Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier

by Britta Rostlund

  ‘He picked the wrong woman,’ I said.

  There was a picture of Dominique Strauss-Kahn, the former head of the International Monetary Fund, splashed across the cover. The man who had sexually assaulted a woman in a New York hotel.

  There was no doubt about it. He was convinced I was trying to chat him up.

  ‘And you’d be the right woman?’ he asked with a nervous laugh.

  He seemed pleased with his comment. I held out my hand.

  ‘It’s not far from here. Just there.’

  I pointed over to Areva. The Hilton was right next to it.

  Only a few weeks earlier, I had been worried about being mistaken for an escort, but now I was trying to do just that. The man was convinced we would be going to a hotel room together. A day-use room which could be booked by tired or horny businessmen for a few hours.

  Maybe he would change his mind once he realised we were on the way into a skyscraper. Maybe not. Maybe he was so horny that it would take him a while to cool down. The man closed the lid of his computer and grabbed his coat. I could see in his eyes that he was trying to think rationally, to think through his horniness. He glanced around and then followed me in the belief that I was a woman who wanted him.

  It was time to cool him down, to plant the seed of doubt.

  ‘It’s the very top floor. Did you know that Giovanni Agnelli, the CEO of Fiat, used to have the entire top floor as his apartment?’

  We headed towards reception, and I started to feel slightly sorry for him. I was calm. The receptionist looked up and caught sight of me. She did all she could to avoid a smile, but it was no good. She got up and came back with a pass.

  ‘Thank you, madame,’ I said.

  She looked at me. She was part of the game. The man was sweating. He took the pass and looked down at it. I suspected he was debating with himself, maybe he would decide to put a stop to things there and then.

  The lift plinged and we reached the very top. I realised I had to act quickly and therefore handed him the key. It wasn’t enough. He was neither horny nor interested in playing along any more. The thought that I could grab his crotch ran through my mind. I was desperate, he couldn’t pull out now, not now we’d come so far. We stepped out of the lift and I grabbed the contract.

  ‘Monsieur Bellivier would like you to read this carefully and check that the amount is correct. That you approve the payment.’

  With the mention of money, I managed to pique his interest again. He read as we walked down the corridor. I stopped in front of the door. He already had the key.

  ‘This is your office.’

  He started searching his pockets, and I thought about how much of a turn-off it would have been if we had actually been going up there for sex and he started emptying his pockets to look for a key. He unlocked the door and immediately entered the room as though it was his. A feeling of anger washed over me; the room was still mine. How many hours had I spent looking out at the Sacré-Cœur from that window?

  ‘Sit down and read through the contract, I’ll fetch some coffee.’

  I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing by leaving him alone, and so I hurried downstairs and quickly returned with two coffees. He was sitting in my chair, behind my desk, at my computer. The imposter. I would probably never get another opportunity to see Paris the way I had these past few weeks. He would get to live my life, a life which wasn’t really mine. I’d borrowed it from Monsieur Rossi, who had borrowed it from someone else. The man turned around as though he’d been able to read my thoughts behind his back.

  ‘Have you had time to read the contract?’

  He ran his hand over his chin. It was as though he had become uglier once he realised this didn’t have anything to do with sex. Not that he had been attractive before, but his entire body language had changed.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he eventually said. ‘And this sum of money at the end of the … project, or whatever it is?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t you know?’

  I needed to put him in his place, I needed to make him so unsure of himself that I could row this thing ashore. And I got my way. It was as though he became aware that the question might be his downfall, that he would never get a glimpse of the payment.

  ‘Yes, yeah, but you just want to be certain before you sign, you know?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, placing the mug of coffee beside him.

  He got up and moved over to the window. He stood there like that for some time. I wasn’t worried, I knew he would sign the contract. It was as though he was saying goodbye to something. A trip, a friend, a job.

  I held out the pen. He signed. His signature gave me one last chance to make him doubt himself. I studied the scrawl at the bottom of the contract and heard him swallow. He quickly held out his hand. This was a man who was used to acting. It had been the prospect of sex which made him follow me up here, but it was the money which had made him stay. Those weren’t good motives in the long run.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said quickly, pretending that I had received a phone call.

  I left the room and walked over to the lift. I prayed a silent prayer before I returned.

  ‘That was Monsieur Bellivier.’

  The man smiled and sat down.

  ‘He wanted me to say that he’s thrilled you’ve accepted to do this as compensation. He also said that he knows you like American authors, so if you get bored there are some books in the box beneath the desk.’

