Hunting and Gathering (46 page)

Philibert, Franck and Paulette had become the most important people in her life, and she was only just realizing it now, at that very moment, sitting there between two eighteenth-century Persian cushions. And she felt deeply moved.

 
From the first notebook to the last drawing—which she had made just a few hours earlier, of Paulette radiant in her chair in front of the Eiffel Tower—only a few months had elapsed. And yet she was not the same person . . . The woman holding the pencil had changed. She had given herself a good shake, she had evolved, and she had blasted away the granite blocks which for so many years had weighed her down and kept her from moving forward.

That evening there would be people waiting for her to come home. People who didn't care about her so-called worth. Who loved her for other reasons. For herself, perhaps.

For myself?

For yourself.

 
“And this?” said Mathilde impatiently. “You've stopped talking. Who's this?”

“Johanna, Paulette's hairdresser.”

“And these?”

“Johanna's boots. They're pretty rock 'n' roll, aren't they? How can a girl who works on her feet all day long possibly stand them? She's just a poor victim of fashion, I suppose.”

Mathilde laughed. The shoes really were monstrous.

“And this one here, I've seen quite a few of him.”

“That's Franck, the chef I was telling you about.”

“He's handsome, isn't he?”

“You think so?”

“Yes. He looks like Titian's young Farnese, ten years older.”

Camille rolled her eyes.

“No, really! I'm serious!”

Mathilde got up and came back with a book: “Here. Look. The same dark gaze, the same dilated nostrils, the same jutting chin, the same slightly protruding ears. The same fire burning within . . .”

“That's bullshit,” said Camille, staring cross-eyed at the portrait. “Mine's all pimply.”

“Oh, you spoil everything!”

 
“Is that it?” said Mathilde regretfully.

“I'm afraid so.”

“These are good. Really good. Marvelous.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Don't contradict me, young lady, I may not know how to do this myself, but I do know how to look at things. At an age when most children are going to puppet shows, my father was already dragging me to the four corners of the earth and lifting me onto his shoulders so I'd be at the right height, so don't you contradict me. Can you leave them with me?”

Camille didn't know what to say.

“For Pierre.”

“All right. But look after them, okay? I take my pulse with them, to know I'm all right.”

“I'd gathered as much.

 
“Don't you want to wait for Pierre?”

“No, I have to get going.”

“He'll be disappointed.”

“It won't be the first time,” answered Camille, resigned.

“You haven't mentioned your mother.”

“Really?” she said, surprised. “That's a good sign, isn't it?”

Mathilde saw her to the door and kissed her: “All the best . . . Off you go, and don't forget to come back and see me. You can fly over on one of Philibert's antique wing chairs . . . It's only a few streets away . . .”

“I promise.”

“And keep working like this. Keep it light . . . Have fun with what you're doing. Pierre would surely tell you something completely different, but you mustn't listen to him. Don't listen to others, not to him, not to anyone. Oh, and by the way?”

“Yes?”

“Do you need money?”

Camille should have said no. For twenty-seven years she had been saying no. No, I'm fine. No, but thanks all the same. No, I really don't need a thing. No, I don't want to have to owe you. No, no, leave me alone.

“Yes.”

Yes. Yes, I think I might. Yes, I won't be going back to play chambermaid either for the Italians or for Bredart or any of those bastards. Yes, I would like to work in peace for the first time in my life. Yes, I don't want to have to cringe every time Franck hands me the money for Paulette. Yes, I've changed. Yes, I need you. Yes.

“Fine. And use some of it to get yourself some clothes. Honestly . . . that denim jacket—you were wearing it ten years ago.”

That was true.

78

CAMILLE walked home, looking in the windows of the antique shops. She was right outside the Beaux-Arts (fate, how clever it is) when her cell phone rang. She closed it again when she saw it was Pierre calling.

She walked faster. Her heart was racing to keep up.

Second ring. Mathilde this time. She didn't answer that one either.

 
She went back the way she'd come and crossed the Seine. Our little heroine had a romantic streak, and whether it was to jump for joy or to jump in the water, the Pont des Arts was still the best there was in Paris. She leaned against the parapet and dialed the three digits of her voice mail.

