by Anna Gavalda
“Thank you so much, Madame Carminot.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do, after all.”
“Okay, well, I better get to work.”
“I hear you’re cooking like a chef now.”
“Who told you that?”
“Madame Mandel.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, my word, if you could just hear her. She’s still talking about it! You made lièvre à la royale, some sort of hare, that evening.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well, she does, believe me! Hey, Franck?”
“Yes?”
“I know this is none of my business, but . . . your mother?”
“What about my mother?”
“I don’t know, but I was wondering if she shouldn’t be contacted too. Maybe she could help pay.”
“Now you’re being obscene and you know it, Yvonne, it’s not as if you had never met her, either.”
“You know, sometimes people change.”
“Not her.”
Yvonne was silent.
“No,” he repeated, “not her. Okay, I’m out of here, I’m running late.”
“Good-bye, Franck.”
“Uh, Yvonne—”
“Yes?”
“Can you try to find someplace a little bit cheaper?”
“I’ll see, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
It was so cold that day that Franck was glad to be at his galley slave’s station in the warmth of the kitchen. The boss was in a good mood. They’d had to turn diners away for lack of tables, and he’d just learned that he’d be getting a good review in some glossy upmarket magazine.
“With this weather, we’ll be able to bring out the foie gras and the vintage wines tonight! We’re done with salads and chiffonades and all of that stuff. Fi-nito! I want everything looking good and tasting great so that the customers leave here feeling ten degrees warmer! Let’s roll! Light those burners, boys!”
19
CAMILLE was having trouble going down the stairs. She felt stiff and achy all over, and had a terrible headache. As if someone had planted a knife in her eye and was gleefully and delicately turning the blade whenever she moved. When she got to the entrance she leaned against the wall to keep her balance. She was shivering and suffocating at the same time. For a moment she thought of going back to bed, but the idea of climbing seven flights of stairs seemed even more impossible than the idea of going to work. At least on the métro she could sit down.
As she stepped out of the entrance she bumped into a bear. Her neighbor, wrapped in a long cloak.
“Oh, excuse me, monsieur,” he said, “I—”
He looked up.
“Camille, is that you?”
She had no strength to start up a conversation, and tried to dodge past him.
“Camille! Camille!”
She buried her face in her scarf and hurried away. The effort soon obliged her to lean against a parking meter to keep from falling over.
“Camille, are you all right? My God, just look at you, what have you done to your hair? You look terrible! Your hair, your beautiful hair . . .”
“I have to get going, Philibert, I’m late already.”
“But it’s bitter cold out, my dear! Do not go bareheaded, you’ll catch your death. Here, take my shapka at least.”
Camille made an effort to smile.
“Did this belong to your uncle too?”
“Goodness, no! To my ancestor, more like it, the one who accompanied Napoleon on his campaigns in Russia.”
He wedged the hat onto her head, down to her eyebrows.
She tried to joke. “You mean this thing went through the battle of Austerlitz?”
“Exactly. And Berezina too, I’m afraid. But you’re so pale, are you sure you feel all right?”
“I’m just a little tired.”
“Tell me, Camille, you’re not too cold up there in the attic?”
“I don’t know . . . Okay, I, I’ve got to get going . . . Thanks for the hat.”
The heat in the métro car made her drowsy and she fell asleep. When she woke up they were at the end of the line. She turned to face the other direction and pulled her furry bear hat down over her eyes so that she could cry from exhaustion. God, it was a smelly old thing.
When at last she got out at her stop the cold was so piercing that she had to sit down in a bus shelter. She collapsed sideways across the seats and asked a young man standing there to hail her a taxi.
Camille climbed up to her room on her knees and fell across the mattress. She had no strength to get undressed and, for a split second, she wondered if she might be about to die, right there and then. Who would know? Who would care? Who would weep for her? She was shivering with heat, and sweat enveloped her in an icy shroud.
20
AT around two in the morning Philibert got up to go and drink a glass of water. The tiles of the kitchen floor were freezing and a vicious wind was rattling the windowpanes. For a moment he stared out at the deserted avenue and murmured childhood phrases: Here comes winter, killing the poor folk. The outdoor thermometer indicated twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit and he could not help but think of that little slip of a thing up in the attic. Was she asleep? And what on earth had she done to her hair, the poor thing?
He had to do something. He couldn’t leave her like that. But his education, his fine manners, his discretion had him trapped in a tangled web of endless self-doubt.
Was it ever appropriate to disturb a young woman in the middle of the night? How would she take it? And after all, she might not be alone. And what if she was naked? Oh, no. He dared not even think about it. And now, like characters in Tintin, an angel and a demon were having a squabble over on the other pillow.
Well, maybe the characters weren’t quite the same . . .
A frozen angel was saying, “But listen, the poor child will be dying from the cold,” while the demon with his pinched wings retorted, “I know that, my friend, but it simply isn’t done. You’ll go and inquire after her in the morning. Now go to sleep, I beg you.”
Philibert observed their little quarrel without taking part, tossing and turning ten, twenty times; he asked them to pipe down, then finally took away their pillow so he wouldn’t have to listen anymore.
