Out of Sorts (3 page)

Chapter Six

Pushing Up Daisies

On a lovely winter’s day, after a week of talking to himself and rejecting reality, Ferdinand rouses from his stupor. It’s a lovely day to go for a walk. A lovely day to make a fresh start.

Ferdinand finishes cleaning his nails. Dark green corduroys have taken the place of his old worn-out pants. The creases are sharp. He puts on clean underwear and socks without holes. The old man is dressed to the nines: hair combed, face freshly scrubbed, shoes shined. He’s ready. And precisely on time. He writes a few words in his notebook and puts on his overcoat.
The walk will be pleasant
, he tells himself. In the courtyard, the birds chirp at him in greeting. Blackbirds, most likely.

Outside, he looks at the world around him. The Earth didn’t stop turning in Daisy’s absence. Everyone goes about his or her business: the baker makes change, the florist prepares a bouquet, the bus driver waves to his colleague. Everything seems lighthearted.

The clock strikes ten, and Ferdinand looks at his watch: right on time.

On Rue Garibaldi, a woman sits at the bus stop with a newborn nestled in her arms. An old lady begins to offer advice: “If I may, since, you know, I’m a grandmother . . .” The young mother simply nods, smiling. All of a sudden, she stands up and screams. The old lady also stands up suddenly. The bus . . . it was pulling up when . . . a man, an older gentleman . . .

The baby cries. A crowd gathers. The bus has stopped. The bystanders, like bamboo shoots, lean this way and that for a better view. The young mother is on the phone: help is on the way. She bounces her baby to calm him. Crows settle in the trees along the street. People whisper and speculate.

EMTs arrive at the scene. They move the passersby aside and bring in the stretcher. Everything goes very quickly. A body is lifted from the ground and taken away. There’s blood—on the victim’s overcoat, on the pavement—in front of the bus—and a little farther up on the sidewalk. The ambulance leaves the scene. The passengers from the bus are asked to exit the vehicle, and the bystanders are asked to be on their way.

At the corner of Rue Bonaparte and Rue Garibaldi, there’s nothing left to see. Just a police officer who has taken up position near the large dark spot, keeping away the crows that are waiting for the lane to be free. Next to the brown stain are minute shards of glass from a watch. Mr. Brun’s watch.

Chapter Seven

A Bitter Pill to Swallow

There’s a very thick white fog. Noises, too, in the distance. Noises that repeat, endlessly.

Where am I? Am I already there? I can’t see anything. I feel like I’m rolled in cotton. Like the inside of a cloud. I hear voices, like a choir, and those pings, those electronic sounds. Beeps. Beeps like the cash register at the mini-mart. But where am I?

Ferdinand’s mouth feels full of paste, with an aftertaste of iron. His tongue passes over his teeth, one by one. A hole. The lower left canine has vanished. A bottom tooth is missing!

I’ve always had all my teeth! All except the wisdom teeth. Could this be a toll of some kind? I don’t understand. I can’t see anything. I don’t recognize my mouth, or my body. I want to holler but no sound comes out. Yoo-hoo! Is anybody there? Help me!

As if out of nowhere, a blurry white shape appears, without distinct features. The long immaculate dress comes near and leans over. Then he hears a kind voice. “Mr. Brun. Everything’s OK. You’re with us now. You’ve certainly taken your time. You gave us quite the fright.”

Ferdinand would like to nod, but a sharp pain shoots through his jaw.

“I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Dr. Labrousse. You have a guardian angel, Mr. Brun. If you weren’t so tall and the bus’s rearview mirror so low, that would have been the end of you. The bus would have hit you head on and crushed you. We get people less fortunate than you in here every day.”

Rearview mirror. Bus. Fortunate?!

“Apart from the dislocated jaw, which we’ve put back in place, you’re fine. Not the slightest fracture. Just a few scrapes and a missing tooth. A real miracle!” Ferdinand touches the lower half of his face. Dr. Labrousse continues, “Yes, we’ve put a bandage on to keep your jaw in place. You’ll have to leave it there for another week.”

Ferdinand begins to understand. “But if I’m not up there, where am I?”

“At Saintes Grâces Hospital. Fifth floor.”

“But if I’m fine, why can’t I see anything?”

“Don’t worry, we put compresses around your eyes to keep the swelling down. They’re obstructing your vision for the moment, but have no fear, we’re going to take them off. I requested further analysis and the results are rare: diabetes, cholesterol, liver, and heart workup—it’s all perfect! You have an iron constitution, Mr. Brun, and your heart is good as new. It’s like it’s never been used. I hope for the same when I’m your age. Don’t change anything and you’ll see a few decades more.”

