“Papa, promise me you’ll cooperate.”
“Mrs. Suarez can come sniff my armpits if she feels like it. She’s totally welcome!”
“OK, that’s enough. I’ll call you in five days. By then, I’ll have received the first report from the concierge. Love you, Papa!” Marion said, hanging up.
“Pff, that silly old goose will be eating out of my hand. And in less than ten days, she won’t know what hit her.”
Chapter Nine
That Takes the Cake!
Mrs. Suarez knows why people take her so quickly into their confidence. She exudes honesty. She can’t help it—it’s innate. She’s a woman of principles, of values, and she knows how to show she’s listening. Or perhaps it’s a result of her perfume. Opium by Yves Saint Laurent. But she can’t do anything about it if people are drawn to her.
In any case, Mrs. Suarez leaves nothing to chance. Even her hair is under control. Every evening, a blue net holds her peroxided curls in place, which has the advantage of discouraging any reckless carnal desire in her husband as effectively as a chastity belt.
After a night of heavy, dreamless sleep, thanks to the sleeping pills she takes more out of habit than need (her husband hasn’t snored since the apnea operation), she heads to the bathroom, where the fixtures from the eighties and the lighting leave much to be desired.
She overpowders her olive complexion with Terracotta, then her eyelids with colored shadows that match her outfit. She finishes her eye makeup, mouth open wide, by coating her lashes with black Rimmel mascara. It’s important to create an open look in order to highlight brown eyes: her cousin the beautician taught her that. She outlines her lips with a thick beige pencil, which has the dual benefit of giving her plump Pamela Anderson lips and also keeping the lipstick—generally of a brighter pink color—from spilling over into the furrows caused by many years spent taking energetic drags on her menthol cigarettes.
She largely avoids eyeliner on her upper lids, preferring to save that for special occasions, even if those are rare, with a plumber for a husband. She can’t help but think how different her life would have been if she’d agreed to marry Marcel Cochard, who today serves as an accounting assistant at city hall. He was too ugly forty years ago, but now it wouldn’t bother her so much.
Now what bothers her the most is that everyone believes she’s Portuguese, given her last name. So she tries to clarify the situation with each newcomer before they reach their own conclusions—she is French, like her mother, Marianne. The only Portuguese in this scenario is her husband the plumber.
She never misses an opportunity to get decked out in all her finery: a fox fur coat inherited from her grandmother, who received it from her own grandmother; black leatherette boots; flashy jewelry at all her extremities—ears, wrists, and fingers—with the whole ensemble enhanced by oversized sunglasses to keep her curly hair back.
To perfect her nouveau riche style, she tucks her Chihuahua, Rocco, under her arm to prevent any tachycardia that might occur if he were to exert himself or encounter some cannibalistic animal. Voilà, Mrs. Suarez is ready. Ready to scrutinize the complex’s trash and greet the mailman, among other things! Everyone would give first prize for beauty to the Little Miss Sunshine of Rue Bonaparte, more out of fear than for her resemblance to Paris Hilton—minus the hotel wealth, and including menopause and forty-five pounds in the rear.
In her work, she applies the same rigor as she does to her appearance, strictly following the techniques her mother taught her. And the student has surpassed the master, since adding her own rules.
Rule Number One: Everyone is prohibited from entering her loge, including her husband. He has the gift of making a mess wherever he goes, as evidenced by his workshop at the back of the apartment. In Mrs. Suarez’s loge, as in her home, everything is square: not a speck of dust, nothing out of its place. A real model home, with a husband who just barely has the right to breathe, but who mostly slips away as soon as Mrs. Suarez has visitors.
The raspberry-colored sofa in the living room is her and Rocco’s personal throne. Close to her couch is her thimble collection, religiously arranged in a locked glass cabinet. An air freshener, whose floral perfume irritates the throats of those unaccustomed to it, is plugged in to cover the manly—that is to say, sweaty—odor that emanates from the fabric on the sofa and even filters into her loge.
In the concierge’s lair: sewing supplies, pictures of Rocco, People magazines. She loves to be on the cutting edge of fashion and caught up on the latest news. And on her little wooden desk, hidden from the view of passersby, is her famous black book. The tiniest details of everyone’s life are recorded there, and, primarily, their lapses with regard to Rule Number Two.