You have two new messages. Today, at eleven
—She could always drop the phone, not really on purpose . . . Splash! Oh, what a pity . . .

“Camille, call me immediately or I'll come and drag you by the scruff of the neck!” he bellowed. “Right away! You hear me?”

 
Today, at twenty-three thirty-eight:
“It's Mathilde. Don't call him back. Don't come. I don't want you to see this. He's crying like a fat cow, your art dealer. Not a very pretty sight, I assure you. No—it
is
a pretty sight, beautiful even. Thank you, Camille, thank you. You hear what he's saying? Wait, I'm going to give him the phone, otherwise he's going to yank my ear off.” “I'll be showing you in September, Fauque, and don't say no because the invitations have already been sent—” The message cut off.

 
She switched off her cell phone, rolled a cigarette and smoked it, standing there between the Louvre, the Académie Française, Notre-Dame and the Place de la Concorde.

A perfect place for the curtain to come down . . .

 
Then she shortened the strap on her shoulder bag and ran as fast as she could, so as not to miss dessert.

79

THERE was a lingering smell of burned fat in the kitchen, but all the dishes had been cleared away.

Not a sound, all the lights off, not even a glimmer of light from under the doors of their rooms. Shoot. And here for once she was ready to eat the entire frying pan.

Camille knocked on Franck's door.

He was listening to music.

 
She planted herself at the end of his bed and put her fists on her hips: “Well, what the hell?”

“We saved a few for you. I'll flambé them for you tomorrow.”

“Well, what the hell!” she said again. “You're not going to screw me?”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

She began to get undressed.

“Hey, old man, you're not going to get out of it that easily! Promises are made, orgasms are kept!”

He sat up to switch on his lamp, while she was tossing her shoes into the void.

“What the hell are you doing? Where do you think you're going?”

“Well, I'm taking my clothes off!”

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

“Not like that, wait . . . I've been dreaming of this moment for ages.”

“Switch off the light.”

“Why?”

“I'm afraid you won't want me if you see me.”

“But, Camille, shit! Stop, stop!” he shouted.

A little pout, disappointed: “You don't want to?”

Silence.

“Switch off the light.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“I don't want it to happen like this.”

“And how do you want it to happen? You want to take me rowing in the Bois de Boulogne?”

“Sorry?”

“Take me for a boat ride and recite poetry while I trail my hand in the water?”

“Come and sit beside me.”

“Switch off the light.”

“Okay.”

“Switch off the music.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

 
“Is that you?” he asked, intimidated.

“Yes.”

“You're really here?”

“No.”

“Here, take one of my pillows. How was your appointment?”

“Fine.”

“You want to tell me?”

“What?”

“Everything. I want to know everything, tonight. Every single thing.”

“You know, if I start . . . You might feel you have to take me in your arms afterwards too.”

“Oh, shit. Did you get raped?”

“No.”

“Well, I can fix that for you if you'd like.”

“Oh, thank you, that's kind of you. Uh, where shall I begin?”

Franck imitated the condescending voice of a TV presenter who has no clue how to behave around children:

“And where are you from, little girl?”

“From Meudon.”

“From Meudon!” he exclaimed. “That's just great. And where is your mommy?”

“She's at home eating pills and tablets and things.”

“Oh, really? And your daddy, where's your daddy?”

“He died.”

Silence.

“Ah, I warned you! Have you got some condoms at least?”

“Don't jerk me around like this, Camille. I'm pretty thick sometimes, you know that. Your dad died?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“He fell into the void.”

Franck was silent.

“Okay, I'll give it to you in order. Come closer because I don't want the others to hear.”

He pulled the duvet up over their heads: “Go ahead. There, no one can see us now.”

80

CAMILLE crossed her ankles, put her hands on her stomach and set off on a long journey.

