Hunting and Gathering (8 page)

 
The school of hard knocks had taught her to beware of any certainty or projects for the future, but there was one thing Camille knew for sure: someday, a long long way down the road, when she'd be quite old, even older than now, with white hair, a zillion wrinkles and brown spots all over her hands, she'd have her own house. A real house with a copper pot for making jam, and sugar cookies in a metal box hidden deep inside a dresser. A long farmhouse table, thick and homey, and cretonne curtains. She smiled. She had no idea what cretonne was, or even if she'd like it, but she liked the way the words went together: cretonne curtains. She'd have a guest room and—who knows—maybe even some guests. A well-kept little garden, hens who'd provide her with tasty boiled eggs, cats to chase after the field mice and dogs to chase after the cats. A little plot of aromatic herbs, a fireplace, sagging armchairs and books all around. White tablecloths, napkin rings unearthed at flea markets, some sort of device so she could listen to the same operas her father used to listen to, and a coal stove where she could let a rich beef-and-carrot stew simmer all morning long.

A rich beef-and-carrot stew. What was she thinking.

 
A little house like the ones that kids draw, with a door and two windows on either side. Old-fashioned, discreet, silent, overrun with Virginia creeper and climbing roses. A house with those little fire bugs on the porch, red and black insects scurrying everywhere in pairs. A warm porch where the heat of the day would linger and she could sit in the evening to watch for the return of the heron.

And an old greenhouse she could use as a studio. Well, that one wasn't for sure. So far, her hands had always betrayed her and maybe it was better not to count on them.

Maybe she couldn't count on her hands to give her a sense of peace after all.

But then what could she count on? she wondered, suddenly anxious.

What?

 
She pulled herself together and called out to a sales assistant before she lost it completely. Little cottages deep in the woods, that was all well and good, but in the meantime she was freezing at the end of a damp corridor and this young man in his bright yellow polo-neck was bound to help her:

“You say the air is getting in?”

“Yes.”

“Is it a skylight?”

“No, a louvered window.”

“Those things still exist?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Here, this is what you need.”

He handed her a roll of sealing strip that could be nailed in place, especially designed for “window weatherproofing” and made of long-lasting, washable, waterproof PVC-backed foam. Hallelujah, thought Camille.

“Do you have a staple gun?”

“Nope.”

“A hammer and nails?”

“Not that either.”

 
She followed him all around the store like a little dog while he filled her basket.

 
“What about heaters?”

“What do you have at the moment?”

“An electric radiator which blows the fuse during the night, and which stinks as well.”

He took his role very seriously and gave her a proper lecture on the subject.

In a learned tone of voice he sang the praises of various heaters, gave a running commentary on others, and compared the merits of fan, radiator, infrared, ceramic, oil and convection, until Camille felt dizzy.

“What should I get?”

“Well, that's really up to you.”

“But that's the thing, I just can't tell.”

“Get an oil heater, they're not too expensive and they heat well. The Calor Oléo is not bad.”

“Is it on casters?”

“Well . . . ,” he said hesitantly, checking the technical specifications,

“ ‘mechanical thermostat, cord storage, adjustable power, integrated humidifier,' blah-blah-blah, ‘casters'! Yes, ma'am!”

“Great. That way I can put it near the bed.”

“Well . . . if you don't mind me saying so . . . you know, a guy does the job just as well. In bed, he gives off heat . . .”

“Yes, but there's no cord storage.”

“True, true.”

He was smiling.

 
On the way to the register to get the warranty, she spotted a fake fireplace with fake embers, fake logs, fake flames and fake andirons.

“Hey, what's that?”

“An electric fireplace, but I don't recommend it, it's a rip-off.”

“No, go on, show me!”

 
It was the Sherbone, an English model. Only the English could invent something so ugly and kitsch. Depending on the intensity of the heat (one thousand or two thousand watts), the flames rose higher. Camille was enraptured: “It's fantastic—it looks just like a real one!”

“Have you seen the price?”

“No.”

“Five hundred thirty-two euros. It's insane. A useless gadget. Don't be fooled.”

“What the hell, it doesn't mean anything to me in euros anyway.”

“It's not hard, just calculate roughly 3,500 francs for a gizmo that won't heat you half as well as the Calor for less than six hundred francs.”

“I want it.”

 
Here was a young man full of good sense, but all Camille could do was close her eyes to her own profligacy as she handed him her credit card. She'd come this far, she might as well pay for the delivery as well. When she told them she was on the eighth floor without an elevator, the woman looked at her askance and told her it would cost an extra ten euros.

“No problem,” replied Camille, squeezing her buttocks.

He was right. It was insane.

 
Yes, it was insane, but the place where she was living wasn't much better. One hundred and sixty square feet under the roof, which left her about sixty to stand up in, with a mattress right on the floor, a tiny sink in one corner which looked more like a urinal and doubled as both kitchen and bathroom sink. A hanging rail for a wardrobe and two stacked cardboard boxes as shelves. A hot plate on top of a camping table; a minifridge that served as workspace, dining room and coffee table. Two stools, a halogen lamp, a little mirror and another cardboard box for a kitchen cupboard. What else? The tartan suitcase where she'd stored some of the materials she still had left, three art portfolios and . . . No, that was it. So much for the tour of the property.

Down at the end of the hall to the right the toilets were Turkish-style, and the shower was above the toilet. All you had to do to take a shower was to place the specially provided moldy grating over the hole.

 
Camille didn't have any neighbors, or maybe just a ghost or two: from time to time she could hear murmuring behind door number 12. On her door there was a padlock and, tacked to the door frame in pretty violet lettering, the name of the former tenant:
Louise Leduc.

A little servant girl from the nineteenth century.

