“Why not! I’ll let you have a second helping of licorice, Mr. Brun. I’m putting three aside for my great-grandson. Look, these are pictures of my grandchildren in the digital frame. They’re not in order, but they give you an idea. They grow up so fast. There, that’s me at the seaside, with them. Now I have to put on a wet suit to go swimming. As I get older, I find the sea colder than before.”
“So many people! Who’s the young woman next to you? She looks like the journalist Claire Chazal.”
“One of my daughters-in-law. Why?”
“No reason. She’s a beautiful woman, Claire Chazal—blond, elegant. Definitely my type. And who’s the lady who looks like you, in that picture in the black frame on the sideboard?”
“My sister. She’s just left us. I’m still quite grieved by her loss. We used to see each other every day. It’s even harder than my poor husband’s death, because at the time, with four children, I didn’t have any choice but to go on. The show must go on, as the youngsters say,” adds Beatrice in a thick British accent.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stir up painful memories.”
“My sister was an old lady, like me, and she was lucky enough not to be sick. You prepare yourself for that fateful day, but you can’t help being sad when it arrives. That’s life. And she had been less physically fit for a few years. She went in her sleep, at the age of eighty-nine. I like to think she went dreaming. ‘A good death,’ according to her grandchildren. She had thirty-four of them, you know.”
“Thirty-four grandchildren! But how many children did she have?”
“Eight. I can’t even tell you how many people that makes at family reunions. Next to her, I have a tiny little family, and it’s already complicated to see everybody. Of course, you can’t keep some of them from leaving to go live abroad—it would be selfish and unfair. Me, I’ve already lived my life, and fully. But it’s always a blow to my morale to learn when one is moving away. It might be the last time I see them. For them, two years isn’t so long. For me, every week is a gift. Fortunately we have Skype, Facebook, iPhones, and tablets, so I get news from them regularly. But it’s not the same.”
“What did you say? Skip? Like the laundry detergent? Never heard of it.”
“No, Skype, with a Y. Like the sky. It’s for telephoning everywhere in the world with the computer. It’s free. And it’s very practical because there’s video. You can see each other, and very well at that!”
“Sounds a bit like Total Recall with Arnold Schwarzenegger, when he made a call with a video intercom.”
“Huh, I don’t know that film. And I’m not too fond of the former California governor . . .”
“He’s better known for his movies and his past work as a bodybuilder than for his political activities, anyway. But it’s true that it made quite a stir in France when he outlawed the sale of foie gras in California.”
“I’m enjoying your company, Mr. Brun. You’re so refreshing. I won’t deny it’s more difficult for me to have a nice time with people my age. I won’t insult you by saying ‘our age,’ Mr. Brun,” jokes the nonagenarian. “But barely a week goes by anymore without an invitation to a funeral or learning one of my friends has Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, or cancer. Just this morning I learned my sister-in-law isn’t doing well. They found something. I’m keeping faith, but it’s hard when you see your loved ones, even very young, taken before you. The secret to not sinking into despair is to learn to live with it and accept that death is part of life. ‘Growing old means seeing others die.’ I don’t know anymore who said that, but I find it very apt. Don’t you think, Mr. Brun?”
Beatrice continues without giving Ferdinand a chance to respond.
“And it’s essential, of course, to find stimulating occupations so as not to end up with a stunted brain. Or infantilized by our own children. I’m outraged to see how some people—not mine, fortunately—behave: they order children’s portions on our behalf in restaurants, or tell us ‘never mind’ as soon as we mishear something at the table. It’s true, isn’t it? All right, I’ll stop bothering you. I invited you over to talk about Katia and then I bore you stiff with family stories. So how did the big spring cleaning go?”
“Very well. I wanted to thank you, Mrs. Claudel, for your help. Without you, and Katia, of course, I wouldn’t have managed. I think I’ll ask her for help with the housework on a more regular basis, if that doesn’t bother you . . .”
