Franck was in a foul mood. His grandmother hadn’t said a word to him ever since she’d started living there, and the minute he hit the outskirts of Paris he’d have to start digging really deep into his skull to come up with something to say to her. On his first visit he’d run out of things to talk about, and they’d sat there glaring at each other for the entire afternoon. In the end, he stood watch by the window and made comments about everything he could see going on in the parking lot below: old folks being loaded into vehicles, others being unloaded, couples arguing, children running around between the cars, that one there who had just gotten a slap in the face, a young woman crying, a Porsche roadster, a Ducati, the spanking new 5 Series, and the incessant coming and going of the ambulances. A truly memorable day.
Yvonne Carminot had taken charge of the moving, and Franck had shown up in all innocence on that first Monday, with no idea what to expect.
There was the place itself, to start with. Given the state of their finances, he’d had to fall back on a hastily constructed public retirement home located on the outskirts of town between a Buffalo Grill and an industrial waste disposal site. Urban development zones one after the other, a conglomeration of concrete shit. A very big conglomeration of concrete shit in the middle of nowhere. He’d gotten lost, and had ridden around for over an hour in a labyrinth of all sorts of gigantic warehouses, looking for a nonexistent street name, stopping at every traffic circle to try and decipher some fucking incomprehensible map, and when finally he put his bike on its stand and took off his helmet, he was almost blown off his feet by a gust of wind. “Hey, what the fuck is going on? Since when do they put old folks in wind tunnels? They say that the wind eats into their brains . . . Oh shit, tell me this isn’t true, she’s not around here somewhere, please, tell me I made a mistake . . .”
The heat in that place would send you to your grave, and as Franck drew nearer to his grandmother’s room, he felt his throat getting tighter and tighter and tighter until he needed several minutes before he could utter a single word.
All these wrinkled old folks—ugly, sad, depressing, moaning and groaning, with the sounds of slippers slapping and dentures rattling and sucking, with their huge bellies and skeletal arms. That one over there with a tube up his nose, and another one whimpering all alone in his corner, or this old gal completely folded over in her wheelchair as if she were recovering from an attack of lockjaw. You could even see her stockings and her diaper.
And the heat, Jesus! Why didn’t they ever open the windows? To make them kick the bucket all the sooner?
The next time Franck came, he kept his helmet on all the way to room 87 so he wouldn’t have to see anything, but a nurse nabbed him and told him to take it off because he was frightening the inmates.
His grandma wouldn’t speak to him, but she nevertheless looked him right in the eye, defiantly, rebelliously, to fill him with shame: “Well? Are you pleased with yourself, son? Answer me. Are you proud of what you’ve done?” That is what she said silently over and over, while Franck pulled aside the net curtain to check on his motorbike.
He was too irritated to fall asleep. He pulled the armchair up next to her bed, hunted for words, phrases, anecdotes and trivial nonsense until finally, tired of struggling, he switched on the television. He didn’t watch it, but kept his eyes on the wall clock behind it and began the countdown: in two hours I’m out of here, in one hour I’m out of here, in twenty minutes . . .
One week he came on a Sunday because Potelain didn’t need him. He walked through the hall quick as he could, shrugging his shoulders at the garish new decorations and the pitiable old folks wearing pointed hats.
“What’s going on, is it carnival time?” he asked the woman in a white coat next to him in the elevator.
“They’re rehearsing a little performance for Christmas. You’re Madame Lestafier’s grandson, right?”
“Yes.”
“She’s not very cooperative, your grandmother.”
“Oh?”
“No. That’s putting it mildly. A real stubborn one.”
“I thought she was just like that with me. I thought with you she’d be, well, easier.”
“Oh, she’s charming with us. A treasure. As sweet as can be. But it’s with the other residents that there’s a problem. She doesn’t want to see them and she’d rather not eat than go down to the dining room.”
“So what does that mean? She’s not eating?”
“Well, eventually we gave in. She stays in her room.”
Paulette wasn’t expecting Franck until the next day; she was surprised to see him, and didn’t have time to put on her indignant old lady act. For once she wasn’t sitting up in bed, grumpy and stiff as a post; she was over by the window, sewing.
“Grandma?”
Oh rats, she would have liked to put on her pinched expression, but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling.
“You looking at the scenery?”
She almost felt like telling him the truth: “Are you making fun of me? What scenery? No. I’ve been watching and waiting for you, dear. That’s what I do all day every day. Even when I know you’re not coming, here I am. I’m always here. You know, now I recognize the sound of your motorbike from a distance, and I wait and watch for you to take off your helmet before I jump into bed and put my grumpy face on.”
But instead Paulette got ahold of herself and merely grumbled as usual.
Franck slid down onto the floor at her feet and leaned against the radiator.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Mmm.”
“What are you up to?”
She was silent.
“You mad or something?”
