Hunting and Gathering (35 page)

“Yes, yes, I'm listening.”

“So I say, shit, Pascal, you stink. You stink of death, buddy. What's going on, for Chrissake? Don't you wash or what? And then this big teddy bear, this monster of a guy, this pure genius with his big laugh and his mountain of fat starts crying, crying, crying. Like a fountain. Horrible, big sloppy sobs and all, totally inconsolable. Fuck, I felt bad. After a while he suddenly took all his clothes off, just like that, without warning. So I turned around, I was getting ready to go into the bathroom and he grabbed my arm and said, ‘Look at me, Lestaf, look at this shit.' Fuck, I almost passed out.”

“Why?”

“His body, to start with. It was downright gross. But more than anything—it was what he wanted to show me, it was . . . God, just thinking about it, I still feel like puking. He had this sort of rash, but like a crust, I don't know what it was, in the folds of his flesh. And that's what was stinking, this sort of oozing, bloody rash. Fuck, I swear, I drank all night long to get over it. On top of that he told me it really hurt him when he washed but he would scrub like a crazy man to get rid of the smell and he'd sprinkle cologne all over himself and clench his teeth so he wouldn't cry. What a night; God, it was horrible, when I think about it . . .”

“And then?”

“In the morning I dragged him to the hospital, to the emergency room. It was in Lyon, I remember . . . And even the doctor got all weird when he saw him. He cleaned the sores and gave him a ton of medicine—all kinds of ointments and pills. He was straight with him and told him he'd have to lose weight; as we were leaving he asked, ‘Why'd you wait so long?' No reply. And when we were on the platform at the train station I asked him myself: ‘The doctor was right, man, fuck it, why did you wait so long?' ‘Because I was too ashamed,' he answered, and he looked down. And there and then I swore that would be the last time.”

“The last time for what?”

“That I'd give fat people a hard time. That I would look down on them, that . . . Well, you know what I mean, I was judging people by their appearance. So . . . to get back to you. Don't get jealous, the same thing applies for thin people. And never mind what I might be thinking, even if I'm sure that you'd be warmer and more appetizing if you were a few pounds heavier, I won't bug you about it anymore. My drunken word of honor.”

 
“Franck?”

“Hey! We said we'd go to sleep now!”

“Will you help me?”

“What? To be warmer and more appetizing?”

“Yes.”

“No way. So that you'd get kidnapped by the first jerk who comes along?” He clicked his tongue. “I prefer you scrawny and with us. And I'm sure Philou would agree.”

Silence.

 
“All right, maybe a little. As soon as I see your breasts starting to sprout too much, I'll stop.”

“Okay.”

“So what does this make me now, some kind of health guru? Shit, you're making me jump through all the hoops . . . How should we do this? For starters, no more doing your own shopping anymore because you buy nothing but crap. Cereal bars and cookies and cream desserts and all that, finito. I don't know what time you get up in the morning but from Tuesday on you have to remember that I'm the one who's feeding you, okay? Every day at three when I come home, I'll bring you a meal. Don't worry, I know girls, I won't give you duck confit or tripe. I'll make a good yummy little dish just for you. Fish, grilled meat, tasty veggies—stuff you'll really like. I'll make small amounts but you've got to eat it all or else I'll stop. In the evening I won't be there to harass you, but no snacking or nibbling! I'll go on making a big pot of soup at the beginning of the week for Philou the way I always have, and that's it. The idea is to get you hooked on my food. So that every morning you'll get up wondering what's on the menu. I don't promise it'll be utterly amazing every single time, but it'll be good, you'll see. And when you start to fill out, I'll . . .”

“You'll what?”

“I'll eat you.”

“Like the witch in Hansel and Gretel?”

“You bet. And no use giving me a bone when I go to feel your arm because I'm not blind! And now I don't want to hear another word out of you. It's almost two in the morning and we have a long day tomorrow.”

“You know, you pretend not to be but you're a nice person. You are.”

“Shut up.”

