by Anna Gavalda
“Oh, you know, I don’t really care one way or the other. I just do my job.”
“Well, that’s exactly what I mean! Up there you’re just cooking for your paycheck! Why don’t you come back down here? We can go fishing with my buddies.”
“Are you thinking of selling, René?”
“Bah. Who’d buy this place?”
While Yvonne went to get her car, Franck helped his grandmother find the sleeve of her raincoat:
“Here, she gave me something for you.”
Silence.
“Well, don’t you like it?”
“Yes, yes.”
She started crying again: “You’re so handsome in this one.”
She pointed to the sketch he didn’t like.
“You know, she wears it every day, that scarf you made.”
“Liar.”
“I swear!”
”Then you’re right, she’s not normal, that kid,” she added, smiling beneath her handkerchief.
“Grandma, don’t cry, we’ll figure something out.”
“Yes. Feet first.”
Franck didn’t know what to say.
“You know, sometimes I think I’m ready, and other times, I just, I—”
“Oh, my little grandma.”
And for the first time in his life, he put his arms around her and hugged her.
They said good-bye in the parking lot and he was relieved not to have to take her back to that miserable hole himself.
When he raised the kickstand, the bike felt heavier than usual.
He had a date with his girlfriend, he had cash, a roof, a job, he had even just found his Chico and Harpo, but he was dying of loneliness.
What a mess, he muttered into his helmet, what a mess. He didn’t even repeat it a third time because what would be the point and anyway, it would only steam up his visor. What a mess.
49
“YOU forgot your k—”
Camille didn’t finish her sentence—it wasn’t Franck at the door, it was the girl from the other day. The one he’d thrown out on Christmas Day after screwing her.
“Franck’s not at home?”
“No, he went to see his grandmother.”
“What time is it?”
“Uh, around seven, I think.”
“Do you mind if I wait for him here?”
“Of course not. Come on in.”
“I’m not disturbing you?”
“Not at all! I’m just spacing out in front of the television.”
“You watch television?”
“I do, why?”
“I’m warning you, I’m watching the lamest thing there is. Nothing but girls dressed like trash and presenters in tight suits reading off prompt sheets with their legs spread, trying to look virile . . . I think it’s some sort of celebrity karaoke, but I don’t recognize anyone.”
“Go on, you must know him, he’s the guy from Popstars.”
“What’s Popstars?”
“So I was right—that’s what Franck said, that you never watch television.”
“Not a lot, no. But this sort of thing I love. It’s like wallowing in some big warm pigsty. Mmm. They’re all gorgeous, there’s a lot of kissing and the girls are great at mopping up the mascara when they cry. You’ll see, it’s really moving.”
“Can I sit down?”
“Here.” Camille moved over and offered her the other end of her comforter. “You want something to drink?”
“What are you drinking?”
“Aligoté Burgundy.”
“Hang on, I’ll go get a glass.”
“So what’s going on?”
“I don’t get it.”
“Pour me some, I’ll tell you.”
They talked during the commercials. Her name was Myriam, she was from Chartres, she worked at a salon on the rue Saint-Dominique, and she sublet a studio in the 15th arrondissement. They were worried about Franck, so they left him a message, then turned the sound back up when the show resumed. By the end of the third break they were friends.
“How long have you known him?”
“I don’t know, must be about a month.”
“Is it serious?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause he never talks about anything but you! No, I’m kidding. He just told me you draw really well. Say, wouldn’t you like me to fix you up while I’m here?”
“Sorry?”
“Your hair?”
“Now?”
“Well, yeah, because afterwards I’ll be too drunk and I might cut your ear at the same time.”
“But you don’t have anything with you, you don’t even have any scissors.”
“Don’t you have razor blades in the bathroom?”
“I think so, yes. Philibert still uses one of those paleolithic cut-throat razors . . .”
“What exactly are you going to do?”
“Make it softer.”
“Do you mind if we stand in front of a mirror?”
“Are you scared? You want to keep an eye on me?”
“No, just watch.”
While Myriam thinned her hair, Camille sketched them.
“Will you give it to me?”
“No. Anything you want, but not this one. I keep all my self-portraits, even condensed versions like this one.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s just, like, I feel like if I keep drawing myself long enough, someday I’ll finally recognize myself.”
“When you see yourself in a mirror you don’t recognize yourself?”
“I always think I look ugly.”
“And in your drawings?”
“In the drawings, not always, no.”
“Isn’t that better?”
“You did sideburns, like Franck’s.”
“It suits you.”
“You know Jean Seberg?”
“No, who’s that?”
“An actress. She used to have her hair exactly like this, only she was blonde.”
“Oh, if that’s all that’s missing, I can make you blonde next time.”
“She was really cute. She lived with one of my favorite writers. And then they found her dead in her car one day. How could such a pretty girl find the courage to destroy her own life? It’s unfair, don’t you think?”
