His sleeping sister; the nape of Misia Sert’s neck; nannies in the square; the motifs on the little girls’ dresses; the portrait of Mallarmé with his leaden expression; the studies for the portrait of Yvonne Printemps with her sweet little carnivorous face; the scribbled pages of his diary; the smile of his girlfriend, Lucie Belin. To capture a smile is almost totally impossible, and yet Vuillard succeeded. For almost a century, although we have just interrupted her in her reading, this young woman has been looking up at us with a slightly weary movement of her neck, yet her smile is tender, as if to say, “Ah, it’s you?”
And there was a little canvas she’d never seen before—not even a canvas in fact, but a sketch. The Goose. An amazing thing. Four gentlemen, two of them in evening dress with top hats, trying to catch a goose. The masses of color, the brutal contrasts, the incoherence of perspective. How he must have enjoyed himself that day!
One hour and a stiff neck later, Camille finally raised her head and looked at the price: ouch, fifty-nine euros. No. It wasn’t reasonable. Next month, maybe. She already had something else in mind: the music she had heard on the radio the other morning while sweeping the kitchen floor.
Ancestral gestures, a paleolithic broom and a damaged tiled floor: she’d been grumbling between two of the black cabochon tiles when a soprano’s voice stopped her in her tracks, making every single hair on her forearms stand on end, one by one. Holding her breath, Camille went closer to listen to the announcer as the piece drew to its close: Nisi Dominus by Vivaldi, Vespri Solenni per la Festa dell’Assunzione di Maria Vergine.
Okay, enough daydreaming, enough drooling, enough money spent—time to go to work.
The cleaning took longer that night because one of their clients had just had their Christmas party, organized by the workers’ council. Josy shook her head in disgust when she saw all the mess they’d made, while Mamadou scavenged dozens of mandarin oranges and mini Danish pastries for her kids. They all missed the last métro but it didn’t matter: All-Kleen would pay for their taxis. Oh, the luxury! Giggling, they each chose a driver, and wished each other a merry Christmas two days early, because only Camille and Samia had signed up to work on the twenty-fourth.
37
THE next day, Camille had lunch at the Kesslers’. No way to get out of it. It was just the three of them, and the conversation was animated. No awkward questions, no vague answers, no embarrassed silences. A real Christmas truce. No, wait, there was one instance, when Mathilde expressed concern about the conditions in the maid’s room, and Camille had to lie a bit. She did not want to talk about moving out. Not yet. A certain wariness. The obnoxious little punk hadn’t left yet and the next psychodrama might be right around the corner.
Weighing her present, Camille said, “I know what this is.”
“No.”
“I do!”
“Go on then, tell us, what is it?”
The package was wrapped in brown paper. Camille untied the gift ribbon, put the unopened package down flat in front of her and took out her propelling pencil.
Pierre was beaming. If only this stubborn young lady could get back to work . . .
When she had finished, she held up her drawing: the boater, the red beard, eyes like two dark buttons, the dark jacket, the door frame and the tendriled knob of his cane: it was exactly as if she had just copied the cover.
Pierre didn’t get it right away.
“How did you do this?”
“I must have spent over an hour yesterday just staring at the cover . . .”
“Do you already have a copy?”
“No.”
He breathed a sigh of relief, then asked, “Have you started working again?”
“A little bit.”
“Like this?” he asked, pointing to the portrait of Edouard Vuillard. “Still the little whiz kid?”
“No, no . . . I’ve been filling sketchbooks . . . not much really, just little bits and pieces.”
“Are you enjoying it?”
“Yes.”
He quivered with delight. “Ah, excellent. Can you show me something?”
“No.”
“And how is your mother?” interrupted Mathilde with her usual diplomacy. “Still poised at the edge of the abyss?”
“Down in its depths, more like it.”
“So everything’s fine, then?”
“Just fine,” said Camille with a smile.
They spent the rest of the evening perorating about art. Pierre commented on Vuillard’s work, seeking affinities, establishing parallels, and losing himself in endless digressions. Several times he got up to rummage in his library for proof of his insight and, after a while, Camille had to sit all the way at the far end of the sofa to make room for Maurice (Denis), Pierre (Bonnard), Félix (Vallotton) and Henri (de Toulouse-Lautrec).
In his capacity as an art dealer, Pierre was irritating, but as an enlightened amateur he was a delightful conversationalist. Of course he said his share of stupidities—and who didn’t, where art was concerned?—but he said them well. Mathilde began to yawn and Camille finished the bottle of champagne. Piano ma sano.
When his face had almost disappeared behind the plumes of smoke from his cigar, Pierre offered to drive her back. She declined. She’d eaten too much and really needed the long walk.
The apartment was empty and seemed way too big. Camille shut herself in her room and spent the remaining half of the night with her nose buried deep in her Christmas present.
She slept a few hours in the morning and met up with her coworker earlier than usual; it was Christmas Eve and the offices emptied out at five o’clock. They worked quickly, in silence.
Samia left first and Camille stayed for a moment to joke with the security guard:
“So did they make you put on that beard and bonnet?”
