by Anna Gavalda
“And who d’you think you are,” countered Josy. “What makes you think you can talk to me like that? What the hell you doing here, anyways? Spying or something? Matter of fact I was wondering that just the other day. That maybe the bosses sent you to spy on us or some-thin’ like that. I seen on your pay slip where you live. And look how you talk and all—you’re not one of us, are you? You stink of bourgeois, you stink of money. You little snobby bitch.”
The other girls didn’t react. Camille gave a push to her cart and started to walk away.
Then she turned around:
“Whatever Josy here has to say, I don’t give a damn because I despise her, but you guys-you’re useless. I opened my big mouth for your sake, so that she’d stop humiliating you, and I don’t expect you to thank me—I really don’t give a fuck about that—but the least you could do is come and do the toilets with me. Because I may be bourgeois but it’s me who always gets stuck with the toilets, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Mamadou made a funny noise with her mouth and dribbled a huge gob of spit at Josy’s feet, a truly monstrous thing. Then she picked up her bucket, swung it in front of her and hit Camille in the buttocks:
“How can a girl with such a tiny ass have such a huge mouth? With you around, wonders will never cease.”
The others grumbled and groused and began to drift away. Camille didn’t care about Samia; but she did care about Carine. Camille really liked her. Carine, whose real name was Rachida, but who didn’t like her name, and who was slaving away for that fascist pig. Well, that girl would go far.
From that day on, a new order reigned. But the work was still just as brainless and the atmosphere was sickening. Altogether it was quite a package.
Camille may have lost her co-workers, but she was in the process of winning a friend. Mamadou had begun to wait for her outside the métro, and they teamed up. Mamadou talked while Camille did the work for two. It was not that Mamadou was trying to get out of doing her share; it was simply, sincerely, that she was just too fat to be very efficient. What took her a quarter of an hour, Camille could do in two minutes, and, on top of that, Mamadou ached all over. And she wasn’t pretending. Her poor body could hardly take it anymore: her monstrous thighs, her enormous breasts, her even bigger heart. If something inside her balked at the idea of work, it made sense.
“You’ve got to lose weight, Mamadou.”
“Yes, indeedy. And you? When you going to come and try my homemade chicken?” she’d retort, every time.
Camille made a deal with her: I’ll do the work, but you talk to me.
Who would have thought that such an innocent proposal would lead so far. Mamadou’s childhood in Senegal, the sea, the dust, the little goats, the birds, the poverty, her eleven brothers and sisters, the old white priest who would remove his glass eye to make them laugh, her arrival in France in 1972 with her brother Léopold, the garbage cans, her failed marriage, her husband who was kind despite it all, her kids, her sister-in-law who spent her afternoons in the department stores while Mamadou did all the work, the kid who pooped again but in the stairway this time, all the parties they had, all the hassles, her cousin Germaine who hanged herself last year, leaving behind two adorable twin girls, Sunday afternoons in the phone booth, her colorful African clothing, her recipes and a million other images that Camille never tired of. No need to read Courrier International, Senghor or the Seine-Saint-Denis edition of the Parisien: all you had to do was scrub a little harder and open your ears wide. And if Josy happened by, which was rare, Mamadou would bend over, give a little wipe to the floor and wait for the smell to disperse before raising her head again.
Story upon story, secret upon secret, Camille dared to ask more personal questions. Her co-worker told her some horrible things, or things which seemed horrible to Camille at least, with a disarming nonchalance.
“But how do you manage all that? How do you hold up? How do you cope? A schedule like that is sheer hell.”
“Ta ta ta . . . don’t talk about things you don’t know about. Hell’s a lot worse than what you know. Hell is when you can’t see the folks you love. All the rest don’t count. Say, don’t you want me to get you some clean rags?”
“I’m sure you could find some work closer to home. Your kids shouldn’t be staying alone at night, you never know what could happen.”
“My sister-in-law is there.”
“But you said you can’t count on her.”
“Sometimes I can.”
“All-Kleen is a big company, I’m sure you could find a site nearer to home . . . You want me to help? Want me to ask for you? Write to the head of personnel?” said Camille, standing up.
“No, better leave well enough alone. Josy is who she is, but she turns a blind eye on a lot of things, you know. I’m such a fat gossip, I’m lucky to have this job in the first place. You remember that medical visit we had last fall? That stupid little doctor? He gave me a hard time because he said my heart was buried in too much fat or some bullshit like that, and it was Josy who fixed things for me. So you see, better not mess with things as they are.”
“Hang on . . . are we even talking about the same person? That old cow who’s always treating you like you were the bottom of the shit heap?”
“Yes, we are talking about the same person!” said Mamadou with a laugh. “She’s the only Josy I know, and thank God for that!”
“But you just finished spitting at her.”
“What do you mean, I been spitting at her?” she said angrily. “I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
Camille emptied the shredder in silence. Any way you looked at it, life could deliver some odd surprises sometimes.
