The only girl in the universe who could wear a scarf knitted by his grandma and still look pretty, and she’d never be his.
Life sucked.
He stopped off to see the pastry chef before leaving, got told off because he still hadn’t called his former commis, and went home to bed.
He slept for only an hour because he had to go to the laundromat. He picked up all his clothes and stuffed them into the comforter cover.
40
INDEED.
There she was again. Sitting next to machine number 7 with her bag of wet laundry between her legs. Reading.
He sat down opposite her and she didn’t even notice. That was something that had always fascinated him. How she and Philibert could concentrate like that. It reminded him of a commercial he’d seen of a guy slowly savoring his Boursin cheese while the whole world collapsed around him. Lots of things reminded him of commercials these days. He’d probably watched too much TV when he was little.
He played a little game: imagine you’ve just come into this rotten Lavomatic on avenue de La Bourdonnais on December twenty-ninth at five in the afternoon and you see this figure for the first time in your life, what would you think?
He slumped into the plastic seat, put his hands deep in his jacket pockets and squinted.
First of all, you’d think it was a guy. Like the first time. Maybe not a drag queen but a really effeminate guy all the same. So you’d stop staring. Although . . . you’d still have your doubts. Because of his hands, his neck, the way he was rubbing his thumbnail along his lower lip. Yes, you’d hesitate. So maybe he would turn out to be a girl, after all? A girl dressed in a sack, as if she were trying to hide her body? You’d try to look elsewhere but you wouldn’t be able to help yourself, and you’d look back again. Because there was something going on. There was some sort of special air around this person. Or a special light?
Yes. That was it.
If you just came in this crummy Lavomatic on the avenue de La Bourdonnais on December twenty-ninth at five o’clock in the afternoon and you saw this figure in the dreary neon lights, this is exactly what you would say to yourself: Holy shit. An angel.
Camille raised her eyes just then, saw him, did not react right away as if she had not recognized him, then finally smiled. A very faint smile, a slight brilliance, a little sign of recognition among regulars. “Got your wings in there?” he asked, pointing to her bag.
“Sorry?”
“Nah, nothing.”
One of the dryers stopped turning and she sighed as she glanced at the clock. A bum went up to the machine and pulled out a jacket and a ragged sleeping bag.
Now this was interesting. A theory he had, about to be tested against the facts: no normally constituted girl would put her things in to dry after a bum had used the dryer. And he knew what he was talking about, he’d clocked nearly fifteen years in laundromats in his life.
He watched her closely.
Not the slightest movement of recoil or hesitation, not the slightest grimace. She got up, quickly shoved her clothes into the dryer and asked him if he had any change.
Then she sat back down and picked up her book.
He was a bit disappointed.
Perfect people could be really boring.
Before plunging back into her book she called to him, “Say—”
“Yes?”
“If I give a washer-dryer to Philibert for Christmas, d’you think you could hook it up before you leave?”
Franck couldn’t say a thing.
“Why are you smiling? Did I say something stupid?”
“No, no.” He waved his hand: “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Hey,” she said, tapping her middle and index fingers against her mouth, “you’ve been smoking too much lately, don’t you think?”
“In fact, you’re a normal girl.”
“What are you talking about? Of course I’m a normal girl.” Silence. “Are you disappointed?”
“No.”
“What’re you reading?”
“A travel journal.”
“Is it good?”
“It’s great.”
“What’s it about?”
“Oh, I don’t know if you’d be interested.”
“No, to be honest, I’m not interested at all,” he scoffed, “but I like it when you tell a story. You know, I listened to Marvin’s record again yesterday.”
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“Well, the problem is, I don’t understand a thing. That’s the reason I’m going to go and work in London, to learn English.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Well, I was supposed to have a place after summer, but it’s all fucked up at the moment. Because of my grandmother. Because of Paulette.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
He sighed. “I don’t really feel like talking about it. Tell me about your travel journal instead.”
He drew his chair closer.
“Do you know Albrecht Dürer?”
“The writer?”
“No, the painter.”
“Never heard of him.”
“No, I’m sure you’ve seen some of his drawings. There are some very famous ones. A hare. Grass growing wild. Dandelions.”
He stared at her blankly.
“He’s my personal god. Well, I have a few, but he’s my number one god. D’you have any gods of your own?”
“Uh . . .”
“In your work? I don’t know, like Escoffier, or Carême, Curnonsky?”
“Uh . . .”
“Bocuse, Robuchon, Ducasse?”
“Oh, you mean role models? Well, I have some but they’re not well-known, or at least not as well-known. Not as flashy. You know Chapel?”
“No.”
“Pacaud?”
“No.”
“Senderens?”
“You mean the guy from Lucas Carton?”
“Yes. That’s wild that you know about him. How d’you do it?”
“I just know his name, like, but I’ve never been there or anything.”
