And Then Came Paulette (6 page)

Eleven o'clock. Simone and Hortense had been waiting for an hour, sitting on their chairs right by the door. Knitting.

That morning they had got up earlier than usual. Simone began by adding some wood to the stove. Next she put on the coffee pot, to heat up the coffee from the day before. Then, shuffling along in her old slippers, she went back to the bedroom to join Hortense and together they fetched their things from the wardrobe: black dresses, knitted jackets of speckled wool, woolen stockings that were worn out at the knees, fur-lined ankle boots and winter coats with the imitation astrakhan collars. It was a long time since all these things had seen the air. They smelled of mothballs. Hortense asked herself how long it had been, but before she had time to finish Simone had already replied on her behalf.

“One year. Since Alfred's death.”

“Alfred? What did he do then?”

“He was a smith of course, just think, Hortense!”

At that moment in the kitchen the coffee started to boil and Simone rushed to take the pot off the stove, pursued by Hortense shrieking,
boil the coffee, spoil the coffee! Naturally she was irritated. But, boiled or not, they drank it. It wasn't nice and they had nothing to sweeten it with. The sugar had got left off their last shopping list. It was like that with Hortense: she had her memory lapses.

On the windowsill a cat with a half-torn ear and gammy leg started to meow pathetically. Simone let her in and then raised her voice so the neighbors could hear.

“You hungry, you poor thing? All right, come on in, we'll give you a drop of milk. Shame!”

Shutting the window again, she carried on muttering:

“They'd let the creature starve, that bunch. I tell you they've got hearts of stone.”

They gave the cat a large bowl of milk, and then both sat down to watch it lapping. The cat took its time, licking its whiskers and wiping its chin. It was just about to jump up on Simone's knees to be stroked, as it did every morning, when she leaped to her feet, brushed it away and opened the window again.

“Out you go, shoo! You can come back tomorrow for your cuddle. Really! The little bastard will end up making us late. For Christ's sake, Hortense, it's nine o'clock. We'd better get cracking.”

And she rushed off to shut herself in the bathroom. Hortense glanced at her list pinned up by the dresser. Nine o'clock: do the budgies. Nine-ten: wash up. Just as she'd thought. So she opened the cage, changed the water and hung up a new stick of millet. She watched the birds pecking away.

It was then she had her little bad patch.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see that it was already ten past nine on the clock. She remembered clearly that she had something to do. What made it worse, she knew what it was. But then, just like that, nothing. She no longer wanted to move, didn't
want a thing. Just to stay where she was and watch the birds. And that's what she did. But after a while she told herself that when Simone came back from having done a number two, she would not be pleased. She needed to pull herself together, collect her thoughts. So she quickly closed her eyes and retraced her steps in her head, like a top sportsman before a race. Ten past nine: wash up. Open the cupboard under the sink, and get out the two bowls, take the flannels and the ladle, get hot water from the large pan on the stove, without spilling any, fill Simone's bowl, the red one, and then hers, the blue one, pick up the flannel, rub it with soap, start with the face and the neck, then under the arms, and between the legs.

But it didn't do the trick. She started to panic.

At that moment Simone came out of the bathroom and noticed something was wrong. Gently she went up to Hortense, took her by the hand and talked to her almost in a whisper. Just like she'd have done with a sleepwalker.

“Don't worry, Hortense. Look at me. See, I'm not angry. Anyway, what difference does it make if we've washed up? No one will notice. It'll be a secret between the two of us. You'll see: we're going to have a good time. When people come up and kiss us, we mustn't look at each other, do you understand? Otherwise I won't be able to stop laughing. And so what! If you stink a bit, you just have to put on a bit more cologne than usual, that's all.”

Hortense chuckled.

They got dressed and splashed on some perfume, emitting little cries. Then they sat down on their chairs opposite the front door, and took out their needles and balls of wool.

It was now eleven o'clock. They had been knitting for more than an hour, while they waited for someone to come fetch them.

