Out of Sorts (6 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Up the Wall

Only three hours separate Ferdinand from Mrs. Suarez’s inspection, and he still hasn’t touched the cleaning products. The silly old goose has just left him a letter indicating she’s moved the inspection up by a day: she’ll be showing up today, Tuesday, at 6:00 p.m.

It was while barely woken up from his postlunch nap and still unsteady that Ferdinand discovered a letter slipped under his door. Since then his heart has been racing.

What an old bag that concierge is! Ideally, Mrs. Suarez gets held up with something else this afternoon.
Ferdinand reflects for a few minutes.
I think I’ve found something to distract her for a couple hours.

One problem persists, however. Even if Mrs. Suarez doesn’t come until Wednesday, as planned, Ferdinand still has to tackle the cursed housework, and soon. A saying surfaces in his memory, one his old supervisors used to use every time Ferdinand made a suggestion: “We can’t all be good at everything.” A way of sending him packing and asking him to concentrate on his own work instead of his neighbor’s. And it’s true that Ferdinand’s thing, his forte, is . . . what is it, anyway? One thing is certain: it’s not housework! Then again, a woman, more precisely a cleaning woman, would know how to solve the problem. But where to find such an expert on short notice?

Ferdinand sees two options—either ask Juliette for their housekeeper’s contact info, or ask one of the neighbor ladies for her housekeeper’s contact info. But Ferdinand doesn’t fancy letting Juliette know he wasn’t able to do his housework. He had the time—taking into account the diversion he’s planning—and he had the products. But neither the desire nor the courage. As for the second option, he’d have to find a neighbor lady who wouldn’t say anything to Mrs. Suarez, and that’s mission impossible. Ferdinand is at an impasse. Or he could call an agency and pray they send someone competent. But it’s likely all the good ones are taken. The clock is ticking. Ferdinand decides to set up Mrs. Suarez’s diversion.

His trap set, Ferdinand is climbing back up the stairs when he hears the door slam on the second floor. Darn, it’s the old bat Mrs. Claudel. He doesn’t want to cross paths with her, not now. She’s going to ask him how he’s been doing since Daisy. Back against the wall, he risks a peek. Oh, no, she’s carrying glass bottles. She’s going to ruin everything if she goes in the trash area. Shoot! Ferdinand has no choice: he has to detain her, otherwise, it’s the retirement home for sure! He climbs the last few steps and calls out, “Hello, ma’am. I’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind. It’s important and extremely urgent.”

“Of course, Mr. Brun. What is it?” she asks in surprise.

“Since my dog died, there are too many memories at home. It would be easier for me to say good-bye if I had some help to put her things away.”

“I was just about to go to church—I’m organizing guided tours there—but tomorrow afternoon I can give you a hand. I understand this isn’t exactly easy.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I was thinking more along the lines of your housekeeper. You do have one, don’t you?”

Beatrice nods.

“Could you ask her to do me a favor? The sooner the better.”

“If it’s that urgent, you should call her right now.”

Beatrice gets her keys out of her purse and motions for Ferdinand to follow her. A few steps into the entryway, he’s dazzled by the brightness and beauty of the place. How can an apartment identical to his own, and with the same exposure, be so different? Magnificent, even. How can he be bathed in sunlight at 3:50 p.m.? Everything is in perfect order and sparkling clean. It’s like being in a mansion. The walls are papered in a discreet English pattern, with beautiful moldings and millwork. The chandeliers and chevron-patterned parquet floor give the impression of a ballroom. The timeless family heirloom furniture is ornamented with finely gilded handles. On the walls are numerous oil paintings, probably paying homage to illustrious family members. Above the old mantel hangs a masterpiece—the portrait of a marshal of the Empire, surely an illustrious member of the Claudel family.

Most impressive, however, is the library that occupies the entire length of the dining room wall. The wood is magnificent, the finish delicate. The wide shelves hold hundreds of old books, arranged by publisher, whose gilded bindings match the amber color of the wood. Ferdinand doesn’t know much about art, literature, or even décor, but wood, yes: the beauty of the parquet, the baseboards, and the library greatly impresses him and informs him of his host’s noble birth.

“Mr. Brun? Are you still with me? I’m on the phone with Katia, my housekeeper. She can come tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, if you wish. It was the time reserved for me, but I’ll make do with the dust for a few extra days, don’t worry about it.”

Mess? Dust? Here?

“Mr. Brun? Does that work for you?”

“Yes, it’s perfect. Thank you so much for your help, ma’am . . .”

