Hunting and Gathering (24 page)

Franck got up with a sigh.

“Turn around, I don't want you to see my underwear.”

“Oh, I don't need to see it to imagine it. Philibert must be more the type to wear striped briefs but as for you, I'm sure you wear those tight little boxer shorts from Hom with stuff written on the waistband.”

“You're so bright, aren't you? Go on, look the other way, anyway.”

He acted busy, went for the half container of powder and leaned his elbows on the machine:

“Well, maybe you're not so bright after all. I mean, otherwise you wouldn't be doing housecleaning. You'd be like this Dürer guy; you'd be working.”

Silence.

“You're right. I'm only bright in the men's underwear department.”

“Well, that's already something, isn't it? Might be a window of opportunity there for you. Hey, are you free on the thirty-first?”

“You got a party for me?”

“No. Some work.”

41

“WHY not?”

“Because I'm useless!”

“Wait, no one's going to ask you to cook! Just give a hand with the prep.”

“What's that?”

“Everything you prepare in advance to save time when the gun is fired.”

“So what would I have to do?”

“Peel chestnuts, clean chanterelles, skin and deseed the grapes, wash the lettuce . . . Basically a lot of really boring stuff.”

“I'm not even sure I can do that stuff.”

“I'll show you everything. I'll explain really well.”

“You won't have time.”

“No . . . that's why I'd brief you beforehand. I'll bring some stuff back to the apartment tomorrow and I'll train you during my break.”

Camille stared at him in silence.

“Aw, c'mon, it'd do you good to see some people. You live with all these dead people, talking with guys who aren't even there to answer you. You're all alone all the time, no wonder you're not firing on all cylinders.”

“I'm not firing on all cylinders?”

“No.”

 
“Listen. I'm asking you as a favor. I promised my boss I'd find him someone to give a hand, and I can't find anyone. I'm in deep shit now.”

Still her stubborn silence.

“C'mon . . . one last favor. After that I'll clear out and you'll never see me again in your life.”

“I had a party planned.”

“What time do you have to be there?”

“I don't know, around ten.”

“No problem. You'll be there, I'll pay your taxi.”

“Okay . . .”

“Thanks. Turn around again, my laundry's dry.”

“I have to leave anyway. I'm already late.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow.”

 
“You sleeping here tonight?” asked Camille.

“No.”

 
“You disappointed?” said Franck.

“You're not very subtle, are you?”

“Look, I'm trying to help you out. Because, who knows, you might not be right about my boxer shorts after all!”

“Look, if you knew how much I don't give a damn about your boxer shorts!”

“Too bad for you, then.”

42

“SHALL we get started?”

“I'm listening. What's that?”

“What?”

“That case.”

“This? It's my knife case. My brushes, if you like. If I lost this, I'd be no good to anyone,” he sighed. “You see what my life depends on? An old box that doesn't close properly.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Since I was a kid . . . My grandma bought it for me when I started on my vocational training certificate.”

“Can I have a look?”

“Go ahead.”

“So tell me . . .”

“What about?”

“What each one is for. I want to learn.”

“Okay . . . The big one is the kitchen knife, or the chef's knife, you can use it for everything; the square one is for bones, joints or to flatten the meat; and the little one is the all-purpose knife, the kind you find in every kitchen. Why don't you take that one, you're going to need it. The long one is a dicer for chopping and slicing vegetables; the little one there is a denerver for trimming and removing the fat from the meat; and its twin, the one with the rigid blade, is for boning; the very thin one is for filleting fish; the last one is for slicing ham.”

“And this thing is to sharpen them.”

“Yes.”

“And this?”

“That's nothing, it's for decoration—I haven't used it in a very long time.”

“What's it for?”

“For doing wonders. I'll show you some other day. Okay, are you all set?”

“Yes.”

“Watch carefully, okay? Chestnuts, I better warn you right away, are a real hassle. These ones have already been soaked in boiling water so they'll be easier to peel. Well, that's if all goes well. Whatever happens, you mustn't spoil them. These little veins have to stay intact and visible. After the peel there's this cottony thing here, and you have to pull it off as delicately as possible.”

“But that will take forever!”

“Hey. That's why we need you.”

 
Franck was patient. He went on to explain how to clean the chanterelle mushrooms with a damp cloth, and how to rub away the earth without spoiling them.

She was having fun. She was good with her hands. She was furious that she couldn't keep up with him, but it was fun. The grapes rolled through her fingers and she quickly got the knack of removing the seed with the tip of the knife blade.

 
“Okay, we'll go over the rest tomorrow, the lettuce and all that. You should be okay.”

“Your boss is going to see right away that I'm useless.”

“Well, obviously. But he doesn't have a lot of choice. What size are you?”

“I don't know.”

“I'll find you a pair of pants and a jacket. And your shoe size?”

“Nine.”

“Got any sneakers?”

“Yes.”

“They're not ideal but they ought to be okay for this one time.”

 
She rolled a cigarette while he was tidying up the kitchen.

“Where's your party?”

“Bobigny. At one of my co-workers'.”

“You're not worried about starting tomorrow morning at nine?”

“No.”

“I warn you, there's only one short break. One hour max. No lunch service but there will be over sixty place settings in the evening. Special menu for everyone. It should really be something. Two hundred and twenty euros per person, I think. I'll try to let you go as early as possible, but I reckon you'll be there until eight o'clock at least.”

“And you?”

