by Anna Gavalda
“And who is going to look after her?”
“I am. But I just told you my conditions.”
“And your job?”
“No more job! Finito!”
“But, uh—”
“What?”
“Her medication and all that stuff—”
“Well, I’ll give it to her! Not so hard to count tablets, is it?”
“And if she falls down?”
“She won’t fall down, because I’ll be there.”
“But, uh, where will she sleep?”
“I’m giving her my room. Everything has been taken care of.”
Franck leaned his forehead on the steering wheel.
“And you, Philou, what do you think about all this?”
“In the beginning I did not like the idea, but now I do. I think your life will be a lot simpler if we take her away from here.”
“But that is one fucking heavy responsibility—an old woman.”
“You think so? How much does your little granny weigh? One hundred pounds? Not even . . .”
“We can’t just take her away like that.”
“No?”
“Well, no.”
“If we have to pay damages, we’ll pay.”
“Can I go for a walk?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Camille, can you roll me a cigarette?”
“Here.”
He slammed the door.
“It’s a fucking stupid idea,” he concluded when he climbed back in the car.
“Well, we never said it wasn’t, did we, Philou?”
“Never. We do know what it involves, after all.”
“Are you frightened?”
“No.”
“We’ve seen worse, haven’t we?”
“Hell, yes.”
“You think she’ll like it in Paris?”
“We’re not taking her to Paris, we’re taking her to our place.”
“We’ll show her the Eiffel Tower.”
“No. We’ll show her plenty of things much nicer than the Eiffel Tower.”
Franck sighed. “Okay, then, what do we do now?”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Camille.
When they came back to park under her window, she was still there.
Camille went off at a run. From the car, Franck and Philibert watched a performance of Chinese shadow puppets: a little figure turning around, a larger figure by her side, gestures, nodding heads, shoulder movements, and Franck said over and over: “It’s fucking stupid, it’s fucking stupid, I’m telling you, it really is, a humongously fucking stupid idea.”
Philibert was smiling.
The silhouettes changed places.
“Philou?”
“Mmm?”
“What is this girl?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This girl you found us. What is she exactly—an extraterrestrial?”
Philibert smiled. “A fairy.”
“Yeah, that’s it. A fairy. You’re right.”
And, uh, there are sexual fairies, right?
“What the hell are they doing in there?”
At last the light went out.
Camille opened the window of Paulette’s room and down came a huge suitcase. Franck, who had been biting his fingernails, started: “Fuck, what is this mania she has for throwing things out the window?”
He was laughing. He was crying.
“Shit, Philou, my friend . . .” Fat tears were flowing down his cheeks. “It’s been months since I could look at myself in a mirror. Can you believe this? Fuck, do you believe it?” He was trembling.
Philibert handed him his handkerchief.
“Everything is fine. Everything is just fine. We’ll pamper her for you, don’t you worry.”
Franck blew his nose and edged the car forward, then hurried toward the women while Philibert went to get the suitcase.
“No, no, you stay in front, young man. You have long legs.”
Dead silence for a few miles. Everyone wondered whether they hadn’t just done something completely insane. Then suddenly, ingenuously, Paulette shattered the uneasy silence: “Hey. Will you take me to the theater? Can we go see the operettas?”
Philibert turned around and began to sing, “ ‘From far Brazil I’ve come with gold, by ship I left fair Rio, and shot for Paris like an arrow, far richer than in days of old!’ ”
Camille took Paulette’s hand and Franck smiled at Camille in the rearview mirror.
The four of us now, in this decrepit Renault: free, together, and may the good ship sail on.
“ ‘You’ll take from me the lot I took!’ ” they sang in unison.
PART FOUR
64
IT’S a hypothesis. History won’t take us far enough to confirm it. And our certainties never really hold water. One day you feel like dying and the next you realize all you had to do was go down a few stairs to find the light switch so you could see things a bit more clearly. These four, however, were embarking on what might turn out to be the most beautiful days of their lives.
From the very moment they first showed Paulette her new house, waiting with a mixture of emotion and anxiety for her every reaction, her every comment (she made none), and for the next trick of destiny, a warm gentle wind would caress their tired faces.
A caress, a truce, a balm.
Sentimental healing, as someone we know might say.
The family of no-hopers had now acquired a grandmother, and even if their little tribe was incomplete and always would be, they had no intention of allowing this to get them down.
So what if in the game of happy families, the deck was stacked against them? They could try poker! They’d been dealt an interesting hand, four of a kind. Okay, maybe not four aces . . . There’d been too many hard knocks and false starts, too many scars for them to make that sort of claim. But still, four of a kind!
They weren’t terribly good players, alas.
Even when they concentrated. Even when they were determined for once not to show their hand, how can you expect an unarmed chouan counterrevolutionary, a fragile fairy, an apologetic young gentleman and an old lady covered with bruises to know how to bluff?
That would be asking the impossible.
