She was laughing.
“And so? Well, there he was, that little boy. He hadn’t asked for anything from anyone. So what did we do? We loved him. We loved him as best we could. And maybe there were times we were too hard on him. We didn’t want to make the same mistakes so we made others . . . Aren’t you ashamed, drawing me like this, in the state I’m in?”
“No.”
“You’re right. Shame doesn’t get you anywhere, believe me. Whatever you’re ashamed of, it doesn’t do you any good. It’s only there to please other people who think they’re so perfect. So when they close their shutters or head back from the bar, they feel good about themselves. They’re all inflated and they put on their slippers and look at each other and smile. They wouldn’t have had such a to-do in their family, oh, no! But . . . tell me one thing, you’re not drawing me with this glass in my hand, are you?”
“No.” Camille smiled.
Silence.
“Then after that? Things were all right after that?”
“With the little one? Yes. He was a good boy, what can I say. Mischievous, but an honest child. When he wasn’t in the kitchen with me he was out in the garden with his granddad. Or gone fishing. He had a temper, but he was growing up well all the same. Growing up well . . . Even if life couldn’t have been much fun with two old folks like us, and it was a long time since we’d felt like being talkative, but anyway. We did what we could. We played with him. We stopped drowning the kittens. We took him to town, to the cinema . . . We paid for his football stickers and new bicycles. He worked hard at school, you know. He wasn’t top of the class, but he took pride in his work. And then she came back again and that time we thought it was a good idea if he left with her. That a strange sort of mother is still better than no mother. That he’d have a father and a little brother, that it was no life for him, growing up in a half-dead village and that for his studies it would be a real opportunity to be in town. And once again we fell right into the trap. As if we didn’t know better. We were idiots . . . Well, you know the rest: she broke him in two and put him back on the 4:12 afternoon train . . .”
“And you never heard from her again?”
“No. Except in dreams. In dreams, I see her a lot. She’s laughing. She’s beautiful . . . Show me what you’ve drawn.”
“Nothing. Your hand on the table.”
“Why did you let me go on like that? Why are you interested in all this?”
“I like it when people open up . . .”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s like a self-portrait, don’t you think? A self-portrait with words . . .”
“And you?”
“Oh, I don’t know how to tell stories . . .”
“But for you it’s not normal, to be spending all your time with an old woman like me . . .”
“No? And do you have any idea what is normal?”
“You should get out, see people. Young people your age! Come on, lift that lid for me, there. Did you wash the mushrooms?”
69
“IS she asleep?” asked Franck.
“I think so.”
“Say, I just got stopped by the concierge, you have to go talk to her.”
“Did we screw up again with the garbage cans?”
“No, something to do with the guy you’re lodging up there.”
“Oh, shit. Has he done something stupid?”
Franck spread his arms and shook his head.
70
PIKOU coughed up some bile and Madame Perreira opened her little French window and put her hand on her chest.
“Come in, come in, sit down.”
“What’s going on?”
“Sit down, I said.”
Camille pushed aside some cushions and placed half a buttock on a small bench with a leafy design.
“I don’t see him anymore.”
“Who? Vincent? But . . . I saw him the other day, he was taking the métro.”
“When the other day?”
“I don’t know . . . the beginning of the week.”
“Well, me, I tell you I don’t see him anymore. He disappear. With Pikou who wake me up every night, I can’t miss him, you know . . . And now, nothing. I’m afraid something happened. Go up there, dearie, go up and take a look.”
“Right.”
“Sweet Jesus. You think he is dead?”
Camille opened the door.
“Hey, if he is dead, you come see me right away, all right? It’s just that . . . ,” she added, fiddling with her medallion, “I don’t wanna scandal in the building, you understand?”
71
“IT’S Camille, open up.”
Barking, a confusion of sound.
“Are you going to open or should I have someone break down the door?”
“No, I can’t just now,” said a hoarse voice. “I’m in bad shape, come back later.”
“When, later?”
“Tonight.”
“You don’t need anything?”
“No. Leave me alone.”
Camille walked away, then came back: “Want me to walk the dog?”
No answer.
She went slowly down the stairs.
She was in deep shit.
She should never have brought him here. It’s easy to be generous with other people’s property. Well, one thing was for sure, she’d earned her halo by now! A junkie on the eighth floor, a granny in her bed, an entire world for which she was responsible, and here she was still having to hold on to the banister not to break her own neck. What a beautiful scene. Cue the applause. Really glorious. Are you pleased with yourself? Do your wings get in the way when you walk?