Rule Number Two: Set the rules, make them known, and ensure they’re respected by everyone. The notebook has a new section dedicated entirely to Mr. Brun. That troublemaker will pay for his misdeeds.
And now that she’s been sent on a mission by Marion, Mr. Brun’s life is in her hands. She feels as powerful as a child turning the garden hose on an anthill and watching the little creatures struggle to survive.
Rule Number Three: Impose the appropriate penalties when the rules are broken.
Chapter Ten
Going to Pot
It takes very little to disturb the peace at Eight Rue Bonaparte. When Ferdinand first moved into the apartment, he had yet to say anything, yet to do anything, and Mrs. Suarez already hated him. In elementary school, the concierge had been in the same class as Louise, Ferdinand’s ex-wife. They had remained friends. And Ferdinand would be willing to bet it was Mrs. Suarez who pushed Louise to ask for a divorce. She’d never been shy about expressing her opinion of their twenty-five-year age difference. He wouldn’t be surprised, either, if she’d visited Louise and her mailman on the Riviera. That silly old goose is the type to roast topless all day at the beach. In short, Mrs. Suarez must not have had a favorable view of the cuckolded husband’s arrival at her apartment complex, and his moving into Louise’s parents’ apartment, no less—even if, technically, it now belongs to Marion.
In any case, after the icy stare Mrs. Suarez cast upon Mr. Brun the first time she encountered him with his dog, there was no way she could ever make up for her behavior—even if she’d wanted to. Ferdinand doesn’t forget. He never forgets. He’s quite vindictive. So being buddy-buddy with that silly old goose is out of the question! He knows all his misdeeds are veritable grenades. He takes perverse pleasure in tossing cobblestones into her pool of tranquility. Refusal to adorn his balcony with the “regulation” red geraniums; refusal to abandon the garbage chute in favor of five waste-sorting bins to be kept in his home; refusal to gossip with the neighbor ladies in the courtyard . . . His fate is in Mrs. Suarez’s hands, and she will choose when to unleash everyone on the evil Mr. Brun.
Ferdinand is not easily impressed. Some bitter old woman with the IQ of a turkey isn’t going to make him change his ways. In any case, it’s the neighbor ladies who are afraid. One day, they found a book by Pierre Bellemare about the century’s greatest serial killers—the pages full of annotations—in the trash. Ferdinand could see he’d struck a nerve! Their jitters lasted for weeks, during which the old man exulted every time they nervously said, “Hello, Mr. Brun,” “Good day, Mr. Brun,” “Everything all right, Mr. Brun?” “Can I do anything for you, Mr. Brun?”
So, if at first Ferdinand hadn’t purposely antagonized his neighbors, he’s since carefully plotted his next moves and taken perverse pleasure in making life unbearable for them. He does everything he can to make himself disagreeable. Ferdinand responds to their false friendliness with boorishness. He grunts or replies curtly with the most spiteful, impolite sentence he can think up. Or worse, he feigns deafness, ignoring the vile little things who dare to address him. And though he hates the smell of cigars and has never been a smoker, he lights up in secret every day so as to leave an odor of stale tobacco in the common areas, where smoking is strictly prohibited.
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nbsp; His hostility has become second nature, a way of life, of survival, even. Yes, survival, because Ferdinand resents growing old. Solitude, the decay of the body, all that is slowly killing him. The only activity Ferdinand has found to stave off boredom is being nasty so no one misses him when he goes.
This occupies his relentlessly similar days, but it entertains the neighbor ladies even more. They should thank him! Before, their conversations only revolved around the degenerate youth who no longer greet their elders and don’t learn anything in school, or the yuppies who demand a bike park but drive around in 4x4s, who request a community garden but gorge themselves on out-of-season produce at restaurants, who call themselves “green” but can’t manage to sort their waste correctly. The yogurt cups don’t go in the bin with the plastics, for crying out loud!
