Hunting and Gathering (28 page)

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 can 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?”

“Oh, you know, I don't really care one way or the other. I just do my job.”

“Well, that's exactly what I mean! Up there you're just cooking for your paycheck! Why don't you come back down here? We can go fishing with my buddies.”

“Are you thinking of selling, René?”

“Bah. Who'd buy this place?”

 
While Yvonne went to get her car, Franck helped his grandmother find the sleeve of her raincoat:

“Here, she gave me something for you.”

Silence.

“Well, don't you like it?”

“Yes, yes.”

She started crying again: “You're so handsome in this one.”

She pointed to the sketch he didn't like.

“You know, she wears it every day, that scarf you made.”

“Liar.”

“I swear!”

”Then you're right, she's not normal, that kid,” she added, smiling beneath her handkerchief.

“Grandma, don't cry, we'll figure something out.”

“Yes. Feet first.”

Franck didn't know what to say.

“You know, sometimes I think I'm ready, and other times, I just, I—”

“Oh, my little grandma.”

And for the first time in his life, he put his arms around her and hugged her.

 
They said good-bye in the parking lot and he was relieved not to have to take her back to that miserable hole himself.

When he raised the kickstand, the bike felt heavier than usual.

He had a date with his girlfriend, he had cash, a roof, a job, he had even just found his Chico and Harpo, but he was dying of loneliness.

 
What a mess, he muttered into his helmet, what a mess. He didn't even repeat it a third time because what would be the point and anyway, it would only steam up his visor. What a mess.

49

“YOU forgot your k—”

Camille didn't finish her sentence—it wasn't Franck at the door, it was the girl from the other day. The one he'd thrown out on Christmas Day after screwing her.

“Franck's not at home?”

“No, he went to see his grandmother.”

“What time is it?”

“Uh, around seven, I think.”

“Do you mind if I wait for him here?”

“Of course not. Come on in.”

“I'm not disturbing you?”

“Not at all! I'm just spacing out in front of the television.”

“You watch television?”

“I do, why?”

“I'm warning you, I'm watching the lamest thing there is. Nothing but girls dressed like trash and presenters in tight suits reading off prompt sheets with their legs spread, trying to look virile . . . I think it's some sort of celebrity karaoke, but I don't recognize anyone.”

“Go on, you must know him, he's the guy from
Popstars.
”

“What's
Popstars
?”

“So I was right—that's what Franck said, that you never watch television.”

“Not a lot, no. But this sort of thing I love. It's like wallowing in some big warm pigsty. Mmm. They're all gorgeous, there's a lot of kissing and the girls are great at mopping up the mascara when they cry. You'll see, it's really moving.”

“Can I sit down?”

“Here.” Camille moved over and offered her the other end of her comforter. “You want something to drink?”

“What are you drinking?”

“Aligoté Burgundy.”

“Hang on, I'll go get a glass.”

 
“So what's going on?”

“I don't get it.”

“Pour me some, I'll tell you.”

 
They talked during the commercials. Her name was Myriam, she was from Chartres, she worked at a salon on the rue Saint-Dominique, and she sublet a studio in the 15th arrondissement. They were worried about Franck, so they left him a message, then turned the sound back up when the show resumed. By the end of the third break they were friends.

“How long have you known him?”

“I don't know, must be about a month.”

“Is it serious?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“ 'Cause he never talks about anything but you! No, I'm kidding. He just told me you draw really well. Say, wouldn't you like me to fix you up while I'm here?”

“Sorry?”

“Your hair?”

“Now?”

“Well, yeah, because afterwards I'll be too drunk and I might cut your ear at the same time.”

“But you don't have anything with you, you don't even have any scissors.”

“Don't you have razor blades in the bathroom?”

“I think so, yes. Philibert still uses one of those paleolithic cut-throat razors . . .”

 
“What exactly are you going to do?”

“Make it softer.”

“Do you mind if we stand in front of a mirror?”

“Are you scared? You want to keep an eye on me?”

“No, just watch.”

 
While Myriam thinned her hair, Camille sketched them.

“Will you give it to me?”

“No. Anything you want, but not this one. I keep all my self-portraits, even condensed versions like this one.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. It's just, like, I feel like if I keep drawing myself long enough, someday I'll finally recognize myself.”

“When you see yourself in a mirror you don't recognize yourself?”

“I always think I look ugly.”

“And in your drawings?”

“In the drawings, not always, no.”

 
“Isn't that better?”

“You did sideburns, like Franck's.”

“It suits you.”

“You know Jean Seberg?”

“No, who's that?”

“An actress. She used to have her hair exactly like this, only she was blonde.”

“Oh, if that's all that's missing, I can make you blonde next time.”

“She was really cute. She lived with one of my favorite writers. And then they found her dead in her car one day. How could such a pretty girl find the courage to destroy her own life? It's unfair, don't you think?”

“You should have drawn her beforehand, so she could have seen herself.”

“I was only two at the time.”

“That's another thing Franck told me.”

“About Seberg's suicide?”

“No, that you tell lots of stories.”

“It's because I like people. Uh—how much do I owe you?”

“Don't.”

“I'll give you a present, then, instead.”

Camille came back and held out a book.

“King Solomon
, by Romain Gary
.
Is it good?”

“Better than good. Should we try to call Franck again? I'm starting to get worried. Maybe he had an accident.”

“Shh. There's no need to worry. He's just forgotten me. I'm beginning to get used to it.”

“Why do you go on seeing him, then?”

“So that I won't be alone.”

 
They'd started on the second bottle by the time he stood there removing his helmet.

“What the fuck are you two doing?”

“We're watching a skin flick,” they laughed. “We found it in your room. It was hard to choose, wasn't it, Mimi? What's this one called again?”

“Yeah, that's the one, it's great.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I don't have any porn films!”

“No? That's weird . . . Maybe someone left it in your bedroom?” Camille gave him an ironic look.

“Or maybe you made a mistake,” added Myriam. “You thought you were getting
Amélie
and you ended up with
Take Your Tongue—”