It took quite a long time. I knew I should be trying to sleep, but I couldn’t miss the end. The lights in the apartment opposite went out. After that, it wasn’t long before they came out carrying a stretcher, on it my neighbour. He raised a hand to his face. The ambulance left the courtyard, and this time I noticed that its lights were flashing in silence, there were no sirens. Perhaps they were showing some consideration to the sleeping Parisians. In a way, I was relieved. Now I wouldn’t have to see him any more, wouldn’t have to watch the suffering going on outside my window. Recently, I had started to imagine that he was nothing but a ghost in my sick brain. Someone only I could see.
I had once asked my son if he’d seen the man opposite, the man who always seemed to be home. But he hadn’t, and I regretted drawing him in to it. And now my neighbour was among people who were used to meeting the dying. I didn’t want to see it. Though having a dark apartment opposite wasn’t much better. I hoped a family would move in, one with a baby suffering colic, or a teenager who played the latest hits with the volume turned up high. Anything but a silent cancer patient who stayed up all night.
Curiosity bubbles through Mancebo like a fizzy drink as he drives back from Rungis. His excitement at seeing whether he will find the money among the jars has grown bigger than Mancebo himself. He’s about to explode, and feels such an urge to kiss François when he serves him his freshly brewed coffee. For the first time, Mancebo realises how much he appreciates the bar owner. He’s a good man, one who has never broken his unspoken promise of fresh coffee every morning.
Though both Tariq and Mancebo know François equally well and see him equally often, Mancebo has a feeling that he himself is closer to the bartender than his cousin is. Despite the fact that he rarely sees François other than from his side of the bar. He could have a wooden leg for all I know, Mancebo thinks. François doesn’t even live in their quarter, he lives in the 7th arrondissement with his four women: one wife and three daughters.
‘I saw Amir the other day. Good boy you’ve got there.’
‘Yeah, he is, maybe a bit too good.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he’s just so kind. And you know how Fatima can be … pretty blunt.’
‘Yes, there’s always something. For me, I can’t say the same. At my place, we’ve got slamming doors, “hag” and “old bastard” being flung about. Three daughters in their teens, at the same time … well, they’re definitely not too nice.’
‘Sounds like how it should be.’
‘And Nadia?’
‘I heard from her last week, we got a postcard from … Brighton, I think it was. They’re on holiday there, her and her husband.’
‘No kids yet?’
‘No.’
‘It’ll happen.’
‘Yes, a few grandkids would be nice.’
François pats Mancebo on the shoulder.
‘I won’t keep you any longer, I can see you’re on tenterhooks. You’re a dedicated man, Mancebo.’
Mancebo smiles, slightly disappointed. He had thought he’d managed to hide his eagerness to get back to the boxes waiting for him outside his shop. Mancebo feels such a strong urge to hug the great François, standing with his shirtsleeves rolled up so that his faded tattoos are visible. But it’ll have to be another time. He’s worried about doing anything he might come to regret, the energy he feels is hard to keep on top of. If given free rein, it could have unforeseen consequences. Mancebo thanks François and goes off at a half-run, like a trotting horse whose only desire is to gallop. But if it does, there’s a risk it’ll be disqualified, he knows that, and so he slows down on the way back to his van. François watches him as he cleans a glass.
The boxes are there, on the pavement outside the shop. Mancebo can’t remember what he ordered this week. He made the order in his former life, before this new task came along. All that is history. Back then, he was completely unaware of what the future would have in store for him. Mancebo is more and more convinced that there won’t be a single olive jar in any of them.
He unlocks the grille and notices that the key is starting to get a little bent. Need to ask Tariq to make a new one, he thinks, feeling the lactic acid in his legs. The grille rolls up slowly. The key for the door slips easily into the lock, the door swings open and he is met by the scent of yesterday’s dinner. His heart is beating fiercely, unevenly, he can’t remember when he last felt like this. Maybe he’s too old for this after all, he thinks. Though on the other hand, he’s convinced that with time, as he gains more experience, he’ll learn to keep a cool head in situations like this. Mancebo calms himself by thinking that eventually imaginative methods of handing over the money will come to feel as undramatic as getting a payslip in the post.
