I Wish Someone Were Waiting for Me Somewhere

by Anna Gavalda

  But he won’t even see that, you tell me. … Don’t tut-tut-tut me – you don’t get to the Very High Post of Publisher without having a special gift for detecting the most improbable, fine lingerie.

  No, these men know.

  They know if the woman seated across from them is wearing some cotton thing that comes up to her belly button, or cheap pink pants from Monoprix, all stretched out of shape, or one of those extravagant little things that make women redden (the price they pay for them) and men turn pink (the price they’re going to have to pay).

  Of course they know.

  And this time, let me tell you, I spared no expense (payable in two instalments). I got a matching bra-and-pants set – something out of this world.

  God …

  Super nice stuff, super material, super cut – all in ivory silk with Calais lace, hand-knitted by little old French ladies, if you please. Soft, pretty, refined, tender, unforgettable. The sort of thing that melts in your mouth and not in your hand.

  Destiny, here I am.

  Looking at myself in the mirror at the shop (the fiends, they’ve got special lighting that makes you look thin and tanned – the same halogens they use over the dead fish in the gourmet supermarkets), I told myself for the first time since Marguerite has existed:

  ‘Well, then, I don’t regret all that time I spent biting my nails, and getting eczema in front of my tiny computer screen. Oh, no! All that, all those times I wore myself out arm-wrestling the fear and the lack of self-confidence, all those scraps in my head and all those things I lost or forgot because I was thinking about “Clic-Clac”, for example – well, I don’t regret them. …’

  I can’t tell you exactly how much I spent, what with being politically correct – my husband’s dental bridge, car insurance, the rising welfare tax, and all that – I’d risk shocking you. But know that it’s something staggering; and, given what it weighs, let’s not talk about the price per kilo.

  After all, nothing comes from nothing, you can’t catch flies with vinegar, and you can’t get yourself published without giving a little of yourself, don’t you think?

  HERE WE ARE: the sixth arrondissement of Paris.

  The district where you find as many writers as metre maids. At the heart of life.

  I’m losing my nerve.

  My stomach hurts, my chest hurts, my legs hurt, I’m sweating buckets, and my ***-euro knickers are riding up.

  Pretty picture.

  I get lost, the street name isn’t indicated anywhere, there are galleries of African art in every direction, and nothing looks more like an African mask than another African mask. I’m beginning to hate African art.

  Finally, I find my way.

  They make me wait.

  I think I’m going to pass out. I breathe like they taught us for having a baby. Okay … now … calm … down. …

  Sit up straight. Watch. You can always learn something. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Uh … yes, yes … I’m fine.’

  ‘He’s in a meeting, but He won’t be much longer.

  He’ll be here in just a little while. …’

  ‘…’

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’ (Hey, what’s-your-name, can’t you see I want to throw up? Help me – a slap, a bucket, a bowl, a Rennies, a glass of nice cold cola … something. I’m begging you.)

  A smile. She gives me a smile.

  IN FACT, IT was curiosity. Neither more nor less.

  He wanted to see me. He wanted to see what I looked like. He wanted to see what sort of person would write this stuff.

  That’s all.

  I’m not going to tell you about the interview. At the moment, I’m treating my eczema with nearly pure tar, and it’s really not worth aggravating it, given the colour of my bathtub. So I won’t tell you about it.

  Well, okay … maybe just a little bit: After a while, the cat (for further details, see ‘Lucifer’ in Cinderella), who was watching the mouse gesticulating in every direction between his clawed paws … the cat, who was having fun (‘isn’t she unsophisticated, after all’) … the cat, who was taking his time, finished by saying:

  ‘Listen, I’ll be honest with you: Your manuscript does some interesting things, and you do have a certain style, but’ (next come more than a few reflections on people who write in general and the hard job of a publisher in particular) ‘… The way things are now, and for reasons I’m sure you’ll understand, we can’t publish your manuscript. On the other hand, I’d like to follow your work very closely – and I want you to know that I’ll always give it my utmost attention. There.’

  There.

  Jackass.

  I stay seated, stunned. There’s no other word for it.

  He gets up (with sweeping, magnificent gestures), heads towards me, and makes as if to shake my hand. … Not seeing any reaction on my part, he makes as if to offer me his hand. … Not seeing any reaction on my part, he makes as if to take my hand. … Not seeing any …

  ‘What’s going on? Come on … don’t be so downhearted – you know, it’s extremely rare to get a first manuscript published. You know, I have confidence in you. I can tell we’re going to do great things together. In fact, I’ll be honest with you: I’m counting on you.’

  Stop the chariots, Ben-Hur. Can’t you tell I’m stuck?

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happened, but I can’t get up. It’s as though all my strength’s gone. It’s stupid.’

  ‘Does this happen often?’

  ‘No. It’s the first time.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘No. Well, a little, but that’s something else.’

  ‘Wiggle your fingers, just to see.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Well … yes.’

  A long exchange of looks, like a couple of kids having a staring contest.

  (irritated) ‘Are you doing this on purpose or what?’

