Hunting and Gathering

by Anna Gavalda

  Sometimes she saw him in the street or outside their front door, and he was always in crisis mode—some major problem or emotional meltdown. Sure enough, there he was, fumbling and muttering as he stood before the digital lock.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Ah! Oh! Um, excuse me.” He was wringing his hands. “Good evening, mademoiselle, forgive me, so sorry to bother—I am bothering you, aren’t I?”

  What a bummer, she never knew whether to laugh or to feel sorry for him. His pathological shyness, his incredibly convoluted way of speaking, the words he used and his perpetually spacey gestures: it all made her feel uneasy.

  “No, no, don’t worry about it. Did you forget the code?”

  “Goodness, no. At least not as far as I know . . . well . . . I didn’t look at it that way. My God, I—”

  “Maybe they changed it?”

  “Do you really think they might have?” he asked, as if she had just informed him that the end of the world was nigh.

  “Well, let’s find out. 342B7—”

  The door clicked.

  “Oh, I get so confused, what a muddle. I—But that’s what I did too, I don’t understand it . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, leaning against the door.

  He made as if to hold the door for her, and as he was trying to put his arm above her, he missed and knocked her hard on the back of her head.

  “Oh gosh! I didn’t hurt you, did I? I am so clumsy, honestly, please excuse me, I—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said for the third time.

  He didn’t move.

  “Uh,” she begged at last, “could you move your foot because you’re blocking my ankle there and it really hurts.”

  She was laughing. Nervously.

  When they were in the hall, he rushed toward the glass door to let her through.

  “Oh, sorry, but I’m not going that way,” she said, pointing to the other side of the courtyard.

  “You live in the courtyard?”

  “Well, not really . . . under the roof is more like it.”

  “Oh, that’s great.” He was tugging on the strap of his bag, which was caught on the brass door handle. “That, that must be really nice.”

  “Well, yeah,” she said, making a face and moving away quickly, “that’s one way of looking at it.”

  “Have a nice evening, mademoiselle!” he called. “My regards to your parents!”

  Her parents . . . what a loon, that guy. She remembered one night—since it was always the middle of the night when she got home, as a rule—she’d found him in the hall, in his pajamas and hunting boots, with a box of kibble in his hand. He seemed really upset and asked her if she hadn’t seen a cat. She said no and followed him for a few steps into the courtyard, looking for the cat in question. “What does he look like?” she’d asked. “I am afraid I don’t know.” “You don’t know what your cat looks like?” He’d stiffened: “How should I know? I have never had a cat in my life!” She had been dead tired, so, shaking her head, she’d just left him there. There was definitely something creepy about the guy.

  “The fancy neighborhood . . .” She remembered Carine’s words as she walked up the first of the one hundred and seventy-two steps between herself and the slum she called home. Fancy neighborhood, yeah right. She lived on the eighth floor of the service stairway of a smart building which looked out onto the Champ-de-Mars, so in that respect, yes, you could say she lived in a nice area because if she climbed onto her stool and leaned out perilously far to the right, it was true, she could just make out the top of the Eiffel Tower. But for all the rest, honey, for all the rest, it’s really not what you think.

  She clung to the banister, coughing her lungs out, dragging her bottles of water behind her. She tried never to stop. Ever. Not on any floor. One night she had stopped and she couldn’t get going again. She’d sat down on the fourth floor and fallen asleep with her head on her knees. When she woke up it was horrible. She was frozen stiff and it took her a few seconds before she understood where she was.

  Before going out she had closed the shutters, afraid there was going to be a storm, and now she sighed, thinking what a furnace it would be up there. When it rained, she got wet; when it was fine, like today, she suffocated; and in winter, she shivered. Camille knew all the climatic conditions inside and out, she’d been living there for over a year. She couldn’t complain; finding this place had been a blessing, and she could still remember Pierre Kessler’s embarrassed expression the day he had pushed open the door of this junk closet and handed her the key.

  It was minute, dirty, cluttered—and a godsend.

  When Pierre had found her on his doorstep a week earlier, Camille was famished, dazed and silent. She had spent the last few nights on the street.

  At first, when he saw the wraith on his landing, he was apprehensive.

  “Pierre?”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Pierre . . . ,” moaned the voice.

  “Who is it?”

  He switched on the light and his apprehension grew.

  “Camille? Is that you?”

  “Pierre,” she sobbed, shoving a small suitcase in his direction, “you have to keep this for me . . . It’s all my stuff, you see, and it’ll get stolen, they’ll steal it, all of it, everything. I don’t want them to take my tools because I’d just die, do you understand? I would absolutely die.”

  He thought she was delirious.

  “Camille, what are you talking about? And where have you been? Come in!”

  Mathilde appeared behind him, and Camille collapsed on the doormat.

  They undressed her and put her to bed in the back room. Pierre Kessler pulled a chair up to the bed and looked at her, his expression full of shock and concern.

