Hunting and Gathering (16 page)

“Because of your hair. It's been growing too quick.”

“Are you okay, Mamadou? You don't look so hot.”

“I'm okay, I'm okay.”

“Is something worrying you?”

“Oh, worries . . . The kids are all sick, my husband gambles away his paycheck, my sister-in-law, she gets on my nerves, a neighbor been shitting in the elevator and the phone line been cut, but otherwise I'm okay.”

“Why'd he do that?”

“Who?”

“The neighbor.”

“Why, I don't know. But I told him that next time, he's gonna be eatin' his shit. And I mean what I say. What you laughing at, huh?”

“What's wrong with your kids?”

“One of 'em's coughing and the other one has gastroenteritis. Okay, c'mon, let's stop talking 'bout all that because it makes me too sad, and when I'm sad I'm no goddamn use to anybody.”

“And your brother? Can't he make them all better with that black magic of his?”

“And what about the racetrack? Don't you think he would be able to pick a few winners from time to time? Oh no, don't talk to me 'bout that good-for-nothing scum, you hear?”

 
The piglet on the sixth floor must have taken Camille's drawing to heart: his office was more or less tidy. Camille drew an angel as seen from behind, a pair of wings emerging from his suit and a lovely halo over his head.

 
At the apartment they were beginning to get their bearings. The awkwardness of the first days, the hesitant dance and all their embarrassed gestures were slowly changing into a discreet, everyday choreography.

Camille got up in the late morning, but made certain she was always back in her room by three when Franck came home. He left again at around six thirty, sometimes passing Philibert in the stairway. Camille would share a pot of tea or have a light dinner with Philibert before going to work herself; she was never back before one in the morning.

 
Franck was never asleep at that time: he'd be listening to music or watching television. The scent of pot wafted from underneath his door. Camille wondered how he managed to keep up such a frenetic pace, and very quickly she had her answer: he didn't.

So from time to time he'd blow a fuse. He would throw a fit when he opened the refrigerator and found food that had not been put away in the right place, or was poorly wrapped, and he'd take out the offending items and put them on the table, knocking over the teapot and calling Philibert and Camille every rude name in the book.

“Fuck! How many times do I have to tell you? The butter goes into a butter dish because otherwise it absorbs all the other smells! And the cheese too! Transparent wrap wasn't invented for dogs, shit! And what the hell is this? Lettuce? Why did you leave it in a plastic bag? Plastic ruins everything! I've already told you, Philibert. Where are all those containers I brought home the other day? And what about this lemon? What's it doing in the egg compartment? You cut open a lemon, you wrap it up or put it upside down on a plate,
capice?
”

 
Then off he went with his can of beer, and our two criminals waited for the backdraft from the door before picking up the thread of their conversation:

“Did she really say, ‘If there is no more bread, then let them eat cake'?”

“Of course not, come on. She would never have uttered such rubbish. She was a very intelligent woman, you know.”

 
Of course they could have put their cups down with a sigh and answered back, told Franck that for someone who never ate there anyway and who only used the fridge to store his six-packs he was overreacting . . . But it really wasn't worth the trouble.

Since he was the yelling type, well, let him yell.

Let him yell.

Besides, that's what he expected. The slightest excuse to be at their throats. Camille's, especially. He held her in his sights and wore an outraged expression whenever their paths crossed. No matter that she spent the vast majority of her time in her own room, they were bound to run into each other, and she felt the full force of the murderous vibes which, depending on her mood, either made her feel awkward or coaxed out a half smile.

“Hey, what's with you? What are you laughing at? Something wrong with my face?”

“No, no. Nothing, it's nothing.”

And she would hurry to change the subject.

 
In the communal rooms, Camille was on her best behavior. She tried to leave the place as clean as you would hope to find it on entering. When Franck wasn't there, she would lock herself in the bathroom and hide all her toilet articles. She would wipe the sponge over the kitchen table two times rather than once, and empty her ashtray into a plastic bag that she would tie carefully before putting in the garbage. She tried to be as discreet as possible, hugging the walls, dodging the bad vibes and ultimately thinking that maybe she'd leave earlier than planned.

But she'd freeze up there . . . Never mind, she wouldn't keep bumping into that stupid asshole; so much the better.

 
Philibert was sorry:

“But Camille, Camille, you are mu-much too intelligent to allow yourself to be in-intimidated by that oversized beanpole, don't you see? You are a-above all that, aren't you?”

“No, that's just it. I'm on exactly the same level. That's why it gets to me so much.”

“Whatever do you mean? You two are not even on the same planet! Have you, have you ever seen his ha-handwriting? Have you ever heard the way he laughs when he listens to that inane TV presenter's vulgar commentary? Have you ever seen him reading anything besides the motorcycle blue book? He has the mental maturity of a two-year-old! Not his fault, poor fellow. I imagine he started up in a kitchen somewhere when he was still a boy and he has never done anything. You just have to let it go. Be more tolerant—‘stay cool,' as you say.”

Camille didn't answer.

“You know what my mother would say whenever I dared to evoke—in barely a whisper—even a quarter of half the horrible things my little roommates would in-inflict on me?”

“What?”

“ ‘Learn, my son, that toad's drool cannot touch the white dove.' That's what she would say.”

“And did it make you feel better?”

“Not at all! Quite the opposite!”

“So you see . . .”

“Yes, but with you, it's not the same. You're not twelve years old anymore. And besides, it's not a question of drinking the piss of some sn-snotty-nosed little kid.”

“They made you do that?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Well, in that case, I can see that some bullshit about a white dove—”

“You might say that I never quite swallowed that white d-dove analogy. I can still feel it right here,” he laughed bitterly, pointing to his Adam's apple.

“Huh.”

