by Anna Gavalda
“Course not, I’m not leaving, fu—gracious me.”
“If you see a red-haired man with a white coat, can you ask him when I’m supposed to get out of here?”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Franck as he went out the door.
“A tall man with glasses and a—”
He was already in the corridor.
“Well?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“Oh?”
“C’mon, Grandma,” he said gently, “you’re not gonna start crying again, are you?”
“No, but I . . . I’ve been thinking about the cat, and the birds. And it’s been raining all week long and I’m worried about my tools. I didn’t put them away and they’re going to rust for sure.”
“I’ll go by the house on my way home and take care of it.”
“Franck?”
“Yes?”
“Take me with you.”
“Oh, Grandma . . . Don’t do this to me every time. I can’t take it.”
She took ahold of herself.
“The tools . . .”
“What?”
“You need to oil them with neat’s-foot oil.”
He looked at her and blew out his cheeks. “Hey, if I have time, okay? Right, this is all very well, but you have your gym class now, you know. Where’s your walker?”
“I don’t know.”
“Grandma.”
“Behind the door.”
“C’mon, old girl, get up, you want to see some birds? I’ll show you some birds!”
“Bah, there’s no birds here. Just vultures and raptors.”
Franck smiled. He loved it when his grandma was spiteful.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Now what’s the matter?”
“It hurts.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
“Everywhere? That’s impossible. Show me the exact spot.”
“Inside my head.”
“That’s normal. Hey, we all hurt inside our heads. C’mon, introduce me to your girlfriends.”
“No, go the other way. I don’t want to see those folks, I can’t stand them.”
“And what about that old guy in the blazer, he’s not bad, is he?”
“That’s not a blazer, stupid, that’s his pajamas, and on top of it he’s deaf as a post. And pretentious to boot.”
As long as she was putting one foot before the other and bad-mouthing her fellow inmates, everything would be all right.
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. If you want me to take care of your hoe . . . I’ve got to get up early tomorrow and I don’t have anyone to bring me breakfast in bed.”
“Will you call me?”
He nodded.
“That’s what you say and then you never do.”
“I don’t have time, Grandma.”
“Just say hello and then hang up.”
“Okay. To be honest, I don’t know if I can make it next week. My boss is taking us for a night on the town.”
“Where?”
“The Moulin Rouge.”
“Really?”
“Nah, I wish. We’re going to the Limousin to see the guy who sells us his livestock.”
“What a funny idea.”
“That’s my boss all over. He says it’s important.”
“So you won’t be coming?”
“I don’t know.”
“Franck?”
“Yes?”
“The doctor . . .”
“I know, the redheaded guy, I’ll try and get ahold of him. And you do your exercises like you’re supposed to, okay? I hear the physio isn’t too pleased with you.”
When he saw her astonished expression he added, facetiously, “So you see, I do telephone from time to time.”
He put away the tools, ate the last strawberries from the vegetable garden and sat there for a moment. The cat wound its way between his legs, mewing hoarsely.
“Don’t worry, Puss, don’t worry. She’ll be back.”
The jangle of his cell phone roused him from his lethargy. It was a girl. He did his rooster act; she giggled like a clucking chicken.
She invited him to a movie.
All the way home he rode at over a hundred miles an hour, trying to think up a way to get laid without having to sit through the movie. He wasn’t crazy about the cinema. He always fell asleep before the end.
10
IN mid-November, when the cold weather began its dirty work of undermining everyone’s morale, Camille finally decided to head for the nearest home improvement store, in order to improve her chances of survival. She spent her entire Saturday there, wandering up and down the aisles, touching the wooden panels, admiring the tools, the nails and screws, the door handles, the curtain rods, the tins of paint, the moldings, the shower cabinets and sundry chrome mixer faucets. She then went to the gardening section and made an inventory of everything she might dream of having: gloves, rubber boots, the combined hoe and fork, chicken coops, sowing buckets, organic fertilizer, and seed packets in their infinite variety. She spent as much time observing other customers as she did inspecting the wares: a pregnant woman among the pastel wallpapers; a young couple arguing about a hideous wall lamp; a sprightly man with an air of early retirement about him, in his Timberland shoes, and with a spiral notebook in one hand and a carpenter’s yardstick in the other.
The school of hard knocks had taught her to beware of any certainty or projects for the future, but there was one thing Camille knew for sure: someday, a long long way down the road, when she’d be quite old, even older than now, with white hair, a zillion wrinkles and brown spots all over her hands, she’d have her own house. A real house with a copper pot for making jam, and sugar cookies in a metal box hidden deep inside a dresser. A long farmhouse table, thick and homey, and cretonne curtains. She smiled. She had no idea what cretonne was, or even if she’d like it, but she liked the way the words went together: cretonne curtains. She’d have a guest room and—who knows—maybe even some guests. A well-kept little garden, hens who’d provide her with tasty boiled eggs, cats to chase after the field mice and dogs to chase after the cats. A little plot of aromatic herbs, a fireplace, sagging armchairs and books all around. White tablecloths, napkin rings unearthed at flea markets, some sort of device so she could listen to the same operas her father used to listen to, and a coal stove where she could let a rich beef-and-carrot stew simmer all morning long.
