Once he had completely undressed the deceased, Ambroise opened the case containing the aspirator pump, pouches and collection jars. He filled the tank with water and prepared the embalming fluid by adding the formaldehyde-based preservative. The liquid was a lovely candy pink. He placed the electric pump on the bed and wedged the drip solution and collection bottles between the dead man’s legs. He exhumed the instruments from the case and placed them on the stainless-steel tray, cut two lengths of ligature wire, connected the needle to the tube, prepared cotton-wool pads and took out two transparent eye patches. Ambroise loved these preliminaries. People must never see the equipment. It was a golden rule, as they must never be present during the process. The world of the living had no place here while he was at work. His former master was right. He was a magician and, like all magicians, he must not give away his secrets. Using a cotton-wool pad soaked in a moisturizing alcohol-based solution, he set about cleaning the nose and eyes and then placed the eye patches over the eyelids to keep the eyes closed. He spread massage cream over the deceased’s face and ears. With a scalpel, Ambroise made an incision a few centimetres long at the base of the neck to extricate the artery, taking good care not to damage the neighbouring jugular vein full of blood. Once he had inserted the cannula into the artery and clamped it in place, he plugged in the electric pump which hummed gently and began injecting. Soon the veins swelled once more. He diligently massaged the hands, cheeks and ears to help the fluid penetrate. Still armed with his scalpel, Ambroise made a second, tiny incision between the navel and the sternum, through which he inserted the end of the aspirator tube. After injecting two litres of embalming fluid into the body, Ambroise punctured the heart with the trocar using a firm, precise movement. The blood spurted into the collecting pouch in a thick stream. He injected a second dose of fluid. Once again, the miracle occurred, as splendid as a sunrise pushing back the night. The blotches faded, the skin regained a pink hue, the cyanosis of the cheeks was dispelled as if by wizardry as the formaldehyde replaced the blood. The face, until now tense in death, softened and took on an appearance of serenity. Comforted to find himself sheltered from time, thought Ambroise. Still using the aspirator tube, Ambroise probed each organ in turn to collect the excess blood, urine and gas. Kidneys, lungs, bladder and stomach – with experience, the young embalmer knew exactly which organ he was in, depending on the density he encountered as he punctured the wall. Ambroise stopped the pump. Silence always caught him off guard. He smiled behind his mask. A deathly silence. He closed up the nostrils and throat by inserting wads of cotton wool deep inside then practising a mandibular suture with the curved needle. Less than one minute later, the invisible stitches between the lower jaw, the palate and the nasal septum held the jaws together. ‘Another one who won’t say a word,’ the Master was in the habit of saying as he made each mouth suture. Ambroise removed the cannula and sutured the entry point. He took the bottle containing the cavity fluid, connected it to the trocar tube and raised the bottle above his head. Governed solely by the law of gravity, the liquid drained into the body and spread deep into the internal organs. Once the half-litre of embalming fluid was dispersed in the innards, Ambroise withdrew the draining tube, which he wiped thoroughly, then plugged the incision. The gestures of a mechanic after changing the oil in a car engine, he thought.