“You should have drawn her beforehand, so she could have seen herself.”
“I was only two at the time.”
“That’s another thing Franck told me.”
“About Seberg’s suicide?”
“No, that you tell lots of stories.”
“It’s because I like people. Uh—how much do I owe you?”
“Don’t.”
“I’ll give you a present, then, instead.”
Camille came back and held out a book.
“King Solomon, by Romain Gary. Is it good?”
“Better than good. Should we try to call Franck again? I’m starting to get worried. Maybe he had an accident.”
“Shh. There’s no need to worry. He’s just forgotten me. I’m beginning to get used to it.”
“Why do you go on seeing him, then?”
“So that I won’t be alone.”
They’d started on the second bottle by the time he stood there removing his helmet.
“What the fuck are you two doing?”
“We’re watching a skin flick,” they laughed. “We found it in your room. It was hard to choose, wasn’t it, Mimi? What’s this one called again?”
“Take Your Tongue Out So I Can Fart.”
“Yeah, that’s the one, it’s great.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t have any porn films!”
“No? That’s weird . . . Maybe someone left it in your bedroom?” Camille gave him an ironic look.
“Or maybe you made a mistake,” added Myriam. “You thought you were getting Amélie and you ended up with Take Your Tongue—”
“What the fuck—” He looked at the sc
reen for a few seconds while they burst out laughing. “You’re completely trashed, is what you are!”
“Yes . . . ,” they confessed.
“Hey,” called Camille as he was leaving the living room, muttering.
“Now what?”
“Aren’t you going to show your fiancée how handsome you are today?”
“No. Don’t fuck with me.”
“Oh, please,” begged Myriam, “show me, darling.”
“Striptease!” blurted Camille.
“Take it off !” said Myriam.
“Striptease! Striptease! Striptease!” they chanted.
Franck shook his head and rolled his eyes. He was trying to adopt an outraged expression, and failing. He was dead tired. All he’d wanted was to collapse on his bed and sleep for a week.
“Striptease! Striptease! Striptease!”
“Okay. You asked for it. Switch off the box and get ready with your little dollar bills, girls.”
He put on “Sexual Healing”—at last—and started with his biker’s gloves.
And when the refrain came along—
get up, get up, get up, let’s make love tonight
wake up, wake up, wake up, cause you do-o it right
—he tore open the last three buttons of his yellow shirt and swung it over his head, swiveling his hips in superb Travolta style.
The girls were tapping their feet and clutching their ribs.
All he had left were his trousers. He turned around and slowly slid them down, giving a little thrust of his hips toward one girl, then the other, and when the top of his briefs appeared, a wide elastic band where you could read DIM DIM DIM, he turned toward Camille and winked at her. Just then the song came to an end and he quickly pulled up his pants.
“Okay, this has been fun, but I’m going to bed.”
“Oh . . .”
“What a letdown.”
“I’m hungry,” said Camille.
“Me too.”
“Franck, we’re hungry.”
“Well, the kitchen is that way, straight ahead, then turn left.”
He came back a few minutes later in Philibert’s plaid bathrobe.
“Hey? You’re not eating?”
“No, never mind. We’re going to languish until we die. A Chippendale who keeps his pants on, a chef who doesn’t cook—we’re really out of luck tonight.”
“Okay,” he sighed, “what do you want? Savory or sweet?”
“Mmm, this is good.”
“Is just some pasta, no?” he replied, modestly, in a mock-Italian voice.
“But what did you put in there?”
“Oh, just odds and ends.”
“It’s delicious,” Camille reiterated. “And for dessert?”
“Bananes flambées. You’ll forgive me, ladies, but I’m making do with what’s at hand. Anyway, you’ll see. I warn you, the rum’s not Old Nick from Monoprix!”
“Mmm,” they said again, licking their plates. “What’s next?”
“What’s next is beddy-byes, and for whoever’s interested, my room is thataway, all the way down and on the right.”
Instead, they made some herbal tea and smoked a last cigarette while Franck dozed off on the sofa.
“Oh, is he bad or what, our Don Juan with his healing, his sexual baaalm,” squealed Camille.
“Yeah, you’re right, he is baaad.”
He smiled in his half-comatose state, and put a finger to his lips, to ask them to be quiet.
When Camille went into the bathroom, Franck and Myriam were already there. They were too tired for niceties so Camille reached for her toothbrush while Myriam put hers away and wished her a good night.
Franck was leaning over the sink spitting out toothpaste and when he stood up, their eyes met.
“Did she do that for you?”
“Yes.”
“It looks good.”
They smiled at each other’s reflections and it was a half second that lasted longer than a usual half second.
“Can I wear your gray wifebeater?” called Myriam from his room.
He was energetically scrubbing his teeth and turned again to the girl in the mirror, dribbling toothpaste all down his chin: “Shreally-dumbutIpweefertoshleeptogewahwizhzhoo.”