“Not in the slightest, Mr. Brun. I know she’s already extremely busy, even on the weekends, but she’ll find a slot for you, I’m sure of it. Now, what about you? I don’t mean to be nosy, but you’ve been living in the apartment across the way for two years, and we’ve spoken to each other three times at most. All I know about you is that it was your in-laws’ apartment. Do you have children?”
“I have a daughter and a grandson. That’s all. And they both live in Singapore, so we don’t see each other often, unlike you and your family.” Then, under the influence of panic, Ferdinand hears himself say, “So, what happened to your sister-in-law? Maybe I can do something?” Avoiding talking about his wife causes him to say anything.
“My sister-in-law is the last person really close to me I have left. Close to my age, I mean. Even though she’s ninety years old and has all her wits, she’s entering a retirement home because she’s going blind. That reminds me of my mother. She also lost her sight suddenly. A problem with the optic nerve. She could only see like a horse with blinders on. The doctors had said it could wait until after vacation. And then at the beginning of August, curtains! She couldn’t see a thing anymore except blue. Who knows why? With my sister, they made her move to an apartment close to us, so we could take care of her. But a few months after her move, she left us. Grief took her away: she could no longer remember her children’s faces, or those of her grandchildren. She would tell me I was so beautiful, but she couldn’t see my features anymore, my smiles . . . It pains me to think back on it. Oh, I don’t know what you’re doing to me, I’m all nostalgic. Usually I’m much more cheerful. I’m ashamed to have invited you over to tell you my sorrows.”
“It’s nothing. We all have our moments of weakness. You just heard about your sister-in-law, it’s still fresh.”
“Oh my goodness! We’ve been chitchatting away, and it’s already four o’clock! I have to pick up my great-grandson at school. His parents are on a business trip, so he’s sleeping here tonight. I always tell them they work too much. It wasn’t like that back in our day, was it?”
“I don’t know about you, but the factory was intense. What was your profession, Mrs. Claudel?”
“I have a law degree. I’m very proud to say I was the first woman admitted to the bar. Unfortunately, life made it so I could never practice. My husband’s death, the children to raise, you know . . . I’ll bore you another time with my old lady tales. I’m counting on you for our bridge party in two weeks. But we’ll run into each other again before then. I’m so happy you made the first move . . . Ferdinand. I feel we have a lot in common. It was a shame to live so close and never exchange more than five words, don’t you think? I’ll see you out. Thanks again for the licorice. My great-grandson will have a feast. I’ll tell him it comes from the nice neighbor.”
As the door shuts behind him, Ferdinand can’t help but smile and repeat Mrs. Claudel’s last words. “Nice neighbor.” It’s the first time those words have been used to describe him! If only Marion could hear that. And if only Mrs. Claudel could be the one reporting to Marion rather than that silly old goose Mrs. Suarez. The best would be for the concierge to disappear from view, permanently, a bit like that horrible story about sudden blindness that had bowled him over.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Waiting for Godot
Ferdinand took offense at first, but now he’s uneasy. Juliette hasn’t come yet today, a Thursday. What if something has happened to her? It’s bound to be serious, otherwise she would have let him know.
But Juliette hasn’t sho
wn up, not for lunch, nor after school. Ferdinand would like her to come, that’s all. So, after Questions for a Champion, he takes a deep breath and goes to ring at her door. A man around forty years old opens it—his face is familiar.
“Yes, what is it? Can I help you? Hang on . . . who are you?”
Damn . . . Juliette’s father! Ferdinand had nearly forgotten he’d been cold with him. Juliette has little in common with her unbearable little sister and her father, who thinks himself more courteous than everyone else, greeting his neighbors from day one. If he could have given me a few more days, I might have welcomed him differently, but right then, with the noise from the move, the forced exile to the church, the crying baby, and fatigue on top of it all, it was too much!
