“Bah, if there’s enough for two or three, there’s enough for four! When are your guests arriving? Don’t mind me, but school starts back up at one thirty, so I mustn’t dawdle. Fine, I’ll split it into two and you can redo it however you need to. You sure you don’t want to start? I’m not very comfortable with you looking at me like that.” She takes a bite. “Did you know they’re saying you’re a serial killer? And that you might have killed your wife? Where is your wife, Ferdinand?” the little girl inquires with her mouth full.
The old man shuts his eyes. This is just a bad dream. He’s going to wake up, and everything will be like before. He reopens his eyes. It’s 12:50 p.m., half the meal has disappeared, his stomach is crying out for food, and the little chatterbox with a vocabulary far beyond her years is still there.
“At least take some licorice. You’re gonna pass out. I bought it with my lunch money.” Juliette wipes her mouth on her sleeve and adds, “OK, I’ve gotta run now. I have to go back to the pharmacy to look for my sister’s milk. You’re welcome for the medicine. See you tomorrow at 12:15! I’ll bring the bread and dessert.”
The tsunami departs as quickly as it had come. Words like Easter egg, serial killer, and licorice remain in its wake. Everything spins around Ferdinand. The only thing he is certain of is that the next day at 12:15, he will not open up! The little girl had taken advantage of the element of surprise, a moment of weakness due to his accident. But the next day he will not be taken in. “Not by a child!” he rants while pounding his fist into the table. In a state of advanced hypoglycemia, he seizes the box of licorice and gulps down a piece. The rest of the box follows.
Chapter Sixteen
Fit for the Loony Bin
Ferdinand is preoccupied. He’s forgotten something but no longer knows what. That worries him. Ferdinand is a hypochondriac. This mustn’t be Alzheimer’s . . . Anything but that! Losing his mind would be the worst thing he could imagine. He’s already going deaf . . . He has to keep all his wits. And his legs, too. Otherwise he won’t be able to climb the thirteen steps up to his apartment. And he’ll have to move. Probably to the retirement home. Oh, no, anything but the retirement home.
Furthermore, he’s waiting for the silly old goose and her pathetic inspection. He’s ready to welcome her as required. Maybe ready isn’t the right word. Mrs. Suarez is coming at 4:00 p.m. and nothing is ready. He has to tidy up, take out the trash, go shopping, clean, take a bath, even wash his hair. His lair is a chaotic dump. The old lady will faint just at the smell: between the trash cans, the dust, the odor of grease and mothballs—even he recognizes it doesn’t smell like roses. Then again, if she croaks, that would solve all his problems! Well, unless she kicks the bucket in his house. Then they’d really take him for a serial killer.
It’s 11:55. He’ll never be ready . . . Barring a miracle!
Chapter Seventeen
To Beat the Band
On Tuesday, at 12:15 on the dot, Juliette appears at the door.
“Ferdinand, it’s me, Juliette. Open up! I know you’re there. I saw you skulk back from the butcher hugging the walls. I’ve brought bread!”
Behind his door, Ferdinand nods. She can stick her bread where the sun don’t shine. Besides, I still have some left over, which will do nicely.
The little girl rings again. “If you don’t let me in, I’ll keep ringing until 1:15. Being an only child for so long has taught me patience. Open up! I have something for you . . .”
Ferdinand won’t be taken in by this little manipulator. He’s intrigued, but it’s out of the question for her to invite herself over for lunch every day. He values his peace and quiet. Anyway, he’s no cook, much less a nanny. And today he doesn’t have time for this childishness; he has other things to worry about, namely Mrs. Suarez’s visit. However, as might be gathered from his stomach’s noises, he can’t help but salivate when thinking about the previous day’s melt-in-your-mouth sweets.
A glance at the empty licorice box, and he risks asking through the door, “What have you brought that’s so extraordinary I’m going to let you in? Licorice? Because if it’s that, I’m not the least bit interested. I still have plenty. And I don’t have time to eat today, let alone babysit. For free, no less!”
