Hunting and Gathering (5 page)

If everything went okay, he'd have a great ride and he'd be there in just over an hour.

 
Franck sat on alone in the kitchen with the dishwashing guys during the break. He went over his supplies, inventoried his merchandise, numbered the slabs of meat and left a long note for Guillaume. There was no time to stop by the house, so he took a shower in the locker room, found some cleaner to wipe his visor and left the place with his head in a whirl.

Happy and worried at the same time.

6

IT was just before six when Franck leaned the bike's kickstand onto the asphalt of the hospital parking lot.

The woman at reception told him visiting hours were over and he'd have to come back the next day after ten. He insisted; she was firm.

He put his helmet and gloves on the counter: “Hold on a minute here, just one minute. I don't think you understand, okay?” He was trying hard not to get annoyed. “I've come all the way from Paris and I have to go back there later, so if you could—”

A nurse came over.

“What's going on?”

This one was more imposing.

“Yes, hello, I, um, sorry about the bother, but I have to see my grandmother who was brought in yesterday as an emergency and I—”

“Your name?”

“Lestafier.”

“Oh, yes.” She gestured something to her colleague. “Come with me.”

 
The nurse explained the situation briefly, gave him a rundown on the operation, told him what the rehabilitation period would involve and asked for details about the patient's lifestyle. Suddenly bothered by the smells and the engine noise still thrumming in his ears, Franck had trouble following her.

 
“Here's your grandson!” the nurse announced gaily as she opened the door. “You see? I told you he'd come! Okay, I'll leave you now,” and to Franck she added, “Come and see me in my office, otherwise they won't let you out.”

He didn't have the presence of mind to thank her. What he saw there, in the bed, broke his heart.

 
He turned aside to try to pull himself together. Removed his jacket and sweater, and looked for somewhere to hang them up.

“It's hot in here, isn't it.”

His voice sounded strange.

 
“You okay?”

The old lady, who was bravely trying to smile at him, closed her eyes and began to cry.

 
They'd removed her dentures. Her cheeks seemed terribly hollow and her upper lip was sucked into her mouth.

“So! You been partying again, that it?”

It cost him a superhuman effort just to use that bantering tone.

 
“I talked with the nurse, you know, she said the operation was very successful. So now you've got a nice little piece of metal in you.”

“They're going to put me in a home.”

“Of course not! What are you talking about! You're going to stay here for a few days and then you'll go to a convalescent home. That's not a home, it's like a hospital, only not as big. They'll pamper you and help you to walk and then, presto! Back to Paulette's garden.”

“For how long?”

“A couple weeks . . . then it'll depend on you. You'll have to make an effort.”

“You'll come and see me?”

“Of course I'll come. I've got a beautiful motorbike, you know.”

“You don't drive too fast, I hope.”

“Bah, it's a regular tortoise.”

“Liar . . .”

She was smiling through her tears.

“Stop it, Grandma, otherwise I'll start crying too.”

“No, you won't. Not you, you never cry. Even when you were just a little kid, even the day you twisted your arm, I never saw you shed a single tear . . .”

“Cut it out, all the same.”

He didn't dare take her hand because of all the tubing.

 
“Franck?”

“I'm here, Grandma.”

“It hurts.”

“That's normal, it'll pass, you have to get some sleep now.”

“It really hurts.”

“I'll tell the nurse before I leave, I'll ask her to give you something.”

“Are you leaving right away?”

“Of course not!”

“Talk to me a little. Tell me what you've been up to.”

“Wait, let me switch off the light. The lighting in this place is truly horrible.”

 
Franck raised the blinds and the room, which faced west, was suddenly bathed in a gentle twilight. Then he moved the armchair to the other side so he could take her good hand between his own.

At first it was hard to find the words, he'd never been one for fancy talk or telling stories. He began with little things, the weather in Paris, the pollution, the color of his Suzuki, a description of his menus and that sort of trivial stuff.

 
And then, with the help of the fading day and his grandmother's almost peaceful face, he began to share more precise memories, and intimate things that were harder to talk about. He told her about why he'd split up with his girlfriend, the name of the new girl he had his eye on, how he was getting on at work, his exhaustion. He did an imitation of his new roommate and he heard his grandmother laughing gently.

“You're exaggerating . . .”

“I swear I'm not. You'll find out when you come to see us, you'll see.”

“Oh, but I don't want to go up to Paris.”

“So we'll come down here, and you'll make us a nice meal.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. You can make your potato cake.”

“Oh no, not that, that's just country food.”

 
Then he told her about the atmosphere in the restaurant: how the chef would fly off the handle, how one day a minister came into the kitchen to congratulate him, about the skill of young Takumi, and about the price of truffles. He told her the latest about Momo and Madame Mandel. Finally he fell quiet to listen to her breathing and he realized she'd fallen asleep. He got up without making any noise.

 
Just as he was about to go out the door Paulette called him back: “Franck?”

“Yeah?”

“I haven't told your mother, you know.”

“That's good.”

“I—”

“Shh. Go to sleep now. The more you sleep the sooner you'll be on your feet.”

“Was I right?”

He nodded and put a finger to her lips.

“Yes. Go on, go to sleep now.”

 
He was dazzled by the harshness of the neon lights and it took him forever to find his way out. The nurse he'd spoken to earlier stopped him on his way.

 
She pointed to a chair and opened Paulette's file. She began by asking a few practical and administrative questions, but Franck didn't react.