This is what Ferdinand tries to explain to Antoine, who is horrified by the incoherence of the old man’s remarks. When Ferdinand eventually lets slip that he wants to know how Juliette is doing, because she didn’t come over today, and that he’d bought her caramels, Antoine can’t grasp the friendly, innocent nature of the situation.
“Get away from my home this minute, you dirty pervert. I forbid you to come near my daughter. I was told to be wary of you, but I would never have thought Juliette gullible enough to fall into your grubby paws.”
Just then, the little girl appears at the end of the hallway, one arm in a sling, the other gesturing. Ferdinand can’t make out if she’s saying “what are you doing here?” or “I’ll come by later” or even “sorry about my father . . .” But the door slams in Ferdinand’s face, so he doesn’t hear Antoine pick up the phone to call the police station.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Like a Ton of Bricks
There are days when nothing happens normally. Ferdinand will never forget that particular Friday.
Arm in a sling, and in spite of the formal ban on seeing that “sexual maniac” again, Juliette shows up at Ferdinand’s door at 8:00 a.m., before going to school. On the doorstep, the little girl explains she had a fight with a boy in her class, Matteo Balard.
This “little nobody,” as she calls him, dared to tell her that a woman’s role is to be at home, waiting for her husband and catering to her children’s every whim. According to him, only bad mothers work, the ones who don’t love their children, and they usually end up running away from home. His father, Commissioner Balard, told him so, and the commissioner is always right. So a woman reporter, like Juliette’s mother, boggles Matteo’s mind. She must have problems at home to prefer going off to the other side of the world, to those war-torn countries. Not to mention her children, who must hate her. And the lovers she must have in every foreign city. A real slut, probably!
So Juliette had shoved Matteo and demanded he take back what he’d just said. The kid then spat in her face, grabbed her by the arm, and twisted it with all his might, until Juliette found herself on the ground, hunched in pain.
When Juliette finishes her story, the old man already knows he won’t be able to let this stand.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Blowing a Gasket
Juliette has been at school for twenty minutes when Ferdinand hears the usual Friday morning grumbling of Mrs. Suarez, who is trying to carry the new vacuum cleaner—bagless but twice as heavy—to the top floor. Friday is sacred: dust must be eradicated before the weekend family visits. Mrs. Suarez loves to show off the perfectly maintained complex. Ferdinand, wanting to score some points before the next inspection, decides to lend a hand.
“Hello, Mrs. Suarez, you’re looking lovely today. Is your skirt made of real crocodile?”
“Stand back. Can’t you see you’re in the way? This vacuum is heavy and I still have one more floor to go. Also, I can smell your cigar in the carpet fibers again. Are you doing it on purpose or what?”
“Let me help you, Mrs. Suarez. I can take a load off you and carry it to the top floor. It’s no trouble. Give it here, you’re going to break your back.”
“Let go of that! Stop pulling . . . You’re hurting me. I don’t want your help, or your hypocrisy. I can’t take any more of you! What would really take a load off me is seeing you leave. Fortunately, we’ll soon be rid of you. For good!”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Suarez, don’t get your hopes up. My daughter is a very wise woman. She asked me to make an effort, I have done so, and will continue to do so. Then she’ll leave me alone about that retirement home. She keeps her word. She’s a diplomat!”
“Poor old man, you understand nothing. You think you have control over your fate, but it escaped you months ago, while you still desperately cling to your pathetic little life. But it’s over. This is the end for you!”
“You think you can scare me with so much hot air. Marion is a smart girl. She gets that from her father, you know!”
“Smart, maybe, but gullible, and easily manipulated. I can assure you! The poor little thing, so far away, and so worried. It’s a good thing she has me to tell her the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That you’re making absolutely no effort! Your dental hygiene is deplorable—your toothbrush is at least ten years old. Your apartment is a dump and smells musty. Your food is worse than in the third world. I saw all the expired cans of preserves you ate and threw in the trash. With regard to friendliness, try again. You made Christine leave and have already insulted the new neighbor. As for your desire to live, pardon me, but setting fire to the trash area is too much! If you want to die, so be it, but leave the rest of us in peace!”