“Oh no, it was my own attempt to cheer things up!”
“And did it work?”
“Puh . . . yeah, right. No one gives a fuck. The only effect it had was on my dog. He didn’t recognize me so he started growling, the stupid mutt. I swear, I’ve had some really dumb dogs, but this one takes the cake.”
“What’s his name?”
“Matrix.”
“Is it a female?”
“No, why?”
“Oh, nothing. Okay, then, take care. Merry Christmas, Matrix,” she said to the big Doberman lying at the guard’s feet.
“Don’t hope for an answer. Like I said, he doesn’t understand a thing.”
“No.” Camille laughed. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”
The guy was a regular Laurel and Hardy rolled into one.
It was almost ten at night. Elegant shoppers hurried this way and that, their arms filled with packages. The women’s feet in their patent leather pumps were tired and aching, children zigzagged among the traffic cones and gentlemen consulted their appointment books as they stood by entry phones in doorways.
Camille watched all this activity with amusement. She was in no hurry, so she waited in line outside a chic delicatessen to buy herself a nice dinner. Or a nice bottle, rather. She didn’t know what to choose. Finally, she pointed to a piece of goat’s cheese and two walnut rolls. Well, it was mainly to go with her Pauillac.
She uncorked the bottle and placed it not too far from a radiator to bring it to room temperature. Then it was her turn to warm up: she ran a bath and stayed there for over an hour, her nose level with the steaming water. She got into her pajamas, slipped on some thick socks and chose her favorite sweater. A priceless cashmere . . . vestige of a bygone era. She unwrapped Franck’s stereo, set it up in the living room, prepared a tray, switched off all the lights and curled up under her duvet on the old sofa.
She glanced quickly through the little booklet: Nisi Dominus was on the second CD. Right, the Vespers for Ascension—it wasn’t exactly the right mass, plus she’d be listening to the psalms out of order . . .
Oh, so what difference did it make?
What earthly difference?
br />
She pressed the remote button and closed her eyes: paradise.
Alone, in the huge apartment, with a glass of ambrosia in her hand, Camille listened to the voices of angels.
Even the crystal pendants on the chandelier quivered with well-being.
Cum dederit dilactis suis somnum.
Ecce, haereditas Domin filii: merces fructus ventris.
That was track number 5, and she must have listened to track number 5 at least fourteen times.
And still, even the fourteenth time she heard it, her rib cage shattered into a thousand pieces.
One day, when Camille and her father had been alone in the car, and she had asked him why he always listened to the same music, her father had replied: “The human voice is the most beautiful instrument of all, the most moving . . . And even the greatest virtuoso in the world will never be able to give you even a fraction of the emotion that a beautiful voice can give you. That is our share in the divine. It’s something you begin to understand as you get older, I think. At least, for me, it’s taken some time to realize . . . but, say, would you rather hear something else? Do you want The Little Fishes’ Mommy?”
She had already drunk half the bottle and had just started on the second CD when the light was switched on.
It was brutal and Camille put her hands over her eyes. The music suddenly seemed completely inappropriate—the voices incongruous, almost nasal. In two seconds the world transformed back into a purgatory.
“Oh, you’re here.”
She didn’t respond.
“You didn’t go home.”
“Up there?”
“No, your folks’ place.”
“Well, no, as you can see.”
“Did you work today?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, okay, sorry, huh, sorry. I didn’t think there was anyone here.”
“No harm done.”
“What’s that you’re listening to? Castafiore?”
“No, it’s a mass.”
“Oh yeah? You religious?”
She really should introduce him to the security guard. They’d get on like a house on fire, those two. Even better than those little old guys in the Muppets.
“No, not ’specially. Do you mind switching the light off again?”
He did as she asked and left the room but it wasn’t the same. The spell had been broken. She’d sobered up and even the sofa no longer felt like a cloud. She tried to concentrate, however, picked up the booklet and hunted for the spot she’d reached on the CD:
Deus in adiutorium meum intende.
God, come to my aid.
Yes, that was exactly right.
Apparently that stupid bozo was looking for something in the kitchen, shouting and taking revenge on every single cupboard door: “Hey, have you seen the two yellow Tupperware containers?”
Oh, Christ.
“The big ones?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Haven’t touched ’em.”
“Christ almighty . . . You can never find a thing around here. What the fuck do you do with the dishes, eat them or something?”
Camille pressed pause and sighed: “Can I ask you a very personal question? Why are you looking for a yellow Tupperware container at two in the morning on Christmas Eve?”
“Because. I need it.”
Right, that was it, the mood was shot. She stood up and switched off the music.
“Is that my stereo?”
“Yes, I hope you don’t mind—”
“Shit, it’s really cool. You really went all out there!”
“Yup, I really went all out.”
He stared at her, wide-eyed.
“Why are you repeating what I say?”
“No reason. Merry Christmas, Franck. Hey, let me help you find your beloved container. Look, there, on top of the microwave.”