Still alive? Still around for more than ten years? Despite the doctor’s pronouncements, Ferdinand is determined to finish what he started, as soon as he gets out of the hospital.

Chapter Eight

Not Out of the Woods Yet

No weapons, no hatred, no violence.

“Not a bad epitaph,” Ferdinand muses aloud. “The problem is it doesn’t apply to me,” he concludes, immersed in the biography of Albert Spaggiari, a nonviolent thief.

“I’d need something more like,
Alone at last! No regrets, no tears, no psychobitches
. I don’t know if they’ll let me put
psychobitches
. . . Then again, if it’s in the dictionary, they’d have no reason not to.” Ferdinand grabs his dictionary, which is covered in dust. “So, under
P
we find . . .
pooch
. Hmm, not really a good time to bring that up again.
Ptarmigan . . .
ah, too far.” He flips back and skims.

“Bah, it’s not there!
Psychobitch
isn’t in the dictionary. And it’s the best one! Somebody’s gonna have to explain to me why they put words in there nobody ever uses, like
psycholinguistics
or
ptomaine
. Maybe it’s because my dictionary is too old. 1993. Didn’t psychobitches exist back then, too? Fine, what’s your advice, Daisy? Because ultimately this concerns you, too!” He turns toward an urn set on his desk.

“Oh, yeah, did you think I could leave without you? I’m going to request they bury the urn with me. Marion will make a fuss. Then again, if I’m paying, I’ll do what I want!

“Come on, let’s make an appointment with the funeral parlor. We’re doing this! It ought to be put to use in no time. We’re done with failed experiments like the bus. I’ve found a better way to rejoin you, Daisy. So where are the yellow pages?”

The telephone rings.

“What is with this phone only ringing when I want to use it?” Ferdinand grumbles as he picks up the receiver. “Yes? Who is this? Oh, Marion, it’s you. Bad timing, I’m busy. Call back later.”

“No, Papa. It’s urgent. You have to listen to me. I have important things to tell you.”

“You’re just going to talk to me about your damned cop ex-husband again. Thanks, but I’ve had my fair share of your tales of woe. I’m not your shrink! Anyway, you should think about seeing someone. Don’t they have shrinks in Singapore?”

“No, Papa, it’s not about that. This isn’t easy for me, but you’ve left me no choice. I’m sorry . . . At least before, there was Daisy. Her presence reassured me. If something happened to you, she would have let somebody know, one way or another. Now you’re all by yourself there, you don’t go out anymore, you don’t bathe, your place is a mess, you eat badly, you’re hostile with everyone. And you jump in front of buses!”

“Are you finished?”

“No. What will it be the next time? You’re scaring me, Papa! And I’m too far away to take care of you.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Papa, you don’t understand. I called a retirement home and we’re in luck—they can take you in as soon as next month. You’ll start off with a small room where you can have some of your own furniture, and later, you can move to a bigger room when—”

“What’s all this about? Why should I go to a retirement home? It’s out of the question, Marion! You can’t get rid of me like that. And nobody decides for me! Period.”

“Papa, I’d prefer other options as well, but you’re a danger to yourself and others. If you’d at least give me a good reason to trust you, if you’d prove to me you wanted to change . . .”

“You don’t change anymore at my age. It’s too late. I am who I am. Take me or leave me.”

“OK. End of discussion. You’re going to a retirement home. They’ll come pick you up on the first Monday next month. With Eric’s help, if necessary.”

“You’re getting the police involved with this? I’d rather die than go to a retirement home. You’ll have my death on your conscience, Marion!”

“Papa, this is to protect you from yourself. I love you and I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating?
Hurt myself?
A bus knocked me over and
I’m
suicidal? That’s a good one!”

“Papa, prove to me you’re making an effort and I’ll stop the whole thing.”

“Fine, I’ll try, if I really have to . . .”

“Great, then I’ll have someone come inspect your apartment, your refrigerator, and your hygiene. This person will report to me every month and if you’ve been rude to your neighbors, or you’re neglecting yourself, or you’re showing signs of self-destruction, I’m calling Eric so he can take you to the retirement home. I’ll hold the reservation on your room just in case. Understand? I’m counting on you.”

“Do whatever you want, my girl. Send whoever you want. I don’t care. I have nothing to hide. And I told you, I’m not looking to die.”

“I’m going to ask Mrs. Suarez to look after you, too.”

“That was the only thing missing! That silly old goose? You couldn’t find worse? She’ll be delighted to play gestapo with me.”

“Papa, promise me you’ll cooperate.”

“Mrs. Suarez can come sniff my armpits if she feels like it. She’s totally welcome!”