A rich beef-and-carrot stew. What was she thinking.
A little house like the ones that kids draw, with a door and two windows on either side. Old-fashioned, discreet, silent, overrun with Virginia creeper and climbing roses. A house with those little fire bugs on the porch, red and black insects scurrying everywhere in pairs. A warm porch where the heat of the day would linger and she could sit in the evening to watch for the return of the heron.
And an old greenhouse she could use as a studio. Well, that one wasn’t for sure. So far, her hands had always betrayed her and maybe it was better not to count on them.
Maybe she couldn’t count on her hands to give her a sense of peace after all.
But then what could she count on? she wondered, suddenly anxious.
What?
She pulled herself together and called out to a sales assistant before she lost it completely. Little cottages deep in the woods, that was all well and good, but in the meantime she was freezing at the end of a damp corridor and this young man in his bright yellow polo-neck was bound to help her:
“You say the air is getting in?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a skylight?”
“No, a louvered window.”
“Those things still exist?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Here, this is what you need.”
He handed her a roll of sealing strip that could be nailed in place, especially designed for “window weatherproofing” and made of lo
ng-lasting, washable, waterproof PVC-backed foam. Hallelujah, thought Camille.
“Do you have a staple gun?”
“Nope.”
“A hammer and nails?”
“Not that either.”
She followed him all around the store like a little dog while he filled her basket.
“What about heaters?”
“What do you have at the moment?”
“An electric radiator which blows the fuse during the night, and which stinks as well.”
He took his role very seriously and gave her a proper lecture on the subject.
In a learned tone of voice he sang the praises of various heaters, gave a running commentary on others, and compared the merits of fan, radiator, infrared, ceramic, oil and convection, until Camille felt dizzy.
“What should I get?”
“Well, that’s really up to you.”
“But that’s the thing, I just can’t tell.”
“Get an oil heater, they’re not too expensive and they heat well. The Calor Oléo is not bad.”
“Is it on casters?”
“Well . . . ,” he said hesitantly, checking the technical specifications,
“ ‘mechanical thermostat, cord storage, adjustable power, integrated humidifier,’ blah-blah-blah, ‘casters’! Yes, ma’am!”
“Great. That way I can put it near the bed.”
“Well . . . if you don’t mind me saying so . . . you know, a guy does the job just as well. In bed, he gives off heat . . .”
“Yes, but there’s no cord storage.”
“True, true.”
He was smiling.
On the way to the register to get the warranty, she spotted a fake fireplace with fake embers, fake logs, fake flames and fake andirons.
“Hey, what’s that?”
“An electric fireplace, but I don’t recommend it, it’s a rip-off.”
“No, go on, show me!”
It was the Sherbone, an English model. Only the English could invent something so ugly and kitsch. Depending on the intensity of the heat (one thousand or two thousand watts), the flames rose higher. Camille was enraptured: “It’s fantastic—it looks just like a real one!”
“Have you seen the price?”
“No.”
“Five hundred thirty-two euros. It’s insane. A useless gadget. Don’t be fooled.”
“What the hell, it doesn’t mean anything to me in euros anyway.”
“It’s not hard, just calculate roughly 3,500 francs for a gizmo that won’t heat you half as well as the Calor for less than six hundred francs.”
“I want it.”
Here was a young man full of good sense, but all Camille could do was close her eyes to her own profligacy as she handed him her credit card. She’d come this far, she might as well pay for the delivery as well. When she told them she was on the eighth floor without an elevator, the woman looked at her askance and told her it would cost an extra ten euros.
“No problem,” replied Camille, squeezing her buttocks.
He was right. It was insane.
Yes, it was insane, but the place where she was living wasn’t much better. One hundred and sixty square feet under the roof, which left her about sixty to stand up in, with a mattress right on the floor, a tiny sink in one corner which looked more like a urinal and doubled as both kitchen and bathroom sink. A hanging rail for a wardrobe and two stacked cardboard boxes as shelves. A hot plate on top of a camping table; a minifridge that served as workspace, dining room and coffee table. Two stools, a halogen lamp, a little mirror and another cardboard box for a kitchen cupboard. What else? The tartan suitcase where she’d stored some of the materials she still had left, three art portfolios and . . . No, that was it. So much for the tour of the property.
Down at the end of the hall to the right the toilets were Turkish-style, and the shower was above the toilet. All you had to do to take a shower was to place the specially provided moldy grating over the hole.