Bah. Never mind. A careful raise with the hope of a tiny return was still better than folding.
65
CAMILLE didn’t work to the end of her notice period: Josy B. just smelled too awful. Camille had to go to the head office to negotiate her departure date and arrange to receive her . . . what did they call it, again? Her final settlement. She’d worked there for over a year and had never taken any vacation time. She weighed the pros and cons and decided to do exactly as she pleased.
Mamadou was cross with her: “Look at you. Look at you,” she said over and over on the last evening, sweeping the broom into Camille’s legs. “Look at you.”
“Look at me, what?” said Camille, eventually growing annoyed. “Spit it out, for God’s sake! Look at me, what?”
“You . . . nothing.”
Camille went off to another room.
Mamadou lived in the opposite direction, but she got on the same deserted métro as Camille and forced her to move over to share her seat. They quarreled like Laurel and Hardy. Camille nudged her elbow into Mamadou’s pudgy flesh and Mamadou almost knocked her onto the floor.
They did this several times.
“Hey, Mamadou, don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you and don’t you call me Mamadou ever again! That’s not my name! I hate it! It’s the girls at work that call me that but my name isn’t Mamadou. And since last I heard you’re not a girl from work anymore, I don’t let you call me that ever again, you got that?”
“Really? Well, what’s your name, then?”
“I won’t tell you.”
“Listen, Mama—uh, dear, I’m going to tell you the truth. I’m not leaving because of Josy. I’m not leaving because of the work. I’m not leavin
g for the pleasure of leaving. I’m not leaving because of the money. Truth is, I’m leaving because I have another profession. A profession which—at least I think I . . . I guess I’m not sure—a profession which I’m better at than I am at this job. And which I think I could be happier doing.”
Silence.
“And that’s not the only reason. I’m taking care of this old lady now, and so I don’t want to be out in the evenings. I’m afraid she’ll fall.”
Silence.
“Okay, this is my stop. If I don’t get out here I’ll have to pay for a taxi again.”
Mamadou grabbed her arm and forced her to sit back down.
“Stay right there. It’s only half past midnight.”
“What is it?”
“Sorry?”
“Your other profession, what is it?”
Camille handed her the sketchbook.
“Hey,” said Mamadou, handing it back, “this is good. This is okay by me. You can go now . . . I’ve been real glad to know you, you skinny little grasshopper,” she added, turning away.
“I have one more thing to ask you, Mama—”
“You want my Léopold to make success guaranteed and plenty of customers too?”
“No. I’d like you to pose for me.”
“To pose what?”
“You! Yourself. Be a model for me.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Hey, are you making fun of me or something?”
“From the day I saw you, back when we were working in Neuilly, I’ve wanted to do your portrait.”
“Stop it, Camille. I’m not even nice to look at.”
“To me you are.”
Silence.
“To you I am?”
“To me, yes.”
“What’s nice to look at in all that, huh?” she asked, pointing to her reflection in the black window. “Where do you mean?”
“If I manage to do your portrait, if I do it well, in it you’ll see everything you’ve told me since we met. Everything. You’ll see your mother and father. And your children. And the sea. And—you know, what was her name again?”
“Who?”
“Your little goat.”
“Bouli.”
“We’ll see Bouli. And your cousin who died and . . . and all the rest.”
“You’re talking like my brother now! What sort of crazy thing are you on about?”
Silence.
“But I’m not sure I’ll manage,” sighed Camille eventually.
“Oh, no? Mind, if we don’t see my Bouli on my head that’s fine by me!” she giggled. “But, what you’re asking me now, it takes a long time, no?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then I can’t . . .”
“You’ve got my number. Take a few days off from All-Kleen and come to see me. I’ll pay you for the hours . . . We always pay our models. It’s a profession, you know. Okay, I’ll leave you here. Kiss good-bye, okay?”
Mamadou crushed Camille against her heart.
“What is your name, then, Mamadou?”
“I can’t say. I don’t like my name.”
Camille ran along the platform, miming the gesture of a phone against her ear. Her former coworker wearily waved her hand. Forget me, little toubab, forget me. You’ve already forgotten me, anyway.
Mamadou blew her nose noisily.
She liked talking to Camille.
That was true, it really was.
No one else on earth ever listened to her.
66
IN the early days, Paulette did not leave her room. She was afraid of disturbing someone, afraid of getting lost, afraid of falling (they had forgotten her walker) and above all, afraid she might regret her sudden impulse.
She often got everything in a muddle, saying that she was having a very nice vacation with them, and asking when they meant to take her home.
“Where’s your home, then?” asked Franck, slightly annoyed.
“Well, you know perfectly well. At home, my house.”
He left the room with a sigh: “I told you it was a crazy idea. And on top of everything else, now she’s going gaga.”
Camille looked at Philibert and Philibert looked away.
“Paulette?”
“Oh, it’s you, dear. What’s your name again?”
“Camille.”
“That’s it. And what is it you want, young lady?”