Still she said nothing. They glowered at each other for a good quarter of an hour; then Franck rubbed his head, closed his eyes, sighed, slid over a few inches so he was facing her straight on and started off in a monotonous voice:
“Listen to me, Grandma, listen carefully:
“You used to live on your own, in a house you loved, and I loved it too. In the morning you’d get up at dawn, fix your coffee with chicory and drink it while you studied the color of the clouds to try and predict the weather. Then it was time to feed everyone, right? Your cat, the neighbors’ cats, the robins, all the sparrows and blue tits in creation. Then out with the garden shears to tidy up the flowers, even before you made yourself look nice. Then you’d get dressed, wait for the mailman on his rounds, or the butcher. Fat Michel, that crook who always cut you a quarter-pound steak when all you wanted was an eighth, even though he knew damn well you didn’t have any more teeth . . . But you never said a thing. You were too afraid that when he came the following Tuesday he’d forget to blow his horn for you. You’d just boil up the rest of the beef to add some taste to the soup. Around eleven, it was time to take your shopping bag and go on down to old Grivaud’s café to buy your paper and your two-pound loaf of bread. Even though you hadn’t been eating bread for the longest time, you bought it all the same . . . because you’re a creature of habit. And for the birds. Sometimes you’d run into an old girlfriend who’d had a look at the obituaries before you had and you’d talk about your dead folks and sigh. Then you’d give her my news. Even if you didn’t have any news. As far as they were concerned, I was already as famous as Bocuse, right? For nearly twenty years you’d been living alone, but you went on using a clean tablecloth and setting a nice table, with a stem glass and flowers in a vase. If I remember right, in the springtime it was anemones, daisies in the summer, and in winter you’d buy a bouquet at the market, and at every meal you’d mutter that it was an ugly bouquet and you’d paid way too much for it. In the afternoon you took a little nap on the sofa, and that big tomcat of yours just might agree to sit on your lap for a while. Then you’d finish what you’d started in the garden or the vegetable plot that morning. Oh, the vegetable garden . . . Not a lot to do in there anymore, but it still gave you a few things to eat, and whenever Yvonne bought her carrots at the supermarket you c
ould feel that glow of satisfaction; supermarket carrots were the height of dishonor.
“Evenings were starting to drag, though, weren’t they. You hoped I might call, but I didn’t call, so you switched on the television and waited for all that crap to knock you senseless. Until the commercials woke you up with a jolt. You went around the house holding your shawl tight against your chest and you closed the shutters. That sound—shutters creaking in the half-light—you can still hear it today and I know this because it’s the same for me. Paris is so tiring that you can’t hear a thing anymore, but those sounds—the wooden shutters and the shed door—all I have to do is listen carefully and I can still hear them.
“So maybe I didn’t call you, but I was still thinking about you, you know. And whenever I came out to see you, I didn’t need Saint Yvonne to take me to one side and clutch my arm while she filed her report to understand that it was all going downhill. I didn’t dare say anything to you, but I could tell that the garden wasn’t so neat anymore and that the vegetable plot was beginning to look shabby. I could see you didn’t take such good care of your appearance anymore either, that your hair was a really weird color and your skirt was on backwards. And the stove was dirty, and the incredibly ugly sweaters you went on knitting for me were full of holes, and your socks didn’t match and you bumped into things every time you turned around. Yes, don’t look at me like that, Grandma. I could see those enormous bruises you tried to hide under your cardigans.
“I could have got on your case about all this ages ago. Could have dragged you to the doctor’s and shouted at you to stop wearing yourself out with that old spade that you could hardly lift anymore; I could have asked Yvonne to spy on you and watch your every move and send me the results of your tests. But I didn’t. I figured it was better to leave you in peace and the day when it all fell apart, yeah, well, at least you’d have no regrets, and neither would I. At least you’ll have had a good life. A happy one. No sweat. Right up to the end.
“Now that day’s come. Here we are now, and you have to face it, Grandma: instead of making a face when you see me you should be thinking how lucky you are to have lived over eighty years in such a great house and—”
She was crying.
“—and on top of it all, you haven’t been fair with me. Is it my fault I’m far away and there’s only me? Is it my fault you’re a widow? Is it my fault you didn’t have any other kids, only my crazy mother, to look after you now? Is it my fault I don’t have any brothers or sisters who could share these visiting days?
“No, it’s not my fault. My only mistake was to choose such a lousy profession. All I do is work like a dog, and you know? The worst of it is that even if I wanted, there’s nothing else I know how to do. Do you even realize that I work every day except Mondays? And Mondays I come and see you. Hey, don’t act so surprised. I told you that I was working extra on Sundays to pay for my motorbike, so you see, I don’t have a single morning when I can just stay in bed. I start every morning at eight thirty and in the evening I’m never out of there before midnight. That’s why I have to sleep in the afternoon or I’ll never make it.