“Well, Mrs. Suarez, it’s not at all what you think. The fire was to create a diversion because I wasn’t ready to receive you that day. It wasn’t to burn everything down, otherwise I would have turned on the gas!”
“You are a very sick man, Mr. Brun! Even worse than I thought. You don’t even recognize the absurdity and danger of your actions. You need to get treatment. And what’s more, I don’t like you. You frighten me. You’ve already threatened me by telling me you’d cut me into pieces and toss them down the garbage chute. I could turn you in to the police, you know!”
“Just when I was starting to appreciate you and tell you things about my Pierre Bellemare books.”
“Well, you have a funny way of showing people you appreciate them! Your place is not in this building—my building—but with the other old nutcases in the retirement home. And I’m going to see to it personally.”
“Marion will never let that happen.”
“You are so naïve, poor man! How do you think she found a place in a retirement home so quickly? I was the one who found the establishment—they owed me.”
“Marion will never trust you when I tell her that.”
“Marion already trusts me, and has for years. How do you like that, eh? She trusts me so much that she accepted my offer to do weekly reports on your movements. For free, too. Well, I didn’t refuse the flat-screen TV she sent me for Christmas. The image quality is much better. Those Chinese are good at electronics!”
“This is too much. Too much! You won’t get away with this, mark my words.”
“It’s too late, Mr. Brun. They’re coming Monday. I’ve already called them. And it’ll be just a formality with Marion. None of this would have happened if you’d known how to train your dog. My poor canaries . . . May they rest in peace.”
“Leave Daisy alone. She never touched any of your damned birds.”
“Well, she certainly touched that car. It didn’t take long for her to pounce on the piece of steak I threw her. What a glutton! Beef back was her favorite cut, was it not?”
“What did you say? No, you didn’t do that . . . Not to my Daisy! It was an accident, tell me it was an accident . . .”
Mrs. Suarez cackles like a hyena, another notorious scavenger.
“You deserve to die like your canaries . . . You old bitch!”
“Name-calling, that hardly surprises me about you, Mr. Brun. Shall I trot out ‘old fossil’ or ‘born loser’? By the way, can we rent out your apartment during your prolonge
d absence? I have a good friend who would love to live in my complex. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to do the stairwell.”
Eyes bulging, hands ready to strangle, Ferdinand freezes, as if in a trance. When he comes to, he’s alone, at home, wondering if the exchange really happened.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Over the Edge
If there’s one thing Ferdinand can’t stand, it’s spinelessness. Attacking the weak is worst of all. First, Juliette, and on a whole other level, Daisy. The scum have no limits. He paces around his apartment, from one room to another, like a lion readying himself to encounter a new rival.
Ferdinand seeks revenge on Mrs. Suarez, but he hasn’t devised the perfect plan yet. He dismisses his first ideas—pour rat poison through a funnel to stuff the silly old goose full, or grind her up in the garbage truck. But he risks getting caught and living out his days in prison, which is not the end he envisions for himself.
He has to get rid of her. He can no longer cross paths with her and listen to her honeyed, hypocritical voice without feeling like killing her, tearing out both her eyes, cutting out her lying viper’s tongue. On further reflection, he may not have to attack her directly. Her husband? No, she doesn’t give a rat’s ass about him. But Rocco . . . In his younger days, Ferdinand learned how to butcher rabbits. It shouldn’t be all that different for a Chihuahua. And it would please Mrs. Suarez so much to have a little souvenir, since she can’t go out without her fur coat.
Given all these macabre ideas, Ferdinand knows there can’t be a shared future in this complex. One of them has to go.
The old man is afraid to even leave his apartment. He’s not sure what he’s capable of should he come face-to-face with the concierge. The minimum would be spitting in her face before pushing her down the stairs. With a bit of luck, she’d snap her neck, and it could be passed off as an accident. Unless someone found his DNA on her face . . .
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