Oh, shut up, all of you. Is it better to do nothing—
No, but we’re just saying, there are plenty of other tramps on the street. There’s one right outside the bakery as a matter of fact. Why don’t you pick him up too? What, because he hasn’t got a dog? Shit, if only he’d known . . .
You’re turning into a real bore, said Camille to Camille. A major, big-time bore.
C’mon, let’s do it. But not a big one, okay? Just a little one. A little bichon frisé trembling from the cold. Yes, that would be perfect. Or a puppy, perhaps? A tiny puppy all curled up inside his jacket? I’m bound to give in right away. Besides, there are plenty of rooms left chez Philibert . . .
Overwhelmed, Camille sat down on a step and put her head on her knees.
Let’s go over this again.
She hadn’t seen her mother for almost a month. She’d better do something about that soon or her mother might have another chemical liver attack with emergency medical services and a gastric probe to boot. Camille had gotten used to it over time, but it was still never easy. It always took her a while to get over it. Ttt-tt. Still too sensitive, this young lady.
Paulette had a complete grasp of 1930 to 1999 but lost her way between yesterday and today, and things weren’t getting any better. Too much happiness, maybe? It was as if she were letting herself float slowly to the bottom . . . And besides, she couldn’t really see a thing. Right. So far, so good. At the moment she was taking her nap, and later on Philou would come and watch Millionaire with her and give all the answers without making a mistake. They loved it, the two of them. Perfect.
And while we’re on the subject, Philibert was Humphrey Bogart and Oscar Wilde all rolled into one. He was writing right now. He locked himself in his room to write, and he rehearsed two nights a week. No news from the love front? Right. No news is good news.
As for Franck . . . nothing special. Nothing new. Everything was fine. His grandma was safe and warm and his motorbike too. He only came back in the afternoon to sleep, and he continued to work on Sundays. “Just a while longer, you know? I can’t just dump them like that, I have to find a replacement.”
Well, now. A replacement or an even bigger motorbike? Very clever, this boy. Very clever. And why shouldn’t he do as he pleased? What was the problem? He hadn’t asked for anything. And once the early day
s of euphoria had passed, there he was back with his nose in the stew pot. At night he probably nudged his girlfriend and made her get up to switch off the old lady’s television. But . . . not a problem. Not a problem. She would still rather put up with all this, with documentaries on the swim bladder of gurnards and the old lady’s tea-induced nocturnal trips to the toilet, than return to her job at All-Kleen. Of course she could have not worked at all, but she wasn’t strong enough to make that leap. Society had trained her well. Was it because she lacked faith in herself, or just the opposite? Was it the fear of finding herself in a situation where she could earn her living, but at the cost of everything else good in her life? She had a few remaining contacts . . . But then what? Spit on herself yet again? Close her sketchbooks and pick up a magnifying glass again? She no longer had the stomach for it. She hadn’t become a better person—she had simply grown older.
No, the problem was three flights up. Why had he refused to open up in the first place? Was it because he was high, or in withdrawal? Was it true, his story about the detox? He might fool others . . . His bullshit might work on little bourgeois types and their concierges, to be sure! Why did he only go out at night? Was it to turn a trick before he could jab himself below the tourniquet? They were all the same . . . Liars who threw dust in your eyes and partied till they dropped, while you stood there biting your knuckles until they bled . . .
With Pierre on the phone two weeks earlier, she had started up with her own bullshit: lying again.
“Camille, this is Kessler. What the hell is going on? Who’s this fellow living in my room? Call me back right away.”
Thank you, fat Madame Perreira, thank you.
Our Lady of Fatima, pray for us.
She had to make a preemptive attack: “He’s a model,” she announced to Pierre before even greeting him. “We’re working together.”
That would take the wind out of his sails.
“He’s a model?”
“Yes.”
“Are you living with him?”
“No. I just told you: I’m working with him.”
“Camille. I—I want so much to trust you now. Can I?”
Silence.
“Who’s it for?”
“For you.”
“Oh?”
Silence.
“You—you—”
“I don’t know yet. Red chalk, I suppose . . .”
“Right.”
“Okay, take care.”
“Wait!”
“What?”
“What sort of paper do you have?”
“Good stuff.”
“Are you sure?”
“Daniel’s the one who served me.”
“Fine. You okay, otherwise?”
“Actually, I’m talking to the salesman right now. I’ll call you back on the other line for a chat.”
Click.
She shook her box of matches with a sigh. She couldn’t avoid it any longer.