With the coming inspections from Mrs. Suarez, Ferdinand has a vested interest in grinning and bearing it, but he’s never been able to submit to decrees. When the old ladies of Eight Rue Bonaparte scrutinize Mr. Brun’s smallest deeds and slightest gestures, Ferdinand can’t help but make a comment or acerbic remark. It brightens his day. Like with Christine, his neighbor the hairdresser, for example.
Chapter Eleven
Splitting Hairs
The yellow plastic clock in the kitchen says 9:02.
“That foolish woman is late. As if I had nothing else to do today.” The doorbell rings, accompanied by grumbling from Ferdinand as he opens the door.
“You’re late! Did you get lost?”
Christine Jean-Jean, hairdresser and shampooer for the home hairstyling salon Hair Affair, lives in Apartment 2A, right above Ferdinand.
“Hello, Mr. Brun. No, I didn’t get lost. I’m sorry, I thought I was on time.”
The young woman barely has time to cross the threshold before Ferdinand turns and heads for the living room, where he sits down in a shapeless armchair, a copy of a satirical newspaper in his lap.
Ferdinand eyes her warily as she squints in the dim light of his apartment. Little does he know that Christine asked Mrs. Suarez to notify the police if she hasn’t left his apartment by ten o’clock. Christine sits down next to Ferdinand and opens up her case, taking out shampoo, scissors, and a cape.
“By all means, take your time, we’ve got all day,” Ferdinand says.
In order to serve the senior citizens at Eight Rue Bonaparte, Christine makes a few morning appointments before leaving for the salon. Her specialty is color. Ferdinand would say all the colors, including ones you won’t find on the L’Oréal color chart. Her spectrum runs from royal blue to carrot orange, by way of eggplant purple and cotton candy pink. From his window, Ferdinand likes to admire the hairdresser’s creations. Once the neighbor ladies have gathered in the little garden, you’d think you were at a gay pride parade!
But Ferdinand just needs a trim, so he gets a grip and, Christine’s artistic talents aside, wills himself to ignore all her annoying little quirks. Like the way she talks constantly in that shrill voice, nattering on about anything and everything, never thinking about the meaning of the words coming out of her mouth. He also hates how she’s “sorry” about every little thing, and how she darts fearful glances at him. Above all, Ferdinand can’t stand how it’s always Mr. Brun this, and Mr. Brun that. She can do all the bowing and scraping she wants—she’s getting one hundred francs—that is, fifteen euros—and not a cent more. And that’s only if she doesn’t botch it.
“I’m ready to start, Mr. Brun. I set up as fast as I could, Mr. Brun. May I ask if today is a special day for you? Normally you don’t call me in . . .”
Buried in his newspaper, Ferdinand pretends not to hear. Yes, this day is a big day for him, but like every year, no one will remember, let alone care. So this fool Christine can pack up her false sympathy, along with her scissors. It’s April 13, Friday again! But Ferdinand is depressed. He doesn’t have the heart to face another year. He doesn’t even know why he wants to make himself presentable.
“How are you, Mr. Brun? I mean, since your accident . . . and especially your dog’s death? I know that was hard for you. He was your only family, in a sense . . .”
With a seemingly clumsy but precise gesture, Ferdinand knocks over Christine’s tools. He can’t take it anymore, but she’s barely started. And the way people keep saying “he” when talking about Daisy—it’s unbearable!
Christine bends down to pick up the scissors while muttering, “Well, I doubt you ever shed a tear, let alone have a heart.” Resuming her lighthearted tone, she says, “We can move to the sink, if you please, Mr. Brun.”
“No need. I washed it last week.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Brun? It would do you good.”
“I said no. Would you prefer I say it in another language?”
“Very well, as you wish, Mr. Brun. So just a cut, then?”
“You’re a bit slow on the uptake, Christine.”
“Sorry, Mr. Brun. So how would you like it cut today?”
“Silently.”
Chapter Twelve
Hard Knocks
After getting rid of Christine, Ferdinand looks at himself in the mirror. With his square jaw, steel-blue eyes, and this haircut that’s too short on the sides, he looks like a soldier. And the neighbor ladies were already afraid of him. This is the last time he’ll call on that amateur. One bright spot is that the bruises on his jaw have practically disappeared. He decides not to put on his bandage to go out. He’s sick and tired of having an egghead, and besides, today is his birthday. Eighty-three years old. He decides to go for a walk, in spite of the menacing sky.