“So. You see? That’s it, that’s my life: nothing. I do nothing. I see nothing. I know nothing, and the worst is, I understand nothing. In all this crap there was one good thing, and only one, and that was the place I’d found with that weird guy I told you about. The aristocrat, remember? Okay, well, even that’s up shit creek now. He brought home some girl who’s there now, who lives with us and she pisses me off to a point you can’t even imagine. And she’s not even his girlfriend! I don’t know if that guy will ever even get laid someday—sorry—if he’ll ever go all the way. She’s just some poor girl he took under his wing and now the atmosphere is heavy in that apartment and I’m going to have to find something else. Well, okay, maybe it’s no big deal and I’ve moved so many times already that one address more or less, same difference, I can always get myself sorted out. But for you, I can’t sort anything out, don’t you see? For once I have a boss who’s cool. Maybe I’m always telling you about how he shouts a lot and all that, but still, he’s really fair. You know where you stand with him, and he’s a good guy. I really feel like I’m making progress with him, you know? So I can’t just ditch him—at least not before the end of July. Because I told him about the situation with you, you know, I told him I wanted to come back here to work so I’d be closer to you and I know he’ll help me, but at the level I’ve reached now, I don’t want to take just any old job. If I come back here, I have to be either second chef in a cool new gastro place, or chef in a regular place. I don’t want to be the bottle-washer anymore, I’ve done my time. So you have to be patient and stop looking at me like that because otherwise, frankly, I won’t come and see you anymore.
“I’ll say it again, I’ve got one day off a week, and if that day off is going to get me depressed, then that’s the end of the line for me. And now the holidays are coming and I’m going to be working harder than ever, so you have to help me too, for Christ’s sake.
“Wait, one last thing. A woman here told me that you don’t want to mix with the others, and in a way I understand because they don’t really look like a bundle of joy. But you could at least try to get along. You never know, there might be another Paulette around here somewhere, hidden in her room and as lost as you are. Maybe she’d like to talk about her garden and her fantastic grandson, but how is she supposed to find you if you just sit there sulking like some schoolgirl?”
Paulette looked at her grandson and did not know what to say.
“Okay, that’s it. I’ve spoken my mind and now I can’t even get up because my ass—sorry—my bum is sore. So? What are you sewing?”
“Is that you, Franck? Is it really you? That’s the first time in my life I’ve heard you talk for so long. You’re not sick or anything?”
“Nope, I’m not sick, I’m just tired. I’m fed up, you know?”
She stared at him for a long time, then shook her head as if, at last, she were coming out of a daze. She picked up her sewing:
“Oh, this is nothing. It belongs to Nadège, this nice young woman who works here in the mornings. I’m mending her sweater. Actually, could you thread the needle for me? I don’t know where I’ve put my glasses.”
“Don’t you want to get back in bed and I’ll sit in the armchair?”
No sooner had he slumped into the chair than he fell asleep.
The sleep of the righteous.
The sound of the tray woke him up.
“What’s this?”
“Dinner.”
“Why don’t you go down?”
“They always feed us in our rooms at night.”
“But what time is it?”
“Five thirty.”
“Are they out of their minds? They feed you at five thirty?”
“Yes, that’s how it is on Sundays. So they can leave early.”
“Jeez. What is this stuff? It stinks, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what it is and I’d rather not know.”
“What’s that? Fish?”
“No, looks more like scalloped potatoes, don’t you think?”
“No way, it smells like fish. And what’s that brown thing?”
“Stewed fruit.”
“What?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“You sure?”
“Oh, I don’t know anymore.”
They had reached this point in their investigation when the young woman came back in: “All set? Was it okay? You all done?”
“Wait a minute,” said Franck, “you just brought this thing in two minutes ago. Give her some time to eat in peace!”
The woman turned and closed the door briskly.
“It’s like this every day, but it’s worse on Sundays. They’re all in a hurry to leave. You can’t blame them, can you.”
The old lady looked down.
“Oh, poor Grandma. God, what a crying shame this all is. A crying shame.”
br /> Paulette folded her napkin.
“Franck?”
“Yeah?”
“Forgive me.”
“Nah, it’s me. Nothing’s going the way I want. But it’s no big deal, it’s been going on so long, I’m beginning to get used to it.”
“May I take your tray now?” The young woman was back.
“Yes, yes, go ahead.”
“Please congratulate the chef, miss,” added Franck. “It was delicious.”
“Well, then. I’d better get going.”
“Could you wait until I get into my nightgown?”
“Go ahead.”
“Help me get back up.”
He heard the sound of water running in the bathroom and, when she was slipping in under the sheets, he turned away modestly.
“Switch off the light, dear.”
She turned on the bedside lamp.
“Come and sit here, just two minutes.”
“Two minutes, okay? I don’t live next door, you know.”
“Two minutes.”
She placed her hand on his knee and asked him the last question he might have expected: “Tell me, that young woman you were talking about earlier, the one who lives with you, what’s she like?”
“She’s skinny, stupid, pretentious and as weird as my roommate.”
“Goodness.”
“She . . .”
“She what?”
“She’s like some intellectual. No, not ‘like’—she is an intellectual. She and Philibert always have their noses in books and like true intellectuals they can sit there talking for hours about stuff no one gives a shit about. But what’s even weirder is that she works as a cleaning lady.”
“Really?”
“At night.”
“At night?”
“Yeah. Like I said, really weird. And you should see how skinny she is. Makes you shudder.”