This little old lady made me all emotional without even trying. I don’t know why, maybe it was the kindly way she said, So you give them names? Or maybe because she looked so gentle. And maybe it had something to do with the fact that I’d had a skinful at Jojo Zekouc’s fortieth the night before and only had four hours’ sleep. But like I said before, when you start with maybes, there’s no end to it.
So, anyway, I said:
“Yes. I give them all names. It’s easier to count them that way.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Well, well… Excuse me if I’m being indiscreet, but I have to confess I’m intrigued: how do you manage to tell them apart?”
“Um, well… It’s a bit like with kids… Have you got children?”
“No. And you?”
“Me neither.”
She nodded and smiled.
“In which case it is indeed an astute comparison…”
I wasn’t really sure what this meant, but she seemed to want to know more, so I carried on:
“Actually, they’re all different… If you don’t really pay attention, you’re not likely to notice, but if you study them carefully, you see that no two are the same. They’ve got their own personalities, even their own way of flying. That’s why I said it’s like kids. If you had kids, I’m sure you wouldn’t get them mixed up…”
She gave a little laugh.
“Oh, if I had nineteen of them, I’m not so sure…”
This made me laugh too.
I don’t often laugh when I’m with women. Not old women, at any rate.
It’s strange, I felt like we were friends, the two of us. Well, not really, but something quite like it. Since then, I’ve tracked down the word I needed: allies.
WORDS ARE BOXES that we use to store thoughts the better to present them to others. Show them to their best advantage. For example, on days when you just feel like kicking anything that moves, you can just sulk. Problem is, people might think you’re ill, or depressed. Whereas if you just say out loud: Don’t piss me around, I’m really not in the mood today! It avoids all sorts of confusion.
Or, to take a different example, some girl sets your head spinning, you think about her every minute of every day the Good Lord sends, at times like this it feels like your brain has taken up residence in your dick, but if you just tell her I love you like crazy etc., etc., it can help a little when it comes to dealing with it.
And yet what should matter is not the wrapping but what you put inside.
There are beautiful gift-wrapped packages with pathetic shit inside, and crudely wrapped packages that contain real treasures. That’s why, when it comes to words, I’m suspicious, you understand?
Thinking back, it was probably best that I didn’t know too many words. I didn’t need to choose: I simply said what I knew how to say. That way, I didn’t run the risk of making a mistake. And more important, I didn’t have to think so hard.
All the same—and this is something I only realized since Margueritte, I think—having the right words can be useful when you want to express yourself.
Ally, that was the word I was looking for that day. At the same time, if I’d known it, it wouldn’t really have changed anything. About how I felt, I mean.
THAT MONDAY, I told Margueritte the names of all my birds. Well, the ones that were there, because actually there are twenty-six that hang out in the park. I’m only talking regular visitors here. Not the migrant birds that flutter in, crash-land on the lawn and pounce on the breadcrumbs like they’ve got no manners and get a good thrashing from the regulars. I started:
“That one there is Pierrot. Next to him is Headstrong… Bullseye, Thievish, Sweetie… That one there is Verdun. The little brown one is Capuchin… That’s Cachou… Princess… Margueritte…”
“Just like me!” she said.
“Sorry?”
“My name is Margueritte too.”
It was weird to think that here I was talking to a Margueritte while another Margueritte, feathered from beak to backside, was pecking at an apple core at my feet.
I thought, Now there’s a coincidence!
It’s a word I only learned the meaning of recently: every time Landremont comes into Chez Francine and sees me at the bar having a drink with Jojo Zekouc, he taps me on the shoulder and says:
“Well, well. Germain sitting at a bar? Now, there’s a coincidence!”
I used to think it was his way of saying, Hi, nice to see you. But, no, apparently, it meant he thought I was a pathetic drunk clinging to the bar like a limpet to a rock. Jojo explained the real meaning to me one day. He said:
“Our friend Landremont seems to think we’re a couple of alcoholics.”
I asked why he said that. He explained.
Landremont is not a friend. One week he’s playing belote with you and treating you like a brother, then Saturday night he’ll end up punching you in the face. When he drinks too much, he gets addled.
Whenever he refers to Landremont, Marco calls him the weather vane. Jojo says he’s as changeable as the wind. Francine thinks he’s a crackpot. I used to think that meant as cracked as the pot, which sounded about right. But I also agree with the other definition: someone who suffers changeable, often disturbing mood swings; see also: capricious, whimsical, fickle.
That said, it’s probably down to him that I learned most things before I met Margueritte. He’s read a hell of a lot, has Landremont. His place is crammed with books. Not just in the toilet, and not just magazines.
He could teach Jacques Devallée a thing or two. Maybe even the mayor, who knows?
LANDREMONT IS A LITTLE, nervous guy with scrawny arms. He’s bald on top but has hairy arms. Thick bushy hair that’s not really blond but not quite white.
His poor wife passed away from ovarian cancer, which is a complete bitch… Ever since, he’s been nursing his grief by damaging his liver, though he does it hypocritically, on the sly. When he’s with us, he’ll just have half a lager, a small white wine, a shot of Mauresque, a couple of glasses of pastis, just for the sake of appearances.