No, Camille is not at all sorry she bought her fireplace, even though it cost her nearly half her salary. Oh, what the hell—for all the use she made of her salary. On the bus she fell to daydreaming, wondering who she could invite over to inaugurate the heater.

 
A few days later, she found her victim: “Guess what, I've got a fireplace!”

“I beg your pardon? Ah! Oh! It's you. Hello there. Beastly weather, isn't it?”

“I'll say. Why did you just take your hat off?”

“Well, I—I, um, I'm greeting you, aren't I?”

“Oh, come on, put it back on. You'll catch your death. I was looking for you actually. I wanted to invite you to dinner by the fire one evening.”

“Me?” he choked.

“Yes, you.”

“Oh, no, but I, uh, why? Really, it is—”

“It's what?” she said, suddenly tired. They stood there shivering outside their favorite grocery store.

“That is—”

“Can't you make it?”

“No, it is just—it's just such an honor!”

“Oh,” she laughed, “such an honor. Not at all, you'll see, it will be a very simple occasion. You'll come, then?”

“Well, yes, yes, I should be delighted to share your table—”

“It's not really a table, you know.”

“Oh, really?”

“It'll be more like a picnic. A bite to eat, informal.”

“Excellent, I do like picnics. I can even bring my blanket and my basket, if you like.”

“Your basket of what?”

“My picnic basket.”

“One of those things with dishes?”

“Yes, there are plates, and cutlery and a tablecloth, four napkins, a corksc—”

“Oh yes, that's a very good idea. I don't have any of those things. So shall we say this evening?”

“Well, this evening, I don't know—”

“You what?”

“Well, I haven't warned my roommate.”

“I see. But then he can come too, that's no problem.”

“What, him? No, not him. To start with I don't know if . . . well, if he's a very suitable boy. I—Let's get this straight, I'm not talking about his behavior, even if, well, I do not behave like that, you see, no, it's more that—Oh, and besides, he's not here this evening. Or any other evening for that matter.”

“Let's see if I've got this right,” said Camille, taking a deep breath. “You can't come because you haven't warned your roommate who's never there anyway, is that right?”

He looked down and fiddled with the buttons on his coat.

“Hey, you're not, like, obliged, you know. You don't have to say yes.”

“It's just that—”

“Just what?”

“No, nothing. I shall come.”

“Tonight or tomorrow? Because after that I'm back at work until the end of the week.”

“Okay,” he murmured, “okay, tomorrow. You will be there, right?”

She shook her head. “What a song and dance! Of course I'll be there, since I'm the one inviting you!”

He gave her an awkward smile.

“See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow, mademoiselle.”

“Eight o'clock all right?”

“Eight o'clock sharp. I shall make a note of it.”

He bowed and turned on his heels.

“Hey!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have to take the service stairs. I'm on the eighth floor, door number sixteen, you'll see it—it's the third on the left.”

He gestured with his hat, to let her know he'd heard.

11

“COME in, come in! You look great!”

“Oh”—he blushed—“it's just a boater. It belonged to my great-uncle and I thought, for a picnic . . .”

 
Camille couldn't believe her eyes. The boater was only the cherry on the cake. He'd tucked a silver-knobbed walking stick under his arm; he was wearing a light suit with a red bow tie; and now he was handing her an enormous wicker trunk.

“This is your basket?”

“Yes . . . but wait, there's something else.”

He disappeared down the corridor and came back with a bunch of roses.

“That's nice of you.”

“These aren't real flowers, you know.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, I believe they are from Uruguay. I would have preferred real roses from a garden, but in the middle of winter it's, it's—”

“It's not possible.”

“Yes, that's it. Not possible.”

“Well, please come in, make yourself at home.”

 
He was so tall that he had to sit down at once. He struggled to find his words but for once, the problem was not his stuttering but rather his utter bewilderment.

“It's, it's . . .”

“It's small.”

“No, it's, how to put it—it is sweet. Yes, it's terribly sweet and . . . er, quaint, wouldn't you say?”

“Very quaint,” repeated Camille, laughing.

He was silent for a moment.

“You really live here?”

“Well, yes.”

“Nowhere else?”

“Nowhere else.”

“All year round?”

“All year round.”

“It is rather small, isn't it?”

“My name is Camille Fauque.”

“Of course, delighted to meet you. Philibert Marquet de La Durbellière,” he announced, standing up and banging his head on the ceiling.

“All that?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Don't you have a nickname?”

“Not that I know of.”

“So, see my fireplace?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There, my fireplace.”

“Ah, there it is. Very nice,” he added, sitting back down and stretching his legs out in front of the plastic flames, “very very nice. Like being in an English cottage, don't you think?”

Camille was happy. Her instinct had been right on. He might be a strange bird, but he was a perfect specimen.

 
“It's lovely, isn't it.”

“Magnificent! Does it draw well, at least?”

“Perfectly.”

“And what do you do for wood?”

“Oh, you know, what with the storms we're having . . . All you have to do is bend down, these days.”

“Alas, I am only too aware of that. You should see the undergrowth at my parents' place, it's a real disaster. But what do you use here? This is oak, no?”

“Exactly!”

They smiled at each other.

“How does a glass of wine sound?”

“Perfect.”

 
Camille was awestruck by the contents of the picnic trunk. Not a thing was missing, the plates were porcelain, the cutlery was silver-plated and the glasses were crystal. It even contained a saltshaker, a pepper mill, an oil flask, coffee and tea cups, embroidered linen napkins, a vegetable dish, a sauce boat, a fruit bowl, a box for toothpicks, a sugar bowl, fish knives and a special pot just for making hot chocolate. And the entire set was emblazoned with his family coat of arms.