‘No, not at all. Not if the story is told objectively. No beautification, but no judgement either. That way, your view of your mother might even be confirmed.’
He looked at me and I realised he didn’t follow.
‘I mean that the readers could decide for themselves. They might take your side. Surely that would be punishment enough for her?’
His eyes glimmered. The spoils of revenge. Once and for all, he would see his own mother judged, and thereby gain justification for his own behaviour. The thought that others would cast aspersions on Judith would, in some strange way, purify him. It would be his trump card. Not just for his own enjoyment, but also as proof to his siblings that he had done the right thing in keeping them away from their mother’s grave. If Judith could hear us, I hoped she would understand my ulterior motive.
‘When did you get your tattoo?’ I asked.
‘A long time ago.’
‘Who by?’
‘I don’t know. Some madman with a ring in his nose here in Marais.’
‘You went to a tattoo parlour?’
I couldn’t help but laugh.
‘But you’ve had a number tattooed on yourself, the kind the Jews were given in the concentration camps?’
‘Correct.’
‘Why?’
‘She should have had one. Someone from the family has to carry the burden.’
I studied him, watching TV with that dogged look on his face.
‘Your visit can end now,’ he said, pointing to the door.
Mancebo stares straight ahead into blank nothingness. Is this the end, he wonders. How will I ever dare set foot outside the door again? I lost. I had a good story in my hands, and they took it away from me, whoever they were.
After an hour or so, Mancebo makes his way over to the door on shaking legs. He pushes it open with his foot and then hurries back to his safe place behind the counter. He doesn’t dare look over to the writer’s building, but he knows that if he doesn’t open the door now, he never will. It’s like falling off a horse, Mancebo thinks. You have to quickly get back in the saddle, otherwise you’ll never dare. ‘Horses,’ Mancebo mumbles to himself. Lucky I managed to come up with that story about the binoculars and the races.
He debates whether he should go to see a doctor. His head is pounding. The two men didn’t hit him, but he’s probably suffering from shock. He opens another can of Cola, and remembers that his mother always used to say that the American drink should be used as medicine and nothing else. It feels good to drink a little medicine right now. The thought of his mother makes Mancebo feel like crying, but he manages to hold back the tears. No sense mixing things up.
Mancebo’s head starts to clear, and he summarises the situation: two madmen paid a visit to his shop. The way the man with the muttonchops reacted when he found and read through the notes about the writer suggests they had nothing to do with him. Strange things are happening on this seemingly peaceful boulevard, that much is clear. It’s not just unfaithful writers running wild, other dodgy dealings are also going on. All I promised was not to point my binoculars out at the boulevard, Mancebo thinks. I’m sure I can probably keep that promise.
There are now four empty Cola cans on the counter. The smell of dinner has started to make its way down to the shop, and after everything he’s drunk, Mancebo has to struggle not to wet himself again. He starts pulling the vegetable stand inside, his eyes fixed on a couple of carrots. He still isn’t ready to see what’s going on outside, on the boulevard. Tariq comes over and pats him on the back before he disappears into the shop.
‘Party?’ Mancebo hears him say before he trots up the stairs.
At first, Mancebo doesn’t understand what he means. Then he realises that Tariq is talking about the four Cola cans lined up on the counter. He pulls down the grille and locks the door, making a decision as he does. ‘The show must go on,’ he mumbles to himself, though he isn’t one hundred per cent convinced. He turns off the light in the shop.
He replays the entire scene to himself, over and over again. The way he was dragged into the shop, and everything that followed. Mancebo is barely aware of what he puts into his mouth during dinner. He twists and turns the day’s events in his mind, and realises that he’s starting to lose the plot. He can’t bring himself to look at it objectively, and blames that on his new friend, imagination. It’s playing tricks on him. He has two versions of events, and both could be taken as the truth. One tells him that two pushers, both in a drug-fuelled state, mistook him for a plain-clothes officer spying on them. They made a mistake, to put it bluntly, but they regretted it. And they’ll probably change the spot where they either drop off or buy their drugs. That version calms Mancebo. The other doesn’t. In that version, he was attacked and abused by two madmen who have something to do with his task. Which means they’ll be back.
‘Well?’
Fatima elbows him.
‘Do you want more rice?’
She talks slowly, articulating each word, as though she is trying to get someone with learning difficulties to understand what she is saying. The others laugh, and Fatima gets up and carries the rice away before Mancebo has time to reply. Tariq’s fingers drum nervously on the table, and Mancebo quickly retreats into himself again.
Mancebo carefully runs his hand over the spines of the books. He knows that Amir reads a lot, but he wonders whether he has really read all these books on the shelf. None of the books are by an author named Cat.
‘Are you looking for something?’
Mancebo jumps, as though he was doing something forbidden. Amir seems puzzled. Mancebo knows that the attack, or whatever he should call it, has left its mark. He overreacts to sudden sounds. Amir can’t remember having seen his father in his room since he was young, when Mancebo carried him up to bed after he fell asleep on the sofa.
‘No, not really. I was just looking at the books. Have you read all of these?’