“Pardon?” she said, frowning.
He spat out, then said, “I said, it’s really dumb but I heard there’s sleet tomorrow.”
“Yes.” She smiled. “That is really dumb. It really is.”
Camille turned back to him: “Listen, Franck, I have something important to tell you . . . Yesterday I confessed that I never keep any of my resolutions, but now there is one that I’d like us to make together, and try to respect.”
“You want us to stop drinking?”
“No.”
“Smoking?”
“No.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
“I’d like you to stop playing this little game with me.”
“What game?”
“You know what I mean . . . Your sexual schedule, all your heavy little hints. I, uh, I don’t want to lose you, I don’t want us to fall out. I want us to get along, here, now . . . so that this will be a place . . . Well, you know what I mean, a place where all three of us can feel good. Calm, no complicated involvement. I . . . You . . . We . . . we’re not going anywhere, the two of us, I hope you realize that, right? That is, I mean, we . . . Of course we could sleep together, but then what? The two of us, I mean it’s a recipe for disaster and, well, it would be a pity to spoil everything, don’t you think . . .”
He’d been thrown for a loop and it took him a few seconds before he caught on.
“Hey, what are you talking about? I never said I wanted to sleep with you! And even if I did, there’s no way! You’re way too skinny! What makes you think a guy would even want to touch you! Go play with yourself, sister, while you’re at it! You’re out of your fucking mind!”
“You see I was right to warn you? You see how clearheaded I am? It could never work between us. I try to explain things to you as tactfully as possible and you have nothing to offer in exchange but your little shit-faced hostility, your stupidity, bad faith and meanness. Thank God you’ll never touch me! Thank God! As if I could ever want your disgusting meaty paws and your chewed-up nails on my skin! Keep them for your waitresses!”
She gripped the door handle: “Okay, I blew it. I should have kept my fucking mouth shut. I’m an idiot. And I’m not usually like this. Not at all. I’m usually the kind to hold my breath, and leave on tiptoe as soon as I can smell trouble.”
He was sitting on the edge of the bathtub.
“Yes, that’s what I would normally do . . . But just now, like an idiot, I forced myself to say something because—”
He raised his head.
“Because why?”
“Because . . . I told you, I think it’s important for this apartment to remain a nice, peaceful place. I’m going to be twenty-seven and for the first time in my life I’m living somewhere where I feel good, where I’m happy to come home in the evening, and even if I haven’t been here very long, okay, and even with all the mean things you’ve just thrown in my face, I’m still here, trampling on my pride so that I won’t risk losing it . . . Do you understand what I’m trying to say or is it just a load of bullshit as far as you’re concerned?”
Franck didn’t reply.
“Okay, then, I’m fucking off, I mean, I’m going to sleep.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “I’m sorry, Camille. I just seem to screw everything up when I’m around you.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Why is that?”
“Good question. Okay, then: bury the hatchet?”
“Go ahead. I’m already digging.”
“Great. So, what about that kiss, then?”
“No. Sleep with you, maybe, but kiss you on the cheek, no way. To start with, it would be much too hard.”
“You’re a fool.”
He took a moment to get u
p; he hunched over, looked at his toes for a long time, his hands, his nails, switched off the light and then took Myriam, distractedly, pushing her head down on the pillow so Camille wouldn’t hear.
50
EVEN though the conversation had cost her a great deal; even though she had got undressed that night barely touching her own body and with greater mistrust for it than ever, helpless and discouraged by all those bones sticking out in the most essentially feminine places—knees, hips, shoulders; and even though she had taken a while to fall asleep as she counted all her defects, Camille was not sorry they had had the conversation. Already the next morning, from the way he moved, and joked around, and behaved attentively without making a big deal of it, and selfishly without even realizing it, she understood that her message had gotten through.
Myriam’s presence in her life made things easier, and even if Franck still treated her in an offhand way, he slept out more often and came home more relaxed.
Sometimes Camille missed their cheerful little banter. What a dork I am, she thought, it was fun . . . But such moments of weakness never lasted very long. She had experienced enough in life to know the exact price of serenity: exorbitant. And anyway, where did things really stand between them? Where did sincerity leave off and the game begin? She was peacefully ruminating on the subject, sitting alone in front of a half-defrosted gratin, when something caught her eye on the windowsill.
It was the portrait he’d made of her the other day.
A fresh lettuce heart had been placed at the opening to the snail shell.
She sat back down and stabbed the tines of her fork into her cold zucchini with a goofy smile.
51
CAMILLE and Franck went together to buy a high-performance washing machine, and split the bill. Franck was delighted when the salesman retorted, “But Madame is absolutely right,” and he proceeded to call her darling all through the rest of the demonstration.
“The advantage of these combo appliances,” declaimed the salesman, “two-in-one, so to speak, is that you economize on space. We know only too well how it is for young couples trying to set up house these days.”