  “Is she asleep?”

  “I think so.”

  “What happened?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But look at the state she’s in!”

  “Shhhh.”

  Camille woke up in the middle of the night and ran a bath, very slowly, so as not to wake them. Pierre and Mathilde weren’t asleep, but they decided it was better to leave her alone. They let her stay for a few days, gave her a second set of keys, and asked no questions. They were truly a blessing, that couple.

  From his parents Pierre had inherited a maid’s room in the building where they used to live; now he offered it to Camille, pulling the little tartan suitcase, the one that had brought her to them, out from under the bed:

  “Here you go,” he said.

  Camille shook her head. “I’d rather leave it—”

  “Out of the question,” he said sharply. “You take it with you. It has no business here.”

  Mathilde went with her to a furniture outlet, helped her to choose a lamp, a mattress, some bed linen, a few pots and pans, an electric hot plate, and a tiny fridge.

  “Do you have any money?” she asked, before saying good-bye.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be okay, sweetheart?”

  “Yes,” said Camille again, fighting tears.

  “You want to keep the keys to our place?”

  “No, no, it’s okay. I . . . what can I say . . . what is . . .”

  She was crying.

  “Don’t say anything.”

  “Thanks?”

  “Yes,” said Mathilde, pulling her close, “thanks, that’s okay, that’s fine.”

  They came to see her a few days later.

  They were breathless from climbing the steps, and collapsed onto the mattress.

  Pierre laughed and said that this reminded him of his youth, and he launched into “La Bo-hèèème.” They drank champagne from plastic cups, while Mathilde pulled all sorts of delicious treats out of a big bag. Emboldened by the champagne and a sense of well-being, they dared to ask Camille a few questions. She answered some of them, and they didn’t insist.

  Just as they were leaving, and Mathilde had already gone
down a few steps, Pierre Kessler turned around and took Camille by the wrists:

  “You’ve got to work, Camille . . . Now you have got to work.”

  She lowered her eyes.

  “I feel like I’ve been working a lot lately. A whole lot.”

  He squeezed harder, almost hurting.

  “That isn’t work and you know it!”

  She raised her head, held his gaze. “Is that why you’ve been helping me? To tell me that?”

  “No.”

  Camille was trembling.

  “No,” he repeated, letting go, “no. Don’t be silly. You know very well we’ve always thought of you as our own child.”

  “Prodigal or prodigy?”

  He smiled and added, “Get to work. You’ve got no choice, anyway.”

  She closed the door behind them, put away the dinner things and found a big catalog from Sennelier’s art supply store in the bottom of the bag. A Post-it informed her: Your account is still open. She didn’t feel like leafing through the catalog, so she drank the rest of the wine straight from the bottle.

  But she’d listened to Pierre, all right. She was working.

  Work nowadays was cleaning up other people’s shit, and that suited her just fine.

  They really were dying of heat in there. The day before, Super Josy had warned them: “Don’t complain, girls, these are the last nice days we’ll get. Winter will be here soon and we’ll be freezing our butts off. So no grousing, eh?”

  For once she’d been right. It was the end of September and the days were getting shorter before their very eyes. Camille thought that maybe she’d do things differently this year, like go to bed earlier and get up in the afternoon so she could see the sun. Her thoughts took her by surprise, and her mind was elsewhere as she turned on the answering machine:

  “It’s your mom. Well . . . ,” laughed the voice, “that is, if you still know who I’m talking about. You know—Mom? Isn’t that the word that darling little children use when they’re talking to their biological parent? Because you do have a mother, Camille, remember? Sorry about the unpleasant reminder, but this is the third message I’ve left since Tuesday. I just wanted to know if we’re still having lunch to—”

  Camille interrupted the message and put the yogurt she had just started back into the fridge. She sat down cross-legged, grabbed her tobacco and tried to roll a cigarette. Her hands wouldn’t cooperate. She started over several times before she was able to roll the paper without tearing it. Concentrating on every gesture as if this were the most important thing in the world, biting her lips until they bled. It was so unfair. So unfair to be taking shit like this from a tiny piece of cigarette paper when she had actually managed to get through an almost normal day. She had talked, listened, laughed, even socialized. She had simpered for that doctor and made a promise to Mamadou. That might not seem like much, and yet . . . It had been a long time since she had promised anything. To anyone, ever. And now all it took was a few sentences from an answering machine to mess up her mind, drag her back down and leave her flat out, crushed beneath the weight of a scarcely believable mass of rubble.

  5

  “MR. LESTAFIER!”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Telephone.”

  “No, boss.”

  “Whaddya mean, no?”

  “I’m busy, boss! Ask them to call back later.”

  The boss shook his head and went back into the sort of closet which served as an office behind the serving hatch.

  “Lestafier!”

  “Yes, boss!”

  “It’s your grandmother.”

  Sniggers all around.

  “Tell her I’ll call her back,” he said; he was in the middle of deboning a piece of meat.