Amir nods. The same urge that he felt while on the phone to Nadia washes over him, he feels like talking about his detective work. Mancebo glances around the room, as though it was the first time he had ever set foot in it.
‘Do you remember how I used to carry you up to bed when you fell asleep on the sofa?’
Amir nods and smiles.
‘That was a while ago. How are things?’
‘Good.’
‘I have a question for you, I know you read a lot.’
Mancebo is about to do something spontaneous. He is about to hand a piece of the puzzle to an outsider. He would never have expected it to be Amir, but he can’t stop himself. The case needs to move forward, because right now he isn’t getting anywhere, and the need for results is breathing down his neck.
‘Sit down.’ Mancebo gestures to the bed, but he instantly regrets the hand movement, it feels like he’s giving a command to a dog.
Amir cautiously sits down next to his father, and Mancebo notices how slender his son’s arms are.
‘Do you know of any writers living here … in the neighbourhood?’
Amir purses his lips and thinks, as though it’s an important question, which it is after all. He shakes his head, and Mancebo realises how stupid his question was. Madame Cat’s husband is probably just an amateur. If he’s even a writer at all. Maybe Madame Cat just made something up. He could just as easily spend his days writing academic texts, diaries, anything really.
‘You mean Ted Baker?’
Mancebo jumps. The blood starts pumping more quickly in his veins, and he attempts to control himself.
‘Where does he live?’
Amir points to the building on the other side of the boulevard. Bingo. The fact that Mancebo now has a name for the man he has been watching for a week gets him excited. It wouldn’t really have made any difference what name Amir had said. Mancebo knew he had a name, of course, just like everyone else, but everything feels so much more exciting and real now that he knows what the man is actually called. But in his agitation, Mancebo re
minds himself not to reveal any more details.
‘Do you have any of his books?’
Amir shakes his head.
‘Have you read any of them?’
Amir shakes his head.
‘No, they’re not really my style.’
‘Style?’
‘Yeah, he mostly writes crime novels.’
‘Crime novels?’
‘Yeah, about private detectives, murders, stuff like that.’
Mancebo’s heart practically comes to a stop, and he waits for it to return to normal before he continues.
‘Private detectives …?’
‘He’s English. Why do you want to know?’
‘He … he came into the shop. We talked … and I was just curious about who he is.’
Amir studies his father with his big brown eyes, and he pulls at the bedcover with his fingers.
‘What are you going to do now?’
Stupid question, Mancebo thinks.
‘Go to bed.’
Mancebo gets up. He feels sweaty and cold at the same time.
‘Night then.’
‘Night,’ Amir says expectantly. ‘I’m going to the library tomorrow, do you want me to borrow one of his books? I mean, if you want something to read.’
‘The library? They have his books there?’
‘Of course.’ Amir laughs. It’s a fond laugh. ‘Dad, you need to get out into the world, not just sit in your shop all day.’
‘I’d like that, thanks.’
‘What? To get out into the world?’
‘No, or yes, I’d like you to borrow one of Ted’s books. I can give you money if you need it.’
‘It’s free. I’ve got a library card.’
‘Aha … Goodnight, my son.’
‘Sleep well, Dad.’
He knows he won’t.
Mancebo is afraid. Afraid that his body will give up one day, and soon, that it will simply stop working because it was never allowed to sleep or even rest. That kind of thing can happen. Mancebo has heard about studies which prove it. Stopping people from sleeping was one of the methods of torture used by the Nazis. Maybe there’s no comparing it with my situation, but still, I’m exposing myself to the risk, Mancebo thinks.
Oddly enough, he doesn’t seem to be affected by any extreme weariness during the day. That isn’t necessarily a good sign, though. In fact, it could be the opposite. Maybe the human body stops feeling tired after a while, before it gives up completely.
Mancebo spends the night awake, listening to the sounds all around him. The low hum of the dustbin lorry, the police sirens, the sound of the toilet on the floor below, the buzz of the refrigerator. After all of his sleepless nights, Mancebo has learnt Fatima’s sleeping patterns. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes after they say goodnight until she’s asleep. Then, roughly an hour and a half later, before she moves into a deeper sleep, she turns over and clears her throat.
During his first few sleepless nights, Mancebo had been convinced she was about to wake up. But now he knows she’s just clearing her throat, nothing more. Sometimes, she even stops breathing. Once, so long seemed to pass between breaths that Mancebo thought she was dead. And after that, he had been worried about himself, because he hadn’t felt as upset as he should.
The new information that the writer has a name, Ted Baker, scares Mancebo slightly, and he isn’t sure why he didn’t find it out before now. The writer is no longer an object, he’s a person. The nameless has been given a name. The anonymous has become known. Even Amir knows about him. Mancebo realises that he has certain limitations as a private detective, certain gaps in his general education, but they aren’t so big as to be insurmountable. It’ll take time and hard work, but he isn’t afraid of that. Mancebo has never been scared of working.
He wonders whether Madame Cat and Ted Baker might be messing with him. Could Monsieur Baker be working on a new book, one about a small man with a grocer’s shop, and about a lady who comes in one day to make him a decidedly unusual proposal? Then they send two madmen into the shop to see how he reacts.