  The man didn’t say anything. Even if he was only doing it for the money, I had, at least, given him something to think about.

  ‘And the agreed fee, I get that from you?’

  You money-hungry pig, I thought, reminding myself that he had only followed me up there for sex.

  ‘It’s all in the contract. Oh, one more thing, though you may already know. It’s best if you try not to mix with the other employees here.’

  We took the lift back down to reception in silence. A group of men in suits were laughing, a corpulent secretary was running after a young man with a document, a few women were chatting. A man was playing with his cufflinks as he talked on the phone. The receptionist pretended not to see me.

  I held out my hand and said goodbye to the man.

  What a damn circus, Mancebo thinks, looking out at the room. Adèle’s hairdryer is in three pieces on the floor. ‘Try to fix it now!’ Tariq had shouted as he smashed it in front of Raphaël. There’s rice all over the red Persian rug, and Raphaël, in his rush to leave the apartment as quickly as possible, has forgotten his phone. The same phone on which Tariq found proof that what Mancebo accused him of was true.

  To begin with, Raphaël had flatly denied the accusations. He would never do that to his best friend. Tariq had then calmly asked to borrow Raphaël’s phone. He hadn’t stayed calm for long after that.

  Once Raphaël left the apartment, Tariq had taken his wife over to the cobbler’s shop. From the window, Mancebo had watched him practically drag her across the boulevard. What they are talking about now, in the brightly lit shop, Mancebo has no idea. At Tariq’s request, Fatima has gone up to her own apartment.

  Mancebo is alone at the table. There’s enough food for five people, and he takes turns eating and smoking. He hears a knock at the door downstairs, gets up and glances over to the cobbler’s shop. Tariq is sitting in the armchair in his office, and Adèle is opposite him with her face buried in her hands. There’s another knock. It must be the shop door. Mancebo stubs out his cigarette and immediately lights a new one, then he heads downstairs.

  He leaves the door to Tariq and Adèle’s apartment open, because he doesn’t know whether they took any keys with them when they fled. Maybe Raphaël will come back to pick up his phone, or maybe Mancebo will feel like eating again in a while. If any burglars happen to pass by, the place is in such a state that they would probably turn around in the doorway thinking that one of their colleagues had beaten them to it. Mancebo hears another knock. This time, it’s harder.

  ‘Ye
s, yes, yes, I’m coming,’ he mutters as he walks down the stairs.

  Her green eyes glow in the darkness. Mancebo lets Madame Cat into the shop. She looks tired, and she is holding a white shoebox in one hand, something which makes Mancebo freeze. He’s had enough of those boxes.

  For the last time, Mancebo takes out the two stools and places them in the middle of the shop. He can see Tariq shouting at Adèle on the other side of the road, gesturing wildly with his arms as he does it. What a bloody boulevard, Mancebo thinks, just as Madame Cat suddenly bursts into tears.

  After a few awkward attempts to provide some comfort by patting her on the shoulder and reassuring her that everything will be OK, Mancebo decides not to do any more and to let her finish crying instead. When Madame Cat leans against Mancebo’s shoulder, the lid on the box shifts slightly and he catches a glimpse of a dead body – a bird. It’s the one which flew into his window. He has no idea how he can be so sure. And as though by reflex, he pushes Madame Cat away. She has a body under her arm, that could mean something. In mafia circles, they use dead animals as a warning that a close friend or relative is going to be executed. He can’t allow himself to forget that she is, after all, a stranger.

  ‘Madame Bellivier, what do you have in your box?’

  Mancebo feels proud. If she’s going to try to kill him, he has, at least, elegantly shown that he knows her real name.

  ‘Oh, sorry. It’s a bird. I found it on the pavement outside a while ago. I kept it on the windowsill to begin with, but it bothered my husband when he was working and I put it into the freezer. But that’s no place to be left lying. I haven’t had the chance to bury it yet, but I wanted to do it tonight. Maybe it would be symbolic, burying this whole story with it.’

  Mancebo feels slightly calmer with regards to his mafia theory, but he is also disappointed that she didn’t react to him knowing her real name.

  ‘I got your reports and wanted to come and say thanks. You’ve done a good job.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’ve been any help …’

  ‘Yes, you’ve done everything I asked. And I know, at least, that the woman doesn’t come to our house. Maybe he does have some respect for me, after all.’

  ‘So you still think your husband is having an affair?’

