“Fat lot of use that’ll be.”
“That’s bullshit too. Why ‘fat lot of use’? Why does there always have to be a notion of profitability? I don’t give a fuck if it’s useful or not, what I like is knowing it exists.”
“You see how different we are. Whether it’s you or Philou, neither one of you is in the real world, you have no clue about life, how you have to struggle to survive and all that. I’d never met any intellectuals before you two, but you’re just like I imagined.”
“And what did you imagine?”
He waved his hands:
“It went something like, ‘Tweet, tweet, oh, the little birdies and the pretty little butterflies! Tweet, tweet, aren’t they sweet! Care for another chapter, my dear? But of course, my dear, two, even, that will save me having to come back down to earth again. Oh, no! Don’t do that, it’s too terribly awfully stinky down there!’ ”
She stood up and turned off the music.
“You’re right, we aren’t going to make it. It’s better if you leave. But let me say a thing or two before I wish you a pleasant trip: first of all, regarding intellectuals . . . It’s easy to knock them. Really easy. They’re usually not very muscular and they don’t put up a good fight. It doesn’t turn them on—the sound of marching boots, or medals, or big limos—so, no, it’s not hard to take them down. All you have to do is rip the book from their hands, or the guitar, or the pencil, or the camera, and instantly they turn into useless, hopeless oafs. As a matter of fact, that’s usually the very first thing that a dictator does: break their eyeglasses, burn their books or ban their concerts. It doesn’t cost him much, and it can help him avoid all sorts of bother further down the line. But, you see, if being an intellectual means you like to learn, that you’re curious and attentive and can admire things and be moved by them and try to understand how it all hangs together, and try to go to bed a bit less stupid than the day before, well, then, yes: not only am I an intellectual but I’m proud to be one. Really proud, even. And since I’m an intellectual, like you say, I can’t help but read the motorcycle magazines that you leave lying around the bathroom and I know that the new BMW R 1200 GS has a little electronic gizmo that will keep you going even if you fill your tank with lousy gas.”
“What the hell you going on about?”
“And since I’m an intellectual I went to borrow your Joe Bar Team comic books the other day and I sat there giggling all afternoon. Second of all: you really are the last person to have the right to lecture someone like me. You think your kitchen is the real world? Of course it isn’t. Anything but. You never go out, you’re always with the same people. What have you seen of the world? Not a thing. For over fifteen years you’ve been a prisoner of your rigid timetables, your caricature of a pecking order and your daily grind. Maybe that’s the very reason you chose that job, after all? So you’d never have to leave your mother’s womb and so you’d be sure you’d always be safe and well fed. Who knows. You may work more and work harder than we do, that’s true, but even if we’re intellectuals, we still have to put up with the world. Tweet, tweet, we do have to go out every morning. Philibert goes to his little shop and I go to my dirty offices; and talk about working—well, we work. And your survival thing, right? Life is a jungle, a struggle for life and all that bullshit, we already know that by heart. We could even give you a few lessons if you wanted.
“On that note, good evening, good night and happy New Year.”
“Sorry?”
“Nothing. I said you weren’t in a very cheerful mood.”
“No, I’m cantankerous.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Look it up.”
“Camille?”
“What.”
“Say something nice to me.”
“Why?”
“To start the year off nice.”
“No. I’m not a jukebox.”
“Come on . . .”
She turned around: “Leave your rags and napkins in the same drawer, life is more fun when there’s a bit of mess.”
“And don’t you want me to say something nice to you to start the year off nice?”
“No. Yes. Go on then.”
“You know what? . . . Your toast was truly magnificent.”
PART THREE
46
IT was shortly after eleven the next morning when Franck went into Camille’s room. She had her back turned to him. She was still wearing her kimono, sitting by the window.
“What are you doing? Are you drawing?”
“Yes.”
“What are you drawing?”
“The first day of the year.”
“Show me?”
She raised her head and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
He was wearing an unbelievably old-fashioned suit—a Hugo Boss circa 1980s, a bit too big on him and far too shiny, with epaulets like Goldorak—and a mustard yellow viscose shirt with a multicolored tie. His socks matched his shirt, and his shoes, ammoniated pigskin, were killing his feet.
“Well, what?” he grumbled.
“No, nothing, you’re . . . You look really chic.”
“Ha-ha, very funny. I’m taking my grandmother out to a restaurant for lunch.”
“Well, I must say . . . ,” she started, restraining her laughter, “she’ll be very proud to go out with a handsome gentleman like you . . .”
“Hilarious. Anyway, I just have to get it over and done with.”
“This is Paulette? The one who made the scarf?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here now. Didn’t you tell me you had something for her?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” Camille got up, moved the armchair and went to rummage in her little suitcase. “Sit down.”
“What for?”
“For the present.”
“You’re going to draw me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Why not?”
“. . . ”
“You—don’t you know why not?” she asked.
