And Then Came Paulette (2 page)

Ferdinand woke the following morning with a cry of “Sugar!” For some time he had been making great efforts to clean up his language—that was the excuse his daughter-in-law, Mireille, used to stop him seeing the grandchildren. So when he realized the sheets were soaking wet he shouted “Sugar!” He must have had the same dream as on the previous three nights. The one where he swam like a fish in warm, blue waters, with his friends the dolphins. The only ones he had ever seen were on TV, in wildlife documentaries. And that wasn't the end of it. Still half awake, like every morning, he felt around the bed with his left foot for the missing slipper. When his toes finally came across something soft and warm instinctively he got up to put it on. Then he shouted “Fucking Hell!” But perhaps on this occasion that was permissible, as he had trodden on a corpse. The daily mouse: a present from his cat. Or to be more precise, the kitten belonging to his beloved grandchildren. Mireille had developed an allergy to its fur just two days before they moved out, so he had been forced to agree to look after it. Yes, it was all figured out, their papi, Ferdinand, would take
care of the darling cat. Don't you worry. And you can come see him whenever you want. OK? Now run along, my Lulus, please don't cry.

He would have preferred a dog. Even though six months earlier he had sworn he would never have another. Velcro was utterly stupid, totally disobedient and a pretty average guard dog. But he was so affectionate and that made up for everything. Oh he really missed that dog. With cats it was straightforward; he didn't like them. Deceitful, sly, thieves and all that. All right for catching mice and rats. If you found a good one . . . But as for doing what they were told, no chance. They chose when they wanted to be affectionate, and that might be never.

So the very same evening that they all moved out the bundle of fur made itself at home on his bed. He didn't have the heart to shoo it away, it was so tiny . . . The following day it was under the comforter, huddling up close to him, its nose nestling in his ear, sweet as anything. By the fourth evening it was sharpening its claws on the legs of the armchair, without feeling the slightest emotion or pang of conscience. And come the end of the week it was eating at the table from a bowl with its name on it. The only thing missing: a napkin ring.

Soon it would be two months since his son Roland, Mireille and their two children had moved out of the farmhouse. Two months that Ferdinand had been living on his own with the cat. And there were days when he wondered—not without some surprise—whether he could have lived through the upheaval, the sadness, without little Chamalo there at his side.

Another huge source of surprise had been the changes in his character. He had always been rather a cold man, unshakeable, solid as a rock. No more. From one day to the next he became vulnerable. Capable of crying over nothing, worrying about everything. A chink in his armor. Gaping hole, more like. That he did everything he could to seal.

He didn't, of course, want to talk to anyone about any of this. He had never been much good at expressing himself, still less at talking
about his emotions. To him it felt like stripping off in the main square on market day. No thanks! He preferred to keep everything buried deep inside. It was easier that way.

So nobody knew about the terrible wrench caused by the children's departure, the void they had left. A deep wound inside him that would take months or years to heal. Perhaps it never would. Quite possible.

After the dead mouse episode, he found his slipper under the chest of drawers. He took the tiny corpse by its tail and went outside to chuck it on the trash heap.

And standing there in the middle of the yard in his pajamas, the seat of his pants still wet, he asked himself, in all seriousness, how he was going to put it to the little kitten that it would be better, so much better, if it ate what it caught. Such a waste to kill something for no reason. Too much like human beings. What was the point? Not a good idea to imitate, puss.

But how could you explain something like that to a cat? And a little one at that. Barely four months. What did that make it in human terms—a seven-year-old?

And how did you know it had understood?

No, Ferdinand, was no longer the man he used to be. And hadn't been for some time now. He would have to pull himself together.

By the end of the morning the sky had cleared. He took the opportunity to put in a load of laundry.

It was a matter of some urgency. After the same dream three nights running, he no longer had any clean sheets. And no pajama bottoms either.

And by the way, if one day he had to tell someone what he felt after the children left, he would surely say that once the last suitcase was
in the car—a last kiss for the little ones and the door shut—a huge chasm had opened up under his feet, a black hole, deeper than a well. And that turmoil had never left him since. From then on it would become part of his life. He understood that.

But there was little chance he would ever talk about it. It wasn't his style to bare all in front of anyone.

After lunch he put the laundry out to dry. Then he wandered off toward the barn. As he passed the tractor, he couldn't resist jumping in and starting up the engine to see if still worked. Then he went into the workshop. On the workbench he saw the plaque for Alfred: half engraved, it had sat there unfinished for weeks. With a twinge he cast an eye over the tools and mechanically started to sort some old nails. He didn't feel like doing anything, so, not to worry, he went off in the car instead. He slowed as he came to the path leading to Marceline's house, thought about stopping by to ask how she was, but in the end decided to drop by later, perhaps at the end of the day. He went as far as the village. After parking a fair distance from the Place du Marché he took a stick out of the trunk and walked up the main road with an exaggerated limp. He didn't meet a soul. That was a bit of a disappointment. Arriving at the café in the square, he ordered a glass of
white wine and settled himself at a table outside. He'd made a habit of this for two months now.