“Claudel, Beatrice Claudel! All right, let’s go, I’m frightfully late.”

Ferdinand reaches the landing ahead of Beatrice, but stops on his doorstep, searching for his keys. Beatrice, in a hurry as usual, waves one last time before heading down the stairs.
OK, she’s gone.
It’s out of the question for her to see the inside of
his
apartment. After what he saw, Ferdinand will never dare let her enter his place.

In any case, his cleaning problem is resolved: tomorrow an expert on dusting and tidying will come take care of his apartment. But something has been nagging at him since he thought to call a housekeeper and even more since visiting with his neighbor. How much does a cleaning lady, one used to polishing up rich peoples’ houses, cost? That’s as far as his thinking makes it, when a fire engine siren blares from the courtyard.

Damn! I didn’t have time to call the fire department . . . Well, they’re already here, that’s the main thing. I hope my diversion will soon be under control and won’t make the front page tomorrow . . .

From his window, Ferdinand takes in the sight of firemen. After more than an hour and a half of battling a fire at the back of the courtyard, they extract a metal box, enveloped in flames, from the trash area and spray it with their fire hose to the point of inundating Mrs. Suarez’s lovely flower boxes. All the while, she bosses everyone around.

Ferdinand looks at the clock. 6:12 p.m. The silly old goose won’t come today for her inspection! He’s saved.

At that moment, the concierge looks up and sees the old man watching her. She waves at him, murmuring to herself, “Just you wait, you old geezer!”

Chapter Nineteen

Having a Cow

As usual on Wednesday evenings, the TV lineup is depressing. No proper films, just reruns of American shows whose plots cater to the lowest common denominator. All that to push people into going to the cinema. Ferdinand, however, has opted for
CSI
—it’ll be fine playing in the background. The day could have been joyful—Mrs. Suarez’s inspection went well—but he’s preoccupied. He spent the evening trying to call his daughter to tell her about the concierge’s visit, before the silly old goose could rewrite history, but the telephone just rang and rang.

Marion is one of those unbearable people who never answer their phone. Ferdinand has come to terms with it over the years, but in this case, it’s really important. After more than twenty-five fruitless attempts, he’s frustrated. What if there’s an emergency? How could he let her know? He even tries her cell phone. What’s worse is that it doesn’t ring and doesn’t offer to let him leave a voice mail. Marion will give him her usual excuse: “I probably ran out of battery.” Couldn’t she be a bit responsible for once? To think, he’d almost considered apologizing for their last conversation. There’s no risk of that occurring to him again for a while . . .

This isn’t the first time Marion’s been unreachable, but it’s the first time it’s put him in this state. Something’s eating at him. And he can’t swallow a bite except for a few spoonfuls of tasteless cream-of-potato soup. He was doing better for several days, but once again he’s feeling deep sadness. An even greater loneliness. Like a patient in relapse. And nobody seems to care. He hides behind his anger, but he knows his malaise doesn’t really have anything to do with Marion. He’s used to his perfunctory relationship with his daughter.

He’s lacking something else. Juliette . . . He sighs, that’s what’s bothering him. She hasn’t come around. Although she didn’t say she’d come back, Ferdinand expected her for lunch. Hoped? No, let’s not get carried away . . . But somehow or other, the little girl is rather good company. A bit like Daisy, but in her own way. Badly brought up, saying anything that comes into her head, no respect for her elders. Entertaining, though, with her impertinent questions and improbable reading. He’ll find out what happened tomorrow, at least, if she comes back, and he’ll tell her about Mrs. Suarez’s visit.

Ferdinand is dozing when a dull thud, like pounding on a thick pane of glass, makes him jump. He opens his eyes. Something is moving on the balcony, right in front of him. A little shadow. It looks like . . . the slight figure of a child. Juliette! She’s motioning on the balcony and banging on the glass. The old man rubs his eyes. Is he dreaming or is the little girl really there waving at him?
She really does have bats in her belfry!
He goes to let her in.

“How could you jump down from the third floor? Are you nuts? You could have gotten yourself killed! And it’s freezing out there. Get inside, quick!” She steps inside as he shuffles back to his armchair.

“I didn’t jump. I’m not crazy, you know . . . I took out the trash and then I thought I’d come see you. I didn’t want to ring the bell in case you were sleeping, so I climbed up the rose trellises. One floor is easy. Besides, I hope you close your shutters at night. Anybody could walk right in, if you ask me.”

“You didn’t want to wake me up by ringing, but you bang like a madwoman on my clean windows? You don’t think that disturbed me even more? And what are you doing here at this hour? Shouldn’t a little girl of . . . of your age be in bed at nine thirty-five? What’s your father going to say when he realizes you haven’t come back from the trash area?”