Camille didn’t have any neighbors, or maybe just a ghost or two: from time to time she could hear murmuring behind door number 12. On her door there was a padlock and, tacked to the door frame in pretty violet lettering, the name of the former tenant: Louise Leduc.
A little servant girl from the nineteenth century.
No, Camille is not at all sorry she bought her fireplace, even though it cost her nearly half her salary. Oh, what the hell—for all the use she made of her salary. On the bus she fell to daydreaming, wondering who she could invite over to inaugurate the heater.
A few days later, she found her victim: “Guess what, I’ve got a fireplace!”
“I beg your pardon? Ah! Oh! It’s you. Hello there. Beastly weather, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say. Why did you just take your hat off?”
“Well, I—I, um, I’m greeting you, aren’t I?”
“Oh, come on, put it back on. You’ll catch your death. I was looking for you actually. I wanted to invite you to dinner by the fire one evening.”
“Me?” he choked.
“Yes, you.”
“Oh, no, but I, uh, why? Really, it is—”
“It’s what?” she said, suddenly tired. They stood there shivering outside their favorite grocery store.
“That is—”
“Can’t you make it?”
“No, it is just—it’s just such an honor!”
“Oh,” she laughed, “such an honor. Not at all, you’ll see, it will be a very simple occasion. You’ll come, then?”
“Well, yes, yes, I should be delighted to share your table—”
“It’s not really a table, you know.”
“Oh, really?”
“It’ll be more like a picnic. A bite to eat, informal.”
“Excellent, I do like picnics. I can even bring my blanket and my basket, if you like.”
“Your basket of what?”
“My picnic basket.”
“One of those things with dishes?”
“Yes, there are plates, and cutlery and a tablecloth, four napkins, a corksc—”
“Oh yes, that’s a very good idea. I don’t have any of those things. So shall we say this evening?”
“Well, this evening, I don’t know—”
“You what?”
“Well, I haven’t warned my roommate.”
“I see. But then he can come too, that’s no problem.”
“What, him? No, not him. To start with I don’t know if . . . well, if he’s a very suitable boy. I—Let’s get this straight, I’m not talking about his behavior, even if, well, I do not behave like that, you see, no, it’s more that—Oh, and besides, he’s not here this evening. Or any other evening for that matter.”
“Let’s see if I’ve got this right,” said Camille, taking a deep breath. “You can’t come because you haven’t warned your roommate who’s never there anyway, is that right?”
He looked down and fiddled with the buttons on his coat.
“Hey, you’re not, like, obliged, you know. You don’t have to say yes.”
“It’s just that—”
“Just what?”
“No, nothing. I shall come.”
“Tonight or tomorrow? Because after that I’m back at work until the end of the week.”
“Okay,” he murmured, “okay, tomorrow. You will be there, right?”
She shook her head. “What a song and dance! Of course I’ll be there, since I’m the one inviting you!”
He gave her an awkward smile.
“See you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow, mademoiselle.”
“Eight o’clock all right?”
“Eight o’clock sharp. I shall make a note of it.”
He bowed and turned on his heels.
“Hey!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You have to take the service stairs. I’m on the eighth floor, door number sixteen, you’ll see it—it’s the third on the left.”
He gestured with his ha
t, to let her know he’d heard.
11
“COME in, come in! You look great!”
“Oh”—he blushed—“it’s just a boater. It belonged to my great-uncle and I thought, for a picnic . . .”
Camille couldn’t believe her eyes. The boater was only the cherry on the cake. He’d tucked a silver-knobbed walking stick under his arm; he was wearing a light suit with a red bow tie; and now he was handing her an enormous wicker trunk.
“This is your basket?”
“Yes . . . but wait, there’s something else.”
He disappeared down the corridor and came back with a bunch of roses.
“That’s nice of you.”
“These aren’t real flowers, you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“No, I believe they are from Uruguay. I would have preferred real roses from a garden, but in the middle of winter it’s, it’s—”
“It’s not possible.”
“Yes, that’s it. Not possible.”
“Well, please come in, make yourself at home.”
He was so tall that he had to sit down at once. He struggled to find his words but for once, the problem was not his stuttering but rather his utter bewilderment.
“It’s, it’s . . .”
“It’s small.”
“No, it’s, how to put it—it is sweet. Yes, it’s terribly sweet and . . . er, quaint, wouldn’t you say?”
“Very quaint,” repeated Camille, laughing.
He was silent for a moment.
“You really live here?”
“Well, yes.”
“Nowhere else?”
“Nowhere else.”
“All year round?”
“All year round.”
“It is rather small, isn’t it?”
“My name is Camille Fauque.”
“Of course, delighted to meet you. Philibert Marquet de La Durbellière,” he announced, standing up and banging his head on the ceiling.
“All that?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Don’t you have a nickname?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So, see my fireplace?”