“He’s a really good chef. I even have one of his books in my room. I’ll show you. To me, he and Pacaud are the masters. And maybe they’re not as well-known as the others, but that’s because they’re in the kitchen. Well, I mean, as far as I know. That’s just how I imagine them. Maybe I’m completely wrong.”
“But when you’re with other chefs, you talk, don’t you? Tell each other your experiences?”
“Not a lot. We’re not very talkative, y’know. We’re too tired to spend our time blabbing. We show each other stuff, tricks we’ve picked up, we exchange ideas, bits of recipes we find here and there, but it doesn’t usually go any further.”
“That’s a pity.”
“If we knew how to express ourselves, put words together in nice sentences and all that, we wouldn’t be doing this kind of job, that’s for sure. I would quit in a second.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . it’s not leading anywhere. It’s slavery. You’ve seen my life. You call that a life? Anyway I don’t like talking about myself. So what about that book, then?”
“Yes, my book. Well, it’s the journal Dürer kept when he traveled through the Netherlands between 1520 and 1521. A sort of road journal or logbook. Above all it’s a kind of proof that I’m wrong to think of him as a god. Proof that he was a normal kind of guy too. He was stingy, he got mad when he was ripped off by the customs officers, he was always disappointing his wife, he consistently lost when he gambled, he was naive and gluttonous, and macho and self-centered. But, in the end, that’s not so important, really—it just makes him seem more human. And—should I go on?”
“Yes.”
“Initially, when he wanted to go on this trip, it was for a really serious reason, for his own survival and his family’s and that of the people who worked for him in his studio. Up to that point he’d been under the protection of Emperor
Maximilian I. A total megalomaniac who’d just given him the most insane commission: to represent him, the Emperor, at the head of a procession and immortalize him forever. The work was finally printed a few years later and it measured over a hundred and sixty feet in length. Can you imagine?
“For Dürer, it was manna from heaven. Years of work guaranteed. Then, as luck would have it, Maximilian died not long after that and as a result Dürer’s steady income was no longer a sure thing. Major drama. So off he goes on the road with his wife and servant in tow to suck up to Charles V, the future emperor, and Marguerite of Austria, the daughter of his former benefactor, because he absolutely had to have the official income continued.
“Those were the circumstances. So he was sort of stressed out at the beginning but that didn’t stop him from being the perfect tourist. Amazed by everything he saw—faces, customs, clothing—as he visited his peers, and other craftsmen, admiring their work. He also visited all the churches, and he bought a ton of trinkets straight off the boat from the New World: a parrot, a baboon, a tortoise shell, branches of coral, cinnamon, a stag’s hoof, stuff like that. He was like a kid with it all. He even went out of his way to see a whale that had washed up on the shore of the North Sea and was decomposing. And of course he was drawing. Like a crazy man. He was fifty, he was at the height of his art and everything he touched—a parrot, a lion, a walrus, a chandelier or the portrait of the innkeeper—it was, it was . . . ”
“Was what?”
“Well, here, look.”
“No, wait, I don’t know a thing about art.”
“You don’t need to know anything! Look at this old man, isn’t he great? And this handsome young man, see how proud he is? How sure of himself he looks? He looks a bit like you, actually. Same haughtiness, same flared nostrils . . .”
“Oh, yeah? You think he’s handsome?”
“Though he looks like the sort who deserves a good slap in the face.”
“It’s his hat that makes you think that.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” She smiled. “It must be the hat. And what about the skull, there, isn’t it incredible? You get the feeling he’s thumbing his nose at us, provoking us, ‘Hey, you too, this is what’s waiting for you.’ ”
“Show me.”
“There. But what I like best are his portraits, and what kills me is how casually he just tosses them off. In this case, during his trip, they were mostly like hard currency, something to barter, nothing more: your know-how for mine, your portrait for some dinner, a rosary, a trinket for my wife or a rabbit-skin coat. I personally would have loved to live in those days. I think barter is a great type of economy.”
“So what happened in the end? Did he manage to get his money?”
“Yes, but the price he paid . . . Fat Marguerite looked down her nose at him, even went so far as to refuse the portrait of her father that Dürer had made just for her, fat cow. So what did he do, swap it for a sheet! What’s more, he came home sick, some nasty bug he picked up when he went to see the whale, actually. Marsh fever or something. Look, there’s a free machine now.”
Franck got up with a sigh.
“Turn around, I don’t want you to see my underwear.”
“Oh, I don’t need to see it to imagine it. Philibert must be more the type to wear striped briefs but as for you, I’m sure you wear those tight little boxer shorts from Hom with stuff written on the waistband.”
“You’re so bright, aren’t you? Go on, look the other way, anyway.”
He acted busy, went for the half container of powder and leaned his elbows on the machine:
“Well, maybe you’re not so bright after all. I mean, otherwise you wouldn’t be doing housecleaning. You’d be like this Dürer guy; you’d be working.”