“Pfff . . . I'd rather not even think about it. New Year's Eve dinners are always the pits. But, hey, it's well paid. And by the way, I'll ask for a good pay for you too.”

“Oh, that's not a big deal.”

“Yes, yes, it is a big deal. You'll see, tomorrow evening.”

43

“TIME to go now. We'll have a coffee when we get there.”

“But these pants are way too big for me!”

“Doesn't matter.”

 
They crossed the Champ-de-Mars running.

 
Camille was surprised by the atmosphere of agitation and concentration which already reigned in the kitchen.

It was suddenly so hot.

“Here you go, boss. A brand new
commis
.”

The boss grumbled something and waved them away with the back of his hand. Franck introduced her to a tall guy who didn't seem to be awake yet: “This here's Sébastien. He's the
garde-manger
man. He'll also be your
chef de partie
and your big boss, okay?”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Mmm.”

“You won't be dealing with him, but with his
commis
.”

Turning to Sébastien, Franck asked, “What's his name again?”

“Marc.”

“Is he here?”

“In the cold store.”

“Okay, I'm handing her over to you.”

“What does she know how to do?”

“Nothing. But you'll see, she does it well.”

And he went to get changed in the locker room.

“Did he show you how to do chestnuts?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, there they are.” He pointed to a huge pile.

“Can I sit down?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“No asking questions in a kitchen; you say, ‘Yes, sir,' or ‘Yes, boss.' ”

“Yes, boss.”

Yes, asshole. Why on earth had she agreed to do this job? She'd go much faster if she could sit down.

Fortunately, a coffeepot was already on the boil. She put her mug down on a shelf and got to work.

 
A quarter of an hour later—her hands were already aching—Camille heard a voice ask: “Everything okay?”

She looked up and was dumbfounded.

She didn't recognize him. Spotless trousers; an impeccably ironed jacket with a double row of round buttons and his name embroidered in blue letters; a little pointed bandana; immaculate apron and dish towel; and his toque resting nice and tight on his head. She'd never seen him dressed any other way than as a consummate slob; she found him very handsome indeed.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. You're very handsome like that.”

And just look at him, bloody idiot, stupid fart, braggart, little provincial matador with his loud mouth, his big motorcycle and his thousands of bimbos notched on the butt of his battering ram: yes, that's him, the very same man—and he cannot stop himself from blushing.

“It's the uniform that does it, I expect,” she added with a smile, to let him off the hook.

“Yeah, that—that must be it.”

He moved away, bumped into a co-worker and showered him with insults.

 
No one spoke. All you could hear was the clack-clack of the knives, the glup-glup of the mixing bowls, the whoosh-whoosh of the swinging doors, and the phone ringing every five minutes in the boss's office.

 
Camille was fascinated, torn between concentrating on her work so she would not get yelled at, and looking up so she wouldn't miss a thing. She could see Franck in the distance, from behind. He seemed taller and much calmer than usual. It was as if she did not know him.

 
In a low voice she asked her fellow peeler:

“What does Franck do?”

“Who?”

“Lestafier.”

“He's the
saucier
and he's in charge of the meat.”

“Is it hard?”

The pimply boy rolled his eyes: “Totally. The hardest thing of all. After the chef and the second, he's number three in the team.”

“Is he good?”

“Yeah. He's a jerk but he's good. I'd even say he's really good. And you'll see, the chef is always turning to him, not to the second. The second he has to keep an eye on, but Lestafier, he leaves him alone, even watches how he does it.”

“But—”

“Shh.”

When the boss clapped his hands to announce time for the break, she raised her head and made a face. Her neck, back, wrists, hands, legs and feet all ached—she ached in places she didn't even know could ache.

“You want to eat with us?” Franck asked her.

“Do I have to?”

“No.”

“Then I'd prefer to go out and walk around some.”

“As you like. Are you okay?”

“Yes. But it's hot in here, isn't it? You've been working hard.”

“Are you kidding? This is nothing! There aren't even any customers!”

“Well . . .”

“You'll be back in an hour, right?”

“Yes.”

“Don't go out right away, cool off a bit, otherwise you'll make yourself sick.”

“All right.”

“You want me to come with you?”

“No, no. I feel like being alone.”

“You'd better eat something, okay?”

“Yes,
Father
.”

Franck shrugged his shoulders.

 
Camille ordered a disgusting panini in a snack bar for tourists and sat down on a bench at the foot of the Eiffel Tower.

She missed Philibert.

She dialed the number of the château on her cell phone.

“Hello, this is Aliénor de La Durbellière,” said a child's voice. “To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”

Camille was thrown.

“Uh, to—May I speak to Philibert, please?”

“We're having lunch at the moment. Might I take a message?”

“He isn't there?”

“Yes, but we're having lunch. I just told you—”

“Oh! Okay, right, no, nothing, just give him a kiss for me and tell him I wish him a happy New Year.”

“Would you remind me of your name?”

“Camille.”

“Camille, just Camille?”

“Yes.”

“Very well then. Good-bye, Madame Justcamille.”

Good-bye, little smart-ass.

What the hell was that all about? What sort of song and dance goes on in that château?

Poor Philibert.

 
“In five separate tubs of water?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that'll be some clean lettuce!”

“That's the way we do it.”

Camille spent a ridiculous amount of time sorting and cleaning the salad leaves. Each leaf had to be turned over, calibrated and inspected with a magnifying glass. She had never seen salad leaves like this before, of every shape and size and color.