“Are you all right?”

“Tired.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No, I—”

“Hold on. I've got something right here.”

She pulled a tin of sardines and a packet of crackers from the drawer.

“Maybe this will do you?”

“And what about you?”

“No problem. Look, I've got loads of cookies. Want a little java with that?”

“No, thanks. I'll get a Coke from the machine.”

“Go ahead, I'll have a little glass of something to keep you company but . . . don't tell anyone, okay?”

 
He ate, answered all her questions and then picked up his gear.

 
“She says it hurts.”

“She'll feel better tomorrow. We've put some anti-inflammatory in her drip and she'll feel better when she wakes up.”

“Thanks.”

“It's my job.”

“I meant for the sardines.”

 
He drove fast, collapsed on his bed, hid his face in the pillow to keep from breaking down. Not now. He'd managed for so long, he could hang on just a bit longer.

7

“COFFEE?”

“No, Coke, please.”

 
Camille took little sips. She was sitting with her elbows on the table in a café opposite the restaurant where her mother had told her to meet. She now placed both hands flat on the table on either side of the glass and closed her eyes, breathing slowly. No matter how infrequent these lunches were, they always played havoc with her insides. She would leave again bent double, staggering, feeling like she had been scraped raw. As if her mother were trying, with a sadistic and probably unconscious diligence, to pick at scabs and open a thousand little wounds one by one. In the mirror behind the bottles Camille could see her now, going through the door into Jade Paradise. She smoked a cigarette, went to the toilet, paid for her drink and crossed the street. Hands in her pockets, and her pockets crossed over her stomach.

 
Camille saw her mother's hunched figure and sat down across from her, taking a deep breath:

“Morning, Mom.”

“Aren't you going to kiss me?”

“Morning, Mom,” she said more slowly.

“How are things?”

“Why do you ask?”

Camille held on to the edge of the table to stop herself from getting up again right away.

“Because that's what people usually say when they meet.”

“I'm not ‘people.' ”

“What are you, then?”

“Oh, please, don't start, okay?”

Camille turned her head and looked at the horrid décor of pseudo-Asian stucco and bas-reliefs. The tortoise-shell effect and “mother-of-pearl” inlay were made of plastic, and the lacquer was yellow Formica.

“It's nice here.”

“No, it's horrible. But I don't have the means to invite you to Tour d'Argent, so there. Anyway, even if I did, I wouldn't take you. The way you eat it would be money down the drain.”

Great atmosphere.

 
Camille's mother began to giggle sarcastically:

“Though you could go there without me because you do have money. It's an ill wind that blows nobody any—”

“Stop right now,” threatened Camille, “or I'll leave. If you need money, just tell me and I'll lend you some.”

“That's right, I hear you've got a job now, a good job, interesting to boot. Cleaning lady. Really hard to imagine for someone who's as messy as you are. You never fail to astonish me, you know that?”

“Stop, Mom, stop right there. We can't go on like this. We
cannot
, don't you see? At least I can't. Change the subject, please. Change. The. Subject.”

“You had a great job and you went and ruined everything.”

“A great job. Like hell . . . And I don't miss it at all, either. I wasn't happy there.”

“You didn't have to stay there all your life. And anyway, what is ‘happy' supposed to mean? That the new ‘in' word or something? Happy! Happy! If you think we're here on earth to frolic around and pick daisies, you're just plain naive, young lady.”

“No, no, you can relax, that's not what I think at all. I've been in good hands so I know we're here to have a hard time. You said so often enough.”

“Are you ready to order?” asked the waitress.

Camille could have kissed her.

 
Her mother spread her pills on the table and counted them with one finger.

“Aren't you sick of taking all that crap?”

“Don't talk about what you don't know. I'd be long dead if it weren't for these pills.”

“What makes you say that? And why don't you take off those awful glasses? There's no sun in here.”

“I feel better with them. This way I see the world the way it is.”

Camille decided to smile, and patted her mother's hand. It was either that or go for her neck and strangle her.

 
Her mother smiled, moaned a bit, talked about her loneliness, her back, the stupidity of her colleagues and the woes of co-ownership. She ate with gusto and frowned when her daughter ordered a beer.

“You drink too much.”

“Yes, you're right! C'mon, cheers. For once you're not saying something stupid.”

“You never come to see me.”

“And now? What am I doing here, then?”

“Always the last word, right? Just like your father.”

Camille froze.

“Ah, you don't like it when I talk about him, do you,” she declared triumphantly.

“Mom, please . . . Don't go there.”

“I'll go wherever I like. Aren't you going to finish your plate?”

“No.”

Her mother shook her head disapprovingly.

“Look at you. You're a skeleton. If you think that's what the boys like—”

“Mom—”

“What, ‘Mom'? I worry about you, that's normal, you don't bring children into the world to watch them waste away in front of your eyes!”

“So why did you bring me into the world, then?”

 
The moment she said it Camille realized she'd gone too far and now her mother would put on her drama queen act. There would be nothing new, she'd seen it a thousand times and her mother had it down pat: emotional blackmail, crocodile tears, and suicide threats. At random or in that order.

 
She wept, reproached her daughter for leaving her just like the girl's father had done fifteen years earlier, said she was an ungrateful child and wondered what earthly reason she had left for living.

“Give me a single reason to be here, one single reason.”

Camille rolled a cigarette.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

Camille was silent.

“Thank you, my dear, thank you. Your answer couldn't be any clearer.”