by Anna Gavalda
“But you what?”
“I lost all the people I loved in the process and—”
“And?”
“And when I told you the other day that I had no one but you in the world, it was not . . . Oh, fuck it all! See, yesterday was my birthday. I turned twenty-seven and the only person who took any notice was, I’m afraid, my mother. And you know what she gave me? A diet book. Funny, isn’t it. How witty can you get, I wonder. I’m really sorry to lay all this on you, but you have to help me one more time, Philibert. Just this once, and after that I’ll never ask anything of you again, I promise.”
“It was your birthday yesterday?” he said, his voice full of regret. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Who cares about my birthday! I only told you to get your tear ducts going, but it really isn’t important.”
“But it is! I would have liked to give you a present!”
“Well, then, go ahead: give it to me now.”
“And if I accept, will you let me go back to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then, it’s a yes.”
Of course he didn’t get back to sleep.
61
AT seven o’clock the next morning, Camille was ready for action. She had been to the bakery and brought back a baguette for her favorite officer.
When he came into the kitchen, he found her crouched down under the sink.
“Oh . . . major maneuvers already?” he moaned.
“I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but I didn’t dare.”
“That’s good. I’m the only one who knows the right quantity of chocolate to put in.
“Oh, Camille. Sit down. You are making me dizzy.”
“If I sit down, I’ll have to tell you something serious.”
“Oh, dear. Then stay on your feet.”
She sat down opposite him, put her hands on the table and looked him straight in the eye: “I’m going to start work again.”
“Sorry?”
“I mailed in my letter of resignation just now, when I went downstairs.”
Silence.
“Philibert?”
“Yes.”
“Speak. Say something.”
He lowered his bowl and licked his lips: “What can I say? You’re on your own in this, my love.”
“I’d like to set up in the room at the back.”
“But, Camille, it’s a mess back there!”
“With a billion dead flies, I know. But it’s the room with the most light, since it’s on the corner with one window to the east and the other to the south.”
“And what about all the stuff?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
He sighed: “What woman wants . . .”
“You’ll see. You’ll be proud of me.”
“I should hope so. And what about me?”
“What?”
“Do I have the right to ask you for something too?”
“Well, sure.”
He began to go pink: “I-imagine that you w-want to g-give a p-present to a young girl that you d-don’t know, what d-do you d-do?”
Camille looked at him from under her eyebrows: “Beg your pardon?”
“D-don’t p-play dumb, you heard m-me.”
“Well, I don’t know, depends on the occasion.”
“No p-p-particular occasion.”
“For when?”
“Saturday.”
“Give her some Guerlain.”
“I beg your p-pardon?”
“Perfume.”
“I . . . I would never know what to choo-choose.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“Please.”
“No problem. We’ll go during your lunch break.”
“Th-thanks.”
“Ca-Camille?”
“Yes?”
“She—she’s just a friend, all right?”
She stood up with a laugh. “Naturally.” Then, looking at the kittens on the Post Office calendar, she added: “Well, I never! It’s Valentine’s Day on Saturday. Did you know that?”
He dipped his head back into his bowl.
“Okay, I have to leave now, I have work to do. I’ll come by for you at the museum at noon.”
He had not yet made his way back to the surface and was still slurping his way through his Nesquik potion when Camille left the kitchen with her Ajax and her artillery of sponges.
When Franck came back for his nap in the early afternoon, he found the apartment deserted and upside down:
“What the fuck is all this mess?”
He emerged from his room at about five o’clock. Camille was struggling with the base of a lamp.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I’m moving.”
“Where are you going?” He turned pale.
“There,” she said, pointing to the mountain of broken furniture and the carpet of dead flies. Then, spreading her arms, “May I present my new studio . . .”
“Nooo.”
“Yes!”
“And your job?”
“We’ll see.”
“And Philou?”
“Oh . . . Philou . . .”
“What?”
“He’s making scents.”
“Huh?”
“No, nothing.”
“You want a hand?”
“Definitely!”
With a man it was a lot easier. In one hour Franck had moved all the stuff into the next room. A room whose windows had been condemned because of “faulty jambs.”
She took advantage of a quiet moment—he was drinking a cold beer and surveying the extent of the work he had accomplished—to fire off her last salvo: “Next Monday, at lunchtime, I’d like to celebrate my birthday with you and Philibert.”
“Uh, wouldn’t you rather do it in the evening?”
“Why?”
“Well, you know, Monday I’m on granny duty.”
“Oh, yes, sorry, I didn’t make myself clear: next Monday, at lunchtime, I would like to celebrate my birthday with you and Philibert and Paulette.”
“There? At the hospice?”
“Of course not! You’ll have to find us some sort of nice little country inn.”
“And how will we get there?”
