Hunting and Gathering (11 page)

 
When Franck was a child he suffered from insomnia. He had night-mares and would scream and call out to his grandma, swearing that when she closed the door his legs sank down a deep hole and he had to cling to the bars of his bed to keep from going down after them. All his teachers had suggested consulting a psychologist, but the neighbors shook their heads gravely and advised taking him to the bonesetter to have his nerves put right. As for Paulette's husband, he wanted her to stop going upstairs to Franck. You're spoiling the boy! he said. You're the one who's driving him crazy! For Christ's sake, just love him a little less! Just let him cry for a while, he'll stop pissing so much for a start, and you'll see, he'll go to sleep just the same.

And Paulette would say yes to everyone, docile as could be, but she didn't do what anyone said. She'd fix Franck a glass of hot sugared milk with a bit of orange-flower water and, sitting by him on her chair, she held his head while he drank. There, you see, I'm right here. She folded her arms, sighed, and dozed off when he did. Or sometimes even before he did. It was not so bad as long as she was there, everything would be all right. He could stretch out his legs.

 
“By the way, there's no more hot water,” said Franck to Philibert.

“Oh, no, that's terrible . . . I don't know what to say, you—”

“Stop apologizing, shit! I'm the one who emptied the tank, okay? I did it. So don't apologize!”

“I'm sorry, I just thought—”

“You know what? You're starting to piss me off. If you want to go being a doormat, that's your problem.”

Franck left the room and went to iron his work clothes. He absolutely had to buy some new jackets because he didn't have enough to see out the week. He didn't have time. There was never enough time, never the time to do a fucking thing.

He had only one day off a week, and he was damned if he was going to spend it at some old folks' home in the back of beyond, watching his grandmother cry her eyes out.

 
Philibert was already settled in his armchair with his parchments and all his heraldry crap.

“Philibert?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Listen, hey, I'm sorry about what happened earlier. I've got a lot of shit going on right now and I'm up to here with it. And on top of it all, I'm exhausted.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does matter.”

“What matters, you see, is to say that you're sorry
for
doing something, not that you're sorry
about
something. It is linguistically too vague, and the other person cannot know whether you are apologizing or just expressing some generalized regret . . .”

Franck stared at him for a minute before shaking his head. “You really are a weird guy, you know that?”

 
As he went out the door, he added, “Hey! Have a look in the fridge, I brought you something. I can't remember what it is, some duck, I think.”

 
Philibert said thank you to a draft of cold air.

Franck was already in the hallway, cursing because he couldn't find his keys.

 
He took up his station in complete silence, did not flinch when the boss took the pan from his hands in order to show off, clenched his teeth when an undercooked magret was sent back, and rubbed his heating plate so hard, it was as if instead of simply cleaning it he were trying to scrape off fine iron filings.

 
As the kitchen emptied, Franck waited around for his buddy Kermadec to finish sorting his tablecloths and counting his napkins. When Kermadec found him in a corner leafing through
Bikers' Journal
, he gestured with his chin. “What you want, chef?”

Lestafier tilted his head back and wiggled his hand in front of his mouth.

“I'm coming. A few more odds and ends and I'm all yours.”

 
They had meant to do the rounds of the bars, but by the time they left the second one Franck was already dead drunk.

That night he fell into a deep hole, but not the one from his childhood. A different one.

18

“OKAY, well, I wanted to say I was sorry about, I mean sorry
for
. . . I wanted to ask you . . . ,” said Franck.

“Ask for what, dear?” said Yvonne.

“For you to forgive me.”

“I've already forgiven you, forget it. I know you didn't mean what you said, but you should mind your manners all the same. You have to be good to the people who behave right toward you. You'll see, when you get older, that you don't encounter many of them.”

“You know, I've been thinking about what you said yesterday, and even if it's hard to admit it, I know you're right.”

“Of course I'm right. I know old people, I see plenty of them here, all day.”

“So, uh—”

“What?”

“The problem is, I've got no time to take care of it, I mean to find her a place and all that.”

“So you want me to take care of it?”

“I'll pay you for your time, you know.”

“Don't you start being vulgar with me again, young man; I'm willing to help you, but you're the one who's going to have to tell her. You have to explain the situation to her.”

“Will you come with me?”

“If it makes it easier for you. But, you know, she's perfectly well aware of what I think about the whole thing. She's been getting herself into such a state ever since I first brought it up.”

“You have to find her a really classy place, okay? With a nice room and beautiful grounds all around.”

“It's very expensive, you know.”

“How expensive?”

“Over a million a month.”

“Uh, hang on, Yvonne, what are you talking about? We have euros now, you know?”

“Oh, euros. Well, I'm talking the way I'm used to talking and for a good home, you have to pay upwards of a million old francs a month.”

There was a silence while Franck did some mental arithmetic.

“Franck?”

“That's—that's what I earn.”

“You have to go to the social services and ask them for housing assistance, see how much your granddad's pension comes to, then put together an ADHP application and send it off.”

“What's the ADHP?”

“Assistance for dependent and handicapped persons.”

“But . . . she's not exactly handicapped, is she?”

“No, but she'll have to act the part when they send the assessor over. Mustn't look too sprightly or they won't give you much.”

“Aw, fuck, what a hassle . . . Sorry.”

“I'm blocking my ears.”

“I'll never have time to fill out all those forms. Maybe you could help me with this initial stuff?”

“Don't worry, I'll bring it up at the Club next Friday, it's sure to cause a stir.”