“I don’t like people looking at me.”
“I’ll go fast.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself. I just thought that she would be pleased to have a little portrait of you. Same old story of barter, no? But I won’t insist. I never insist. Not my style.”
“Okay, then, but make it quick.”
“This is no good.”
“Now what?”
“That suit of yours . . . The tie and everything, it’s no good. It’s not you.”
“You want me to strip?” he snorted.
“Oh, yes, that’d be great! A nice nude,” she answered, without batting an eye.
“Are you joking?” He was panicked.
“Of course I’m joking. You’re much too old. And I’ll bet you’re way too hairy.”
“I am not! Not at all! I’ve got just the right amount.”
Camille laughed.
“Go on. Take off the jacket at least, and loosen your tie.”
“Pfff . . . it took me forever to do the knot.”
“Look at me. No, not like that—you look like you’ve got a broom-stick up your ass. Relax! I’m not going to eat you, silly, I’m just going to take a bite of your pictorial essence.”
“Oh, yes,” he begged, “bite me, Camille, bite me . . .”
“Perfect. Hold that silly smile. That’s exactly what I wanted.”
“Are you almost done?”
“Almost.”
“I’m bored. Talk to me. Tell me a story to pass the time.”
“Who do you want me to talk about this time?”
“You.”
“. . . ”
“What are you going to do today?”
“Tidy up. Some ironing too. And then I’ll go for a walk. The light is beautiful today. I’ll end up in a café or a tearoom. Eat some scones with blueberry jam . . . Mmm. And with a bit of luck, there’ll be a dog. I’m collecting dogs in tearooms these days. I have
a special notebook just for them, one of those Moleskine ones, really nice. Before that I had one for pigeons. I’m an expert where pigeons are concerned. The ones in Montmartre, or the ones at Trafalgar Square in London, or in Venice on the Piazza San Marco, I’ve sketched them all . . .”
“Tell me—”
“Yes?”
“Why are you always all alone?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t like men?”
“Here we go. Any girl who doesn’t respond to your irresistible charm has to be a lesbian, right?”
“No, no, I just wondered, that’s all. You dress grunge, you shave your head, all that . . .”
Silence.
“Yes, yes, I do like boys. Girls too, by the way, but I prefer guys.”
“You’ve slept with girls?”
“Oh, yes, loads of times!”
“Are you putting me on?”
“Yes. Okay, I’m done. You can get dressed.”
“Show me.”
“You won’t recognize yourself. People never recognize themselves . . .”
“Why’d you make that big spot, there?”
“It’s a shadow.”
“Oh?”
“It’s called a wash.”
“And what’s that, there?”
“It’s your sideburns.”
“Oh?”
“You’re disappointed, huh. Here, take this one, too. It’s a sketch I made the other day when you were at your PlayStation.”
A big smile: “Okay, there, yes! That’s me.”
“I like the other one better but, oh well. Just put them inside one of your comic book albums to carry them.”
“Give me a sheet of paper.”
“Why?”
“Because. I can do your portrait too, if you want.”
He stared at her for a moment, leaned over his knees, sticking his tongue out, then handed her his scribblings.
“So?” she asked, curious.
He’d drawn a spiral. A snail’s shell with a little black dot in the center. She didn’t react.
“The little dot, that’s you.”
“I, uh, I figured as much.” Her lips were trembling.
He grabbed the paper back from her: “Hey! Camille, hey, it was a joke! Just bullshit, nothing at all!”
“Yeah,” she confirmed, putting her fingers to her forehead. “It’s nothing at all, I know. Go on, get going, you’re going to be late.”
He pulled on his leathers in the hallway and, ramming his helmet onto his head, shut the door.
The little dot, that’s you.
What a jerk.
47
FOR once he wasn’t dragging a backpack full of food with him, so he could lie flat out on his tank and let the speed do its marvelous job of sweeping away all the crap. His legs hugging the bike, his arms outstretched, his chest warm and his helmet ready to crack, he twisted his wrist to the maximum, leaving all the bullshit behind and clearing his mind completely.
He was going fast. Much too fast. On purpose, just to see.
For as long as he could remember, Franck had always had an engine between his legs and a sort of itching in the palm of his hand, and for as long as he could remember he had never viewed death as something to be taken very seriously. Just one more thing to get on his nerves . . . And anyway, since he wouldn’t be around to suffer the pain of his own death, what did it really matter?
From the day he’d been able to rub two nickels together Franck had gone into debt to buy bikes that were far too powerful for his little brain, and as soon as he had a few buddies who knew how to fiddle things, he’d paid even more to gain a few millimeters on the speedometer. He remained calm at traffic lights, never left any rubber on the asphalt, never compared size with other bikes, and saw no point in taking idiotic risks. It was just that whenever he had the opportunity, Franck would escape, go away on his own to blast off full throttle, and give his guardian angel a chance to work overtime.