He even makes snide comments like, Well, well! What a coincidence!
It doesn’t matter, everyone knows where they stand with him since the night Marco’s car broke down.
This one night, Marco was supposed to be going round to dinner with his sister and his brother-in-law. Just when he was about to set off, his Mercedes conked out. Marco went round to Landremont’s place and was hammering on the door for ten minutes before he answered. Marco kept knocking because he could see lights on and hear the TV. Given that they’re neighbours, he knew Landremont was definitely at home.
Anyway, long story short, in the end Landremont came to the door.
Marco told us about it the day after.
“Straight up, lads, I thought I’d met a zombie! Landremont had had a skinful!… I told him I really needed a favour, that I needed to be somewhere and I couldn’t get the car started. Said maybe it was a track rod or maybe the cylinder head, or maybe it was something else. And d’you know what he said to me?”
We said: No.
It was true, we didn’t know.
“He said: ‘Leave me the hell alone, go find a mechanic.’”
Marco added, “I’ve never seen a guy in such a state, never! And I’ve been on my fair share of benders, anyone here can vouch for that.”
We said: Oh, yeah, no question…
“Hang on, I’m not finished! He’s so bombed that at one point he says: ‘Sorry Marco, I need to take a piss.’ So I said: ‘Sure, no problem, go ahead.’ But he just stands there, not moving, holding the door open. You want to know the best part?”
We said: What?
“He pissed himself. He stood there, stiff as a board, looking like he was thinking, and the bastard pissed in his pants!”
We all said: Really?!
Michel said:
“So what did you do?”
“What could I do? I said goodnight and I went home.
Then I called my brother-in-law and asked him to come pick me up.”
We asked: What about the car?
“Pff, some glitch with the electrics, that’s all.”
Ever since then, we’ve known that Landremont has rough nights.
WHILE I WAS EXPLAINING the names of the birds to Margueritte, I wasn’t thinking about any of that, just about the word coincidence, which reminded me of Landremont’s comment when he saw me having a drink with Jojo. Which brought me back to Jojo, specifically to his birthday party the previous night (well, five in the morning, actually). And the fact I hadn’t had much sleep, which, on the one hand, explained why I was so emotional, and on the other, why I had a banging headache. If I don’t get my eight hours, I’m a train wreck the whole day.
It was at this point the little old lady said:
“You’re looking very thoughtful…”
So I went and explained everything, like we were close friends or something.
“No, not really… Just a bit tired. Last night, I was at the fortieth birthday of my friend Jojo Zekouc.”
And so she said:
“So you’ve got a friend who’s a cook?”
I was gobsmacked.
“So you know Jojo?” I said.
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure. Why do you ask?”
“Well, how did you know he’s a cook if you’ve never met him?”
“Well, because of his name, I suppose. Zekouc sounds like the cook in English.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “of course.”
But I was completely stunned. I mean, obviously I knew that that kind of thing was possible.
When I was a kid, the butcher on the place Jules-Ferry was called Duporc. And the guy in the hardware shop opposite the town hall is called Le Charpentier. But it would never have occurred to me that Jojo had a name that matched his job. And an English name to boot.
I said goodbye to Margueritte. Since she was a nice person, I added:
“Margueritte is a pretty name.”
“For a pigeon, certainly!” she said and laughed.
I giggled. She said:
“What about you, what is your name?… If I may be so forward.”
“Germain Chazes.”
And then, as if I was the mayor or something, she said:
“Well then, Monsieur Chazes, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She gestured to the birds and said: “And thank you for introducing me to your little brood.”
I thought to myself, she’s funny.
We left it at that.
AS SOON AS I left the park, I went straight to Chez Francine, because this thing about the English cook was bothering me. On Mondays, Jojo’s shift starts a little earlier. They treat me like family there. Whenever I want to see him, I just go round the counter and into the back.
I ran smack bang into him. He was peeling vegetables.
So I laughed and I said to him:
“Hey! You really picked the right job, what with your name and all.”
He seemed surprised and asked what I meant. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, I wasn’t trying to make fun of him, so I just said wasn’t it funny that he ended up working in a restaurant given his surname.
“With my surname? Pelletier? Sorry, I don’t get it…”
“What’s with the ‘Pelletier’? Who said anything about Pelletier, I meant your surname, Zekouc. Did you know that Zekouc was English?”
“Oh, OK, I get it… It’s a joke! Good one, Germain,” he said, laughing.
I had the feeling I was missing something.
I was a bit upset that I couldn’t work it out. But it was hardly the first time: I often feel that some of the things people are saying go right over my head (that’s obviously a figure of speech, given how tall I am). Sometimes, I understand everything that’s been said. Sometimes just part of it. Most of the time, not much.
When I was a kid, my mother used to call me the happy halfwit. But it wasn’t true; I wasn’t happy. Halfwit, maybe. But happy, no way.
Landremont tells me I’m smart enough to know how stupid I am, and that’s the root of my misfortune. I think he’s probably right, even if, thinking about it, it’s not exactly a compliment. Anyway, I can tell when there’s something I don’t understand.