At three fifty-four he was groping for his socks in the dark.
The ray of light from under her door gave him courage.
“Mademoiselle Camille?”
Then, slightly louder, “Camille? Camille? It’s Philibert.”
No answer. He tried one last time before turning back. He was already at the end of the corridor when a muffled sound called him back.
“Camille, are you there? I was worried about you and I, I—”
“. . . door . . . open,” she moaned.
The garret room was icy. Philibert had trouble getting through the door because of the mattress, and he stumbled against a pile of discarded clothes. He knelt down, lifted one blanket, then another, then a comforter, and finally came to her face. She was drenched in sweat.
He put his hand on her forehead:
“You’ve got a raging temperature! You can’t stay like this, not here, not all alone. And what happened with your fireplace?”
“. . . no strength to move it . . .”
“Do you mind if I take you with me?”
“Where?”
“To my place.”
“I don’t feel like moving . . .”
“I shall carry you in my arms.”
“Like Prince Charming?”
Philibert smiled. “All right, I see you’re so feverish that you’ve become delirious.”
He pulled the mattress over to the middle of the room, removed her heavy shoes and lifted her up with an exemplary lack of grace.
“I guess I’m not as strong as a real prince. Uh, can you try to slide your arms around my neck, please?”
She dropped her head onto his shoulder and he was troubled
by the acrid smell which rose from her neck.
The abduction was a disaster. At every turn Philibert bumped his sleeping beauty into something, and with every step he took he almost toppled over. Fortunately he had remembered to take the service key with him and only had to go down three flights. He went through the pantry and the kitchen, almost dropped her ten times along the corridor, then finally laid her down on his aunt Edmée’s bed.
“Listen, I ought to undress you a bit, I think. I . . . rather . . . you, well, it’s all very embarrassing.”
She had closed her eyes.
Right.
Philibert Marquet de La Durbellière found himself in an extraordinarily tricky situation.
He thought of the daring deeds of his ancestors, but neither the Convention of 1793, nor the conquest of Cholet, nor the courage of Cathelineau or the bravery of La Rochejaquelin seemed to be of the slightest conceivable use at the moment.
The irate angel was now perched on Philibert’s shoulder, with Baroness Staffe’s etiquette guide under his arm, and he went at it with a vengeance: “Well, my fine friend, you’re pleased with yourself, aren’t you? Ah! He’s in a fine situation, our valiant knight! Congratulations are in order, surely. And now? What are you going to do now?” Philibert was completely disoriented. Camille murmured, “. . . thirsty . . .”
Her savior rushed to the kitchen, but the killjoy devil was waiting there on the edge of the sink: “Attaboy! Go on! And what about the dragon? Aren’t you going to go off and slay the dragon?”
“Oh, do shut up!” replied Philibert. His sudden courage had bolstered him, and he went back to his patient’s bedside with a lighter heart. In the end it wasn’t all that complicated. Franck was right: sometimes a few rude words were more effective than a long speech. Feeling brighter, Philibert helped her to drink, then took his courage in both hands: he undressed her.
It was no easy task because Camille was wrapped in more layers than an onion. First he took off her coat, then her denim jacket. Then a sweater, another sweater, a turtleneck and finally he arrived at a sort of long-sleeved undershirt. Okay, he said to himself, I can’t leave this thing on her, you could practically wring it out. Well, never mind, I’ll see her—well, her bra . . .
Horror of horrors! Jesus and Mary and all the saints! She isn’t wearing one!
Philibert quickly pulled the sheet up over her chest. Right. Now for her bottoms. This was a little easier because he was able to maneuver by working under the covers. He pulled with all his strength on her pant legs. God be praised, her underpants didn’t come off with her pants.
“Camille? Do you have the strength to take a shower?”
No answer.
He shook his head disapprovingly, went into the bathroom, filled a pitcher with hot water into which he splashed a little eau de cologne and armed himself with a washcloth.
Courage, soldier!
He pulled back the sheet and began to freshen her up gently with the edge of the washcloth to begin with, then more boldly.
Philibert scrubbed her head, neck, face, back, armpits, breasts since he had to (and could you even really call them breasts?), stomach and legs. For the rest, well, she’d have to manage. He wrung out the washcloth and put it on her forehead.
He had to get her some aspirin now. He pulled so hard on the knob of the drawer in the kitchen that the entire contents spilled out onto the floor. Rats. Aspirin, aspirin.
Franck was standing in the doorway, one arm up under his T-shirt, scratching his stomach.
He yawned loudly and said, “What the hell’s going on? What is all this shit?”
“I’m looking for aspirin.”
“In the cupboard.”
“Thanks.”
“Got a headache?”
“No, it is for a friend.”
“Your girlfriend from the eighth floor?”
“Yes.”
Franck cackled, “Hey, wait, you were with her just now? Up there?”
“Yes. Out of the way, please.”
“No way, I don’t believe it. So you’re not a virgin anymore!”
His sarcasm followed Philibert down the hall:
“Hey! Is she giving you the bullshit about a headache already on the first night? Shit, you’re not off to a great start, pal . . .”