He loved speed. He really did. More than anything on earth. More than girls, even. Speed had given him the only happy moments of his life: calm, free, a sense of peace. When he was fourteen, lying on his bike like a toad on a box of matches (it was an expression of the era), he was the king of the little back roads of Touraine. At twenty, he’d bought his first secondhand large-cylinder engine after sweating blood and tears all summer in a stinking dive near Saumur. And now it had become his sole pastime between two shifts: dreaming about a bike, then buying it, polishing it, wearing it out, dreaming of the next one, hanging around at the showroom, selling the previous bike, buying the next one, polishing it, and on, and on.
Without his bike Franck would probably have been content simply phoning the old lady more often, praying to the heavens she wouldn’t start telling him her life story . . .
The problem was that the trick didn’t seem to work out well anymore. Even at 125 miles an hour, that sense of lightness remained elusive.
Even at 130, even at 140, his brain was still spinning. No matter how he managed to weave his way, maneuver, slalom and squeeze through, certain realities continued to cling to his jacket and gnaw away at his brain between two gas stations.
And today, the first of January, dry and brilliant like a newly minted coin, without his pannier, without his backpack and with nothing on the agenda other than a good feast with two adorable little grandmothers, Franck finally sat up straight and no longer needed to stick out his leg in thanks to the other drivers who swerved abruptly to get out of his way.
He had given up the fight and it was enough just to get from A to B, listening to the same old broken record: Why this life? How long would it go on? And how could he escape it? Why this life? How long would it go on? And how could he escape it? Why this life? How long—
He was dead tired, and actually in a good mood. He had invited Yvonne to thank her and, he had to admit, so that she could carry the conversation. Thanks to her he’d be able to slip into automatic pilot. A little smile to the right, a little smile to the left, a few swear words to keep them happy and it would be time for coffee . . . perfect.
Yvonne would go and let Paulette out of her cage, and they would all meet up at the Hôtel des Voyageurs, a nice little restaurant full of table mats and dried flowers, where he’d done his apprenticeship—and where they were not about to forget him, either. That was back in 1990. Might as well be a thousand million light-years ago.
What did he have back then? A Fazer Yamaha, wasn’t it?
He zigzagged between the white lines and raised his visor to feel the sharp rays of the sun. He wasn’t going to move. Not right away. He could stay on there, in that oversized apartment where life had returned one morning by way of a girl from who-knows-where. In her nightgown. She didn’t talk much but ever since she had come, there’d been something more to the silence. Philibert had finally started coming out of his room and they’d been having hot chocolate together in the morning. Franck didn’t slam doors anymore, so as not to wake her, and he fell asleep more easily when he could hear her moving around in the next room.
In the beginning he couldn’t stand her, but now it was fine. He had tamed her . . .
Hey, did you hear what you just said?
What?
Go on, stop playing dumb. Tell the truth, Lestafier, look me in the eyes, do you really think you’ve tamed that girl?
Well, uh, no.
Right, that’s more like it. I know you’re not the brightest kid around but still . . . you had me worried there.
Hey, enough already, if I can’t even joke around anymore . . .
48
UNDER a bus shelter Franck zipped out of his leathers, and adjusted the knot of his tie as he went through the door.
The patronne spread her arms: “Don’t you look nice! I can see you buy your clothes in Paris now! René sends his love. He’ll stop by after the service.”
Yvonne got up and his grandma gave him a tender smile.
“Well, girls? I c
an see you’ve spent the day at the beauty salon!”
They giggled over their kirs, and moved aside to let him see the view out onto the Loire River.
His grandma had gotten out her best suit, with the cheap brooch and the fur collar. The retirement home’s hairdresser had done a fine job and her hair was the same salmon pink color as the tablecloth.
“Hey, he’s given you some great highlights, that hairdresser.”
“That’s just what I was saying,” Yvonne interrupted. “That color suits her. Don’t you think, Paulette?”
Paulette nodded, lapping it up, gently dabbing the corners of her mouth with the damask napkin. Simpering behind the menu, she devoured her grandson with her eyes.
It was just as he had expected: yes, no, oh really?, you don’t say!, well then, pardon, shit, and oops were the only words he said, as Yvonne played the part perfectly.
Paulette didn’t say much.
She stared out at the river.
The chef came to chat for a while, and served them a vintage Armagnac, which the old ladies initially refused, then sipped down as if it were a fine little communion wine. He told Franck stories about other chefs and asked whether he might ever come back to work there.
“Those damned Parisians,” he said, “they don’t have a clue how to eat. The women are all on diets and the men only care about the bill. I’ll bet you anything you never get any real lovebirds. At lunchtime there’s no one but businessmen, who couldn’t care less about what they’re eating, and in the evening it’s just couples celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary and sulking at each other because the car’s badly parked and they’re worried it’ll get towed away . . . am I right?”