“Well, anyways, it’s nice of you to offer. You’re a good kid, you are. You have to come around the house one evening so my brother can fix it so you’ll have a nice life with true love and lots of kids.”
“Ugh.”
“What, ‘ugh’? You don’t want kids?”
“No.”
“Don’t say that, Camille. You’ll bring bad luck.”
“Too late for that.”
Mamadou gave her a nasty look: “You should be ashamed of yourself talking like that. You have a job, a roof, two arms, two legs, a country, an admirer—”
“Excuse me?”
“Ha!” she said triumphantly. “You think I haven’t see you with Nourdeen downstairs? How you’re always petting his big dog . . . you think my eyes are buried in fat too?”
Camille blushed.
To please her.
Nourdeen was hyper that evening and even plumper than usual in his law enforcement boiler suit, exciting his dog and acting as if he were Dirty Harry.
“Well, what’s going on?” Mamadou asked him. “Why your dog growling like that?”
“I don’t know what it is, but there’s something funny going on. Don’t hang around, girls. Don’t stay here.”
Oh, he was in pig heaven; all he needed was a pair of Ray-Bans and a Kalashnikov.
“Don’t stay here, I said!”
“Hey, calm down,” Mamadou replied. “Don’t get so worked up.”
“Let me do my job, fat lady! I don’t come and tell you how to hold your broom, do I?”
Hmm. What’s bred in the bone . . .
Camille pretended to take the métro with Mamadou, then went back up the steps using the other exit. She walked around the block twice, and finally found them in the deep entryway of a shoe store. He was sitting with his back against the shop window and his dog was asleep on his legs.
“Are you doing okay?” she asked casually.
He raised his eyes and it took him a moment to recognize her.
“Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“The food and stuff, too?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, thanks.”
Camille was silent.
“Does that crazy guy have a gun?”
“I have no idea.”
“Okay, then. So long.”
“I can show you a place to sleep if you want.”
“A squat?”
“Sort of.”
“Who’s there?”
“No one.”
“Is it far?”
“Near the Eiffel Tower.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.”
She had hardly gone three steps down the street when a cop car, siren wailing, pulled up in front of hyperexcited Nourdeen. The boy caught up with Camille just as she was reaching the boulevard:
“What do you want in exchange?”
“Nothing.”
No more métro. They walked to the stop for the Night Owl bus. “You go ahead and leave me your dog, they won’t let you get on with him. What’s his name?”
“Barbès.”
“That’s where I found him, the Barbès-Rochechouart métro station.”
“Right, like Paddington bear.”
She took the dog in her arms and gave the driver a big smile; he didn’t give a damn.
They met up at the back of the bus.
“What kind of dog is this?”
“Do we really have to talk, too?”
“No.”
“I put a new padlock on but it’s symbolic. Here’s the key. Just don’t lose it, I only have one.”
She pushed open the door and added calmly, “There’s still some food in those boxes. Rice, tomato sauce and cookies, I think. There are some blankets over there, and here’s the electric radiator. Don’t put it on full or it blows the fuse. There’s a Turkish toilet on the landing. In theory, you’ll be the only one using it. I say in theory because I’ve sometimes heard noise across the way but I’ve never seen anyone. And . . . what else? Oh, yes! I used to live with a junkie so I know exactly what will happen. I know that someday, maybe even tomorrow, you’ll disappear and take everything with you. I know you’ll try to pawn it all so you can pay for a good time. The radiator, the hot plates, the mattress, the sugar, the towels, everything. Okay. I know that. The only thing I ask is, please be discreet. This isn’t really my place either, so . . . so please don’t get me in trouble. If you’re still here tomorrow, I’ll go and see the concierge so there won’t be any problems. That’s it.”
“Who drew that?” he asked, pointing to the trompe l’oeil. A huge window open onto the Seine with a seagull perched on the balcony.
“I did.”
“You used to live here?”
“Yes.”
Barbès sniffed around suspiciously, then lay down in a ball on the mattress.
“I’ll get going,” said Camille.
“Hey.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because the exact same thing happened to me. I was on the street, and someone brought me here.”
“I won’t stay long.”
“I don’t care. Don’t say anything. I know it won’t be the truth, anyway.”
“I’m seeing people at the rehab, at Marmottan.”
“Okay, sure. Right. Sweet dreams.”
54
THREE days later Madame Perreira lifted aside the sublimely sheer curtains at her door and called to Camille in the hall:
“Mademoiselle, hello?”
Shit, that didn’t take long. What a hassle. And they’d even given him fifty euros.
“Hello.”
“Yes, hello. Say . . .”
She made a face. “Is he your friend, that little pig?”
“Pardon?”
“The biker.”
“Uh . . . yes,” replied Camille, relieved. “Is there a problem?”
“Not one, more like five! He’s beginning to get on my nerves, that boy! No kidding! I’m getting real fond of him. Come here and have a look.”
Camille followed her into the courtyard.
“Well?”
“I, uh, I don’t see anything.”
“The oil spots.”
Indeed, with a good magnifying glass you could clearly see five tiny little black spots on the cobblestones.