  Madame Bellivier gives Mancebo a resigned look.

  ‘I don’t think. I know.’

  Mancebo is convinced she’s about to bring up female intuition, or use her husband acting strangely as proof. The kind of thing which would never stand up in a court of law. But instead, she shoves a hand into the pocket of her sleeveless black dress.

  ‘Could you hold this a minute?’ she says, handing Mancebo the shoebox.

  Mancebo reluctantly takes it from her, but he holds it at arm’s length. It smells like death. Madame Bellivier takes out two scraps of paper.

  ‘Here are two receipts. I found them among my husband’s papers. He bought a case of wine to share with his lover. And he’s also been buying flowers. Every day for three weeks, he’s had a bouquet delivered to her. I’d call that courting someone.’

  Madame Bellivier’s slender finger points to the total for the deliveries.

  ‘I even went to the florist to see if there was any explanation, but it’s so obvious …’

  I’ll be damned, Mancebo thinks.

  ‘What are you going to do now, madame?’

  Madame Bellivier is staring straight ahead, but then she shrugs.

  ‘I don’t know. All I know is I can’t stay here. But I don’t know where to go or what to do.’

  Like me, Mancebo thinks, but he doesn’t say anything, despite his desire to tell her his story.

  ‘I can take that now.’

  Mancebo is so surprised by the evidence she has managed to uncover that he completely forgot he was holding a bird coffin.

  ‘Well, I’ll go and bury this.’

  Madame Bellivier attempts a smile.

  ‘I’ll join you,’ says Mancebo.

  He grabs his suitcase from the cupboard and locks up his shop for the last time. Mancebo and Madame Bellivier wander down the boulevard together. He can see Sacré-Cœur on the horizon. For the first time, Mancebo admits to himself that his grocer’s shop isn’t at the foot of Montmartre.

  I read the last sentence in Judith’s diary twice. It’s as though I don’t want things to come to an end. I now know that what I have in my hands is unique material. I carefully close the first diary and look out across the café. I’ve been looking forward to this day. Now that everything is like it was before. Only now, everything just feels empty and sad. But then I think of my neighbour, the man who had no say in where the line was drawn, and I pack up my things and leave the café.

  A homeless man is curled up on the air vent above the metro’s ventilation system. His mattress is nothing but a couple of blankets, and I can see a wine bottle sticking out from between them. Like a maladjusted Princess and the Pea. His feet are shoved into a pair of shoes far too big for him, and a string of saliva is trickling down his cheek from his open mouth. There’s a dog’s lead on the ground next to him, but I can’t see any sign of a dog. And it’s while I’m searching for the dog that I see it: a white, half-open box with gold writing on the lid. Inside, there’s a fresh l’ éclair au chocolat. Melancholy courses through me. Everything continues.

  The ashtray is smoking. It almost always is, since Mancebo leaves the cigarettes to burn out on their own. He likes to watch the smoke curl up towards the ceiling in the stuffy room.

  Three huge, brown leather armchairs surround a heavy marble table. The blinds are closed, but angled so that the sun’s merciless light can still force its way in.

  Through the window, the Sacré-Cœur is visible. Next to the ashtray, on the marble table, there’s a small black device which could easily be mistaken for a modern mini calculator. But it’s no help with additions and subtractions, it checks the authenticity of banknotes. Its red light blinks away, ever-ready to test the worth of those thin but valuable slips of paper. Beside the device, a pair of binoculars.

  The phone rings. Someone out there needs his help. Mancebo wants to launch himself at the phone, but he allows it to ring a few times to give his prospective client the impression that he’s extremely busy. He wonders whether the job might be to do with suspected illegal activity, suspected infidelity, a missing person …

  About the Author

  Britta Röstlund has lived in Paris for over fifteen years. She is a freelance journalist covering everything from the Paris Fashion Week to French politics. Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier, her first novel, has been translated into thirteen languages.

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  Copyright

  A Weidenfeld & Nicolson ebook

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Weidenfeld & Nicolson

  This ebook edition published in 2018 by Weidenfeld & Nicolson

  Vid foten av Montmartre © Britta Röstlund, 2017, first published by Norstedts, Sweden, in 2016. Published by agreement with Norstedts Agency

  English translation © Alice Menzies 2017

  The moral rights of Britta Röstlund and Alice Menzies to be identified as the author and translator of this work respectively, have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, in
cluding this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  978 1 4746 0548 9

  The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

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