Hunting and Gathering

by Anna Gavalda

  No, no, don’t have faith in me, it stresses me out.

  Tsk, go on, hurry up. You’re already very late.

  55

  PHILIBERT was unhappy. He followed Franck around the apartment: “It’s not a good idea. You’re leaving too late. In an hour it will be dark. It’s going to freeze over. It’s not a good idea. Leave to-tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow morning we’re killing the pig.”

  “But, but what sort of an idea is that! Ca-Camille,” he pleaded, wringing his hands, “st-stay here with me, I’ll take you to the Pa-Palace of Teas . . .”

  “That’s enough,” grumbled Franck, stuffing his toothbrush into a pair of socks. “We’re not going to the ends of the earth. It’ll take us an hour.”

  “Oh, d-don’t say that. You’re going to d-drive like a lunatic.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “But you will, I kn-know you.”

  “Philou, cut it out! I won’t drop her, I promise. You coming, mademoiselle?”

  “Oh, I—I—,” fumbled Philibert.

  “You what?” barked Franck.

  “I have no-no one else but you two on earth.”

  Silence.

  “Oh, my, my . . . I don’t believe it. Bringing out the violins now.”

  Camille stood on tiptoe to kiss Philibert: “Me too, you’re all I have on earth. Don’t worry.”

  Franck sighed.

  “How the hell did I get mixed up with such a bunch of lunatics! Any more melodrama and we’ll be drowning in soap bubbles! We’re not going off to war, fuck! We’ll be gone forty-eight hours!”

  “I’ll bring you back a nice steak,” said Camille, heading into the elevator.

  The doors closed on them.

  “Hey.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no steaks in a pig.”

  “No?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Well, what is there?”

  He rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

  56

  THEY had not even reached the Porte d’Orléans when Franck pulled over to the hard shoulder and motioned to Camille to get off the bike.

  “Listen, there’s something not quite right here.”

  “What?”

  “When I lean into the curves, you have to lean with me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure! You’ll run us off, the way you’re leaning now!”

  “But I thought by leaning the other way I was keeping us balanced.”

  “Fuck, Camille, I don’t know how to give you a physics lesson but it has something to do with the center of gravity, you see? If we lean together, the tires grip better.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. Lean with me. Trust me.”

  “Franck?”

  “What is it? Are you scared? You can still get back on the métro, you know.”

  “I’m cold.”

  “Already?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Let go of the handles and press yourself up against me. Get as close as possible and put your hands under my jacket.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hey.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t take advantage, all right?” he added, ironically, pulling her visor back down with a snap.

  A hundred yards farther along she was already icy cold again; by the time they turned off the freeway she was deep-frozen; and when they reached the farmyard she could not feel her arms.

  He helped her climb off and supported her as far as the door. “Ah, there you are, well, what have we here?”

  “A young lady who might as well be a fish stick.”

  “Come on in, please, come in. Jeannine! Here’s our Franck with his girlfriend.”

  “Oh, the poor thing,” lamented Jeannine, “what on earth have you done to her? If that isn’t a shame . . . She’s completely blue, poor child. Out of the way. Jean-Pierre! Put a chair by the fire!”

  Franck knelt down in front of Camille.

  “Hey, you need to take your coat off now.”

  No reaction.

  “Here, I’ll give you a hand. Let’s start with your feet.”

  He pulled off her shoes and three pairs of socks.

  “There . . . that’s better. Okay, now the rest.”

  She was so rigid that it was only with great difficulty that he got her arms out of her sleeves. There, there. Let me do it, little ice cube.

  “Good lord! Get her something hot!” someone shouted.

  Camille was the new center of attention.

  Or, how to defrost a Parisian girl without breaking her.

  “I have some hot kidneys,” shouted Jeannine.

  A flutter of panic from Camille where she sat by the fireplace. Franck rescued the situation: “No, no, let me take care of it. You must have some bouillon kicking around,” he asked, looking under saucepan lids.

  “That’s from yesterday’s chicken.”

  “Perfect. I’ll take care of it. Give her something to drink in the meantime.”

  With each sip she took from the bowl, the color began to return to her cheeks.

  “Feeling better?”

  She nodded.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said that’s the second time you’ve fixed me the best bouillon in the world.”

  “I’ll make some more for you, don’t worry. Can you come join us at the table now?”

  “Can I stay a while longer by the fire?”

  “Of course!” shouted the others. “Leave her alone, Franck. We’ll smoke her, like a side of ham!”

  Franck reluctantly got up.

  “Can you move your fingers?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “You have to be able to draw, right? I’m happy to get some food for you but you’ve got to draw. You mustn’t ever stop drawing, right?”

  “Now?”

  “No, not now, ever.”

  She closed her eyes. “Okay.”

  “Right, I’m going. Give me your glass, I’ll get you some more.”