Silence.
“You’re right. I’m only bright in the men’s underwear department.”
“Well, that’s already something, isn’t it? Might be a window of opportunity there for you. Hey, are you free on the thirty-first?”
“You got a party for me?”
“No. Some work.”
41
“WHY not?”
“Because I’m useless!”
“Wait, no one’s going to ask you to cook! Just give a hand with the prep.”
“What’s that?”
“Everything you prepare in advance to save time when the gun is fired.”
“So what would I have to do?”
“Peel chestnuts, clean chanterelles, skin and deseed the grapes, wash the lettuce . . . Basically a lot of really boring stuff.”
“I’m not even sure I can do that stuff.”
“I’ll show you everything. I’ll explain really well.”
“You won’t have time.”
“No . . . that’s why I’d brief you beforehand. I’ll bring some stuff back to the apartment tomorrow and I’ll train you during my break.”
Camille stared at him in silence.
“Aw, c’mon, it’d do you good to see some people. You live with all these dead people, talking with guys who aren’t even there to answer you. You’re all alone all the time, no wonder you’re not firing on all cylinders.”
“I’m not firing on all cylinders?”
“No.”
“Listen. I’m asking you as a favor. I promised my boss I’d find him someone to give a hand, and I can’t find anyone. I’m in deep shit now.”
Still her stubborn silence.
“C’mon . . . one last favor. After that I’ll clear out and you’ll never see me again in your life.”
“I had a party planned.”
“What time do you have to be there?”
“I don’t know, around ten.”
“No problem. You’ll be there, I’ll pay your taxi.”
“Okay . . .”
“Thanks. Turn around again, my laundry’s dry.”
“I have to leave anyway. I’m already late.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow.”
“You sleeping here tonight?” asked Camille.
“No.”
“You disappointed?” said Franck.
“You’re not very subtle, are you?”
“Look, I’m trying to help you out. Because, who knows, you might not be right about my boxer shorts after all!”
“Look, if you knew how much I don’t give a damn about your boxer shorts!”
“Too bad for you, then.”
42
“SHALL we get started?”
“I’m listening. What’s that?”
“What?”
“That case.”
“This? It’s my knife case. My brushes, if you like. If I lost this, I’d be no good to anyone,” he sighed. “You see what my life depends on? An old box that doesn’t close properly.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Since I was a kid . . . My grandma bought it for me when I started on my vocational training certificate.”
“Can I have a look?”
“Go ahead.”
“So tell me . . .”
“What about?”
“What each one is for. I want to learn.”
“Okay . . . The big one is the kitchen knife, or the chef’s knife, you can use it for everything; the square one is for bones, joints or to flatten the meat; and the little one is the all-purpose knife, the kind you find in every kitchen. Why don’t you take that one, you’re going to need it. The long one is a dicer for chopping and slicing vegetables; the little one there is a denerver for trimming and removing the fat from the meat; and its twin, the one with the rigid blade, is for boning; the very thin one is for filleting fish; the last one is for slicing ham.”
“And this thing is to sharpen them.”
“Yes.”
“And this?”
“That’s nothing, it’s for decoration—I haven’t used it in a very long time.”
“What’s it for?”
“For doing wonders. I’ll show you some other day. Okay, are you all set?”
“Yes.”
“Watch carefully, okay? Chestnuts, I better warn you right away, are a real hassle. These ones have already been soaked in boiling water so they’ll be easier to peel. Well, that’s if all goes well. Whatever happens, you mustn’t spoil them. These little veins have to stay intact and visible. After the peel there’s this cottony thing here, and you have to pull it off as delicately as possible.”
“But that will take forever!”
“Hey. That’s why we need you.”
Franck was patient. He went on to explain how to clean the chanterelle mushrooms with a damp cloth, and how to rub away the earth without spoiling them.
She was having fun. She was good with her hands. She was furious that she couldn’t keep up with him, but it was fun. The grapes rolled through her fingers and she quickly got the knack of removing the seed with the tip of the knife blade.
“Okay, we’ll go over the rest tomorrow, the lettuce and all that. You should be okay.”
“Your boss is going to see right away that I’m useless.”
“Well, obviously. But he doesn’t have a lot of choice. What size are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll find you a pair of pants and a jacket. And your shoe size?”
“Nine.”
“Got any sneakers?”
“Yes.”
“They’re not ideal but they ought to be okay for this one time.”
She rolled a cigarette while he was tidying up the kitchen.
“Where’s your party?”
“Bobigny. At one of my co-workers’.”
“You’re not worried about starting tomorrow morning at nine?”
“No.”
“I warn you, there’s only one short break. One hour max. No lunch service but there will be over sixty place settings in the evening. Special menu for everyone. It should really be something. Two hundred and twenty euros per person, I think. I’ll try to let you go as early as possible, but I reckon you’ll be there until eight o’clock at least.”
“And you?”