The clock on the town hall showed it was three-thirty. Just an hour to kill before the end of school: the one time he could see his grandchildren, the Lulus. Ludovic, eight, and Lucien, six. He'd give them each a kiss, before Mireille arrived to whisk them away to their new home, using homework as her excuse. All said in a slightly apologetic tone to make it seem more plausible.

Just thinking about it brought a lump to his throat.

He took a sip of wine to make it go away. Then he looked around, but there was nothing to see. He shivered.

In the sky a ray of sunlight was trying to slip between two gray clouds. He closed his eyes and stretched to make the most of the warmth. But it didn't last. There was a sharp tapping on the pavement. Tac, tac, tac. A young woman in a suit and high heels was coming toward him. Unusual around here. He calculated there were seven seconds to go before she reached the terrace . . . six, five . . . he pushed out his stick . . . four, three . . . coming past his chair . . . two, one. Bingo! The girl jumped in the air, twisted her ankle and cried “Ow!” She was about to give a piece of her mind to the bastard who had purposely tripped her up, when her eyes settled on Ferdinand. He managed to assume an expression that was so timid, so perfectly contrite, it made her smile. But she soon recovered herself; on reaching the square, she scowled and shot him a dark look, pointing her finger threateningly. Playing the innocent wasn't going to work with her: she knew all the tricks that old people played. Grandparents, she'd had four of them. And she'd done her fourth-year work experience in an old people's home, so . . . Just at that moment he bowed his head. Muriel was pleased to see he knew what she was really thinking. With a feeling of satisfaction she started to adjust her clothing. She carefully smoothed her skirt, giving special attention to her behind (because
to have your skirt creased over your butt is
so
not a good look), she banged her bag several times against her calves to dust it down, tidied up her hair, and without another glance at Ferdinand, set off on her way, suddenly worried she might be late for her meeting (with the guy from the estate agents, about renting a room, but what could she tell him, she had no deposit, or any of that stuff, oh—my—God).

Ferdinand was happy. He had managed to make a pretty girl smile. That sort of thing didn't happen every day. Well, all right, it hadn't been a very broad smile. And she wasn't such a pretty girl—to be honest she looked a bit skanky, with her high heels, tight skirt and the spare tire around her waist—but that wasn't important; he had won his smile for the day.

The clock was now showing a quarter to four. Only three quarters of an hour till they came out of school. Looking up at the sky he realized that the two gray clouds had merged into a single, ominously dark, mass. He remembered the laundry he had put out to dry; he told himself there was still time to go home before it started pouring down. He was going to have to step on it to make it in time.

He was annoyed with himself for having stayed for so long outside the café. His legs were stiff. It took a while to stretch them and when finally he managed to stand up, his son, Roland, appeared. He came and stood right in front of him, with his paunch sticking out.

“What are you doing here?”

“What are you talking about? You know I live just opposite.”

If Roland had stirred himself to come over, it was bound to mean he had something important to talk about. But as usual his son didn't know how to handle it or where to begin. To gain time he shifted from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. Really irritating.

“So?”

“Well I was just thinking that if you keep on messing around with that stick of yours, you're gonna cause an accident.”

Ferdinand sat down again with a sigh, took out his pipe and pouch of tobacco.

“That it?”

“No . . .”

“Well?”

“Well, Mireille and I, we can understand it if you don't want to come into the dining room, but we both think it'd be a lot better if you came and had your drink on our terrace. It'd be more normal, don't you think?”

“Sounds like an invitation.”

He took his time, drawing a few times on his pipe. To wind him up just that little bit more. Roland hated to see him smoking.

“That's nice of you, son. I appreciate that. Only thing is this white wine, I don't know why, but it's better here. There's no getting away from it.”

Roland did not take the bait. Once again he felt a sharp pain in the left side of his ribcage but nothing that could be seen as suspicious or completely abnormal (he had checked it out with Doctor Lubin, who assured him it was just tachycardia). Then after instinctively clearing his throat several times he turned abruptly to go back home. To his own restaurant. On the other side of the square, fifty yards away at the most. With its own terrace for smokers. He took great care to maintain a natural, dignified walk. His head held high, shoulders back, the bottle-opener dangling from the end of a string, beating against his thighs to the rhythm of his step—neat. Except that very soon he felt something awkward. Something seemed to be stuck in the middle of his back, right between the shoulder blades. And it began to seriously get to him. If he had followed his instincts he would have turned around there and then, and gone and punched the idiot's lights out, standing there smirking behind his curtains. Made him swallow that patronizing little expression. Christ, it got on his nerves! But he had
promised his wife he would keep his cool. Quick. Calm down. Think. Try to . . . In any case, if his rival's old goat of a father had come over for a drink on his terrace, he'd have been wearing the stupid little smile himself. Just to annoy him.