  (very irritated) ‘Well, of course not, for heaven’s sake!!’

  ‘Do you want me to call a doctor?’

  ‘No, no, it’ll pass.’

  ‘Yes, well, okay, then. … The problem is, I’ve got other meetings. … You can’t stay here.’

  ‘…’

  ‘Try again. …’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What is this business?’

  ‘I don’t know. … What do you want me to say? … Maybe it’s an arthritis attack or something, triggered by overwhelming emotions.’

  ‘If I tell you, “Okay, fine, I’ll publish you” … will you get up?’

  ‘Of course not. What do you take me for? Do I really seem that moronic?’

  ‘No, but I mean if I really do publish you? …’

  ‘First of all, I wouldn’t believe you. … Hey, wait, I’m not here to beg your charity – I’m paralysed. Can’t you understand the difference?’

  (rubbing his face in his slender hands) ‘And it had to happen to me. … Good God …’

  ‘…’

  (looking at his watch) ‘Listen, for the moment, I’m going to move you, because I really need my office now. …’

  So then he pushes me down the hall as if I were in a wheelchair, except that I’m not in a wheelchair – and for him, that must make a hell of a difference. … I make myself comfortable.

  Suffer, my friend. Suffer.

  ‘WOULD YOU LIKE a cup of coffee now?’

  ‘Yes, I’d love one. That’s nice of you.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to call a doctor?’

  ‘No, no. Thank you. It’ll go away just the way it came on.’

  ‘You’re too tense.’

  ‘I know.’

  What’s-her-name never had a pink Post-it stuck on her phone. She was charming to me the other day because she’s a girl who is charming.

  Today won’t have been a total waste.

  It’s t
rue. You don’t often get the chance to watch a girl like her for hours on end.

  I love her voice.

  From time to time, she makes little signs to me so I’ll feel less alone.

  And then the computers were shut down, the answering machines were set up, the lights were turned off, and the office was emptied.

  I saw them all leave, one after another, and they all thought I was there because I had an appointment. Whatever.

  Finally Blue-Beard came out of the lair where he makes the little wannabee writer cry.

  ‘You’re still here!!’

  ‘…’

  ‘What am I going to do with you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I do. I’m going to call the ambulance or the fire service and they’re going to get you out of here in the next five minutes! You don’t plan on sleeping here, do you?!’

  ‘No, don’t call anyone, please. … It’s going to come unstuck, I can feel it. …’

  ‘Sure, but I’ve got to lock up – you can understand that, can’t you?’

  ‘Then take me down to the pavement.’

  You might have guessed, he’s not the one who took me down. He hailed a couple of messenger boys nearby. Two tall, handsome guys – tattooed footmen for my sedan chair.

  They each took an armrest and deposited me gently at the foot of the building.

  Too cute.

  My ex–future publisher, this tactful man who’s counting on me in the future, said his good-byes with lots of panache.

  He walked away, turning back several times and shaking his head as though he were trying to wake up from a bad dream – no, truly, he really couldn’t believe it.

  At least he’ll have something to talk about at dinner.

  It’s his wife who’ll be happy. For once he won’t talk her ear off about the crisis in publishing.

  FOR THE FIRST time all day, I felt good.

  I watched the waiters at the restaurant across the street fussing around their damask tablecloths. They were very stylish (like my stories, I thought, sniggering) – especially one, whom I watched closely.

  Exactly the sort of French garçon de café who upsets the hormonal systems of fat American women in Reeboks.

  I smoked an exceptionally good cigarette, expelling the smoke slowly and watching the passers-by.

  I was almost happy – aside from a few details, like the presence of a parking metre on my right that smelled of dog piss.

  How long did I stay there, contemplating my disaster?

  I don’t know.

  The restaurant was in full swing, and you could see couples seated on the terrace, laughing as they drank glasses of rosé.

  I couldn’t stop myself from thinking:

  … In another life, maybe, my publisher would have taken me to lunch there ‘because it’s so convenient’. He’d have made me laugh, too, and suggested a much better wine than that Côteaux de Provence. … He’d have pressed me to finish my novel, ‘surprisingly mature for a young woman your age …’, and then he’d have taken my arm and escorted me to a taxi stand. He would have romanced me a little. …

  … In another life. Surely.

  WELL, OKAY. … IT’S not everything, Marguerite. I’ve got ironing waiting for me. …

  I got up with a bound, pulling at my jeans, and headed toward a gorgeous young woman sitting on the base of a statue of Auguste Comte.

  Look at her.

  Beautiful, sensual, full-blooded, with flawless legs and very fine ankles, her turned-up nose, her forehead rounded, her allure fierce and warlike.

  Wearing some string and tattoos.

  Lips and nails painted black.

  An incredible girl.

  She threw regular, irritated looks in the direction of the adjacent street. I think her lover must have been late.

  I handed her my manuscript.

  ‘Take it,’ I said, ‘it’s a gift. To help pass the time.’

  I think she thanked me, but I’m not sure – because she wasn’t French! … Distressed by this little detail, I nearly took back my magnificent gift, and then … What for? I said to myself. And as I walked away, I was even rather content.

