Hunting and Gathering (37 page)

“Philou? Are you there?”

She found him sitting up in his bed. Completely beside himself. A blanket on his shoulders and his hand stuck in a book.

“Are you okay?”

He didn't answer.

“Are you sick?”

“I've been worried st-stiff, I was expecting you mu-much earlier.”

Camille sighed. Shit. When it's not one, it's the other.

 
She put her elbows on the mantelpiece, turned her back to him and dropped her forehead into her palms: “Philibert, please stop. Stop stuttering. Don't do this to me. Don't spoil everything. That is the first time I've been anywhere in years. Pick yourself up, get rid of that moth-eaten poncho, put your book down and ask as casually as you can, ‘Well, Camille? Did you have a good time on your little trip?' ”

“W-well, Ca-Camille? Did you have a good time on your little trip?”

“Great time, thank you! What about you? Which battle today?”

“Pavie.”

“Ah. Great.”

“No, a disaster.”

“Who's this one between?”

“The Valois against the Habsburgs. François I against Charles V.”

“Of course! I know Charles V! He's the one who came after Maximilian I in the German empire!”

“Goodness me, how do you know that?”

“Aha! Caught you by surprise, didn't I?”

 
He took off his glasses to rub his eyelids.

“So you had a good time on your trip.”

“Extremely colorful.”

“Will you show me your sketchbook?”

“If you get up. Is there any soup left?”

“I think so.”

“I'll meet you in the kitchen.”

“And Franck?”

“He took off . . .”

 
“Did you know he was an orphan? I mean, that his mother abandoned him?”

“That is what I had heard.”

 
Camille was too tired to fall asleep. She rolled her fireplace into the living room and smoked cigarettes listening to Schubert.

She started crying and suddenly the nasty taste of stones was there, deep in her throat.

Papa . . .

Camille, stop it. Go to bed. Your soppy sentimental dribbling, the cold and fatigue, now the other guy over there getting on your nerves . . . Stop right now. It's a complete and utter waste of time.

Oh, shit!

What?

I forgot to call Paulette.

Well, then call her.

But it's really late now.

All the more reason! Hurry!

 
“It's me, it's Camille. Did I wake you up?”

“No, no.”

“I forgot to call.”

Silence.

“Camille?”

“Yes?”

“You take good care of yourself, sweetheart, now, you hear?”

Silence.

“Camille?”

“Okay,” she faltered.

 
The next day she stayed in bed until it was time to go and do her cleaning. When she got up she saw the plate that Franck had prepared for her on the table with a little note:
Yesterday's filet mignon with prunes and fresh tagliatelle. Microwave three minutes.

And not a single spelling mistake.

She ate standing up and immediately felt better.

 
She earned her living in silence.

Wrung out the floor mops, emptied the ashtrays and tied the garbage bags.

Came home on foot.

Clapped her hands together to warm them up.

Raised her head.

Thought.

And the more she thought, the faster she walked.

Almost ran.

It was two o'clock in the morning when she shook Philibert awake: “I have to talk to you.”

60

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“B-but what time is it?”

“Who cares, listen to me!”

“Pass me my glasses, please.”

“You don't need your glasses, it's dark in here.”

“Camille, please . . .

 
“Ah, thank you. I can hear better with my specs on. Speak, soldier, to what do we owe the honor of this ambush?”

Camille took a deep breath and came out with it. She spoke for a very long time.

 
“End of report, Colonel, sir!”

Philibert was speechless.

“Don't you have anything to say?”

“Well, if it was a surprise attack you intended, you've certainly succeeded.”

“You don't want to?”

“Wait, let me think.”

“Coffee?”

“Good idea. Go make yourself a coffee while I gather my wits about me.”

“What about you?”

He closed his eyes and motioned to her to strike camp.

 
“Well?”

“I . . . I shall be frank: I do not think it is a good idea.”

“Oh?” said Camille, biting her lip.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it involves too much responsibility.”

“That's no excuse. I don't want that kind of answer. That's stupid. People die every day because of people who won't assume their responsibilities . . . people die, Philibert. You didn't ask yourself that sort of question the day you came up to rescue me, when I hadn't eaten for three days.”

“Yes, actually, I did ask myself that question.”

“And? Are you sorry?”

“No. But that was different. This is not at all the same sort of situation.”

“Yes, it is! It's exactly the same.”

Silence.

“You know full well that this is not my place. We're living on borrowed time. I could get a registered letter tomorrow morning ordering me to leave the premises the following week.”

Camille made a dismissive sound. “You know how all these inheritance stories play out—there's a good chance you'll be here for another ten years.”

“For ten years or one month. Who can tell . . . When there's a lot of money at stake, even the worst sticklers will eventually find common ground, you know.”

“Philou.”

“Don't look at me like that. You're asking too much.”

“No, I'm not asking you for a thing. I'm just asking you to trust me.”

“Camille . . .”

“I . . . I have never spoken to you about it but I . . . I had a really shitty life up until the time I met you. Of course, compared to Franck's childhood, it doesn't seem like such a big deal, but all the same, I get the impression it was pretty similar. It was more insidious perhaps. Like a slow drip. And then I, I don't know how I managed. I probably handled it badly, but I . . .”

“But you what?”

“I lost all the people I loved in the process and—”

“And?”