 
“I was a good little girl, very obedient . . . ,” she began, in a childish voice. “I didn't eat much but I worked hard at school and I drew all the time. I didn't have any brothers or sisters. My father was called Jean-Louis and my mother Catherine. I think they were in love when they met. I don't know, I never dared ask them. But by the time I began drawing horses or Johnny Depp's gorgeous face on
21 Jump Street
, by then they didn't love each other anymore. I'm sure of that because my dad didn't live with us anymore. He only came back on weekends to see me. It was understandable that he went away and I would have done the same in his place. And I would have liked to leave with him on those Sunday evenings but I never could have because my mother would have killed herself
again
. She killed herself plenty of times when I was little. Fortunately it was usually when I wasn't there but then later on, because I'd grown up, she didn't seem to care as much . . . Once I was invited to a girlfriend's house for her birthday. In the evening my mom didn't come to get me, so another mom dropped me off outside my house and when I got to the living room, I saw my mother dead on the carpet. The firemen came and I went to live with the neighbor for ten days. After that my dad told me that if she killed herself again he was going to get custody, so she stopped. She just went on taking a ton of medication. My dad told me he had to leave because of his work but my mom said I mustn't believe him. Every evening she repeated that he was a liar and a bastard, that he had another wife and a little girl that he was cuddling every night . . .”

Camille began to speak in a normal tone of voice: “This is the first time I've ever talked about it. It's like—your mother finished with you before sticking you back in the train, but mine still messes with my head every day. Every single day. There were times when she was nice, though. She'd buy me felt-tip pens and tell me I was her only happiness on earth.

“When my father came over, he would shut himself in the garage and sit in his Jaguar listening to opera. It was an old Jaguar that didn't have any wheels but that didn't matter, we used to go for drives all the same. He would say, ‘Shall I take you to the Riviera, mademoiselle?' and I would sit there next to him. I adored that car.”

“Which make was it?”

“An MK or something like that.”

“MKI or MKII?”

“Shit, you really are a guy. I'm trying to tell you a real tearjerker of a story and the only thing you're interested in is the make of the fucking car!”

“Sorry.”

“No harm done.”

“Go on, then.”

She gave a sigh of resignation.

“ ‘Well, then, mademoiselle, shall I take you to the Riviera?' ”

“ ‘Yes' ”—Camille smiled—“ ‘I'd like that.' ‘Have you brought your bathing suit?' he'd ask. ‘Perfect. And an evening gown as well! We must go to the casino. Don't forget your silver fox coat, it can be cool in Monte Carlo in the evening.' There was a nice smell inside the car. The smell of well-worn leather . . . It was all so lovely, I remember. The crystal ashtray, the vanity mirror, the tiny little handle to roll the window down, the inside of the glove compartment, the wood. It was like a flying carpet. ‘With a bit of luck we'll get there before nightfall,' he promised. Yes, he was that kind of man, my dad, a big dreamer who could shift gears on a car up on blocks for hours on end and take me to the far corners of the earth in a suburban garage. He was really into opera, too, so we listened to
Don Carlos
,
La Traviata
or
The Marriage of Figaro
during the trip. He would tell me the stories: Madame Butterfly's sorrow, the impossible love of Pelléas and Mélisande—when he confesses, ‘I have something to tell you' and then he can't; the stories with the countess and her Cherub who hides all the time, or Alcina, the beautiful witch who turned her suitors into wild animals. I always had the right to speak except when he raised his hand and in
Alcina
, he raised it a lot.
Tornami a vagheggiar
—I can't listen to that aria anymore. It's too happy. But most of the time I didn't say anything. I felt good. I thought about the other little girl. She didn't have all this. It was complicated for me. Now, obviously, I can see things more clearly: a man like him couldn't live with a woman like my mother. A woman who'd turn off the music just like that when it was time for dinner, who'd burst all our dreams like soap bubbles. I never saw her happy, I never saw her smile, I . . . But my father was the very image of kindness and goodness. A bit like Philibert . . . Too nice, in any case, to have to deal with all that. The idea that he might be a bastard in his little princess's eyes . . . So one day he came back to live with us. He slept in his study and left every weekend . . . No more escapades to Salzburg or Rome in the old gray Jaguar, no more casinos or picnics by the seaside. And then one morning—he must have been tired, very, very tired, he fell from the top of a building.”