Hunting and Gathering (38 page)

“How old will you be?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Where were you before?”

“Sorry?”

“Before you were here, where were you?”

“Up there, of course!”

“And before that?”

“I don't have time to tell you just now . . . Some night when you're around, I'll tell you the story.”

“You always say that, and then—”

“Yes, yes, I feel better now. I'll tell you the story of the edifying life of Camille Fauque.”

“What does that mean, edifying?”

“Good question.”

“Does it mean ‘like an edifice'?”

“No, it means ‘exemplary,' but it's ironic.”

“Aha!”

“Like an edifice that's falling down, more like it.”

“Like the Tower of Pisa?”

“Exactly!”

“Shit, it's rough living with an intellectual!”

“What d'you mean! On the contrary, it's very pleasant!”

“No, it's rough. I'm always afraid of making spelling mistakes. What did you eat for lunch?”

“A sandwich, with Philou. But I saw you put something for me in the oven, I'll get it later. Thanks, by the way. It's really nice.”

“Don't mention it. Okay, I'm out of here.”

“And you, everything okay?”

“I'm tired.”

“Well, you should sleep!”

“I have been sleeping actually, but I don't know. I'm just not up to my usual speed. Right. Back to the grind.”

62

“WELL, I never. We don't see you for fifteen years and now suddenly you're here nearly every day!”

“Hello, Odette.”

Loud kisses.

“Is she here?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, we'll get settled while we're waiting for her. I'd like to introduce my friends: Camille . . .”

“Hello.”

“. . . and Philibert.”

“How do you do. Charmed, I'm—”

“Enough, enough! Save your niceties for later.”

“Oh, take it easy.”

“I can't take it easy, I'm hungry. Oh, there they are. Hello, Grandma. Hello, Yvonne—will you stay and have a drink with us?”

“No, thanks all the same, but I've got people waiting at home. What time shall I come back for her?”

“We'll take her back.”

“Not too late, all right? Because last time I got yelled at. She has to be back before five thirty—”

“All right, all right, it's okay, Yvonne. Say hello to everyone at your place.”

Franck let out a sigh.

“Well, Grandma, let me introduce Philibert.”

“My humble respects.”

He leaned over to kiss her hand.

“Come on, let's sit down. No, Odette! No menu! Let the chef decide.”

“A little drink to start with?”

“Champagne!” said Philibert, then turning to his neighbor, “Madame, do you like champagne?”

“Yes, yes,” said Paulette, intimidated by his grand manners.

“Here you go, here are some pork belly
rillons
while you're waiting.”

 
Everyone was a bit tense. Fortunately the good wines from the Loire, the
brochet au beurre blanc
and the goat cheeses quickly loosened their tongues. Philibert attended to his neighbor's every need, and Camille laughed as she listened to Franck's silly stories: “I was . . . God . . . how old was I, Grandma?”

“Goodness, that was such a long time ago. Thirteen, fourteen?”

“It was the first year of my apprenticeship. I remember at the time I was afraid of René. My heart was in my boots. But anyway . . . I learned a ton of things from him. He could drive me up the wall, too. I forget what it was he was showing me . . . spatulas, I think, and he said, ‘This one we call the big pussy and the other one is the little pussy. You remember that, okay, when the teacher asks you. Because forget what it says in the books, this is the real culinary terminology. The real jargon. That's how you can tell a good apprentice. Okay? You got that?'

“ ‘Yes, boss.'

“ ‘And what is this one called?'

“ ‘The big pussy, boss.'

“ ‘And the other one?'

“ ‘Well, the little . . .'

“ ‘The little what, Lestafier?'

“ ‘The little pussy, boss.'

“ ‘Very good, son, very good. You'll go far.' God, I was clueless! The way they used to mess with me! But it wasn't all a laugh, was it, Odette? There were some kicks in the butt as well, weren't there?”

Odette, who had sat down with them, was nodding her head. “But he's a lot calmer now, you know.”

“I'm sure! Kids nowadays won't put up with that sort of thing.”

“Don't even talk about kids nowadays . . . No two ways about it, you can't say a thing to them anymore. They sulk. That's all they know how to do: sulk. I'm sick to death of it. They wear me out, I tell you. They wear me out even more than you all did, setting fire to the garbage and all.”

“Oh, that's right! I'd completely forgotten about that.”

“Well, I remember, believe me!”

 
The lights were dimmed. Camille blew out her candles and the entire room applauded.

Philibert disappeared for a moment and came back with a big package: “It's from both of us.”

“Yeah, but it was his idea,” said Franck. “If you don't like it, I'm not responsible. I wanted to rent you a stripper, but he wouldn't go for it . . .”

“Oh, thank you! This is wonderful!”

 
It was an artist's easel, especially for watercolors, known as a “field easel.”

 
Philibert read the instructions with a quaver in his throat: “ ‘Can be folded and inclined, it's double-sided, stable, has a large working area and two storage drawers. This easel has been designed for use when seated. It consists of four folding beechwood feet'—that's good—‘which have been assembled in pairs with a crossbar to ensure stability when the easel is open. When closed, they ensure the drawers remain blocked. The work surface can be inclined due to a double hinge. It is possible to store a pad of paper, maximum format of twenty-seven by twenty inches.' (A few sheets are included for your use.) ‘An integrated handle allows the entire folded easel to be carried.' (And that's not all, Camille . . . ) ‘Underneath the handle there is a storage rack for a small water bottle.' ”

“Only water?” said Franck anxiously.