  And Camille gradually melted. By the time she went to join the others, her cheeks were on fire.

  She listened to their conversation without understanding a word, admiring their features, smiling to the angels.

  “Come on . . . One last swig of firewater and off to bed! Because tomorrow it’s up early, guys. There’s Gaston who’ll be here at seven.”

  Everyone stood up.

  “Who’s this Gaston?”

  “Gaston is the guy who slaughters the pigs,” murmured Franck. “Wait’ll you see him, he’s something else.”

  “So this is it,” added Jeannine. “Here’s the bathroom and over there on the table I laid out some clean towels. All right?”

  “Great,” answered Franck, “great. Thanks.”

  “No need for that, kiddo, we’re just really happy to see you, you know that. And how’s Paulette?”

  He looked down.

  “Okay, okay, we won’t talk about it,” she said, squeezing his arm. “It’ll all work out, right?”

  “You wouldn’t recognize her, Jeannine.”

  “Let’s not talk about it. You’re on vacation now.”

  When she had closed the door, Camille grew worried: “Hey! There’s only one bed!”

  “Of course there’s only one bed! You’re in the country, not at the Holiday Inn!”

  “Did you tell them we were together?” she groused.

  “Of course not! I just said I was coming with a girlfriend, that’s all!”

  “Well, well.”

  “Well, well, what?”

  “A girlfriend, that generally means a girl you’re having sex with. What the hell was I thinking?”

  “Fuck, you really are a ballbreaker when you want to be, you know that?”

  He sat on the edge of the bed while she got out her things.

  “This is the first time,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “This is the first time I
’ve ever brought anyone here.”

  “That makes sense. Slaughtering pigs is not the most glamorous way to charm—”

  “It has nothing to do with the pig. It has nothing to do with you, either. It’s . . .”

  “It’s what?”

  Franck lay across the bed and addressed the ceiling: “Jeannine and Jean-Pierre had a son . . . Frédéric . . . A great guy, my buddy. The only one I’ve ever had, to be honest. We went to hotel school together and if he hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have been there either. Anyway . . . He died ten years ago. Car accident. Not even his fault. Some asshole who ran the stop sign. So you see . . . it’s not like I’m Fred or anything, but we were similar. I come here every year. The pig’s a pretext. They look at me and what do they see? Memories, words and the face of their kid, he wasn’t even twenty. Jeannine is always touching me, feeling me—why do you think she does that? ’Cause I’m the proof that he’s still there. I’m sure she gave us her best sheets and that she’s holding on to the banister, right now . . .”

  “Was this his room?”

  “No. His is locked.”

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I told you, so you could draw and—”

  “And what?”

  “I don’t know, I just felt like it . . .”

  He shrugged.

  “And about the bed, it’s not a problem. We can put the mattress on the floor and I’ll sleep on the box springs. That okay, princess?”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Have you seen Shrek? The cartoon?”

  “No, why?”

  “Because you remind me of Princess Fiona. Not quite as curvy, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “C’mon . . . give me a hand? This mattress weighs a ton.”

  “You’re right,” she groaned. “What the hell is in here?”

  “Generations of peasants who died of fatigue.”

  “Charming.”

  “Aren’t you getting changed?”

  “I did . . . These are my pajamas.”

  “You’re going to sleep in your sweater and socks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I switch off the light?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “You asleep?” she asked after a few minutes.

  “No.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Your youth?”

  “Maybe. So, nothing. Like I said.”

  “Your youth was nothing?”

  “Not a whole lot, at any rate.”

  “Why?”

  “Shit. If we head down that path, we’ll still be there in the morning.”

  “Franck?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s wrong with your grandmother?”

  “She’s old. She’s alone. Her whole life she slept in a big comfy bed like this one with a woolen mattress and a crucifix above her head and now she’s pining away in a sort of shit-awful metal box.”

  “Is she in the hospital?”

  “Nah, an old folks’ home.”

  “Camille?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are your eyes open?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell how dark the night is here? How beautiful the moon is? How the stars shine? Can you hear the house? The pipes, the wood, the wardrobes, the clock, the fire downstairs, the birds and animals and the wind . . . Can you hear all that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, my grandma can’t hear it anymore. Her room looks over a parking lot that’s lit all the time, and she just listens for the rattle of the food carts, conversations of the nurses’ aides, her neighbors moaning and their televisions blaring all night long. And it . . . it’s killing her.”

  “What about your parents? Can’t they take care of her?”

  “Oh, Camille.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t let’s go there. Go to sleep, now.”

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  “Franck.”

  “Now what?”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “No idea.”

  “What d’you mean, no idea?”

  “I don’t have any.”

  Camille didn’t know what to say.

  “My father,” he continued, “I never knew; a stranger knocked up my mom in the back of a car. And my mother, well . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well, my mother didn’t really like the fact that some bastard whose name she couldn’t even remember had knocked her up like that, so . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing, what?”