Mancebo turns on the lights behind the counter, props open the door using the little handmade loop and hook. The scent of cooking mixes with the fresh morning air. It probably has no choice. The laws of physics see to that. He has already planned how he’s going to tackle his Christmas presents. First, he brings in the three white boxes. They’re heavier than he expected, and he remembers that he ordered a lot of mineral water. He did that after seeing the ten-day forecast. He remembers more of the order now. He puts down the boxes in front of the till.
Then he carries in the two brown boxes. These are lighter, but he can’t remember what might be inside them. Mancebo jumps. A stressed man with a dog trying to go in the opposite direction comes into the shop. Maybe the dog is on to a scent, or maybe it just doesn’t like the smell of yesterday’s bean stew. Professionalism, Mancebo manages to think before he greets the customer.
‘Good morning, monsieur. How can I help?’
‘Good morning. Do you know where I can buy cigarettes?’
‘There’s a tobacconist’s to the left here on the boulevard, on the other side.’
‘Is it far?’
‘A hundred metres, up by the metro.’
‘Thank you.’
The man is about to follow his little white dog, which is already halfway out onto the pavement, but he feels compelled to buy something and pulls it back. Please, you don’t need to buy anything, I won’t be angry if you just leave, please, just leave me in peace, Mancebo thinks.
‘Looks like it’s going to be warm again today. Do you have any small bottles of mineral water?’
Mancebo looks up again and smiles, or attempts to smile. He’s suffering. Holding back his curiosity is hard work. Mancebo knows the small bottles are in one of the new boxes, but he doesn’t want to start opening his presents with a spectator. That wasn’t the plan. Or he hadn’t planned it that way, anyway. He reluctantly starts to cut open one of the boxes, dearly hoping, with all of his heart, that he won’t find any jars of olives inside. Madame Cat probably chose a box which wasn’t taped shut.
‘We’re in luck, Sherlock,’ the man chuckles to his dog, pulling on the lead.
Fitting name, Mancebo thinks. The dog doesn’t seem to think they’re in luck at all, it’s still struggling to leave. Mancebo has picked the right box. The one containing the mineral water that is, and only that. Nothing else, no jars of olives. Mancebo’s face lights up and he is probably thinking that he really is in luck today.
The man pays with the correct change and practically flies out of the shop; Sherlock has clearly had enough. Mancebo takes the opportunity to lift up the cash box, where he just placed the money, to pull out his watch. As usual, he straps it high on his wrist. Just as he is straightening his jacket sleeve over the top of it, the door swings open and Tariq stomps in in his own particular, brusque way. Mancebo was so deep in thought that his cousin’s appearance gives him a shock. Tariq’s entrance doesn’t usually scare him, but then he’s never normally so far away from the business of his shop. Out of sheer fright, Mancebo drops the cash box onto his fingers, and he yelps.
‘That’s what I call being caught with your hand in the cookie jar,’ Tariq chuckles.
‘You scared me.’
&nb
sp; Mancebo casts a quick glance at his arm to double-check that his jacket is covering his watch.
‘Look at this!’
Tariq waves a lotto ticket in the air. Mancebo sighs, mostly to get rid of the last of his shock.
‘A thousand euros! It was just lying there! I got Adèle to check it this morning. I didn’t believe her at first. You know, Adèle has a wild imagination and always wants to interpret everything to her own advantage. But crikey, it was just there! This calls for a celebration!’
‘Congratulations.’
Mancebo can’t quite bring himself to feel overjoyed about his cousin’s win, and he wonders why. He likes Tariq, and he would wish him and Adèle all the money in the world. They don’t have an easy life. Childless, plus her back pain. He decides that his lack of joy must be down to wanting to focus on the boxes. As luck would have it, Tariq leaves fairly quickly, clutching his lotto ticket as though it might blow away or someone might snatch it from his hand.