“Mechanics are all fine and good but it’s a dirty job, so you tell him for me that newspapers aren’t just for dogs, all right?”
Once she’d dealt with that problem, the concierge grew more affable. A little commentary on the weather: “It’s fine. It gets rid of all the vermin.” On the shiny brass door handles: “Well, for sure, to get them that way, you gotta make an effort.” On the baby stroller wheels full of dog shit. On the lady on the sixth floor who had just lost her husband, poor woman. And by then she’d calmed down.
“Madame Perreira . . .”
“That’s me.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but . . . I’ve got a friend staying up on the eighth floor.”
“Oh, I don’t get involved in your business, you know! People in, people out . . . I don’t say I understand everything that’s going on, but anyway ...”
“I mean the one who has a dog.”
“Vincent?”
“Uh . . .”
“Yes, Vincent! The guy with AIDS, with his little griffon?”
Camille was dumbfounded.
“He came to see me yesterday, because my Pikou was barking like crazy behind the door, so we introduced them. That way it’s easier. You know what they’re like. They sniff the behinds once and for all and then is all squared away. Well, why are you looking at me like that?”
“Why do you say he has AIDS?”
“Sweet Jesus, because he told me so himself! We drank a glass of port. Would you like one, by the way?”
“No, no, I, well, thanks.”
“Ah yes, it’s sad, but like I tell him, they can treat it now . . . They’ve found good medicine for it.”
Camille was so puzzled that she forgot to take the elevator. What was that all about? Why weren’t the rags with the rags and the napkins with the napkins?
Where the hell were they headed?
Life had been less complicated when she had nothing more to do than let her stones pile up.
No, come on, don’t say that, stupid.
You’re right. I won’t say that.
“What’s up?”
“Look at my sweater,” grumbled Franck with disgust. “It’s the fucking washing machine! Shit, this was one I really liked, and look! Just look! It’s way too small now.”
“Hang on, I’ll cut off the sleeves and you can give it to the concierge for her rat.”
“That’s right, go ahead and laugh. A brand-new Ralph Lauren.”
“Well, all the more reason! She’ll be delighted! On top of which, she adores you.”
“Oh, really?”
“She just said so. ‘Ah, doesn’t your friend cut a fine figure on his motorbike!’ ”
“No way.”
“I swear.”
“Okay, then, why not. I’ll take it down to her when I leave.”
Camille bit the inside of her cheek and custom-tailored a chic little tube for Pikou.
“You know she’ll give you a kiss on the cheek, lucky you.”
“No way, don’t scare me!”
“And Philou?”
“You mean Cyrano? He’s at his theater class.”
“Really?”
“You should have seen him as he was heading out. Disguised again like I-don’t-know-what . . . With a big cape and all.”
They laughed.
“I adore him.”
“Me too.”
She went to make some tea.
“Want some?”
“No, thanks,” he replied, “I have to get going. Say—”
“What?”
“Don’t you feel like getting out for a change?”
“Pardon?”
“When was the last time you got out of Paris?”
“Ages.”
“Sunday we’re slaughtering the pig, you want to come? I’m sure you’d find it interesting . . . I mean, for your drawing.”
“Whereabouts?”
“At a friend’s place, in
the Cher region.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Yes, you do! Ah, come on, you have to see this at least once in your life. Someday it will all be a thing of the past, you know.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You do that, think about it. That’s your specialty, thinking about things. Where’s my sweater?”
“Here,” said Camille, pointing to a magnificent pale green yappylittle-dog suit.
“Fuck. And it was a Ralph Lauren. I can’t believe it, I swear to God.”
“Go on . . . you’ll have two new friends for life.”
“Shit, he better not piss on my motorbike, the pop-eyed little runt!”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” she giggled, holding the door for him. And, adopting her best Portuguese accent, “Yes, yes, I swear, you frienda, he cuts a fine figure on his motorbike . . .”
Camille ran to switch off the kettle, took her sketchbook and went to sit by the mirror. She began to laugh, finally. To laugh like crazy. Like a kid. She could just picture the scene: Mr. Smart-Ass, always so smug, knocking casually on the window of the concierge’s kiosk with his little offering of doggie felt and his balls on a silver tray. It was so good to laugh! So, so good. She hadn’t fixed her hair, so she drew her spikes, her dimples, her silly mood and wrote: Camille, January 2004, then took a shower and decided that, yes, she would go somewhere for a change, with Franck.
That was the least she owed him . . .
A message on her cell phone. Her mother. Oh, no, not today. To delete, press the star key.
Right, okay. Here we go. Star.
She spent the rest of the day listening to music, with her treasures and her box of watercolors. Smoking, nibbling, licking her sable-fur brushes, laughing to herself and grimacing when it was time to put on her overalls.
You’ve done a great job clearing the terrain so far, she thought, trotting along to the métro, but there’s still work to be done, you know that. You don’t want to stop just yet, do you?
I’m doing what I can, I’m doing what I can.
Go on, we have faith in you.