Camille sat back down on the sofa while he was rummaging through the refrigerator. Then he walked across the room without saying a word, and went to take a shower. She hid behind her glass: she’d probably used up all the hot water . . .
“Christ, who used up all the hot water, for fuck’s sake?”
He came back half an hour later in his jeans, bare-chested.
Very casually, he lingered a while longer before pulling on his sweater. Camille smiled. She could see him coming a mile off—no, make that halfway to the moon and back . . .
“Do you mind?” he asked, pointing to the carpet.
“Make yourself at home.”
“I don’t believe it. You’re eating?”
“Cheese and grapes.”
“And before that?”
“Nothing.”
He shook his head.
“It’s really good cheese, you know. And these are very good grapes. And the wine is very good, too. Would you like some, by the way?”
“No. No, thanks.”
Phew, she thought. It would really have been too much for her if she’d had to share her Mouton-Rothschild with him.
“Okay?”
“Sorry?”
“I’m asking if everything’s okay,” he repeated.
“Uh, yes. And you?”
“Tired.”
“Are you working tomorrow?”
“Nah.”
“That’s nice, that way you’ll get some rest.”
“Nah.”
Quite the brilliant conversation.
He went over to the coffee table, picked up a CD box and pulled out his weed.
“Shall I roll you one?”
“No, thanks.”
“You really are uptight, aren’t you?”
“I prefer this,” she said, holding her glass in his direction.
“Well, you shouldn’t.”
“Why, is alcohol worse than drugs?”
“Yes. And I should know, I’ve seen my share of winos in my life, you know. Besides, this isn’t a drug. It’s candy, like toffee for grown-ups.”
“If you say so.”
“Don’t you want to try it?”
“No, I know what I’m like. And I’m sure I’d like it.”
“And so what if you do?”
“So . . . It’s just that I have a problem with voltage. I don’t know how to explain it . . . I often get the feeling I’ve got a button missing, you know, some knob for adjusting the volume. I always go too far to one extreme or the other. I can never find the right balance and whatever I take a fancy to—well, it always ends badly.”
She was surprised at herself. Why was she confiding in him like this? Slightly tipsy, maybe?
“When I drink, I drink too much, when I smoke, I fuck myself up, when I love, I go out of my mind and when I work, it’s into the ground. Dead. I don’t know how to do things normally, quietly, I—”
“And when you hate?”
“Well, that I don’t know.”
“I thought you hated me.”
“Not yet.” She smiled. “Not yet. You’ll know when I do. You’ll see the difference.”
“So, is your mass over?”
“Yes.”
“What shall we listen to now?”
“Uh, I’m not sure we like the same sort of stuff, to be honest . . .”
“We’re bound to have one thing in common at least. Hang on. Let me think. I’m sure I’ll find a singer that you like too.”
“Go on, then, find one.”
He was concentrating on rolling his joint. When he’d finished he went to his room, then came back and crouched down by the stereo.
“So what is it?”
“A babe magnet.”
“Richard Cocciante?”
“No way.”
“Julio Iglesias? Tom Jones? Phil Collins?”
“No.”
“Andrea Bocelli?”
“Shh.”
“Oh! I know! Roch Voisine!”
I guess I’ll have to say . . . This album is dedicated to you . . .
“Nooo.”
“Yeeees.”
“M
arvin Gaye?”
“Hey,” he said, spreading his arms. “A babe magnet. Like I said.”
“I adore him.”
“I know.”
“Are we that predictable?”
“No, you’re not at all predictable, unfortunately, but Marvin does it every time. I have yet to meet the girl who can resist him.”
“There have never been any?”
“Not a one, not a one. Well, maybe a few, but I can’t remember. They didn’t count. Or else we didn’t have a chance to get that far.”
“You’ve known a lot of girls?”
“What do you mean by ‘known’?”
“Hey! Why’re you taking it off?”
“Because that’s the wrong song, it’s not the one I meant to put on.”
“No, wait, leave it! It’s my favorite! You wanted ‘Sexual Healing,’ is that it? Pfff, you guys are the predictable ones . . . Do you know the story behind this album, at least?”
“Which album?”
“Here, My Dear.”
“No, I don’t listen to this one much.”
“You want me to tell you?”
“Hang on. Let me get settled. Pass me a cushion.” He lit his joint and stretched out, Roman style, his head resting on his palm. “I’m listening.”
“Well. I’m not like Philibert, okay, I’ll just give you the rough outline. So here, my dear.”
“You mean me?” he said.
“Just listen. Marvin’s first great love was a girl called Anna Gordy. They say that the first love is always the last, and I don’t know if that’s true, but for him in any case it’s obvious he would never have become who he was if their paths hadn’t crossed. She was the sister of this big shot at Motown, the founder I think: Berry Gordy. She was in with all the right people and he was just oozing with talent, raring to go, hardly twenty years old and she was almost twice that age when they met. Right: love at first sight, passion, romance, money and the whole nine yards, so off they went . . . She was the one who gave him his start, who put him on track, helped him, guided him, encouraged him and so on. A sort of Pygmalion, I suppose.”