“Tonight he’s working on a new building site. Katia, our housekeeper, is babysitting us. She fell asleep in front of the TV. You exhausted her yesterday. I’ve never seen her miss an episode of
CSI
.”

Juliette sits down on the sofa and wraps herself in the blanket.

“You must have noticed I couldn’t come today. It’s Wednesday and on Wednesday I have lunch with Papa since there’s no school. So how did Mrs. Suarez’s inspection go? It looks like our housekeeper did a fabulous job. It still smells clean.”

“Hey, Miss Bold-as-Brass, I didn’t call your housekeeper. I had your cleaning stuff and it was a piece of cake. I—”

“Don’t lie, Ferdinand. Katia told me everything. She spoke of certain places, like behind the fridge . . . She’d never seen that! Mrs. Claudel recommended her housekeeper to us when we moved in. So, what did Mrs. Suarez say to so much cleanliness? Did she purse her lips like she does when she’s upset at having nothing to complain about?”

“You know her well, I’d say. Yes, Mrs. Suarez remained true to form. A real little gestapo captain.”

Ferdinand gets up out of his armchair and paces in front of Juliette, in a pale imitation of the concierge.

“She did her duty, in silence, frowning, lips pursed. She came in, peeked in every room, opened every cupboard, checked the cleaning products under the sink, inspected the windows, examined the balcony, unscrewed the liquid-hand-soap bottle, scrutinized the sponges, picked up the phone receiver, glanced at the trash can, and lifted up the bedspread to see if the sheets were clean. She smirked when she found a bit of dust on top of the baseboards. She also ordered me to remove the plastic bag from the fridge, lest the green beans go bad.”

“Oh, yes, I should have thought of that . . .”

“But ultimately, I think it went well. I even took a bath and put on cologne. The president of the republic wouldn’t have been treated better! Besides, I was a bit tricksy: I offered her coffee. She didn’t even deign to respond, she just made another face like ‘coffee from that old machine with its gym-sock filters?’ She’s coming back next month. I’m not going to put up with these inspections forever. I’m not a kid! I called Marion to stop this charade, but she’s not answering on purpose. Say, you want to munch on something? I might have some pretzels,” says Ferdinand, opening the door on the sideboard.

“I’d prefer more pickles, if there are any left.”

The old man gets the jar and sits back down in his armchair.

“I’m glad everything went well with Mrs. Suarez. Wasn’t she surprised not to find any alcohol here?”

“Why do you say that? What do you know about it? Did your housekeeper tell you something? I’m not an alcoholic. So it stands to reason there isn’t a drop of alcohol in the house. What are you insinuating?”

“Calm down, Ferdinand, I’m not insinuating anything. I’m just saying it’s shady that there’s no wine, or aperitif, or liqueur. But you have aperitif glasses and snifters. That implies a stash.”

“Nonsense, Juliette! You really have an overactive imagination for your age.”

“And Mrs. Suarez didn’t say anything about your . . . straight razor? That’s what it’s called, right? Basically, your old razor’s a little scary. Remember, she’s charged with verifying that you don’t want to hurt yourself or others.”

“How can you say such things? Where do you get ideas like that?”

“In one of the books I borrowed from you—your collection of Pierre Bellemare’s
Extraordinary Stories
.”

“You borrowed a book from me? When? Aren’t you ashamed to help yourself like that?”

“Last time. Anyhow, sorry, your reading simply will not do. And if Mrs. Suarez hasn’t said anything yet, it’s because she didn’t see you only have stories about murders, corrupt police officers, and the war.”

“That’s not all I have. I also have a dictionary and—”

Juliette concluded, “Oh, yes, it’s true, you also have books about dogs. But they’re all about guard and attack dogs. That’s not going to improve Mrs. Suarez’s image of you. A serial killer—remember?”

“I couldn’t care less! The silly old goose can go to hell. I’m not going to buy books to please her. I don’t read anymore anyway, so there’s no point. Time doesn’t pass any quicker and I don’t have anybody to talk about it with after.”

“I can help make your library presentable. I’ll bring you my father’s horticulture books, for example. But I doubt gardening books would interest you,” says Juliette, looking around. “You don’t have any plants. Not even on the balcony. What a shame.”

“Concentrate, will you? OK, bring your father’s books. So, if I may summarize, my second inspection runs the risk of turning sour because of a razor and alcohol? I’ll make sure to buy all of that. But do you know how much more a modern razor costs? The blades especially—they’re thirty euros for a package of five! And alcohol isn’t cheap, either. As for the plants, you can forget it. That’s for women.”