Philibert closed the door behind him, turned around and muttered audibly, “And you shut up too.”
He waited for the tablet to stop fizzing before disturbing her one last time. He thought he heard her whispering, “Daddy.” Unless it was “Don’t, don’t” because she probably wasn’t thirsty anymore. He couldn’t tell.
He dampened the washcloth again, pulled back the sheet and paused for a moment.
Speechless, frightened and proud of himself.
Yes, proud of himself.
21
CAMILLE woke up to the sound of U2. At first she thought she was back at the Kesslers’ and she nearly dozed off again. Then, confused, she thought, No, that’s not possible. Neither Pierre nor Mathilde nor their maid would ever have Bono on full blast like that. There was something funny going on. Slowly she opened her eyes, moaned from the throbbing in her skull and waited in the half dark until things came into focus.
But where was she? What the . . .
Camille turned her head. Her entire body ached in protest. Her muscles and joints and what little flesh she had all refused to budge. Clenching her teeth, she managed to move up a few inches. She was shivering and drenched in sweat all over again.
The blood was pounding in her temples. With her eyes closed she waited a moment, motionless, for the pain to subside.
Gingerly she opened her eyes and saw that she was in a strange bed. The light hardly penetrated the gaps in the inner shutters or the enormous velvet curtains which hung lopsided on either side of the window, sliding off their rods. Facing the bed below a spotty mirror was a marble fireplace. The room was papered with a flowered design; she could not quite make out the colors. There were paintings everywhere, portraits of men and women dressed in black who seemed as astonished to find her there as she was herself. Then she turned toward the bedside table and saw a lovely engraved pitcher next to a Scooby-Doo glass which had been a mustard jar. She was dying of thirst and the pitcher was full of water, but she didn’t dare touch it: in what century had it been filled?
Where the hell was she, and who had brought her into this museum?
A sheet of paper lay folded in half next to a candlestick: I did not dare to disturb you this morning. I’ve gone to work. I shall be back around seven. Your clothes are folded on the wing chair. There’s some duck in the fridge and a bottle of mineral water at the foot of the bed. Philibert.
Philibert? What on earth was she doing in this guy’s bed?
Help.
Camille thought hard, trying to summon even a trace of some unlikely debauchery, but her memory would not take her beyond the boulevard Brune . . . She’d keeled over on her side in a bus shelter and begged some tall guy with a dark coat on to call a taxi . . . Was that Philibert? No, and yet . . . No, it wasn’t him, she would have remembered.
Someone had just turned off the music. She could hear steps, grunts, a door slamming, a second door, then nothing. Silence.
Camille was desperate but she waited a little while longer, attentive to the slightest sound, already exhausted at the idea of having to move her poor carcass.
She pushed back the sheets and lifted the duvet, which seemed as heavy as a dead donkey.
When her feet hit the floor, her toes curled up. A pair of oriental kid slippers was waiting at the edge of the carpet. She stood up and saw that she was dressed in a man’s pajama top, put her feet in the slippers and threw her denim jacket over her shoulders.
She turned the door handle gently and found herself in an immense corridor, very dark, at least fifty feet long.
Now, where was the toilet . . .
No, that was a closet, and that was a kid’s room with two twin beds and a moth-eaten rock
ing horse. Here? How could she tell? This must be a study—there were so many books piled on a table in front of the window that the daylight could scarcely enter. A saber and a white scarf hung on the wall along with a horse tail attached to the end of a brass ring. A real tail from a real horse. Kind of special, as relics go.
There! The toilet!
The seat was wooden, as was the handle of the flush. The bowl, given its age, must have witnessed generations of fannies in crinolines. Camille felt a bit reticent at first, but it proved to work perfectly, though the flush made a disconcerting amount of noise. As if Niagara Falls were crashing down around her.
She was getting dizzy, but she continued her journey in search of a bottle of aspirin. In one of the rooms she discovered an incredible mess. Clothes were strewn everywhere among magazines, empty beer cans and scraps of paper: pay stubs, complicated recipe cards, the instruction manual for a GSXR and various reminder notices from the tax office. Someone had put a horrible multicolored comforter on the lovely Louis XVI bed, and drug paraphernalia lay at the ready on the fine marquetry of the bedside table. Well, it certainly smelled like the lair of some wild beast . . .
At the end of the hall she found the kitchen. It was a cold room, gray and sad, with a floor of pale old tiles enhanced with black cabochons. The work surfaces were marble and nearly all the cupboards were empty. There was nothing, except perhaps the presence of an antique Frigidaire, to indicate that anyone actually lived here. Somehow she found a tube of effervescent aspirin tablets, took a glass from next to the sink and sat down on a Formica chair. The ceiling was dizzyingly high and she noticed how white the walls were. The paint must be very old, lead-based; the years had given it a smooth patina. It was neither off-white nor eggshell; this was the white of rice pudding or the insipid desserts served at cafeterias. Mentally Camille mixed up a few tints and promised herself she’d come back one day with two or three tubes of paint to get a clearer picture.