“It's not for drinking, you dunce,” said Paulette mockingly. “It's for mixing colors!”

“Oh, yes, of course, you're right, I'm a dunce.”

“Do you—do you like it?” said Philibert anxiously.

“It's fabulous!”

“Would—would you have p-preferred a n-naked man?”

 
“Do I have time to try it right away?”

“Go ahead, go ahead, we're waiting for René in any case.”

 
Camille hunted for the tiny box of watercolors in her bag, unwound the screws and settled by the bay window.

 
She drew the Loire. Slow, wide, calm, imperturbable. The lazy sandbanks, the pilings, the mildewed boats. Over there, a cormorant. Pale rushes and the blue of the sky. A winter blue—metallic, brilliant, bold, showing off its colors between two big weary clouds.

 
Odette was hypnotized. “But how does she do it? She has only eight colors in her little box!”

“I'm cheating, but hush . . . There. This is for you.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you! René, come over here and take a look!”

“Dinner's on me!”

“Oh, no, we can't—”

“Yes, yes! I insist.”

 
When Camille sat back down with them, Paulette slipped her a package under the table: it was a knitted hat to match the scarf. The same holes and the same colors. Classy.

 
Some hunters arrived, and Franck followed them into the kitchen with their host. Hard liquor was poured as they discussed their game bags. Camille fiddled delightedly with her present, and Paulette talked about her wartime experiences to Philibert, who had stretched out his long legs and was listening intently.

Then the time came, dusk fell and Paulette sat down in the death seat in front.

No one said anything.

The landscape became increasingly drab.

They drove around the town and went through the drearily predictable commercial zones: supermarkets, hotels for twenty-nine euros a night with cable, warehouses and storage depots. Finally Franck stopped the car.

Right at the far end of the commercial zone.

 
Philibert got up to open the door and Camille pulled off her hat.

Paulette caressed her cheek.

“Let's go, let's go,” grumbled Franck, “let's make it quick. I don't feel like getting told off by the mother superior, okay?”

 
When he came back, there was already a figure in the window, pulling aside the net curtains.

He got in, made a face and let out a long sigh before putting the car in gear.

 
They had not yet left the parking lot when Camille tapped him on the shoulder: “Stop.”

“Now what did you forget?”

“Stop, I said.”

63

FRANCK turned around.

“Now what?”

 
“How much does it cost?”

“What?”

“This place here. This hospice.”

“Why do you ask?”

“How much?”

“Roughly ten thousand.”

“Who pays?”

“My granddad's pension, seven thousand one hundred and twelve francs, and the social services something or other.”

“I'll ask for two thousand francs from you, as pocket money, and the rest you keep, and you stop working on Sundays so that I can have some time off.”

“Hey, what are you talking about, now?”

“Philou?”

“Oh, no, this was your idea, my dear,” he simpered.

“Yes, but it's your house, my friend.”

“Hey! What's going on here? What's this about?”

Philibert turned on the overhead light: “If you don't mind . . .”

“And if
she
doesn't mind,” insisted Camille.

“. . . we're taking her with us.” Philibert smiled.

“With you? Where?” said Franck.

“Our place. Home.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“N-now?”

“Tell me, Camille, do I look like such a nitwit when I stutter?”

“Not at all,” she reassured him, “you
never
have such an idiotic expression on
your
face.”

“And who is going to look after her?”

“I am. But I just told you my conditions.”

“And your job?”

“No more job! Finito!”

“But, uh—”

“What?”

“Her medication and all that stuff—”

“Well, I'll give it to her! Not so hard to count tablets, is it?”

“And if she falls down?”

“She won't fall down, because I'll be there.”

“But, uh, where will she sleep?”

“I'm giving her my room. Everything has been taken care of.”

Franck leaned his forehead on the steering wheel.

 
“And you, Philou, what do you think about all this?”

“In the beginning I did not like the idea, but now I do. I think your life will be a lot simpler if we take her away from here.”

“But that is one fucking heavy responsibility—an old woman.”

“You think so? How much does your little granny weigh? One hundred pounds? Not even . . .”

“We can't just take her away like that.”

“No?”

“Well, no.”

“If we have to pay damages, we'll pay.”

“Can I go for a walk?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Camille, can you roll me a cigarette?”

“Here.”

He slammed the door.

 
“It's a fucking stupid idea,” he concluded when he climbed back in the car.

“Well, we never said it wasn't, did we, Philou?”

“Never. We do know what it involves, after all.”

“Are you frightened?”

“No.”

“We've seen worse, haven't we?”

“Hell, yes.”

“You think she'll like it in Paris?”

“We're not taking her to Paris, we're taking her to our place.”

“We'll show her the Eiffel Tower.”

“No. We'll show her plenty of things much nicer than the Eiffel Tower.”

Franck sighed. “Okay, then, what do we do now?”

“I'll take care of it,” said Camille.

When they came back to park under her window, she was still there.

 
Camille went off at a run. From the car, Franck and Philibert watched a performance of Chinese shadow puppets: a little figure turning around, a larger figure by her side, gestures, nodding heads, shoulder movements, and Franck said over and over: “It's fucking stupid, it's fucking stupid, I'm telling you, it really is, a humongously fucking stupid idea.”

Philibert was smiling.

The silhouettes changed places.

 
“Philou?”

“Mmm?”

“What is this girl?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This girl you found us. What is she exactly—an extraterrestrial?”

Philibert smiled. “A fairy.”