“And when I told you the other day that I had no one but you in the world, it was not . . . Oh, fuck it all! See, yesterday was my birthday. I turned twenty-seven and the only person who took any notice was, I'm afraid, my mother. And you know what she gave me? A diet book. Funny, isn't it. How witty can you get, I wonder. I'm really sorry to lay all this on you, but you have to help me one more time, Philibert. Just this once, and after that I'll never ask anything of you again, I promise.”

“It was your birthday yesterday?” he said, his voice full of regret. “Why didn't you tell us?”

“Who cares about my birthday! I only told you to get your tear ducts going, but it really isn't important.”

“But it is! I would have liked to give you a present!”

“Well, then, go ahead: give it to me now.”

“And if I accept, will you let me go back to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then, it's a yes.”

 
Of course he didn't get back to sleep.

61

AT seven o'clock the next morning, Camille was ready for action. She had been to the bakery and brought back a baguette for her favorite officer.

 
When he came into the kitchen, he found her crouched down under the sink.

“Oh . . . major maneuvers already?” he moaned.

“I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but I didn't dare.”

“That's good. I'm the only one who knows the right quantity of chocolate to put in.

 
“Oh, Camille. Sit down. You are making me dizzy.”

 
“If I sit down, I'll have to tell you something serious.”

“Oh, dear. Then stay on your feet.”

 
She sat down opposite him, put her hands on the table and looked him straight in the eye: “I'm going to start work again.”

“Sorry?”

“I mailed in my letter of resignation just now, when I went downstairs.”

Silence.

“Philibert?”

“Yes.”

“Speak. Say something.”

He lowered his bowl and licked his lips: “What can I say? You're on your own in this, my love.”

“I'd like to set up in the room at the back.”

“But, Camille, it's a mess back there!”

“With a billion dead flies, I know. But it's the room with the most light, since it's on the corner with one window to the east and the other to the south.”

“And what about all the stuff?”

“I'll take care of it.”

He sighed: “What woman wants . . .”

“You'll see. You'll be proud of me.”

“I should hope so. And what about me?”

“What?”

“Do I have the right to ask you for something too?”

“Well, sure.”

He began to go pink: “I-imagine that you w-want to g-give a p-present to a young girl that you d-don't know, what d-do you d-do?”

Camille looked at him from under her eyebrows: “Beg your pardon?”

“D-don't p-play dumb, you heard m-me.”

“Well, I don't know, depends on the occasion.”

“No p-p-particular occasion.”

“For when?”

“Saturday.”

“Give her some Guerlain.”

“I beg your p-pardon?”

“Perfume.”

“I . . . I would never know what to choo-choose.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Please.”

“No problem. We'll go during your lunch break.”

“Th-thanks.”

 
“Ca-Camille?”

“Yes?”

“She—she's just a friend, all right?”

She stood up with a laugh. “Naturally.” Then, looking at the kittens on the Post Office calendar, she added: “Well, I never! It's Valentine's Day on Saturday. Did you know that?”

He dipped his head back into his bowl.

 
“Okay, I have to leave now, I have work to do. I'll come by for you at the museum at noon.”

 
He had not yet made his way back to the surface and was still slurping his way through his Nesquik potion when Camille left the kitchen with her Ajax and her artillery of sponges.

 
When Franck came back for his nap in the early afternoon, he found the apartment deserted and upside down:

“What the fuck is all this mess?”

He emerged from his room at about five o'clock. Camille was struggling with the base of a lamp.

“What the hell is going on?”

“I'm moving.”

“Where are you going?” He turned pale.

“There,” she said, pointing to the mountain of broken furniture and the carpet of dead flies. Then, spreading her arms, “May I present my new studio . . .”

“Nooo.”

“Yes!”

“And your job?”

“We'll see.”

“And Philou?”

“Oh . . . Philou . . .”

“What?”

“He's making scents.”

“Huh?”

“No, nothing.”

“You want a hand?”

“Definitely!”

With a man it was a lot easier. In one hour Franck had moved all the stuff into the next room. A room whose windows had been condemned because of “faulty jambs.”

She took advantage of a quiet moment—he was drinking a cold beer and surveying the extent of the work he had accomplished—to fire off her last salvo: “Next Monday, at lunchtime, I'd like to celebrate my birthday with you and Philibert.”

“Uh, wouldn't you rather do it in the evening?”

“Why?”

“Well, you know, Monday I'm on granny duty.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, I didn't make myself clear: next Monday, at lunchtime, I would like to celebrate my birthday with you and Philibert and Paulette.”

“There? At the hospice?”

“Of course not! You'll have to find us some sort of nice little country inn.”

“And how will we get there?”

“I thought we could rent a car.”

He was quiet and thoughtful until his last swallow of beer.

“Fine,” he said, crumpling the beer can. “The thing is that she'll be disappointed from now on when I show up on my own.”

“I know . . . there's a good chance she will.”

“Don't feel obliged to do it for her sake, you know.”

“No, no, it's for me.”

“Good. I'll figure something out for the car. I have a friend who'd be only too happy to swap me his car for my bike . . . These flies are really gross.”

“I was waiting for you to wake up before I run the vacuum cleaner.”

“And are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Did you see your Ralph Lauren?”

“No.”

“It is sublime—the little dog is very happy.”