57

“HEY! Wake up, butterball!”

Franck put the tray at the foot of the mattress.

“Oh! Breakfast in bed . . .”

“Don't get excited. It's not me, it's Jeannine. C'mon, hurry up, we're late. And eat at least one slice of bread and jam, get some energy, otherwise you'll regret it . . .”

 
No sooner had Camille stepped outside, her lips still smeared with café au lait, than someone handed her a glass of white wine.

“There you go, young lady! This'll give you courage!”

 
They were all there, the guests from the previous evening and everyone from the hamlet, fifteen people or so. And they were all exactly as you might imagine, stereotypical country folk with their mail-order clothes. The older women wearing smocks and the younger ones overalls. Tapping their feet, clutching their glasses, calling out to each other, laughing, then suddenly falling quiet: Gaston had just arrived with his huge knife.

Franck took up the commentary:

“He's the pig-slayer.”

“I might have guessed.”

“Did you see his hands?”

“Impressive.”

“Two pigs are getting it today. They're not fooled, they weren't fed this morning, so they know their number's up. They can sense it. Look, there's the first one now. Got your sketchbook?”

“Yes, yes.”

Camille could not help but be startled. She had not imagined a pig could be so big.

 
They dragged the beast into the farmyard. Gaston whacked it with a club, and they laid it on a bench and quickly tied it up, leaving its head dangling. Up to that point, it seemed all right because the beast was more or less out of it, but when the pig-slayer stuck his blade into the carotid, it was horrible. Instead of killing it, it was as if they'd woken it up. All the men rushing around it, blood spurting, the old grandma sticking a pan underneath, rolling her sleeve up to stir the blood. No spoon, nothing, her bare hand. Ugh. But still that wasn't so bad; what was unbearable was the pig's squeal. How he went on and on. The more he bled, the more he squealed and the more he squealed, the less it sounded like a beast crying. It was almost human. A death rattle, a plea. Camille gripped her sketchbook, and the other people there, those who knew the whole ritual by heart, were not doing much better. Hey, another shot of Dutch courage.

“Absolutely, thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Not drawing?”

“No.”

 
Camille, who wasn't born yesterday, tried to reason with herself and avoided making stupid remarks. For her the worst was still to come. For her, the worst was not the death itself. No, that was part of life, after all, but what seemed cruelest to her was when they brought out the second pig. Whether you believed in anthropomorphism or not, squeamishness or not, it made no difference, she didn't care. Camille found it nearly impossible to contain her agitation. Because that second pig had heard it all and he knew what had happened to his buddy, and he didn't wait to be stuck before he started braying like a donkey. Or not “like a donkey”—like a pig having its throat cut.

“Shit, they could have at least blocked his ears!”

“What, with parsley?” asked Franck, laughing.

 
So then, yes, she had to draw, so she wouldn't see it anymore. And she concentrated on Gaston's hands so she wouldn't hear it either.

It was no good. She was trembling.

 
When the squealing stopped, she put her sketchbook in her pocket and drew nearer. There, it was finished, she was curious, and with her glass she gestured toward the bottle.

 
They scorched the pigs with a blowtorch; there was a smell of grilled pork. Then they rubbed them with an astonishing brush: a wooden board onto which a whole series of upside-down beer caps had been nailed.

Camille sketched.

The butcher had begun his labor of chopping, and she went behind the block so that she would not miss any of his gestures. Franck was delighted.

“What's that?” she asked him.

“What?”

“That sort of transparent gluey ball?”

“The bladder. Actually it's not normal that it's so full . . . it's making things difficult for him.”

“It's not making things difficult at all! There, here you go,” exclaimed the butcher, moving his blade.

Camille squatted down to look at the pig's bladder. She was fascinated.

Kids loaded down with trays went back and forth between the still-smoking pig and the kitchen.

“Stop drinking.”

“Yes, O Health Guru.”

“I'm pleased. You did well.”

“Were you scared I wouldn't?”