Annette says she’s just the same, but it’s only with maths and sums in her case.
My mother also used to call me the retard or the idiot. And when I started to grow up: you stupid bastard.
She didn’t have an ounce of maternal fibre, as my friend Julien says.
Julien was my best mate from back in primary school. He’d often come home with me. We’d spend the afternoons playing at my house. This was before I walked out, before I left her to her scrapbooks and cleared off to live my own life.
When Julien came round, he could see for himself that my mother wasn’t the maternal type… Not that I ever wanted for anything as regards food or hygiene. But there’s ways and ways of serving soup, and after a while the soup plate looks like a dog’s bowl. And the clips round the ear never did “sort out my ideas”. Not for me, not for anyone. You’ve either got ideas or you haven’t. Beatings hurt, that’s all they do.
And the thing that hurts the most is having to hold back, never hitting back, even when you’re taller than her and you could shut her up with a little tap, or slam her against the wall.
But if there’s one thing I can’t accuse my mother of, it’s being two-faced. Absolutely not. She always told me exactly what she thought of me. Not that that made it any easier.
I STILL HADN’T worked out what it was I was missing when Landremont came into the restaurant. I whistled for him to come and join us. I said to him:
“Don’t you think that, with a name like his, Jojo here was right to become a chef?”
Landremont looked at me like he was puzzled. Then suddenly he said:
“Oh, you mean because of Pelletier Crispbread’.”
Pelletier must have been his mother’s name and Zekouc his father’s. It does sound slightly Arabic—even if it is supposedly English—so maybe he doesn’t want everyone to know. Not that Francine has a racist bone in her body. Youssef should know.
I said to Landremont:
“No, I meant his other name. Now you mention it, Pelletier is pretty funny too. But ‘Zekouc’ means the cook in English, in case you didn’t already know.”
I was proud of myself.
Landremont burst out laughing. He clapped me on the back and said:
“Jesus, you’re dumb as pigshit! You’re dumb as a sack of hammers. There’s nothing going on in that head of yours—”
“Cut it out!” said Jojo.
Landremont was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.
Jojo coughed to clear his throat. I could tell he was embarrassed. He put on that voice people use with five-year-olds when they want to explain something. When people talk to me like that, it pisses me off like you can’t imagine.
“Germain, my surname is Pel-le-tier. Joël Pelletier. People call me Zekouc because I’m the cook… But it’s only a nickname, you knew that?”
“Of course!” I said, “Of course I knew that, what do you take me for?”
He gave me a wink.
“I know you knew. I’m only explaining for Landremont’s benefit.”
“Yeah, right,” said Landremont.
Then we changed the subject.
I felt hacked off, though I didn’t show it.
It’s exhausting always having to watch life without a decoder, as Marco puts it sometimes.
If being intelligent was just about making the effort, I’d be a genius, take it from me. Because I’ve made a lot of effort. A lot of effort. But it’s like trying to dig a trench with a soup spoon. Everyone else has a JCB digger, and I’m standing there like an idiot. It’s the only word for it.
THAT NIGHT, I didn’t hang out with them. When Julien showed up about ten o’clock and said, So what about it, sh
all we carry on where we left off last night? I said no, I had some shopping to do.
“At ten o’clock at night? Or maybe you’re not buying, maybe you’re making… a delivery?” said Landremont, grabbing his balls through his trousers. “If it’s the shop I’m thinking of, don’t worry, it stays open all night. Oh, and give Annette my love, will you?”
“Fuck off.” I said.
He laughed. He was acting the smartarse, said I was right, women are like bottles of booze: to be sampled, savoured, and slung out!
He can be pretty crude sometimes.
I said:
“You’d know all about… bottles of booze.”
Jojo whistled from the kitchen:
“Ho ho! You scored a direct hit there, Germain! And a good one, too!”
“You just got bitch-slapped,” said Marco, turning to Landremont.
Landremont just shrugged, but he was angry and that made me happy.
Francine, in the middle of wiping down the bar, chuckled and said:
“What do you expect? Germain is the smartest of the lot of you. And the kindest, too! You don’t pay them any heed, they’re just jealous. Isn’t that right, Germain?”
I said yes and went over and kissed her on the cheek. Francine always stands up for me, I think she’s fond of me. I think it might be more than that, but just in case I’m mistaken, I’ve no intention of finding out. Besides, Youssef is a nice guy, I’m not about to do the dirty on him behind his back, it’s just common decency.
And anyway, she’s a bit old for my taste.
I went over to Annette’s place, obviously. And not just to do it. Annette relaxes me. Though in a manner of speaking: when we meet up, it’s not to play Ludo.
I remember the first time for her and me was after a May Day festival. The two of us had danced together, then a thunderstorm broke. It started bucketing down. The wind started howling, the temperature dropped suddenly. Annette had parked her car next to the square, she suggested she could drive us all back. We said yes. Given the weather, we weren’t going to pass up a lift. Besides, it was sensible, given the state of Marco, who was drunk as a skunk.
Soft in the Head Page 2