“Thank you so much, Madame Carminot.”

“Don't mention it. It's the least I can do, after all.”

“Okay, well, I better get to work.”

“I hear you're cooking like a chef now.”

“Who told you that?”

“Madame Mandel.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, my word, if you could just hear her. She's still talking about it! You made
lièvre à la royale
, some sort of hare, that evening.”

“I don't remember.”

“Well, she does, believe me! Hey, Franck?”

“Yes?”

“I know this is none of my business, but . . . your mother?”

“What about my mother?”

“I don't know, but I was wondering if she shouldn't be contacted too. Maybe she could help pay.”

“Now you're being obscene and you know it, Yvonne, it's not as if you had never met her, either.”

“You know, sometimes people change.”

“Not her.”

Yvonne was silent.

“No,” he repeated, “not her. Okay, I'm out of here, I'm running late.”

“Good-bye, Franck.”

“Uh, Yvonne—”

“Yes?”

“Can you try to find someplace a little bit cheaper?”

“I'll see, I'll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

 
It was so cold that day that Franck was glad to be at his galley slave's station in the warmth of the kitchen. The boss was in a good mood. They'd had to turn diners away for lack of tables, and he'd just learned that he'd be getting a good review in some glossy upmarket magazine.

“With this weather, we'll be able to bring out the foie gras and the vintage wines tonight! We're done with salads and chiffonades and all of that stuff. Fi-nito! I want everything looking good and tasting great so that the customers leave here feeling ten degrees warmer! Let's roll! Light those burners, boys!”

19

CAMILLE was having trouble going down the stairs. She felt stiff and achy all over, and had a terrible headache. As if someone had planted a knife in her eye and was gleefully and delicately turning the blade whenever she moved. When she got to the entrance she leaned against the wall to keep her balance. She was shivering and suffocating at the same time. For a moment she thought of going back to bed, but the idea of climbing seven flights of stairs seemed even more impossible than the idea of going to work. At least on the métro she could sit down.

 
As she stepped out of the entrance she bumped into a bear. Her neighbor, wrapped in a long cloak.

“Oh, excuse me, monsieur,” he said, “I—”

He looked up.

“Camille, is that you?”

She had no strength to start up a conversation, and tried to dodge past him.

“Camille! Camille!”

She buried her face in her scarf and hurried away. The effort soon obliged her to lean against a parking meter to keep from falling over.

“Camille, are you all right? My God, just look at you, what have you done to your hair? You look terrible! Your hair, your beautiful hair . . .”

“I have to get going, Philibert, I'm late already.”

“But it's bitter cold out, my dear! Do not go bareheaded, you'll catch your death. Here, take my shapka at least.”

 
Camille made an effort to smile.

“Did this belong to your uncle too?”

“Goodness, no! To my ancestor, more like it, the one who accompanied Napoleon on his campaigns in Russia.”

He wedged the hat onto her head, down to her eyebrows.

She tried to joke. “You mean this thing went through the battle of Austerlitz?”

“Exactly. And Berezina too, I'm afraid. But you're so pale, are you sure you feel all right?”

“I'm just a little tired.”

“Tell me, Camille, you're not too cold up there in the attic?”

“I don't know . . . Okay, I, I've got to get going . . . Thanks for the hat.”

 
The heat in the métro car made her drowsy and she fell asleep. When she woke up they were at the end of the line. She turned to face the other direction and pulled her furry bear hat down over her eyes so that she could cry from exhaustion. God, it was a smelly old thing.

 
When at last she got out at her stop the cold was so piercing that she had to sit down in a bus shelter. She collapsed sideways across the seats and asked a young man standing there to hail her a taxi.

 
Camille climbed up to her room on her knees and fell across the mattress. She had no strength to get undressed and, for a split second, she wondered if she might be about to die, right there and then. Who would know? Who would care? Who would weep for her? She was shivering with heat, and sweat enveloped her in an icy shroud.

20

AT around two in the morning Philibert got up to go and drink a glass of water. The tiles of the kitchen floor were freezing and a vicious wind was rattling the windowpanes. For a moment he stared out at the deserted avenue and murmured childhood phrases:
Here comes winter, killing the poor folk.
The outdoor thermometer indicated twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit and he could not help but think of that little slip of a thing up in the attic. Was she asleep? And what on earth had she done to her hair, the poor thing?

 
He had to do something. He couldn't leave her like that. But his education, his fine manners, his discretion had him trapped in a tangled web of endless self-doubt.

Was it ever appropriate to disturb a young woman in the middle of the night? How would she take it? And after all, she might not be alone. And what if she was naked? Oh, no. He dared not even think about it. And now, like characters in
Tintin
, an angel and a demon were having a squabble over on the other pillow.

Well, maybe the characters weren't quite the same . . .

A frozen angel was saying, “But listen, the poor child will be dying from the cold,” while the demon with his pinched wings retorted, “I know that, my friend, but it simply isn't done. You'll go and inquire after her in the morning. Now go to sleep, I beg you.”

Philibert observed their little quarrel without taking part, tossing and turning ten, twenty times; he asked them to pipe down, then finally took away their pillow so he wouldn't have to listen anymore.

 
At three fifty-four he was groping for his socks in the dark.

The ray of light from under her door gave him courage.

“Mademoiselle Camille?”

Then, slightly louder, “Camille? Camille? It's Philibert.”

No answer. He tried one last time before turning back. He was already at the end of the corridor when a muffled sound called him back.

“Camille, are you there? I was worried about you and I, I—”