Camille spoke to her frankly, even rather severely. She reminded Paulette where she came from, why she was with them, what they had changed and would change in their lifestyles in order to keep her company. She added a multitude of other cutting details which completely knocked the stuffing out of the old woman:
“I’m never going back to my house, then?”
“No.”
“Oh . . .”
“Come with me, Paulette.”
Camille took her by the hand and started the tour of the apartment all over again. More slowly this time. And rammed home a few details along the way:
“Here. These are the toilets. You see, Franck is in the middle of putting handrails along the wall so you can hold on.”
“Damn stupid,” he grumbled.
“This is the kitchen. Pretty big, isn’t it? And cold. That’s why I fixed up the table on wheels yesterday. So you can have your meals in your room.”
“. . . or in the living room,” said Philibert. “You’re not obliged to stay shut up in your room all day, you know.”
“Okay, now, this is the corridor. It’s very long but you can hold on to the wood paneling, can’t you? If you need help, we can go to the pharmacy and rent another one of those roller thingies.”
“Yes, I’d rather.”
“No problem! We already have one wheel addict in the house. Here’s the bathroom. And this is where we have to have a serious discussion, Paulette. Here, sit down on that chair. Raise your eyes. Look how lovely it is.”
“It really is. We never had anything like this.”
“Good. So, you know what your grandson is going to do tomorrow with his friends?”
“No.”
“They’re going to destroy it. They’re going to install a shower cabin for you because the bathtub is too high to step over. So before it’s too late you have to decide once and for all. Either you stay and the boys get to work, or you think you don’t want to stay, and it’s not a problem, you do what you want, Paulette, but you have to tell us now, do you understand?”
“Do you understand?” echoed Philibert.
The old lady sighed, fiddled with the corner of her cardigan for a few seconds that seemed to them like an eternity, then raised her head and asked anxiously: “Did you remember the stool?”
“Pardon?”
“I’m not completely helpless, you know. I can perfectly well take a shower on my own, but I have to have a stool, otherwise—”
Philibert pretended to write on his hand: “One stool for the little lady in the back! I’ve written it down! And was there anything else, may I ask?”
She smiled. “Nothing else.”
“Nothing else?”
Paulette finally let it out: “Yes. I would like my TV Star, my cross-words, some needles and yarn to knit for the young lady, a jar of Nivea because I forgot mine, some candy, a little radio for my night table, some of that fizzy stuff for my dentures, some garters, some slippers and a warmer bathrobe because it’s so drafty here, some sanitary items, some powder, a bottle of my eau de cologne that Franck forgot the other day, an extra pillow, a magnifying glass, and also I’d like you to move the armchair over by the window, and—”
“And?” Philibert was beginning to get worried.
“And that’s all, I suppose.”
Franck, who had come to join them with his toolbox, tapped his friend on the shoulder: “Shit, man, we’ve got two princesses in the house now.”
“Hey, be careful!” shouted Camille. “You’re getting dust all over the place.”
“And stop swearing l
ike that, please!” added his grandmother.
Franck walked off, dragging his heels: “Oh. My. Lord. This is not going to be easy. We’re in a bad way, man, a bad way . . . I’m going back to work, it’s quieter there. If one of you goes shopping, bring back some potatoes so I can make a hachis parmentier. And good ones, all right? Have a good look . . . Potatoes for mashing. It’s not complicated, it says it on the package.”
“We’re in a bad way, a bad way,” was what he had thought, but he was wrong. Never in their lives had they been in such a good way.
When you say it like this, it sounds a bit silly and naive, of course, but still—it was the truth and it had been a long while since any of them had been concerned with ridicule: for the first time, each and every one of them felt like they belonged to a real family.
Better than a real family, even, because this was something they had chosen, desired and fought for, and this family asked nothing of them in return other than to be happy together. Not even happy, actually, they weren’t that demanding. Just to be together, that was everything. And even that they couldn’t have imagined.
67
AFTER the bathroom episode, Paulette was a changed woman. She found her bearings and blended into the ambient, amiable chaos with astonishing ease. Perhaps it was precisely what she needed, some kind of proof. Proof that they had been waiting for her and that she was welcome in this immense empty apartment where the shutters closed from inside and where no one had disturbed the dust since the Restoration. If they were putting in a shower just for her, well, then . . . She had almost lost her bearings just because there were a few little things she had missed, and Camille often thought back on that scene. How people could come undone, often just because of some trivial thing, and how everything could have gone downhill just like that had there not been a tall patient man who asked, “Was there anything else?” while holding an imaginary notepad. What, in the end, did it all hinge on? A wrong magazine, a magnifying glass, two or three bottles of this and that. It was mind-boggling. A little flea-market philosophy which enchanted her, and which turned out to be all the more complex when they found themselves in the toothpaste department of Franprix, reading the descriptions of the various Steradents, Polidents, Fixadents and other miracle glues.