But once Tariq is gone, it’s as though Mancebo’s excitement has vanished. His bubbling expectation has run off with its tail between its legs, having been put off one too many times. As a plaster on the wound, Mancebo pushes the door closed. He hadn’t planned on doing it, but things are different now. He stacks the white boxes behind the till, they can wait, and then he carefully lifts one of the brown ones onto the counter.
Wonder which is most likely, winning the lotto or there being an olive jar full of money in this box, Mancebo thinks, folding back the lid. He casts a glance at the other boxes to reassure himself that he still has a chance if he isn’t lucky this time. The box contains a couple of tins of tomatoes, seven of celery, ten cans of sweetcorn and there – bingo! Mancebo’s legs practically give way. He grabs the olive jar, which stands out among its friends thanks to its more valuable content. He can see that immediately. A number of 50 euro notes.
Gripping the jar tightly, Mancebo sits down behind the till. He slowly unscrews the lid. He’s prepared for anything. Nothing can surprise him now. If a customer comes in, he’ll put the jar on the shelf beneath the till. If anyone comes down from the apartment, he’s sitting with his back to them and they won’t be able to see what he has in his hands. Not that anyone would raise an eyebrow at him counting a few banknotes. Mancebo pulls the wad of money from the jar and quickly notes that the glass has been washed thoroughly. He counts them. Twenty 50 euro notes, a thousand euros. He counts them again and realises that he is holding his breath. One thousand euros for one week’s work. Suddenly, he feels nervous. Is this legal? Do I need to declare it? What if someone attacks me? Where should I hide the money?
The questions send Mancebo’s mind into a panic, but he eventually calms down. I’m almost sixty and haven’t done a single dodgy deal in my life, he thinks. Who cares about a few thousand undeclared euros here and there? Besides, who knows how long this is going to last. Maybe it’s a one-off. No point assuming the worst.
There was no message inside the jar, but when Mancebo screws on the lid, he notices that someone has written three letters on the top in black marker. C.A.T. He shudders and stashes the jar of money in the same place as the sixty-nine Chinese notebooks and the binoculars. Keeping his valuables out in the open, among the rubbish beneath his counter, is a smart move. No one searching for anything important would ever think to look there.
We’ll celebrate tonight, Mancebo thinks, opening the door wide and looking out to the apartment opposite. A new working day has begun.
The cork pops. Just like a champagne cork should. Fatima laughs and picks up the phone. Even Amir seems to be in a cheerful mood tonight. After his drink at Le Soleil, Mancebo had stopped off at the wine shop, Nicolas, to buy two bottles of champagne. This was something worth celebrating. All day long, he’s been in a great mood. Mancebo is like a child who has been given the Christmas present he wanted above all else, and now he just wants to enjoy it. Like a gift from above, Tariq’s lotto win has given him a reason to live out his own joy.
‘Yes! Didn’t you hear me, a thousand euros, just like that!’
Everyone knows that Fatima is talking to her old aunt. The woman is the only one of her relatives still alive.
‘Come on, let’s drink to it,’ Tariq laughs.
Fatima tries to end the call, not so that she can drink but because it costs a lot to ring Tunisia. Everyone raises their glass. Adèle is the only one without any alcohol in hers. She never drinks, and claims never to have even tasted it. Mancebo raises his glass to eye level and studies reality, his family, through a sea of golden bubbles. His thoughts drift to the binoculars, which makes him even more cheery. He likes them. Tariq’s white smile appears through the champagne glass. He seems happy, Mancebo thinks, wondering whether he has ever seen his cousin in such a good mood. He doesn’t think so. Not even at his own wedding. In fact, Mancebo doesn’t know whether Tariq is a happy man. There’s so much to suggest otherwise: a sick wife, no children and no real dreams for the future.