“Two things. Firstly, I bet there’s nothing left in yesterday’s box. So, I bought a dessert. I changed it up. I got candied chestnuts. Secondly, I brought something else. Isn’t Mrs. Suarez coming tomorrow?”
Why yes! The silly old goose isn’t coming until tomorrow. The inspection is on Wednesday, and today is only Tuesday. Ferdinand sighs with relief. He has more time. How could he have been mistaken? And how does the little girl know?
“Listen, Little Miss Know-It-All. Yes, Mrs. Suarez is coming tomorrow, but that’s none of your beeswax! And for your information, the licorices weren’t even that good. You can go home now and say hello to your father for me!”
Juliette remains unruffled. “I thought that apart from the white vinegar you put in your dressings you must not have much to scrub your apartment with. So I got—if you’re interested, of course—a floor cleaner, a bathroom and kitchen cleaner, a hard water treatment, a window cleaner, two sponges, three rags, and a mop. We have quite the supply at home. Our housekeeper is afraid of running out.”
The door opens like magic. “Open sesame” wouldn’t have been more effective. Pretending to be unmoved, Ferdinand carries on. “I was waiting for you before starting lunch, little one. It’s ready. Hurry up, it’ll get cold. Tell me, when you say window cleaner, do you think it’s worth doing the windows for Mrs. Suarez? It rained all week—that cleans them, doesn’t it?”
Juliette sits in the same blue Formica chair from the previous day, across from Ferdinand.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she says, pointing to the window, “but Mrs. Suarez does her windows every Saturday before hosting her friends. When I came yesterday, I didn’t dare say anything, but your windows are so dirty you’d think it’s night outside. Mrs. Suarez might wince at that even if the rest of the apartment is spotless. You’ll also have to clean your fridge,” she says as she puts a plastic bag inside. “She has to make sure you’re feeding yourself, so I brought you some eggs and green beans and pickles. That’ll be much better than moldy cheese and rancid butter. Will you throw them out yourself, or should I do it now?” Without waiting for a reply, she seizes the two biological weapons and dumps them into the trash bag.
Ferdinand isn’t hungry anymore with all this talk of housework. The last time he cleaned was so long ago that it depresses him thinking about scrubbing, scouring, washing, dusting . . . Taking out the trash already takes him days. Days of dithering before deciding to do it, forced by the nauseating stench emanating from the bag and filling the kitchen. To find out when Ferdinand has thrown out a bag of garbage, you only have to observe his kitchen window—when it’s open, it’s because he’s finally decided to do it, just before the bugs arrive. In his entire life he’s only done housework maybe twice, and he doesn’t have any concrete memory of it. He’s nearing the point of telling himself it wouldn’t be so bad at a retirement home. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning, laundry, or meals. Lost in thought, he pushes his plate away and rummages in the plastic bag that Juliette put in the fridge, looking for chestnuts.
Juliette asks, “You want another spoon of macaroni or can I finish it off?”
“You don’t say ‘spoon.’ You say ‘spoonful.’ Haven’t your parents taught you anything?”
“My mother is dead. My father works a lot. He’s a landscape designer, specializing in sustainable development.”
“Well, good. So you go to school. What grade are you in?”
“Fifth.”
“Fifth? You’re quite the chatterbox for your age.”
“That’s what the teacher says, too. Now it’s my turn to ask questions. Why are you all alone? Is your wife dead?”
“What makes you think I have a wife?”
“You se
em like somebody who thinks his life is over. You remind me of those old people who think that each passing day isn’t worth living, that they’d be better off dead because they’ll never know happiness again. I have a book about it. It’s called Old Age, Depression, and Addiction.”
“Should you be reading things like that? You’ve got a screw loose, my dear, I’m telling you.”
“It was to better understand my grandmother. She was very sad when her man-friend died. What are you reading? Thrillers, I bet. OK, so then, what happened to your wife?”
“I don’t like to talk about it. I get angry. I have regrets. I shouldn’t have done certain things. But now it’s too late. And now it’s time to leave, Juliette. We’ll discuss literature another time.”
The moment the words leave his mouth, Ferdinand wants them back. He doesn’t want her to take them as an invitation to drop by every day for lunch—he has other things to deal with.