Lost in thought, Ferdinand doesn’t realize he’s been wandering for hours in the pouring rain. He’s cold and no longer knows where he is. He was thinking about Daisy, about her cremation. He’s tired. In his shopping bag is a small rectangular box containing the urn. He doesn’t even know why he brought it with him; maybe to find a good place for her.
In a way, this was a good day to start over. The rain on his eyelashes is blurring his vision, and he’s stomping along, when an enormous wave breaks over him and hits him like a cold slap. A car has just sped by through a muddy puddle. He turns to see if anyone observed the scene and is making fun of him. But no one seems to have witnessed it. Ferdinand looks down the road in search of the car. Maybe it was that little red one up ahead? He stares at the puddle as if he’ll find a clue in it. The puddle is close to the sidewalk. Too close. The car shouldn’t have gone through it—the lane is wide enough. The driver must have been in the middle of something else, sending a text or, if it was a woman, putting on makeup. Ferdinand isn’t even annoyed—he’s weary, resigned. It’s one more sign he’s been too long on this Earth, that his existence is nothing but a colossal joke.
The old man heads back up the street like a zombie, head tucked into his coat collar to keep the raindrops from beading on his neck. He’s frightening to behold. Pitiful, too. His steps carry him back home. Ferdinand doesn’t notice the little red car parked on the sidewalk across from his building. He also doesn’t see the streaks of mud on the right fender. It never occurs to him that someone might have deliberately tried to humiliate him, or worse, kill him . . . before changing her mind.
Chapter Thirteen
Battle Stations
A couple of weeks later, Ferdinand wakes up groggy, having slept poorly. It’s 8:20 in the morning, and he must have gotten at most an hour and a half of sleep. Exhausted, he abandoned his bed some time ago in favor of the living room couch, where he’s rolled himself up in a thick, pilly blanket. As the sun comes up, he finally lets go and sinks into a heavy sleep, when a metallic noise rings out in the kitchen. “Daisy, get out of the kitchen right now! Daisy?”
Ferdinand concentrates. He hears the noise again. Then he realizes his eyes are shut, and he forces himself to open them. Again that sound. It’s coming from the stairwell, not the kitchen. So it can’t be Daisy . . . Then he remembers she’s gone for good. This Daisy apparition was just a beautiful mirage. Bu
t the noise that pulled him from his dream is quite real. Ferdinand gets up, tottering to the entryway. Through the peephole, he discovers tons of boxes blocking his door. Several men are in the midst of carrying a sofa up the spiraling staircase, and at each landing the steel frame bangs against the walls. The racket is deafening.
“Be careful!” yells Ferdinand, more to himself than to be heard. “The paint will flake off again . . .” Bang! “Good God, be careful!” He knows the score: afterward—it’ll be the owners who pay for these damned tenants who vandalize everything because they can’t afford a moving company with a hydraulic lift. Ferdinand is beside himself. It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning, he hasn’t slept a wink, and this is the day these morons choose to make such a terrible racket?
“Can’t they put a sock in it?” He lost Daisy just a few weeks ago. They could leave him in peace, for Pete’s sake. He would have called the police to protest the disturbance, but after eight thirty in the morning, his request would lack legitimacy. People don’t have respect for anything anymore. What if he needed to go out? Would he have to shove the boxes aside by himself? Climb over the furniture? At his age?
Ferdinand goes into the bathroom to put in earplugs (very useful on New Year’s Eve and Independence Day) and settles in back on the couch. Suddenly, he remembers he got an ear infection the last time he used them. They weren’t the cleanest things. Oh, well. He has to sleep. He wants to sleep.
But he can’t manage it. The scraping right in front of his door, the movers’ deep voices, their heavy steps, the moving of objects. It’s impossible. He tosses and turns, gets annoyed, grumbles, gives up, and eventually gets up. Though all parking is prohibited in the courtyard, a moving truck is there. So somebody is moving into the building and nobody thought to warn the tenants of possible inconvenience? Who are these people?
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