“And then the truth of it is really d-damn simple and you know it as well as I do: Franck is je-jealous. Jealous as a tiger. Put yourself in his place. He had the apartment all to himself, wandered in and out as he pleased, more often than not wearing just his underwear or in the wake of some terrified little goose. He could shout and swear and burp to his heart's content, and our relationship was limited to a few exchanges of a practical nature on the state of the plumbing or the supplies of toilet paper.

“I almost never left my room and I used earplugs when I needed to concentrate. He was the king here. So much so that he must have felt like this was his place, so to speak. And then you came along and
boom
. Not only did he have to start zipping up his fly, but now he has to witness our shared affinities, as well, he can hear us laughing sometimes and he listens to bits of our conversation and probably doesn't understand much of what we're talking about. It must be rather hard for him, don't you think?”

“I didn't think I was, um, taking up so much room.”

“No, you—you're very discreet, on the contrary, but you want me to—to tell you what I think? I think he's a bit intimidated by you.”

“What? Me? Intimidate someone? You must be joking. The man is simply dripping with scorn. I've never seen anything like it in my life!”

“Shh. He hasn't got much culture, that's a fact, but he's far from being an ignoramus either, and you don't exactly box at the same weight as his girlfriends, you know. Have you run into any of them since you've be-been here?”

“No ...”

“Well, wait till you see them. It is truly amazing. Whatever happens, I implore you, dear Camille, try to stay above the melee. For my sake.”

“But I won't be staying here very long, I mean, you know that.”

“Neither will I. Neither will Franck, but in the meantime, let's try to be good neighbors. The world is already a sufficiently dreadful place without us falling out, is it not? And you m-make me stutter when you say st-stupid things.”

Camille got up to switch off the kettle.

“You don't seem convinced,” said Philibert.

“Yes, yes, I'm going to make an effort. But you know I'm not very good when it comes to power struggles. I usually throw in the towel before I try to defend myself.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because it doesn't take as much effort?”

“Yes.”

“That is not a good strategy, be-believe me. In the long run, you will end up losing.”

“I've already lost.”

 
“Speaking of strategies, I am going to attend a fascinating conference on the military art of Napoleon Bonaparte next week, would you care to join me?”

“No, but you go. I'm all ears: tell me about Napoleon.”

“Ah! A vast topic! Would you like a slice of le-lemon?”

“No, thank you. No more lemons for me! No more of anything, anyway.”

He rolled his eyes at her:

“A-above the melee, remember that.”

31

TIME Regained, as the name of choice for a place where everyone was going to move on to the sweet hereafter, was quite appropriate.

Franck was in a foul mood. His grandmother hadn't said a word to him ever since she'd started living there, and the minute he hit the outskirts of Paris he'd have to start digging really deep into his skull to come up with something to say to her. On his first visit he'd run out of things to talk about, and they'd sat there glaring at each other for the entire afternoon. In the end, he stood watch by the window and made comments about everything he could see going on in the parking lot below: old folks being loaded into vehicles, others being unloaded, couples arguing, children running around between the cars, that one there who had just gotten a slap in the face, a young woman crying, a Porsche roadster, a Ducati, the spanking new 5 Series, and the incessant coming and going of the ambulances. A truly memorable day.

 
Yvonne Carminot had taken charge of the moving, and Franck had shown up in all innocence on that first Monday, with no idea what to expect.

There was the place itself, to start with. Given the state of their finances, he'd had to fall back on a hastily constructed public retirement home located on the outskirts of town between a Buffalo Grill and an industrial waste disposal site. Urban development zones one after the other, a conglomeration of concrete shit. A very big conglomeration of concrete shit in the middle of nowhere. He'd gotten lost, and had ridden around for over an hour in a labyrinth of all sorts of gigantic warehouses, looking for a nonexistent street name, stopping at every traffic circle to try and decipher some fucking incomprehensible map, and when finally he put his bike on its stand and took off his helmet, he was almost blown off his feet by a gust of wind. “Hey, what the fuck is going on? Since when do they put old folks in wind tunnels? They say that the wind eats into their brains . . . Oh shit, tell me this isn't true, she's not around here somewhere, please, tell me I made a mistake . . .”

 
The heat in that place would send you to your grave, and as Franck drew nearer to his grandmother's room, he felt his throat getting tighter and tighter and tighter until he needed several minutes before he could utter a single word.

All these wrinkled old folks—ugly, sad, depressing, moaning and groaning, with the sounds of slippers slapping and dentures rattling and sucking, with their huge bellies and skeletal arms. That one over there with a tube up his nose, and another one whimpering all alone in his corner, or this old gal completely folded over in her wheelchair as if she were recovering from an attack of lockjaw. You could even see her stockings and her diaper.

 
And the heat, Jesus! Why didn't they ever open the windows? To make them kick the bucket all the sooner?

 
The next time Franck came, he kept his helmet on all the way to room 87 so he wouldn't have to see anything, but a nurse nabbed him and told him to take it off because he was frightening the inmates.

 
His grandma wouldn't speak to him, but she nevertheless looked him right in the eye, defiantly, rebelliously, to fill him with shame: “Well? Are you pleased with yourself, son? Answer me. Are you proud of what you've done?” That is what she said silently over and over, while Franck pulled aside the net curtain to check on his motorbike.

He was too irritated to fall asleep. He pulled the armchair up next to her bed, hunted for words, phrases, anecdotes and trivial nonsense until finally, tired of struggling, he switched on the television. He didn't watch it, but kept his eyes on the wall clock behind it and began the countdown: in two hours I'm out of here, in one hour I'm out of here, in twenty minutes . . .

 
One week he came on a Sunday because Potelain didn't need him. He walked through the hall quick as he could, shrugging his shoulders at the garish new decorations and the pitiable old folks wearing pointed hats.