  From here on, my manuscript was in the hands of the most beautiful girl in the world.

  That consoled me.

  A little.

  Someone I Loved

  For Constance

  ‘WHAT DID YOU say?’

  ‘I said I’m going to take them. It will do them good to get away for a while.’

  ‘But when?’ my mother-in-law asked.

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Now? You’re not thinking …’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘What are you talking about? It’s nearly eleven! Pierre, you – ’

  ‘Suzanne, I’m talking to Chloé. Chloé, listen to me. I want to take you away from here. What do you say?’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Do you think it’s a bad idea?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Go and get your things. We’ll leave when you get back here.’

  ‘I don’t want to stop at my place first.’

  ‘Then don’t. We’ll sort everything out when we’re there.’

  ‘But you don’t – ’

  ‘Chloé, Chloé, please. Trust me.’

  *

  My mother-in-law continued to protest:

  ‘But –! You’re not really going to wake up the children! The house isn’t even heated, and there’s nothing to eat! Nothing for the girls! They – ’

  He stood up.

  • • •

  Marion is sleeping in her car seat, her thumb touching the edge of her lips. Lucie is beside her, rolled in a ball.

  I look at my father-in-law. He sits upright. His hands grip the steering wheel. He hasn’t said a word since we left. I see his profile in the headlights of oncoming cars. I think that he is as unhappy as I am. That he’s tired. Disappointed.

  He feels my gaze:

  ‘Why don’t you get some sleep? You should get some rest, you know – lean your seat back and go to sleep. We’ve got a long way to go …’

  ‘I can’t,’ I tell him. ‘I’m watching over you.’

  He smiles at me. It’s barely a smile.

  ‘No … it’s the other way around.’

  We return to our private thoughts.

  I cry behind my hands.

  WE’RE PARKED AT a service station. I take advantage of his absence to check my mobile.

  No messages.

  Of course.

  What a fool I am.

  What a fool …

  I turn the radio on, then off.

  He returns.

  ‘Do you want to go in? Do you want something?’

  I give in.

  I press the wrong button; my cup fills with a nauseating liquid that I throw away at once.

  In the store, I buy a pack of nappies for Lucie and a toothbrush for myself.

  He refuses to start the car until I have leaned my seat back.

  • • •

  I opened my eyes as he switched off the engine.

  ‘Don’t move. Stay here with the girls while it’s still warm. I’ll go and turn on the radiators in your room. Then I’ll come and get you.’

  I pleaded with my phone.

  At four in the morning …

  I’m such a fool.

  NO WAY TO go back to sleep.

  The three of us are lying in Adrien’s grandmother’s bed, the one that creaks so horribly. It was our bed.

  We would try to make love with as little movement as possible.

  The whole house would hear if you moved an arm or a leg. I remember Christine’s insinuations when we came down to breakfast the first morning. We blushed into our coffee and held hands under the table.

  We learned our lesson. After that, we made love as quietly as anyone possibly could.

  I know that he will return to this bed with someone else, and that with her, too, he will pick up this big m
attress and throw it on the floor when they can’t stand it any longer.

  IT’S MARION WHO wakes us up. She is making her doll run along the quilt, and telling a story about flying lollipops. Lucie touches my eyelashes: ‘Your eyes are all stuck together.’

  We dress under the covers, because the room is too cold.

  The creaking bed makes them laugh.

  My father-in-law has lit a fire in the kitchen. I see him at the end of the garden, looking for logs in the woodshed.

  This is the first time I’ve been alone with him.

  I’ve never felt comfortable in his presence. Too distant. Too silent. And with everything Adrien told me about how hard it was growing up beneath his gaze, his harshness, his rages, the dramas about school.

  It was the same with Suzanne. I never saw them be affectionate with each other. ‘Pierre is not very demonstrative, but I know what he feels for me,’ she told me one day when we were talking about love while snapping the ends off green beans.

  I nodded, but I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand this man who minimised and controlled his passions. To show nothing for fear of appearing weak – I could never understand that. In my family, touching and kissing are like breathing.

  I remember a stormy evening in this kitchen … Christine, my sister-in-law, was complaining about her children’s teachers, calling them incompetent and small-minded. From there, the conversation drifted into education in general, then hers in particular. And then the winds changed. Menacingly. The kitchen was transformed into a courtroom, with Adrien and his sister as the prosecutors, and in the dock – their father. It was horrible … If only the lid had finally blown off, but no. All the bitterness was pushed down again, and they avoided a big explosion by making do with a few deadly jabs.

  As usual.

  What would have been possible, anyway? My father-in-law refused to take the bait. He listened to his children’s bitter words without a word of response. ‘Your criticisms roll off me like water off a duck’s back,’ he always said, smiling, before leaving the room.

  This time, though, the argument had been fiercer.

  I can still see his strained face, his hands gripping the water jug as though he had wanted to smash it before our eyes.

  I imagined all those words that he would never say and I tried to understand. What possessed him? What did he think about when he was alone? And what was he like – intimately?