Ambroise delicately shaved the deceased’s cheeks and chin. He washed the body with a cloth soaked in disinfectant, dried it, then began a new pas de deux to get the man’s clothes on. For almost ten minutes, Ambroise manipulated his ninety kilos, puffing and panting, raising him up and rolling him over. He tied his shoelaces, buttoned up the jacket, adjusted his tie as best he could, then brushed his hair. Like an artist contemplating his work, he stepped back and, after giving it a final once-over, lightly dabbed the right ear, which was darker than the other, with a discreet layer of foundation. He adjusted the shirt collar, ensured the tie knot was in the centre and smoothed out a crease in the jacket. While the embalming techniques would always be invisible, the physical appearance is only the tip of the iceberg and it was vital to ensure that no detail, not even the most trivial, jeopardized the entire edifice. The body bag was folded underneath the corpse, on either side. The funeral parlour staff would be using it to transfer the body to the coffin. He pulled the bedspread up to the navel. Ambroise crossed the dead man’s arms over his chest then inserted between his fingers the sprig of lily of the valley that was by the bed. He put his instruments away in the cases, the empty bottles, the pouches containing the bodily fluids and the bag of waste into which he dropped his mask and gloves. He swapped his overalls for his jacket, and one hour and twenty minutes after entering the bedroom, Ambroise emerged to invite the family to view the body. The verdict came from the mouth of the eldest daughter. ‘My papa’s so handsome,’ she exclaimed, bathing the deceased’s forehead in tears as she kissed him. Once again, the magic had worked. The embalmer took his leave as discreetly as he could, leaving no more trace or reminders of his passage than a ghost. A ghost whose telephone was vibrating in his pocket to inform him of his next assignment.
5
Samuel Dinsky was a breath of fresh air in Manelle’s round. His eyes, two black marbles twinkling with mischief, would light up at the sight of the young woman. Always smiling, over the months Samuel had become much more than just a client. Eighty-two years old, slightly raised cholesterol, unmarried and with no family, the man was one metre sixty-five of cheeriness who hailed Manelle each day with genuine delight. Unlike others, the old man never spoke of the past. Perhaps the number tattooed in purple ink glimpsed one day on the inside of his forearm explained why. She was his Tinker Bell, his turtle dove, his rod and staff, his Cinderella, his sugar plum, his little poppy, his ray of sunshine, his sweetheart – he always had a fancy greeting for her when she arrived each morning. There was no ulterior motive behind the attention he lavished on her and there were no smutty innuendos beneath his words of endearment. Contrary to some old lechers with wandering hands who had an annoying tendency to confuse home help with call girl, Samuel expressed nothing other through these affectionate nicknames than his joy at seeing her between eleven and twelve every day, from Monday to Friday. She liked to think that this privilege was for her and her alone, even if a little voice inside her whispered that he was bound to behave in the same way with her colleagues and that these endearments were probably the best ploy he’d found to avoid muddling up their names. Samuel’s small home in Rue d’Alger was just like its owner, simple and welcoming, with no unnecessary embellishments but not devoid of charm. Manelle loved working there. That hour with the old man had the same feel-good effect on her as sunbathing for the first time in early spring. She knocked discreetly on the door and went straight in.
‘It’s me,’ she shouted from the hallway.
‘How’s my little angel this morning?’
‘Your little angel’s fine, thank you. And how are you?’ she asked, depositing a kiss on each of the old man’s rough cheeks, contravening one of the basic rules of the profession which was that all physical contact of an affectionate nature with the client was forbidden. Home help Mademoiselle Manelle Flandin must at all times confine herself to carrying out the official duties for which she was paid, no more and no less – duties which consisted of:
Washing the dishes
Doing the laundry
Hanging out the washing
Cleaning the windows
Ironing
Making the bed
Helping the client out of bed
Helping the client into bed
Help with personal hygiene
Help with dressing
Help with undressing
Shopping
Cooking meals
Feeding pets
Putting out the rubbish
Walking the dog
Sweeping and mopping the floors
Polishing wooden floors
Vacuuming
Closing or opening t
he shutters
Watering plants
and emptying Marcel Mauvinier’s chamber pot.
It was in no way part of the home help’s job to:
Read aloud every evening extracts from the latest bestseller to Annie Vaucquelin at bedtime to help her fall asleep
Manage Pierre Ancelin’s share account
Spend an hour sorting out the Perron family photos
Have a coffee and a chat
Eat a slice of tart or cake over a chat
Watch and describe what’s going on in The Young and the Restless with Jeannine Poirier who can no longer see
Play Scrabble with Ghislaine de Montfaucon
Mix a Negroni (one part Campari, one part vermouth, one part gin) for the widowed Madame Dierstein and raise a glass with her every Friday evening
Deposit kisses on Samuel Dinsky’s rough cheeks every morning.