  “You’re pissing me off, Lestafier! Come and take this fucking phone. I’m not your private switchboard operator.”

  Franck wiped his hands on the cloth which hung from his apron, mopped his forehead with his sleeve and, making a slicing gesture across his neck, said to the boy at the next workstation:

  “If you so much as touch a thing . . .”

  “Take it easy,” the boy replied. “Go and order your Christmas presents, Granny’s waiting.”

  “Asshole.”

  He went into the office and picked up the receiver with a sigh:

  “Grandma?”

  “Hello, Franck. This isn’t your grandmother, this is Yvonne Carminot speaking.”

  “Madame Carminot?”

  “Oh, it’s been so hard to track you down. First I called the Grands Comptoirs and they told me you didn’t work there anymore, so I called—”

  “What’s up?” he interrupted.

  “Oh, dear God, it’s Paulette.”

  “Hold on a second. Don’t move.”

  He got up, closed the door, picked up the phone, sat down again, shook his head, went pale, searched the desk for something to write on, said a few more words, then hung up. He pulled off his chef’s hat, put his head in his hands, closed his eyes and sat like that for a few minutes. His boss was staring at him through the glass door. Finally Franck stuffed the piece of paper into his pocket and went out.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m okay, boss.”

  “Nothing serious?”

  “Broke her hip.”

  “Oh, that happens a lot with old people. My mother broke her hip ten years ago, you should see her now. A regular mountain goat.”

  “Say, boss—”

  “Let me guess. You’re going to ask for the rest of the day off?”

  “No, I’ll do the lunch service and I’ll do the evening setup during my break, but I’d like to leave after that.”

  “And who’ll do the hot service tonight?”

  “Guillaume. He can do it.”

  “Does he know how?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “How do I know he’ll know what to do?”

  “ ’Cause I say so, boss.”

  His boss made a face and shouted at a boy who was walking by, telling him to change his shirt. Then he turned back to Franck and added, “Go ahead, but I warn you, Lestafier, if there’s another balls-up during the evening service, if I have to make a single comment, even one, you hear—I’ll hold you responsible, is that clear?”

  “Clear, boss.”

  He went back to his station and picked up his knife.

  “Lestafier! Go back and wash your hands! We’re not out in the sticks here!”

  “Piss off,” Franck muttered, closing his eyes. “Piss off, all of you.”

  He went back to work in silence. After a few minutes his commis asked, “You okay?”

  “No.”

  “I heard what you were telling old fatso . . . Broken hip, that it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Nah, don’t think so, but the problem is that I’m on my own.”

  “On your own for what?”

  “For everything.”

  Guillaume didn’t get it, but preferred to leave Franck alone with his problems.

  “So if you heard what I was telling the boss, that means you’re clear about tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you handle it?”

  “There’s a trade-off . . .”

  They went on working in silence, one leaning over his rabbits, the other over his carré d’agneau.

  “My motorbike . . .”

  “What about it?”

  “I can lend it to you on Sunday.”

  “The new one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow,” said Guillaume, sighing, “you do love your granny. Done deal.”

  Franck made a face.

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey.”

  “What?”

  “Where is your old lady?”

  “Tours.”

  “But then you’re gonna need your bike on Sunday if you have to go see her.”

  “I’ll work something out.”

  The boss’s voice
interrupted them: “Silence, please, gentlemen! Silence!”

  Guillaume sharpened his knife and used the cover of noise to murmur, “Hey, it’s okay. You can lend me the bike when she’s better.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’ll steal your station instead.”

  Franck Lestafier nodded, smiling.

  He didn’t say another word. The service seemed to take longer than usual. He had trouble concentrating, barked when the chef passed the orders, and tried not to burn himself. He almost screwed up a côte de boeuf, and couldn’t stop cursing under his breath. He thought about what a fucking mess his life would be over the next few weeks. It had already been complicated enough thinking about his granny and going and see her when she was healthy, so now . . . What a hassle, big-time, fuck. This was the last thing he needed. He’d just bought himself a really expensive motorbike on credit as long as his arm, and he’d committed to a number of extra jobs just to make the monthly payments. How was he going to fit her in on top of all the rest? Whatever. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but there was a silver lining. Fat Titi had just souped up the bike’s engine and this way he’d be able to try it out on the freeway.

  If everything went okay, he’d have a great ride and he’d be there in just over an hour.

  Franck sat on alone in the kitchen with the dishwashing guys during the break. He went over his supplies, inventoried his merchandise, numbered the slabs of meat and left a long note for Guillaume. There was no time to stop by the house, so he took a shower in the locker room, found some cleaner to wipe his visor and left the place with his head in a whirl.

  Happy and worried at the same time.

  6

  IT was just before six when Franck leaned the bike’s kickstand onto the asphalt of the hospital parking lot.

  The woman at reception told him visiting hours were over and he’d have to come back the next day after ten. He insisted; she was firm.