“I was curious. Well, this is all very well, but I have work to do.”

“Where are you off to?”

“To get my gear. Go sit somewhere warm, why don't you.”

 
She found them all in the kitchen, a whole row of perky housewives armed with wooden chopping boards and knives.

“Come over here!” shouted Jeannine. “Here, Lucienne, make room for her by the stove. Ladies, may I introduce Franck's girlfriend, you know, the one I was telling you about a while ago. The one we resurrected last night. Come sit by us.”

 
The smell of coffee mingled with the frying of innards, and there was laughter, and chattering. A regular henhouse.

 
Franck arrived. Here he is! The chef! They giggled even more. When Jeannine saw him in his white chef's jacket, she became flustered.

 
Walking behind her toward the oven, he squeezed her shoulder. She blew her nose in her dish towel and went back to laughing with the others.

 
At this precise moment in the story, Camille wondered whether she wasn't falling in love with him. Shit. This was not something she had planned on, not at all. No way, she thought, reaching for a chopping board. No way, it was only because he'd told her his Dickensian saga. She wasn't about to fall into that trap.

 
“Can I help?” she asked.

They explained to her how to cut the meat into tiny pieces.

“What's it for?”

Answers came from all sides: “Sausage! Salami! Andouilles. Pâté. Rillettes.”

“And what are you doing with that toothbrush?”she asked as she leaned over toward her neighbor.

“I'm washing the entrails.”

Disgusting.

“And Franck?”

“Franck is going to be cooking for us. Blood pudding, poaching the andouilles and the delicacies.”

“What are the delicacies?”

“Head, tail, ears, trotters.”

Double-disgusting.

Huh . . . His health regime: he did say it wouldn't start before Tuesday, right?

 
When he came back up from the cellar with his potatoes and onions and saw her peering over at her neighbors to find out how to hold the knife, he walked over and took it from her hands:

“Don't you get involved with this. Stick to what you're good at. If you cut your finger you'll be in deep shit. Stick with what you're good at, all right? Where's your sketchbook?”

Then, turning to the gossiping women: “Say, you don't mind if she draws you, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“I do, my perm is all a mess.”

“C'mon, Lucienne, don't go acting the beauty queen. We all know damn well you've got a wig!”

And that was the atmosphere: Club Med at the farm . . .

 
Camille washed her hands and sketched until evening. Indoors, outdoors. Blood, watercolors. Dogs, cats. Kids, old folks. Fire, bottles. Smocks, cardigans. Under the table, fur-lined slippers. On the table, callused hands. Franck from the back and her own face in the blurry convex surface of a stainless steel stew pot.

 
To each of the women she offered a portrait—to little shivers of delight—then she asked the children to show her the farm so she could get some fresh air. And sober up a bit too.

Kids in Batman sweatshirts and rubber boots were running in every direction, laughing as they captured hens, teasing the dogs with long pieces of entrails that they dragged behind them.

“Bradley, what's wrong with you! Don't start the tractor, you'll get killed.”

“Aw, it was only to show him.”

“Your name's Bradley?”

“Yup.”

Bradley was the hard case in the gang, by the look of it. He got half-undressed just to show her his scars.

“If we put them all together,” he bragged, “it would make eight inches' worth of stitches!”

Camille nodded gravely and drew two Batman pictures: Batman taking off, and Batman versus the giant octopus.

“How do you draw so good?”

“You draw well too. Everyone draws well.”

 
In the evening, the banquet. Twenty-two people around the table and pork everywhere in sight. The tails and ears were grilling in the fireplace, and straws were drawn to determine whose plates would have the honor. Franck had been working flat hard: his first course was a sort of gelatinous and very aromatic soup. Camille dipped her bread in the soup, but didn't go any further; then came the blood pudding, the trotters, the tongue, and that wasn't all. She pushed her chair back a few inches and masked her lack of appetite by holding her glass out to whoever was offering a bottle. Afterwards came the desserts—everyone had brought a pie or a cake—and finally, the brandies.