But Manelle didn’t give a toss about the rules and no one could ever stop her kissing all the Samuel Dinskys on the planet by claiming that such tokens of affection were strictly forbidden by the home helps’ bible.
‘I’m always fine when I see my little domestic goddess.’
The packet of painkillers on the sideboard belied his words. For some time, the old man had been suffering from recurrent headaches, migraines that made his life a misery, sometimes for days on end. Recently, Manelle had caught an expression of pain distorting his features when he thought no one could see him. She counted the number of tablets missing from the packet and was worried.
‘You’ve taken six since yesterday? That’s a lot, you know. You spoke to the doctor yesterday afternoon, what did he say?’
‘That despite my age, I had the blood pressure of a young man. He just renewed the prescription for my cholesterol pills and prescribed stronger painkillers, but I’m finishing these first.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘No, I’ve got to have an MRI in two weeks and maybe see a neurologist or whatever. What’s for lunch today, beauty?’
Even though he still cooked occasionally, Samuel had requested meals on wheels. Reading the day’s menu was Manelle’s first job on arriving at his home. A ritual she threw herself into with gusto, putting on a feigned solemnity, she would grab the card with the week’s gourmet offerings in copperplate handwriting. Manelle climbed onto a chair and, like a town crier, declaimed the dishes in a clear, sing-song voice, under the amused gaze of Samuel who was in seventh heaven.
‘And this Tuesday the twelfth of April we will have a starter of mortadella on a bed of baby leaves, followed by chicken breast garnished with Peter-the-Great-style potato and celeriac mash. And for dessert, the chef proposes a dairy whip with a fruits-of-the-forest coulis. Master chef Queux thanks you for any feedback that will help him improve the quality of the service, except perhaps being told that these vegetable dishes with mouth-watering names like puréed broad beans, Conti lentils, Crécy carrots or Peter-the-Great-style celeriac like today, once they are served up, all end up looking like a heap of steaming poo-green dung from the same orifice!’
Samuel applauded Manelle’s performance vigorously. She spent the following fifty minutes bustling around, dashing from the bedroom to the kitchen or the living room carrying out her various chores, chatting all the while to the old man, who, sitting by the window, read the day’s newspaper from cover to cover. Fifty minutes during which they talked about everything and nothing, serious and light-hearted matters, made small talk or discussed government policies, art or literature. Fifty minutes that were worth a thousand in the eyes of the young home help.
6
Ambroise arrived home from work to find Beth cooking a stew whose aroma filled the entire apartment. After cross-examining him as usual about his day, the elderly woman finally asked the question about her grandson’s love life that had been tormenting her for a while. ‘Have you seen your Julie again?’ she asked innocently, stirring the meat with a spatula. No, Ambroise hadn’t seen Julie again. Nor had he seen Manon, Lise or Laurine again. Girls had always been a problem. His grandmother despaired of his ever finding his soulmate. It wasn’t for lack of opportunity. With his tall frame, angelic face and rebellious hair, Ambroise never left the female sex indifferent. And without going as far as being a womanizer, the young man had been in love several times over the past few years, but each time the affair had ended after a matter of days – or weeks for the more serious relationships. Even though with time and experience Ambroise had learned to hedge around or keep quiet about his profession – to disguise it beneath a lie by saying, for instance, that he worked in the paramedical field – despite his precautions, the terrible moment always came when the word resurfaced: embalmer. Then, each time, a destructive process was set in motion which it was impossible to halt. First of all, the deluge of questions, the inevitable barrage of whys and hows. His replies generally aroused a feeling of revulsion at the idea that the same hands that caressed their body at night had spent the day poking cold, stiff corpses. Sometimes, on the contrary, the disclosure created a morbid attraction that wormed its way into the relationship like a maggot in an apple. But worst of all was the new way women looked at him, with a mixture of repugnance and fascination, when he came clean about his profession. Embalmer. The word tolled the end of the relationship. A waste, Beth would harp on, talking about the few girls who had passed the kouign-amann test. For the elderly lady, humanity was made up of two very different groups: people who liked the Breton cake and the rest. None of the conquests brought home by her grandson could escape Beth’s kouign-amann test after the cheese course. For those who pursed their lips, avoided fats, the verdict was damning: a person incapable of appreciating the delectable buttery taste of a kouign-amann on the palate was incapable of receiving happiness in their heart! Those who did, which included Julie, were given her eternal blessing.