“I thought we could rent a car.”
He was quiet and thoughtful until his last swallow of beer.
“Fine,” he said, crumpling the beer can. “The thing is that she’ll be disappointed from now on when I show up on my own.”
“I know . . . there’s a good chance she will.”
“Don’t feel obliged to do it for her sake, you know.”
“No, no, it’s for me.”
“Good. I’ll figure something out for the car. I have a friend who’d be only too happy to swap me his car for my bike . . . These flies are really gross.”
“I was waiting for you to wake up before I run the vacuum cleaner.”
“And are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Did you see your Ralph Lauren?”
“No.”
“It is sublime—the little dog is very happy.”
“How old will you be?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Where were you before?”
“Sorry?”
“Before you were here, where were you?”
“Up there, of course!”
“And before that?”
“I don’t have time to tell you just now . . . Some night when you’re around, I’ll tell you the story.”
“You always say that, and then—”
“Yes, yes, I feel better now. I’ll tell you the story of the edifying life of Camille Fauque.”
“What does that mean, edifying?”
“Good question.”
“Does it mean ‘like an edifice’?”
“No, it means ‘exemplary,’ but it’s ironic.”
“Aha!”
“Like an edifice that’s falling down, more like it.”
“Like the Tower of Pisa?”
“Exactly!”
“Shit, it’s rough living with an intellectual!”
“What d’you mean! On the contrary, it’s very pleasant!”
“No, it’s rough. I’m always afraid of making spelling mistakes. What did you eat for lunch?”
“A sandwich, with Philou. But I saw you put something for me in the oven, I’ll get it later. Thanks, by the way. It’s really nice.”
“Don’t mention it. Okay, I’m out of here.”
“And you, everything okay?”
“I’m tired.”
“Well, you should sleep!”
“I have been sleeping actually, but I don’t know. I’m just not up to my usual speed. Right. Back to the grind.”
62
“WELL, I never. We don’t see you for fifteen years and now suddenly you’re here nearly every day!”
“Hello, Odette.”
Loud kisses.
“Is she here?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well, we’ll get settled while we’re waiting for her. I’d like to introduce my friends: Camille . . .”
“Hello.”
“. . . and Philibert.”
“How do you do. Charmed, I’m—”
“Enough, enough! Save your niceties for later.”
“Oh, take it easy.”
“I can’t take it easy, I’m hungry. Oh, there they are. Hello, Grandma. Hello, Yvonne—will you stay and have a drink with us?”
“No, thanks all the same, but I’ve got people waiting at home. What time shall I come back for her?”
“We’ll take her back.”
“Not too late, all right? Because last time I got yelled at. She has to be back before five thirty—”
“All right, all right, it’s okay, Yvonne. Say hello to everyone at your place.”
Franck let out a sigh.
“Well, Grandma, let me introduce Philibert.”
“My humble respects.”
He leaned over to kiss her hand.
“Come on, let’s sit down. No, Odette! No menu! Let the chef decide.”
“A little drink to start with?”
“Champagne!” said Philibert, then turning to his neighbor, “Madame, do you like champagne?”
“Yes, yes,” said Paulette, intimidated by his grand manners.
“Here you go, here are some pork belly rillons while you’re waiting.”
Everyone was a bit tense. Fortunately the good wines from the Loire, the brochet au beurre blanc and the goat cheeses quickly loosened their tongues. Philibert attended to his neighbor’s every need, and Camille laughed as she listened to Franck’s silly stories: “I was . . . God . . . how old was I, Grandma?”
“Goodness, that was such a long time ago. Thirteen, fourteen?”
“It was the first year of my apprenticeship. I remember at the time I was afraid of René. My heart was in my boots. But anyway . . . I learned a ton of things from him. He could drive me up the wall, too. I forget what it was he was showing me . . . spatulas, I think, and he said, ‘This one we call the big pussy and the other one is the little pussy. You remember that, okay, when the teacher asks you. Because forget what it says in the books, this is the real culinary terminology. The real jargon. That’s how you can tell a good apprentice. Okay? You got that?’
“ ‘Yes, boss.’
“ ‘And what is this one called?’
“ ‘The big pussy, boss.’
“ ‘And the other one?’
“ ‘Well, the little . . .’
“ ‘The little what, Lestafier?’
“ ‘The little pussy, boss.’
“ ‘Very good, son, very good. You’ll go far.’ God, I was clueless! The way they used to mess with me! But it wasn’t all a laugh, was it, Odette? There were some kicks in the butt as well, weren’t there?”
Odette, who had sat down with them, was nodding her head. “But he’s a lot calmer now, you know.”
“I’m sure! Kids nowadays won’t put up with that sort of thing.”