“OK. I’m off. By the way, do you know how to use the things I brought you?”
Ferdinand feigns indignation. Juliette continues. “In addition to the toilets, don’t forget to wipe the floor. It’s sticky—my sneakers are sticking to the parquet and a strip just got torn up. It’s not like that in people’s houses, normally.”
He finally—thankfully—closes the door on Juliette, all while calculating how long he can postpone the drudgery of housework. He decides to take a nap while listening to his favorite radio program, True Crime. Might as well get the pleasures in before the chores. Though no matter how much he does and redoes the calculation, he arrives at the same result: he’s behind. And he’s going to have to make compromises. Certainly on the windows, and toilets, too. For the straightening up, he’ll find a closet in which to toss everything he hasn’t found a place for in two years. As for the rest, it’s bad. Up the creek, even.
Oh, well, since he’s screwed anyway, Ferdinand settles into his armchair, puts his feet up, pulls the blanket over him, and awaits the beginning of his program, eyelids already heavy. It can all wait until tomorrow, and it’ll be for the best: the silly old goose isn’t the queen of England! A little sleight of hand, and she’ll be completely hoodwinked.
Chapter Eighteen
Up the Wall
Only three hours separate Ferdinand from Mrs. Suarez’s inspection, and he still hasn’t touched the cleaning products. The silly old goose has just left him a letter indicating she’s moved the inspection up by a day: she’ll be showing up today, Tuesday, at 6:00 p.m.
It was while barely woken up from his postlunch nap and still unsteady that Ferdinand discovered a letter slipped under his door. Since then his heart has been racing.
What an old bag that concierge is! Ideally, Mrs. Suarez gets held up with something else this afternoon. Ferdinand reflects for a few minutes. I think I’ve found something to distract her for a couple hours.
One problem persists, however. Even if Mrs. Suarez doesn’t come until Wednesday, as planned, Ferdinand still has to tackle the cursed housework, and soon. A saying surfaces in his memory, one his old supervisors used to use every time Ferdinand made a suggestion: “We can’t all be good at everything.” A way of sending him packing and asking him to concentrate on his own work instead of his neighbor’s. And it’s true that Ferdinand’s thing, his forte, is . . . what is it, anyway? One thing is certain: it’s not housework! Then again, a woman, more precisely a cleaning woman, would know how to solve the problem. But where to find such an expert on short notice?
Ferdinand sees two options—either ask Juliette for their housekeeper’s contact info, or ask one of the neighbor ladies for her housekeeper’s contact info. But Ferdinand doesn’t fancy letting Juliette know he wasn’t able to do his housework. He had the time—taking into account the diversion he’s planning—and he had the products. But neither the desire nor the courage. As for the second option, he’d have to find a neighbor lady who wouldn’t say anything to Mrs. Suarez, and that’s mission impossible. Ferdinand is at an impasse. Or he could call an agency and pray they send someone competent. But it’s likely all the good ones are taken. The clock is ticking. Ferdinand decides to set up Mrs. Suarez’s diversion.
His trap set, Ferdinand is climbing back up the stairs when he hears the door slam on the second floor. Darn, it’s the old bat Mrs. Claudel. He doesn’t want to cross paths with her, not now. She’s going to ask him how he’s been doing since Daisy. Back against the wall, he risks a peek. Oh, no, she’s carrying glass bottles. She’s going to ruin everything if she goes in the trash area. Shoot! Ferdinand has no choice: he has to detain her, otherwise, it’s the retirement home for sure! He climbs the last few steps and calls out, “Hello, ma’am. I’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind. It’s important and extremely urgent.”
“Of course, Mr. Brun. What is it?” she asks in surprise.
“Since my dog died, there are too many memories at home. It would be easier for me to say good-bye if I had some help to put her things away.”
“I was just about to go to church—I’m organizing guided tours there—but tomorrow afternoon I can give you a hand. I understand this isn’t exactly easy.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I was thinking more along the lines of your housekeeper. You do have one, don’t you?”
Beatrice nods.
“Could you ask her to do me a favor? The sooner the better.”
