.”

 
They waved to the tiny figure on the fourth floor and got onto the backed-up highway. Franck felt lighter. But Camille, on the other hand, could not find her thoughts.

He stopped by their entrance but did not turn off the engine.

“You're not coming up?”

“No,” said the helmet.

“Okay then, ciao.”

59

IT must have been a little before nine, and the apartment was steeped in darkness.