Hortense dozed off. She couldn't remember much about where they were supposed to be going that day, but she trusted Simone. Her brain was not full of holes. She didn't need to take notes; she remembered everything. Hortense would be lost if they weren't together. Completely lost.

Roland took care of the buffet. He didn't want anything too elaborate, but he did want it to be comforting. It was cold, real autumnal weather. So he went for a big vegetable soup and put some pasta letters in the children's. He thought they might like that. Then he made some meat pies and little potato cakes. They were nice and filling. Also practical, you could eat them with your fingers. And there'd be less washing up.

He reheated the mulled wine. It was going down well, hardly any left.

Everyone's cheeks were flushed, they were bright-eyed and talking loudly. But it wasn't just the wine. The majority of those present were old and not quite all there. That didn't help.

In the corner Mireille was chatting with Marceline.

It was the first time they had exchanged more than a few words. But things were different now. Marceline and Gaby had been friends, so that was definitely a bond between them. Mireille thanked Marceline for having played the cello for her auntie. It had been very pleasant and soothing. She hadn't known before that she was a musician. How
could she? She'd always seen her with her cart and donkey, selling fruits and vegetables at the market. Marceline explained that if she had played the other day, it was because Gaby had asked her, she couldn't say no. But she hadn't done so for a long time. Not for years, in fact. Mireille didn't dare ask why; must be something serious. It could wait for another time or until they knew each other better. In the meantime she said that she would love it if Ludovic and Lucien, her two Lulus, could learn an instrument. She really needed to do something about that.

Ferdinand, Raymond and Marcel accompanied Guy into the garden. The four of them sat on the bench, staring ahead without saying a word.

But not for long. Mélie and Mine joined them, in a state of high anxiety.

“We've forgotten the Lumière sisters!”

The four men leaped to their feet.

“Oh shit!”

They raced through the house, put on their jackets, went out into the street and stopped by Ferdinand's car, which was parked nearby. Guy took the keys. He was the only one of the four to have drunk just the one glass of wine. He set off. The other three followed on foot.

The house was barely fifty yards away. When they arrived, they hesitated, embarrassed, trying to work out what their excuses could be. But before they had time to knock the door opened. It was Hortense, who had at that very moment come to her senses.

“We thought the funeral was this morning. Can you imagine? Sometimes I think we're not quite right in the head!”

The four men bent down to kiss them and Simone started to chuckle. Hortense glared at her, but that didn't work, it only made her laugh even more.

Hortense was embarrassed and pushed her toward the door.

“Get in the car, Simone!”

And then a little more discreetly:

“Stop messing around. What on earth are they going to think? I'm ashamed of you.”

Ferdinand. The days following the funeral. Ferdinand went around to see Guy, turning up unexpectedly at his house. If he didn't answer, Ferdinand would go around and enter by the kitchen, as that door was always open. He had noticed Guy was starting to let himself go, forgetting to eat and bathe, and even, on some days, get out of bed. The only times he made an effort was when Mireille dropped in with the children on Wednesdays and Saturdays. On those days he got dressed, tidied up, and opened the shutters. But the rest of the time he could just sit there, doing nothing. For days on end. It was clear he no longer had an appetite for anything.

Ferdinand was worried. He tried to think of reasons to make Guy go out. He suggested going to the café to see people, say hello to friends, or play a round of dominoes. But Guy wasn't interested. Apart from Mireille and the children, the one thing that stirred him from his lethargy was talking about Gaby. Only then did he become animated. He needed to remember, to say the words. The idea that he might forget something about her threw him into a panic. Ferdinand
listened. He knew Guy would need time to get used to living without her. It could take months or years. Perhaps the wounds would never heal. Quite possible. One thing was certain: he wouldn't neglect him. He had given his word. Besides, it would never occur to him to drop a friend.

Marceline. Saturday, after market.