That evening, as soon as she had tucked in a little old lady who wasn’t the least bit sleepy, she would go back up the stairs to talk to him.
The last time she had tried to keep a junkie from going out as night was falling, she’d gotten a stab in the shoulder for her trouble. Okay. That was different. It had been her guy, and she had loved him and all, but still . . . a painful sort of surprise. Shit. No more matches. Oh, woe. Our Lady of Fatima and Hans Christian Andersen, stay where you are, for Chrissake. Stay just a bit longer.
And, like in the story, she got to her feet, gave a tug to her pant legs and went to join her grandmother in heaven . . .
72
“WHAT is it?”
“Oh,” said Philibert, shaking his head, “nothing really, honestly.”
“An ancient tragedy?”
“Noooo.”
“Vaudeville?”
He reached for his dictionary: “ ‘. . . Vatican . . . vaticinate . . . vaudeville. Light comedy based on sudden reversals of plot, misunderstandings and witticisms.’ Yes, that’s exactly what it is,” he said, closing the dictionary with a snap. “A light comedy with witticisms.”
“What’s it about?”
“Me.”
“You?” exclaimed Camille. “But I thought it was taboo in your family to talk about yourself.”
“Well, I’m taking some distance,” he added, striking a pose.
“And, uh, and the little beard you’re growing, is that for your part?”
“Don’t you like it?”
“Yes, yes, it’s quite dashing . . . a bit like the detectives in The Tiger Brigades, isn’t it?”
“The who?”
“It’s true you’re only just discovering television with Who Wants to Be a Millionaire . . . Look, I need to go upstairs, I’m going to see my tenant on the eighth floor. Can I leave Paulette with you?”
He nodded his head, smoothing his thin mustache.
“Go, run, fly and climb up to your destiny, my child.”
“Philou?”
“Yes?”
“If I’m not back down within the hour, can you come up and check on me?”
73
THE room was impeccably tidy. The bed had been made, and he had left two cups and a packet of sugar on the camping table. He was sitting on a chair with his back to the wall, and he closed his book when Camille knocked lightly on the door.
He got up. They were both equally embarrassed. It was the first time they had actually been able to see each other. You could hear a pin drop.
“Would you, would you like something to drink?”
“Please.”
“Tea, coffee, Coke?”
“Coffee would be perfect.”
Camille sat down on the stool and wondered how she had managed to live there for so long. It was so damp and dark; so inexorable. The ceiling was low and the walls were filthy. No, how had it been possible? It must have been someone else, surely?
He busied himself by the hot plate and pointed to the jar of Nescafé.
Barbès was asleep on the bed and opened an eye from time to time.
He eventually pulled the chair up and sat down across from her. “I’m glad to see you. You could have come sooner.”
“I didn’t dare.”
“Oh?” He paused, then said, “You’re sorry you brought me here.”
“No.”
“Yes, you’re sorry. But don’t worry about it. I’m waiting for a green light, and then I’ll leave. It’s just a matter of days, now.”
“Where are you going?”
“Brittany.”
“You have family there?”
“No. It’s a center for . . . human detritus. No, sorry, I’m just being stupid. A rehabilitation center is what you’re supposed to call it.”
Camille was silent.
“My doctor found it for me. Some place where you make fertilizer with seaweed. Seaweed, shit and the mentally handicapped . . . Fantastic, no? I’ll be the only normal worker. Well, ‘normal’—it’s all relative.”
He smiled.
“Here, have a look at the brochure. Classy, isn’t it.”
Two sad sacks with pitchforks stood in front of a sort of cesspool.
“I’m going to be doing Algo-Foresto, a job with compost, seaweed and horse manure. I can already tell I’m going to love it. Well, apparently it’s hard at the beginning because of the smell but eventually you don’t even notice it anymore.”
He put down the photo and lit a cigarette.
“A great vacation, right?”
“How long will you stay there?”
“However long it takes.”
“Have you been taking methadone?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
A vague gesture.
“Is it okay?”
“No.”
“Hey, you know what, you’re going to get to see the sea!”
“Great. And you? Why’d you come up here?”
“The concierge. She thought you were dead.”
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“She’ll be disappointed.”
“Obviously.”
They laughed.
“You—are you HIV positive?”
“Nah. I just said that to keep her happy. So she’d be good to my dog. No. I did it right. I shot up clean.”
“Is this your first detox?”
“Yes.”
“You think you’ll make it?”
“Yes. I’ve been lucky. I guess you have to run into the right people, and I think I have now.”