  “Well, she didn’t want anything to do with him.”

  “With who, the guy?”

  “No, her little boy.”

  “Your grandmother brought you up?”

  “My grandmother and grandfather.”

  “And did your grandfather die?”

  “Yes.”

  “You never saw your mother again?”

  “Camille, I swear, you’d better stop. Otherwise you’re going to have to take me in your arms afterwards.”

  “No, go on. I’m willing to take that risk.”

  “Liar.”

  “You never saw her again?”

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

  She heard him turning over:

  “I . . . until I was ten, I had no news from her. Well, no, actually I always got a present for my birthday and for Christmas, but later I learned that that was all a farce. Just another trick to get me all mixed up. A nice trick, but a trick all the same. She never wrote, but I know my grandma sent her my school photo every year. And then one year, who knows, I must have been cuter than usual—maybe the teacher had actually combed my hair that day—or the photographer had pulled out a plastic Mickey Mouse or something to make me smile . . . Anyway, the little kid in the photo must’ve filled her with regret and she announced she was going to come and take me away with her. Which caused one hell of a mess . . . There was me screaming because I wanted to stay, my grandma trying to console me and saying over and over that this was great, at last I’d have a real family, but she couldn’t help bawling even louder than me, squeezing me up against her huge breasts . . . And Granddad didn’t say a thing. Seriously, what a mess. You’re smart enough to understand this sort of thing, right? But believe me, it was tough.

  “After flaking a few times, she finally showed up. I got in her car. She showed me her husband, her other kid and my new bed.

  “At first I really liked the idea, sleeping in a bunk bed, that kind of thing, and then that night I started crying. I told her I wanted to go home. She told me that this was home now and I had to be quiet, otherwise I’d wake up the little kid. That night and every night after that I wet my bed. It pissed her off. She said, I know you’re doing this on purpose, so too bad. You can just stay wet, then. Your grandmother’s obviously spoiled you. And then I went crazy.

  “I’d always lived in the fields, I went fishing every day after school, in winter my granddad would take me hunting, or to the café, or to pick mushrooms. I was always outdoors, always in boots, always throwing my bike into the bushes so I could hang out with the poachers and learn their trade, and then suddenly there I was in some rotten high-rise low-income housing project in some shitty suburb, stuck between four walls, a television and another kid who was raking in all the affection . . . so I lost it. I—No. Never mind. Three months later she stuck me on the train and told me again and again that I’d ruined everything.

  “ ‘You ruined everything, ruined everything’ . . . When I got into my granddad’s Simca, that was still going round and round in my little head. And the worst of it, you know, is that—”

  “Is what?”

  “Is that she shattered me into a million pieces, that bitch. Afterwards it was never the same. I wasn’t a kid anymore, I didn’t want my grandparents’ cuddles and all that shit. Because t
he worst thing—it wasn’t so much that she came to get me, but all the bad stuff she said about my grandmother before she threw me out again. She really fucked with my head with all her lies. Said it was her mother who’d forced her to abandon me and then she’d thrown her out. That she had done everything she could to take me with her but they’d pulled out the shotgun and everything . . .”

  “Was she bullshitting you?”

  “Of course. But I didn’t know that, not then. I didn’t understand a thing anymore and maybe on some level I wanted to believe her? Maybe it suited me to think we’d been separated by force and that if my granddad hadn’t got out his blunderbuss, I would have had the same life as everyone and no one would have called me the son of a whore behind the church. ‘Your ma’s a ho’ is what they said, and ‘you’re just a bastard.’ Words I didn’t even understand. For me a hoe was a garden tool. What an idiot I was.”

  “And then?”

  “After that I turned into a stupid fuck. I did whatever I could to get even. To make them pay for having deprived me of such a sweet mother.”

  He was laughing.

  “And I managed just fine. I smoked my granddad’s Gauloises, stole money from the shopping kitty, caused all kinds of trouble in high school, got expelled and spent most of my time on a moped or in the back room of some café planning my next prank or feeling up some girl. Really nasty stuff. You have got no idea. I was the head man. The best. King of the shit-stirrers.”

  “And then?”

  “And then, good night. To be continued in the next episode.

  “Well? Don’t you want to take me in your arms now?”

  “I’m not so sure. It’s not like you got raped or anything.”

  He leaned over her: “So much the better. Because I don’t want your arms. Not like that. Not anymore. I played that little game long enough, but that’s all over. It’s no fun anymore. It never pans out. Shit, how many blankets you got there?”

  “Uh . . . three, plus the duvet.”

  “That’s not normal. And it’s not normal that you’re always cold, and that you take two hours to recover from a ride on a motorbike. You have to put on weight, Camille.”

  She didn’t reply.