Yes, it was true, now he came to think of it. He felt calmer. Strangely, the thought cheered him up.

But as he was about to enter the restaurant, he caught the expression on his wife's face, at the back of the dining room. Here we go again, feeling very small. No family stuff in public, Roland, we've already discussed it. Yes, but you see, Mireille, P'pa winds me up. He pushed open the door. The bell tinkled. Mireille turned away without saying a word. Anyway, he already knew what she thought. That if old Ferdinand died on the spot, there and then, from a heart attack or, better still, a brain hemorrhage, it would be a great relief.

Roland didn't much like his wife having such thoughts, so he preferred to look elsewhere.

He would sweep the floor. Think about something else.

Meanwhile, Ferdinand, who didn't wish to know how he had provoked his son (and daughter-in-law), was returning to his car. And, on this occasion, forgetting to limp. But he was in a hurry. And at any moment it might rain.

Another wasted journey. And Muriel wanted to make that idiot real estate agent pay for it. Especially since she'd had to skip out of college. Not to mention all the effort she'd put into creating the right look, with her suit, tight skirt and high heels. She wasn't used to it. She'd put on a bit of weight so her skirt dug into her waist and her shoes had given her blisters. To top it all off, her left ankle had started to swell up after the old man on the café terrace had tripped her up. It had put her in a very bad mood.

Feeling under attack, the real estate agent protested feebly. It's not easy, you know, landlords change their mind at the drop of a hat, so it makes it difficult for us to do the job right. In your case, yes, you're quite right, we should have called you to tell you it had gone, but we're snowed under with work, we didn't have time. As he droned on, blah blah, she looked away, it gave her time to calm down and to avoid chucking the particulars in his face. Before leaving she forced herself
to smile and shake his hand, and asked him to contact her if anything came up. And just to make sure it sank into his little bird brain, she went over it all once again: a room, furnished or unfurnished, with a shower and toilet, it didn't matter if it wasn't en suite, in the village or nearby, and of course nothing too expensive. It was really urgent: she'd be on the streets if she didn't find anything by the end of the month. He said: I'll do that right away, Mademoiselle, you can rely on me. As she went out she slammed the glazed door hard, but turned quickly as she did so—with wide eyes and her hand across her mouth—as if to say: Whoops! Silly me! Didn't mean that! He acted as though he was used to it: he waved goodbye and gave her a little wink at the same time. It made her want to throw up.

The town hall clock said four o'clock. She had three quarters of an hour before her other important meeting that day. Searching in her bag she found the change she had lost in the lining, so now she could buy a coffee. She went into the Bar de la Place and sat down at the counter. Louise joined her soon afterward. When they discovered they had both dressed up for the occasion they burst out laughing. At school they had only ever seen each other in jeans and sneakers. And now Louise was all made up. Muriel thought it looked a bit slutty, but stopped herself from saying so. Louise was cool; no need to hurt her feelings. They had their coffee and at twenty to five, feeling really stressed, they crossed the square and went into the restaurant.

The boys had just come back from school and were sitting at a table doing their homework and drinking tea. When the two girls walked in Ludo's jaw dropped midmouthful. Their elegant walk, the shape of their gorgeous breasts, the heady perfume and Louise's bright red lips, he'd never seen anything like it. Mireille noticed the effect it was having and gestured to him to get on with his homework. She invited the girls to come take a seat some distance away and offered them a coffee. They didn't dare say no. But they'd already had five that day,
so it looked like there'd be tears, heartburn, the shakes, and insomnia. Particularly for Muriel, who for some time had suffered from all of these. It had got so bad she had thought of giving up drinking coffee altogether and taking up tea. Well, not today anyway.

Mireille asked them a few questions. No, they had never worked in a restaurant before. But they really wanted to. Yes, they were nineteen and both in the second year of their nursing course. They were really enjoying it. Yes, of course, they did have flat shoes. It was much more practical for work and you could walk fast without turning your ankle. Yes, they did need to earn a bit, at the end of the month they often didn't have enough to buy food. It was tough. Mireille left it at that: she told them it was OK. They looked at each other, unsure whether “OK” meant they had got the job. But Mireille soon explained how things worked, what they would have to do, the time they would need to start, that it was better not to use perfume as it spoiled the taste of the food, and by then they were no longer in any doubt. True, it was only the one day, but it was exciting nonetheless. In that part of the country there was very little in the way of casual work, except for the harvest or grape picking. Now, if things worked out, there might be other possibilities. Weddings, bachelor parties, birthdays, retirement parties, they sometimes had that sort of thing around here.

They shook hands. And with Ludo still watching, star-struck, Muriel and Louise went out of the restaurant. Limping, because new shoes often made you do that, and with high heels it was worse still. They waited till they'd left the main square before taking them off and starting to run barefoot down the road, along the near-frozen pavement, shouting with joy at having found their first job.