“Tell that to my father and you’ll get an earful!” retorts Juliette, smiling.

“What I mean is it’s not
at all
my thing. I’m more Roundup ready, you see. Wherever I pass by, everything passes away. It was my wife who had the green thumb.”

“Where is your wife?”

“We separated years ago. She left me. There. Now you know everything.”

“That’s all?”

“Don’t get offended, but I won’t tell you any more. And why are you interested in the life of an old gentleman like myself anyway? A girl of your age has nothing better to do?”

“Let’s just say I’m different. A little precocious, it would seem,” Juliette says as she grabs her umpteenth pickle. “Since I know things that don’t interest the girls and boys my age, they call me ‘the brain.’ They think I’m haughty because I use words longer than two syllables. I don’t do it on purpose, I’m just like that. What I like to do is garden, play Scrabble or
Questions for a Champion
, read, people-watch, eat cake . . . Maybe that’s why I prefer being with older people. They say you become an adult when you realize you have to die one day. For me, that was at age six when I lost my paternal grandfather. A stupid bicycle accident. It was a shock for me. I adored my Pappy.”

“Is that why you come see me?”

“Don’t get offended, but you’re polar opposites. I started visiting you because you were the only grandpa in the complex, and I wanted to avoid the cafeteria at school. Now I like you. You make me laugh and I need that. The past year hasn’t been fun for me. My mama . . . no one could do anything. She was an extraordinary woman. Very beautiful and very intelligent, too. She was a special correspondent. She wasn’t at home much. One day, she was taken to the hospital. She’d been shot in the arm while covering a story. They kept her under observation. Then her condition deteriorated. They found out afterward that she’d caught an infection. I miss Mama enormously, but I’m trying not to think about her too much. I just want to keep my promise: work hard at school and be nice to Papa and Emma. That’s all.”

“I’m sorry about your mama. Your story’s very sad.”

“What about you, Ferdinand? Why are you all alone?”

“Well, my story is everyone’s story. My wife, she was sick of me, I think. Sick of my absences, our shouting matches. One day, when I came back after a few weeks away, she’d made her decision. I hadn’t seen it coming. She’d found my replacement. The mailman! Can you imagine? She took the first guy to come along. And an Italian, no less! To think that bastard was coming by every day to chitchat with her. One day, I even had the bright idea of inviting him in for coffee. Me, a cuckold! I’ll never accept it. I even wanted her to die. They went off to the south of France and I assume they had a lousy life together.”

Ferdinand pauses. It costs him to trust anybody—more than he imagines.

“Well, to make a long story short, a few months ago she did die. She fell getting out of the bathtub. I found out about it from Marion. It hit me pretty hard. Not so much her death, but everything it signified. Deep down, I always thought she’d come back, that she’d say, ‘I’m sorry, I was wrong, I can’t live without you.’ But no. She was never sorry, apparently. You’re going to say I’m naïve. You see, from my entire life there’s nothing but failures, regrets. A failed marriage, a daughter who doesn’t really love me and who fled to the other side of the world, a grandson I’ve seen a total of eight times . . . My only reason for living was Daisy. Without really knowing it, I was living for her. It’s funny, it was my wife who gave her to me for our last Christmas. Sometimes I wonder if she’d already planned to leave me. There. Now you really know everything.”

“That’s why you wanted to die? You picked the bus so you could go the way Daisy did?”

“I hadn’t considered that I’d picked the bus to go like Daisy, run over. Maybe, after all . . . Well, how about we talk about something a little happier? Then you go on home before your nanny wakes up. What did you learn in school this week?”

“I learned something rather interesting, but it’s not necessarily happier. We discussed the emergency actions to take in the event of a gas leak. It’s part of the new lifesaving techniques being tested at my school. I’ve already learned CPR.”

“I never did learn that. Certainly not at school. Is it easy to do?”

“With chest compressions there is still a risk of breaking ribs. But it’s better to have a few broken bones and stay alive, in my opinion. I can teach you, if you want.”

“Pff . . . At my age? It’s not worth it. And to save who?”

“Me! If one day you turn on the gas and have regrets,” says Juliette, smiling.

“Stop that nonsense, little one. Go on home now.”

Ferdinand accompanies Juliette to the door.

“I was just wondering, which is your favorite Pierre Bellemare story?”

“The one with the black-eyed garbage chute. It scares your pants off. Ever since reading it, I haven’t dared use the one on the landing.”