by Anna Gavalda
“If you make me see a doctor, they’ll send me back to the hospice.”
“Oh, Paulette dear, calm down. I promise we won’t go to the doctor, I hate them as much as you do. We’ll figure something out. Don’t you worry.”
“They’re going to find me! They’re going to find me,” she sobbed.
Paulette had no appetite and lay on her bed the rest of the day.
“What’s wrong with her?” Franck asked, worried.
“Nothing. We went to a pharmacy for a chair and as soon as the woman mentioned seeing a doctor, she started to panic.”
“What sort of chair?”
“A wheelchair!”
“What for?”
“To have wheels, stupid! So we can see the scenery!”
“Shit, what the hell are you doing? She’s fine as she is! Why do you want to shake her up like a bottle of Orangina!”
“All right, you’re starting to piss me off, you know that? Why don’t you look after her for a change, then? Why don’t you wipe her bum from time to time—you just might get some perspective! I have no trouble taking care of her, she’s adorable, your grandma. But, shit, I need to move, to go for walks, get my head together! But everything’s fine and dandy for you, right? There’s nothing troubling you at all. You’re all the same—you and Philou and Paulette—it doesn’t seem to bother you guys. These four walls, some food, your job, then bedtime—that seems to be enough for you. Well, for me it isn’t! I’m beginning to suffocate! And besides, I love going for walks and the weather will be nice soon . . . So I’ll say it one more time: I don’t mind being the nursemaid, but I also need to be able to get out sometimes. Otherwise you can just figure it out for yourselves—”
“What?”
“Nothing!”
“Don’t be like this.”
“But I have to! You’re so selfish that if I don’t yell and scream at you, you’ll never do a thing to help me!”
Franck went out, slamming the door, and Camille shut herself in her room.
When she came back out, there they were, both of them, in the entrance. Paulette was in seventh heaven: her little boy was looking after her.
“Hey, old lady, have a seat. It’s like a motorbike: you need to tune it, if you’re going to go far.”
He was crouched down fiddling with the knobs.
“Your feet feel okay like that?”
“Yes.”
“And your arms?”
“A bit too high.”
“Okay, Camille, over here. Since you’re the one who’ll be pushing, come here so I can adjust the handles.
“Perfect. Okay, I’ve got to get going. Come with me to work, we’ll try it out.”
“Does it fit in the elevator?”
“No. You have to fold it,” he said irritably. “But isn’t it better that way? She’s not completely helpless as far as I know . . .
“Vroom, vroom. Fasten your belt, Fangio, I’m running late.”
They went through the park full speed. By the time they reached the red light, Paulette’s hair was disheveled and her cheeks were pink.
“Right, I’m on my way, girls. Send me a postcard when you get to Kathmandu . . .”
Franck had already gone a few yards when he turned around:
“Hey, Camille! Don’t forget about this evening.”
“What?”
“The crêpes.”
“Shit!” She put her hand to her mouth. “I’d forgotten . . . I can’t be there.”
He was suddenly a few inches shorter.
“It’s important, I can’t cancel. It’s for work.”
“And Paulette?”
“I asked Philou to take over.”
“Okay, well, never mind. We’ll just eat them without you.”
He was stoical in his despair, the only sign of his discomfort a slight grimace as he walked away.
The label on his new underwear was itchy.
77
MATHILDE Daens-Kessler was the prettiest woman Camille had ever known. Tall, much taller than her husband, very slender, very lively, and very cultured. She flitted across our little planet as if she scarcely realized where she was; she was interested in everything, could be amazed by the smallest things, knew how to have fun, grew gently indignant, sometimes laid her palm over your hand, always spoke in a soft voice, knew four or five languages fluently, and hid her intentions behind a discouraging smile.
She was so lovely that it had never even occurred to Camille to sketch her.
It was too risky. She was too full of life.
A little sketch, once. Her profile. The bottom of her chignon and her earrings. Pierre had stolen it from Camille, but it wasn’t Mathilde. Her husky voice was missing, and her brilliance, and the deep dimples when she laughed.
Mathilde had the kindness, arrogance and offhand manner of those who are born in finely woven sheets. Her father had been an important art collector; she had always been surrounded by beautiful things, and had never had to count anything in her life—neither possessions, nor friends, still less her enemies.
She was rich, and Pierre was enterprising.
When he spoke, she was silent and covered up his indiscretions when his back was turned. He was always on the lookout for fresh talent. He was unerring in his judgment: he was the one who had launched Voulys and Barcarès, for example, and she did her utmost to keep them.
She kept the ones she wanted.
Camille remembered well the first time they met. It had been at the École des Beaux-Arts during an exhibition of year-end projects. A sort of aura preceded them: the formidable dealer and Witold-Daens’s daughter . . . Their visit had been much awaited. They were feared by most, and their slightest reaction was anxiously anticipated. When they came to greet her and her crowd of grungy fellow artists, Camille felt miserable. She lowered her head when she shook Mathilde’s hand, and awkwardly evaded a few compliments, looking for a mouse hole to escape into.