“OK, that’s enough. I’ll call you in five days. By then, I’ll have received the first report from the concierge. Love you, Papa!” Marion said, hanging up.

“Pff, that silly old goose will be eating out of my hand. And in less than ten days, she won’t know what hit her.”

Chapter Nine

That Takes the Cake!

Mrs. Suarez knows why people take her so quickly into their confidence. She exudes honesty. She can’t help it—it’s innate. She’s a woman of principles, of values, and she knows how to show she’s listening. Or perhaps it’s a result of her perfume. Opium by Yves Saint Laurent. But she can’t do anything about it if people are drawn to her.

In any case, Mrs. Suarez leaves nothing to chance. Even her hair is under control. Every evening, a blue net holds her peroxided curls in place, which has the advantage of discouraging any reckless carnal desire in her husband as effectively as a chastity belt.

After a night of heavy, dreamless sleep, thanks to the sleeping pills she takes more out of habit than need (her husband hasn’t snored since the apnea operation), she heads to the bathroom, where the fixtures from the eighties and the lighting leave much to be desired.

She overpowders her olive complexion with Terracotta, then her eyelids with colored shadows that match her outfit. She finishes her eye makeup, mouth open wide, by coating her lashes with black Rimmel mascara. It’s important to create an open look in order to highlight brown eyes: her cousin the beautician taught her that. She outlines her lips with a thick beige pencil, which has the dual benefit of giving her plump Pamela Anderson lips and also keeping the lipstick—generally of a brighter pink color—from spilling over into the furrows caused by many years spent taking energetic drags on her menthol cigarettes.

She largely avoids eyeliner on her upper lids, preferring to save that for special occasions, even if those are rare, with a plumber for a husband. She can’t help but think how different her life would have been if she’d agreed to marry Marcel Cochard, who today serves as an accounting assistant at city hall. He was too ugly forty years ago, but now it wouldn’t bother her so much.

Now what bothers her the most is that everyone believes she’s Portuguese, given her last name. So she tries to clarify the situation with each newcomer before they reach their own conclusions—she is French, like her mother, Marianne. The only Portuguese in this scenario is her husband the plumber.

She never misses an opportunity to get decked out in all her finery: a fox fur coat inherited from her grandmother, who received it from her own grandmother; black leatherette boots; flashy jewelry at all her extremities—ears, wrists, and fingers—with the whole ensemble enhanced by oversized sunglasses to keep her curly hair back.

To perfect her nouveau riche
style, she tucks her Chihuahua, Rocco, under her arm to prevent any tachycardia that might occur if he were to exert himself or encounter some cannibalistic animal. Voilà, Mrs. Suarez is ready. Ready to scrutinize the complex’s trash and greet the mailman, among other things! Everyone would give first prize for beauty to the Little Miss Sunshine of Rue Bonaparte, more out of fear than for her resemblance to Paris Hilton—minus the hotel wealth, and including menopause and forty-five pounds in the rear.

In her work, she applies the same rigor as she does to her appearance, strictly following the techniques her mother taught her. And the student has surpassed the master, since adding her own rules.

Rule Number One
: Everyone is prohibited from entering her loge, including her husband. He has the gift of making a mess wherever he goes, as evidenced by his workshop at the back of the apartment. In Mrs. Suarez’s loge, as in her home, everything is square: not a speck of dust, nothing out of its place. A real model home, with a husband who just barely has the right to breathe, but who mostly slips away as soon as Mrs. Suarez has visitors.

The raspberry-colored sofa in the living room is her and Rocco’s personal throne. Close to her couch is her thimble collection, religiously arranged in a locked glass cabinet. An air freshener, whose floral perfume irritates the throats of those unaccustomed to it, is plugged in to cover the
manly
—that is to say,
sweaty
—odor that emanates from the fabric on the sofa and even filters into her loge.

In the concierge’s lair: sewing supplies, pictures of Rocco,
People
magazines. She loves to be on the cutting edge of fashion and caught up on the latest news. And on her little wooden desk, hidden from the view of passersby, is her famous black book. The tiniest details of everyone’s life are recorded there, and, primarily, their lapses with regard to Rule Number Two.

Rule Number Two
: Set the rules, make them known, and ensure they’re respected by everyone. The notebook has a new section dedicated entirely to Mr. Brun. That troublemaker will pay for his misdeeds.

And now that she’s been sent on a mission by Marion, Mr. Brun’s life is in her hands. She feels as powerful as a child turning the garden hose on an anthill and watching the little creatures struggle to survive.

Rule Number Three
: Impose the appropriate penalties when the rules are broken.