In the end, Ambroise had abandoned hope of finding a partner, preferring rather to wander in a sentimental wilderness interspersed from time to time with brief flings that had no future, pale substitutes for love with no other purpose than a shag. A physical experience, nothing more, and then escape before the word came and ruined it all once again. Sex without love, like a dish without salt. The other day, he had ventured to try the services of a professional. After finishing a job, as he walked back to the car park through the maze of little back streets in the driving rain, a young woman chewing gum paused to call out to him. ‘Do you want to come upstairs?’ A phrase from a B-movie. Long, shapely legs sheathed in nylon, sculptured breasts, bee-sting lips emphasized with gloss. Without thinking, Ambroise had followed her down the gloomy, stinking passageway and up a dozen stairs to the first floor where the tiny studio apartment served as a brothel. ‘You pay in advance,’ she commanded. He rummaged clumsily in his wallet for the fifty euros. ‘Get undressed, big boy.’ An order without warmth. Like a schoolteacher talking to a pupil. He had obeyed, feverishly folding his clothes and putting them on the chair. How many pairs of trousers, crumpled shirts, socks rolled into a ball and pairs of underpants had preceded his own clothes on that same seat?
‘Lie down.’
The narrow bed was covered in protective paper, the sort you usually find on doctors’, physiotherapists’ and gynaecologists’ examination tables.
‘I’m an embalmer,’ Ambroise had blurted out.
Why did he say that? He didn’t know himself. Perhaps with the secret hope that the girl would throw him out like a scumbag, fling his fifty euros in his face and call him a pervert, telling him to go away and play with his dead bodies. But nothing of the sort happened.
‘You do what you like, sweetheart,’ the streetwalker replied as she rolled back his foreskin and gave him a mechanical hand job, expertly slipping a condom over his waning erection.
He shuddered. Clinical gestures. Ambroise tried to caress the young woman’s breasts but she recoiled as if burned.
‘No touching my breasts,’ she said, deftly removing his hand. ‘And no kissing,’ s
he added. ‘Unless you pay. Fifty’s just for a blow job and a fuck.’ All said in the tone of a shopkeeper admonishing an overly demanding customer.
When she took his penis in her mouth, he had the horrible feeling that it was merely a piece of meat, a cellophane-wrapped barbecue sausage detached from his own body. Then he clambered on top of her to penetrate her, and shuddered at the feel of the nylon stockings. The cold skin of a reptile. He closed his eyes to shut out the ceiling light flooding the bed, concentrating all his strength on desiring her and, after a laboured humping session, finally came inside this woman who’d been a stranger a few minutes earlier. An almost painful orgasm, triggered solely by the desire to get it over with as quickly as possible. The building had spat Ambroise out again into the street, an Ambroise disgusted at himself. Fifty euros, the price of damnation. He took a piping-hot shower and lathered his body for a long time. Beneath her perfume, she was the one who had reeked of death, not him.
7
As she often did, Madeleine Collot had already left her apartment building before Manelle’s arrival and was limping up the street, her handbag slung over her shoulder. Her ninety-kilo bulk advanced with a rolling gait, her body trussed up in a raincoat that was much too small for her. Manelle hurried to join her and shield her with her umbrella, and relieve her of the wicker shopping basket dangling from her hand.
The Rest of Their Lives Page 2