That was in June nearly ten years ago. There were swallows giving a concert in the courtyard of the school; and everyone drank a watery punch while listening devoutly to Kessler’s remarks. Camille didn’t hear a thing. She was staring at his wife. That day Mathilde wore a blue tunic and a wide silver belt with tiny little bells which tinkled furiously whenever she moved.
It was love at first sight . . .
Afterwards they were invited to a restaurant on the rue Dauphine and, at the end of a dinner accompanied by plenty of wine, Camille’s boyfriend had urged her to open her portfolio. She had refused.
A few months later, she went to see them. Alone.
Pierre and Mathilde owned drawings by Tiepolo, Degas and Kandinsky, but they had no children. Camille never dared to bring up the subject, nor did she resist when they cast their net round her and reeled her in. Later she turned out to be such a disappointment that the holes in the net were stretched wide . . .
“It’s utterly insane! What you’re doing is utterly insane!” Pierre shouted.
“Why can you not love yourself? Why?” added Mathilde, more gently.
She did not go to the opening nights.
When the two of them were alone, Pierre continued to voice his regret:
“Why?”
“She never had enough love,” answered his wife.
“From us?”
“From anyone.”
He collapsed against her shoulder and moaned, “Oh, Mathilde, my lovely woman . . . Why did you let this one get away?”
“She’ll be back.”
“No. She’s going to ruin everything.”
“She’ll be back.”
She had come back.
“Is Pierre not here?”
“No, he’s having dinner with his Englishmen. I didn’t tell him you were coming, I wanted to see you on my own for a bit.”
Then, glancing down at Camille’s portfolio: “But—did you bring something?”
“Nah, it’s nothing. Just a little thing I promised him the other day.”
Camille didn’t answer. Then, “Okay, I’ll wait for him.”
“Is it something you’ve done?”
“Uh-huh.”
“My God. When he finds out you didn’t come empty-handed, he’ll scream with despair. I’m going to call him.”
“No, no!” begged Camille. “Leave it! It’s nothing, really. It’s between us. A sort of receipt, for the rent.”
“Okay, then. Right. Let’s eat.”
Everything in their place was beautiful—the view, the objets, the rugs, the paintings, the dishes, the toaster—everything. Even their toilets were beautiful. There was a plaster reproduction of the quatrain Mallarmé had composed for his own toilet:
Oh you who relieve your tripe
In this gloomy hall
You may sing or smoke your pipe
And never touch the wall.
The first time she’d seen it, she was filled with awe: “Did you—did you buy a chunk of Mallarmé’s shitting room?”
“Of course not,” Pierre laughed. “It’s just that I know the fellow who made the cast . . . Have you been to Mallarmé’s house? In Vulaines?”
“No.”
“We’ll take you there someday. You would love it there. Absolutely love it.”
And everything was as it should be. Even their toilet paper was softer than any other . . .
Now Mathilde seemed delighted: “You look lovely! Really, you look great! This short hair really suits you. You’ve put on weight, no? I’m so happy to see you looking like this. So happy, really! I’ve missed you so much, Camille. If you only knew how they wear me out sometimes, all those geniuses. The less talent they have, the more noise they make. Pierre doesn’t care, he’s in his element, but as for me, Camille, I . . . It gets so boring. Come, sit here next to me, tell me what’s new.”
“No, I’m no good at that . . . I’ll show you my sketchbooks.”
Mathilde turned the pages and Camille commented on them.
And as she introduced her little universe like this, she really understood how much it meant to her.
Philibert, Franck and Paulette had become the most important people in her life, and she was only just realizing it now, at that very moment, sitting there between two eighteenth-century Persian cushions. And she felt deeply moved.
From the first notebook to the last drawing—which she had made just a few hours earlier, of Paulette radiant in her chair in front of the Eiffel Tower—only a few months had elapsed. And yet she was not the same person . . . The woman holding the pencil had changed. She had given herself a good shake, she had evolved, and she had blasted away the granite blocks which for so many years had weighed her down and kept her from moving forward.
That evening there would be people waiting for her to come home. People who didn’t care about her so-called worth. Who loved her for other reasons. For herself, perhaps.
For myself?
For yourself.
“And this?” said Mathilde impatiently. “You’ve stopped talking. Who’s this?”
“Johanna, Paulette’s hairdresser.”
“And these?”
“Johanna’s boots. They’re pretty rock ’n’ roll, aren’t they? How can a girl who works on her feet all day long possibly stand them? She’s just a poor victim of fashion, I suppose.”
Mathilde laughed. The shoes really were monstrous.
“And this one here, I’ve seen quite a few of him.”
“That’s Franck, the chef I was telling you about.”
“He’s handsome, isn’t he?”
“You think so?”
“Yes. He looks like Titian’s young Farnese, ten years older.”
Camille rolled her eyes.
“No, really! I’m serious!”