Mancebo lies there in bed, getting himself worked up, wondering whether perhaps Monsieur Baker spends all day watching him. He feels tricked. What could be better for a writer than having a story play out right in front of him? It’s a bit like an artist being given a life model. All they need to do is write. Imagine if that’s the case. That one day, he’ll be able to read all about himself.
Before I went home, I scanned through an article about the world’s most beautiful cities. Paris was in thirtieth place. Vienna first. Hard to believe there was a more beautiful city, I thought as I looked out at the Sacré-Cœur, the pointed white basilica rising up like an iceberg in the sun. I heard a pling. By that point, I had learnt how to carry out my peculiar task even while my mind was elsewhere. When I looked up, I noticed that the cleaner was standing in the doorway. I wondered how long she had been there.
‘I’m just going,’ I said, starting to gather my things.
Usually, she just charged in, so the fact that she was just waiting in the doorway gave me an uneasy feeling. Why did she even come to clean the office? The bin was empty. I had just been sitting in a chair for a few hours, no one else ever came by. She, too, was carrying out a pointless task. She moved as I approached the door.
‘There’s not really anything to clean here, the bin doesn’t even need emptying.’
‘I’m just doing my job,’ she said flatly.
Why was she so brusque? What had I done to her? Her black headscarf was tied tightly at the back of her head. What was she going to clean in an already clean room? The cord to the vacuum cleaner was knotted, and she patiently started untangling it. It seemed like she was trying to kill time, as though she wanted me to leave before she started her Sisyphean task. But I didn’t move. Maybe her overalls were a disguise just like my sales manager pass was. Maybe she was turning on the computer after I left. Maybe she did the night shift.
‘If you ask me, there’s no need to clean the room. As far as I know, I’m the only one who ever uses it.’
I knew I was close to overstepping a line. I wasn’t meant to talk to anyone in the building. But the woman didn’t reply, she didn’t even look up.
Without waiting to be called, I decided to challenge them and headed straight to the reception desk. It was as though the receptionist had just been sitting there, waiting for someone to come. Maybe that someone was me. She seemed so happy to see me, and though the exchange I had with her was as meaningless as most other things in my life, she did at least smile, and I was grateful for that.
‘Oh, so pretty! How nice to be given flowers today!’
I couldn’t help it. The sarcasm was born out of the pointlessness of it all. It was a way of surviving. I thought of Judith. We all have our coping strategies. The receptionist laughed, and I wanted to believe that it was an honest laugh, that she realised I was being sarcastic. My plan was to quickly get rid of the flowers and head straight home.
‘Hello!’ I heard someone shout.
I turned around and the revolving door slammed mercilessly into my back. Someone behind me sighed. They had lost a few precious seconds of their life in the time it took for the doors to start turning again. Christophe and another man were hurrying out behind me. Safely outside, I took a deep breath. The performance could begin.
‘Are you OK? Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’
Christophe ran his hand through his hair.
‘Fine … thanks.’
The two men exchanged a few words before they said goodbye, and the other man held out his hand to me. I conducted myself in line with all of the rules. The man hurried away over the street.
‘So, what’s the flower girl up to now?’
‘The flower girl’s going home.’
‘A coffee before you go?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Do you work at Areva?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you do?’<
br />
‘Sales manager.’
‘OK …’
‘You work here too?’
Christophe shook his head.
‘No, but directly opposite, at Capgemini.’
I nodded.
‘You like flowers, then?’
I couldn’t help but laugh. His sense of humour was a good match for my new-found irony.
‘Yep, a lot.’
‘What do you do with them all?’
‘Leave them on graves. Unless I’ve given them to statues of dead authors.’
He laughed warmly in the belief that I was joking, and I laughed because it was all true.
‘Unless you’ve given them to me, that is. So you’re some kind of messenger of death? That sounds fun. Though now I don’t know whether I dare to cross the street, a car might come along and bring my world to an end.’
The oppressive heat was doing all it could to bring our conversation to an end.
‘What about a glass of something cold instead of a coffee?’
‘Here,’ I said, holding out the flowers.
This time, he showed firmly that he didn’t want them.
‘If you take them home, put them in some water and enjoy them for a while, maybe we can go for a coffee next time we run into one another. OK?’ I said.
My suggestion wasn’t just an excuse to get rid of the flowers. I hoped we would run into one another again, and then it would be practical if we’d already agreed to go for a coffee. Plus, I was scared of giving the flowers to strangers, because that had already shown it could have unexpected consequences. It felt safer giving them to someone who had already been initiated.
‘Is that a promise?’
I nodded, turned my back to him and walked away. Christophe ran after me.
‘I don’t believe you. Monday? Lunch?’
‘Coffee, we said.’
‘OK. When?’
‘Monday? Twelve?’
‘Meet here.’
I nodded.
‘Good evening, madame!’
The cheery florist waved to me. My route home was lined with people who, in one way or another, were all mixed up in my task. I can understand why he’s happy, I thought. He might be the only one gaining anything from this whole tale. The metro came as a relief. I had never appreciated its long, dark tunnels as much as I did right then. But in the darkness, my phone rang, and it took a minute or two of rifling through my bag before I found it.
Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier Page 15