Mancebo takes a sip of champagne and then raises his glass again. This time, it’s Adèle he studies through the bubbling golden liquid. She has taken off her veil tonight. Mancebo has seen her without it any number of times, but she looks different today. There’s something naked, cheerful and relaxed about her. Mancebo has the feeling that it’s something other than the lotto win which is making her so happy. She’s beautiful, he thinks, studying her almond-shaped brown eyes. His glass sweeps across to Amir, who is leaving the room, as though he knows he would otherwise be under observation. Mancebo’s eyes move on to Fatima, who is laughing and talking about this and that. The shock of seeing her after Adèle’s elegant face makes Mancebo jump. He puts down his glass so that he can study his wife without the distortion of the light through the glass and the champagne, and he hopes that was all that distorted her nose. But champagne tends to have the opposite effect: it beautifies both people and the world.
Tariq goes out into the hall and then quickly returns with a brown box. Fatima is in the kitchen making tea. Adèle has vanished, Mancebo doesn’t know where. He himself is clutching his third glass of champagne, looking out at the apartment over the boulevard. He is daydreaming about the writer’s double life.
‘You look like you’re dreaming, brother.’
Tariq sits down next to his cousin and opens the brown box.
‘Here, you bought the champagne, I bought the cigars.’
The brown box contains five fat cigars on crisp brown paper which looks like baking parchment. Mancebo is just about to take one when Fatima, who has returned with the tea, snaps the lid of the box shut on his fingers.
‘If I’m not mistaken, you’ve already smoked your cigarette for the day?’
Mancebo’s fingers hurt. The lid is heavy. It might not have been her intention to hurt him, but she does. And it isn’t the pain which bothers Mancebo most, it’s being so abruptly torn from his fantasies. It’s like brutally shaking someone who was sleeping deeply. He hates her. Fatima’s nose grows with the hate.
‘Tough wife you’ve got,’ Tariq says, lighting a cigar and gently closing the lid.
Mancebo’s bubbling joy has curled up into a subdued foetal position. It’s no longer fizzing in time with the champagne, it has been dulled considerably. Adèle comes back just in time for the tea. Even Amir turns up, not for the tea but for the sweet biscuits. Mancebo grabs the champagne bottle and empties the last few drops into his glass. He isn’t used to drinking any more than his usual afternoon tipple at Le Soleil, and he feels slightly woozy as a result. Fatima glances at him, but he pretends not to notice.
When he spots the writer locking the front door, he instantly sobers up. Mancebo’s eyes move discreetly to the clock above the TV. Quarter to eleven. Where is he off to at this time of night? The apartment is completely dark, meaning that Madame Cat is either sleeping or already gone. It doesn’t matter which, since the person who gave him his task knows the answer herself, Mancebo thinks. A strong urge to get up, go out and follow hi
s subject washes over him. The Paris night is just stirring into life. The anxious take themselves out onto its streets.
During the morning, I couldn’t think of anything but Monsieur Caro, and between the plings I managed to come up with a handful of theories. There were few facts. Judith Goldenberg was Monsieur Caro’s mother, and she had been a woman who didn’t deserve to be honoured. That was her son’s opinion, anyway. What could she have done?
Judith had died twenty years earlier. The gravestone had provided me with that information. Monsieur Caro had seen me placing flowers on his mother’s grave. Could it be that I, or the flowers, was the cause of his suicide attempt? Had my actions been too much for an old man who hated his mother?
Monsieur Caro had also informed me that I was like Judith. I didn’t quite understand why he said that. He had wanted an explanation, but I’d just left him alone in the hospital room. He shouted helplessly after me. The young doctor had appeared and wondered what was going on. I explained that Monsieur Caro had got it into his head that I knew his dead mother. Despite everything, that was true. The doctor had nodded and said that it might be best if they did further tests before sending him home.
After a bit of googling, I realised that the tattoo Monsieur Caro had on his arm could be the type of number the Jews were branded with in the concentration camps. I spent the afternoon reading about the concentration camps of the Second World War. The plings felt almost disruptive. I delved into how the Nazis had used different coloured triangles to divide the Jews into groups: political, criminal, emigrants, biblical researchers, homosexuals, asocial elements … and how they were then given their numbers in the camps.
Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier Page 11