Mathilde got up and came back with a book: “Here. Look. The same dark gaze, the same dilated nostrils, the same jutting chin, the same slightly protruding ears. The same fire burning within . . .”
“That’s bullshit,” said Camille, staring cross-eyed at the portrait. “Mine’s all pimply.”
“Oh, you spoil everything!”
“Is that it?” said Mathilde regretfully.
“I’m afraid so.”
“These are good. Really good. Marvelous.”
“Oh, stop it.”
“Don’t contradict me, young lady, I may not know how to do this myself, but I do know how to look at things. At an age when most children are going to puppet shows, my father was already dragging me to the four corners of the earth and lifting me onto his shoulders so I’d be at the right height, so don’t you contradict me. Can you leave them with me?”
Camille didn’t know what to say.
“For Pierre.”
“All right. But look after them, okay? I take my pulse with them, to know I’m all right.”
“I’d gathered as much.
“Don’t you want to wait for Pierre?”
“No, I have to get going.”
“He’ll be disappointed.”
“It won’t be the first time,” answered Camille, resigned.
“You haven’t mentioned your mother.”
“Really?” she said, surprised. “That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”
Mathilde saw her to the door and kissed her: “All the best . . . Off you go, and don’t forget to come back and see me. You can fly over on one of Philibert’s antique wing chairs . . . It’s only a few streets away . . .”
“I promise.”
“And keep working like this. Keep it light . . . Have fun with what you’re doing. Pierre would surely tell you something completely different, but you mustn’t listen to him. Don’t listen to others, not to him, not to anyone. Oh, and by the way?”
“Yes?”
“Do you need money?”
Camille should have said no. For twenty-seven years she had been saying no. No, I’m fine. No, but thanks all the same. No, I really don’t need a thing. No, I don’t want to have to owe you. No, no, leave me alone.
“Yes.”
Yes. Yes, I think I might. Yes, I won’t be going back to play chambermaid either for the Italians or for Bredart or any of those bastards. Yes, I would like to work in peace for the first time in my life. Yes, I don’t want to have to cringe every time Franck hands me the money for Paulette. Yes, I’ve changed. Yes, I need you. Yes.
“Fine. And use some of it to get yourself some clothes. Honestly . . . that denim jacket—you were wearing it ten years ago.”
That was true.
78
CAMILLE walked home, looking in the windows of the antique shops. She was right outside the Beaux-Arts (fate, how clever it is) when her cell phone rang. She closed it again when she saw it was Pierre calling.
She walked faster. Her heart was racing to keep up.
Second ring. Mathilde this time. She didn’t answer that one either.
She went back the way she’d come and crossed the Seine. Our little heroine had a romantic streak, and whether it was to jump for joy or to jump in the water, the Pont des Arts was still the best there was in Paris. She leaned against the parapet and dialed the three digits of her voice mail.
You have two new messages. Today, at eleven—She could always drop the phone, not really on purpose . . . Splash! Oh, what a pity . . .
“Camille, call me immediately or I’ll come and drag you by the scruff of the neck!” he bellowed. “Right away! You hear me?”
Today, at twenty-three thirty-eight: “It’s Mathilde. Don’t call him back. Don’t come. I don’t want you to see this. He’s crying like a fat cow, your art dealer. Not a very pretty sight, I assure you. No—it is a pretty sight, beautiful even. Thank you, Camille, thank you. You hear what he’s saying? Wait, I’m going to give him the phone, otherwise he’s going to yank my ear off.” “I’ll be showing you in September, Fauque, and don’t say no because the invitations have already been sent—” The message cut off.
She switched off her cell phone, rolled a cigarette an
d smoked it, standing there between the Louvre, the Académie Française, Notre-Dame and the Place de la Concorde.
A perfect place for the curtain to come down . . .
Then she shortened the strap on her shoulder bag and ran as fast as she could, so as not to miss dessert.
79
THERE was a lingering smell of burned fat in the kitchen, but all the dishes had been cleared away.
Not a sound, all the lights off, not even a glimmer of light from under the doors of their rooms. Shoot. And here for once she was ready to eat the entire frying pan.
Camille knocked on Franck’s door.
He was listening to music.
She planted herself at the end of his bed and put her fists on her hips: “Well, what the hell?”
“We saved a few for you. I’ll flambé them for you tomorrow.”
“Well, what the hell!” she said again. “You’re not going to screw me?”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.”
She began to get undressed.
“Hey, old man, you’re not going to get out of it that easily! Promises are made, orgasms are kept!”
He sat up to switch on his lamp, while she was tossing her shoes into the void.
“What the hell are you doing? Where do you think you’re going?”
“Well, I’m taking my clothes off!”
“Oh, no.”
“What?”
“Not like that, wait . . . I’ve been dreaming of this moment for ages.”
“Switch off the light.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid you won’t want me if you see me.”
“But, Camille, shit! Stop, stop!” he shouted.
A little pout, disappointed: “You don’t want to?”
Silence.
“Switch off the light.”
“No.”
“Yes!”