“Don’t even talk about kids nowadays . . . No two ways about it, you can’t say a thing to them anymore. They sulk. That’s all they know how to do: sulk. I’m sick to death of it. They wear me out, I tell you. They wear me out even more than you all did, setting fire to the garbage and all.”
“Oh, that’s right! I’d completely forgotten about that.”
“Well, I remember, believe me!”
The lights were dimmed. Camille blew out her candles and the entire room applauded.
Philibert disappeared for a moment and came back with a big package: “It’s from both of us.”
“Yeah, but it was his idea,” said Franck. “If you don’t like it, I’m not responsible. I wanted to rent you a stripper, but he wouldn’t go for it . . .”
“Oh, thank you! This is wonderful!”
It was an artist’s easel, especially for watercolors, known as a “field easel.”
Philibert read the instructions with a quaver in his throat: “ ‘Can be folded and inclined, it’s double-sided, stable, has a large working area and two storage drawers. This easel has been designed for use when seated. It consists of four folding beechwood feet’—that’s good—‘which have been assembled in pairs with a crossbar to ensure stability when the easel is open. When closed, they ensure the drawers remain blocked. The work surface can be inclined due to a double hinge. It is possible to store a pad of paper, maximum format of twenty-seven by twenty inches.’ (A few sheets are included for your use.) ‘An integrated handle allows the entire folded easel to be carried.’ (And that’s not all, Camille . . . ) ‘Underneath the handle there is a storage rack for a small water bottle.’ ”
“Only water?” said Franck anxiously.
“It’s not for drinking, you dunce,” said Paulette mockingly. “It’s for mixing colors!”
“Oh, yes, of course, you’re right, I’m a dunce.”
“Do you—do you like it?” said Philibert anxiously.
“It’s fabulous!”
“Would—would you have p-preferred a n-naked man?”
“Do I have time to try it right away?”
“Go ahead, go ahead, we’re waiting for René in any case.”
Camille hunted for the tiny box of watercolors in her bag, unwound the screws and settled by the bay window.
She drew the Loire. Slow, wide, calm, imperturbable. The lazy sandbanks, the pilings, the mildewed boats. Over there, a cormorant. Pale rushes and the blue of the sky. A winter blue—metallic, brilliant, bold, showing off its colors between two big weary clouds.
Odette was hypnotized. “But how does she do it? She has only eight colors in her little box!”
“I’m cheating, but hush . . . There. This is for you.”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you! René, come over here and take a look!”
“Dinner’s on me!”
“Oh, no, we can’t—”
“Yes, yes! I insist.”
When Camille sat back down with them, Paulette slipped her a package under the table: it was a knitted hat to match the scarf. The same holes and the same colors. Classy.
Some hunters arrived, and Franck followed them into the kitchen with their host. Hard liquor was poured as they discussed their game bags. Camille fiddled delightedly with her present, and Paulette talked about her wartime experiences to Philibert, who had stretched out his long legs and was listening intently.
Then the time came, dusk fell and Paulette sat down in the death seat in front.
No one said anything.
The landscape became increasingly drab.
They drove around the town and went through the drearily predictable commercial zones: supermarkets, hotels for twenty-nine euros a night with cable, warehouses and storage depots. Finally Franck stopped the car.
Right at the far end of the commercial zone.
Philibert got up to open the door and Camille pulled off her hat.
Paulette caress
ed her cheek.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” grumbled Franck, “let’s make it quick. I don’t feel like getting told off by the mother superior, okay?”
When he came back, there was already a figure in the window, pulling aside the net curtains.
He got in, made a face and let out a long sigh before putting the car in gear.
They had not yet left the parking lot when Camille tapped him on the shoulder: “Stop.”
“Now what did you forget?”
“Stop, I said.”
63
FRANCK turned around.
“Now what?”
“How much does it cost?”
“What?”
“This place here. This hospice.”
“Why do you ask?”
“How much?”
“Roughly ten thousand.”
“Who pays?”
“My granddad’s pension, seven thousand one hundred and twelve francs, and the social services something or other.”
“I’ll ask for two thousand francs from you, as pocket money, and the rest you keep, and you stop working on Sundays so that I can have some time off.”
“Hey, what are you talking about, now?”
“Philou?”
“Oh, no, this was your idea, my dear,” he simpered.
“Yes, but it’s your house, my friend.”
“Hey! What’s going on here? What’s this about?”
Philibert turned on the overhead light: “If you don’t mind . . .”
“And if she doesn’t mind,” insisted Camille.
“. . . we’re taking her with us.” Philibert smiled.
“With you? Where?” said Franck.
“Our place. Home.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“N-now?”
“Tell me, Camille, do I look like such a nitwit when I stutter?”
“Not at all,” she reassured him, “you never have such an idiotic expression on your face.”