“If it’s that urgent, you should call her right now.”
Beatrice gets her keys out of her purse and motions for Ferdinand to follow her. A few steps into the entryway, he’s dazzled by the brightness and beauty of the place. How can an apartment identical to his own, and with the same exposure, be so different? Magnificent, even. How can he be bathed in sunlight at 3:50 p.m.? Everything is in perfect order and sparkling clean. It’s like being in a mansion. The walls are papered in a discreet English pattern, with beautiful moldings and millwork. The chandeliers and chevron-patterned parquet floor give the impression of a ballroom. The timeless family heirloom furniture is ornamented with finely gilded handles. On the walls are numerous oil paintings, probably paying homage to illustrious family members. Above the old mantel hangs a masterpiece—the portrait of a marshal of the Empire, surely an illustrious member of the Claudel family.
Most impressive, however, is the library that occupies the entire length of the dining room wall. The wood is magnificent, the finish delicate. The wide shelves hold hundreds of old books, arranged by publisher, whose gilded bindings match the amber color of the wood. Ferdinand doesn’t know much about art, literature, or even décor, but wood, yes: the beauty of the parquet, the baseboards, and the library greatly impresses him and informs him of his host’s noble birth.
“Mr. Brun? Are you still with me? I’m on the phone with Katia, my housekeeper. She can come tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, if you wish. It was the time reserved for me, but I’ll make do with the dust for a few extra days, don’t worry about it.”
Mess? Dust? Here?
“Mr. Brun? Does that work for you?”
“Yes, it’s perfect. Thank you so much for your help, ma’am . . .”
“Claudel, Beatrice Claudel! All right, let’s go, I’m frightfully late.”
Ferdinand reaches the landing ahead of Beatrice, but stops on his doorstep, searching for his keys. Beatrice, in a hurry as usual, waves one last time before heading down the stairs. OK, she’s gone. It’s out of the question for her to see the inside of his apartment. After what he saw, Ferdinand will never dare let her enter his place.
In any case, his cleaning problem is resolved: tomorrow an expert on dusting and tidying will come take care of his apartment. But something has been nagging at him since he thought to call a housekeeper and even more since visiting with his neighbor. How much does a cleaning lady, one used to polishing up rich peoples’ houses, cost? That’s as far as his thinking makes it, when a fire engine siren blares from the courtyard.
Damn! I didn’t have time to call the fire dep
artment . . . Well, they’re already here, that’s the main thing. I hope my diversion will soon be under control and won’t make the front page tomorrow . . .
From his window, Ferdinand takes in the sight of firemen. After more than an hour and a half of battling a fire at the back of the courtyard, they extract a metal box, enveloped in flames, from the trash area and spray it with their fire hose to the point of inundating Mrs. Suarez’s lovely flower boxes. All the while, she bosses everyone around.
Ferdinand looks at the clock. 6:12 p.m. The silly old goose won’t come today for her inspection! He’s saved.
At that moment, the concierge looks up and sees the old man watching her. She waves at him, murmuring to herself, “Just you wait, you old geezer!”
Chapter Nineteen
Having a Cow
As usual on Wednesday evenings, the TV lineup is depressing. No proper films, just reruns of American shows whose plots cater to the lowest common denominator. All that to push people into going to the cinema. Ferdinand, however, has opted for CSI—it’ll be fine playing in the background. The day could have been joyful—Mrs. Suarez’s inspection went well—but he’s preoccupied. He spent the evening trying to call his daughter to tell her about the concierge’s visit, before the silly old goose could rewrite history, but the telephone just rang and rang.
Marion is one of those unbearable people who never answer their phone. Ferdinand has come to terms with it over the years, but in this case, it’s really important. After more than twenty-five fruitless attempts, he’s frustrated. What if there’s an emergency? How could he let her know? He even tries her cell phone. What’s worse is that it doesn’t ring and doesn’t offer to let him leave a voice mail. Marion will give him her usual excuse: “I probably ran out of battery.” Couldn’t she be a bit responsible for once? To think, he’d almost considered apologizing for their last conversation. There’s no risk of that occurring to him again for a while . . .
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