After stacking her crates in the cart, Marceline went to see Guy. She knocked at the door, but there was no answer. No sound from the house, nothing. She went around via the garden and tapped on the window, as she used to do when she came to fetch Gaby to go to the library. Pressing against the pane she could make out a silhouette. Guy was sitting motionless at the kitchen table, staring straight ahead. She opened the door and went in to sit down beside him. Patiently she waited for him to turn and look at her. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, as though looking inwards. His voice barely audible.

“Nothing makes sense anymore.”

He wasn't ashamed to say that to Marceline, she knew how he felt. Gaby had once told him about the sadness in her life.

She stroked the back of his hand. Talked in a low voice:

“I think she'd have wanted you to keep on trying.”

He didn't want to cry in front of her. Quickly he got up and left the kitchen.

“Would you mind putting on some water to boil, Marceline? I'll only be a minute. Will you stay and have a cup of tea?”

Mireille. Sunday evening.

The children were in bed, but it was still early and she didn't feel sleepy. She decided to sweep behind the bar. Roland had already
gone up to bed. She heard him talking on the telephone, saying: “Hi, Daddy.” Crazy at his age. She was angry with him. About that and everything else. But particularly for not understanding how difficult she found it being on her own right now. Screw the medication, she was going to help herself to a small glass of sherry. She gulped it down. Looked at the time again. Eight-thirty. That was OK.

She arrived at Guy and Gaby's front door. One more thing to get used to. From now on she would have to think of it as just being Guy's house. She was all mixed up.

The shutters were closed and no light filtered through. She knocked. No reply. She went around the house, through the garden, and tapped on the kitchen window. Still no answer. She pushed the handle and the door opened. She called out. No response. She switched on the light and saw the chaos: dirty dishes piled high in the sink, the remains of a meal on the table, dirty clothes strewn across the floor. She had never seen the house in such a state. She ran upstairs, flung open the bedroom door, saw Guy, fully dressed, stretched out on the bed, and gave a shout. Startled he turned toward her.

“I didn't hear you come in. What is it, Mireille? Why are you shouting?”

No real reason. She just needed to see him; that was all. She was worried because he never answered the phone and then seeing all the mess had shaken her a bit. That was why she had come upstairs. And when she discovered him there, lying on the bed, she really thought he was dead. They went down to the kitchen. She needed a drink. He offered her a sherry. She went for water instead, because of the medication. She drank it in one. That was better. She hugged him tenderly, told him not to worry: everything would be all right. She was going home. The next morning she would come back and help him tidy everything up.

“Hi P'pa.” “Is that you Roland?”

“Course it is. Who else calls you Papa?”

“It could have been Lionel calling from Australia.”

“When's the last time he did that?”

“I dunno, last Christmas, maybe. So, why are you calling?”

“No reason. It's been a few days since I saw you hanging around the terrace of the café opposite, tripping up young ladies with your stick, so I wondered . . . is everything all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything's OK”

“Not too bored on your own?”

“Nope, not at all.”

“You found something to occupy yourself?”

“I've got loads of stuff to do.”

“That's good.”

“How about you? How's the restaurant?”

“All right.”

“And the kids?”

“OK.”

“And Mireille?”

“She's gone back to work. It helps take her mind off things. Doctor Lubin has prescribed some antidepressants, you know.”

“Lubin? He's not in jail yet?”

“Every time . . . Maybe we should avoid the subject.”

“You're right. Anyway, nice of you to call.”

“It's nothing, P'pa.”

“No, it's nice of you. Look, Roland, you do realize your sons are six and eight and they call me Ferdinand. Don't you think . . . ?”

“Hang on a minute, what's the problem? Does it embarrass you if I call you Papa, is that it?”

“No, but at forty-five, you'd think . . .”

“What's age got to do with it? Anyway, it's too late. I can't call you anything else. I don't believe it. I call you to find out your news and what do I get? A kick in the teeth. Always on the attack, eh? I'm totally wiped out, you know. It's eight-thirty in the evening and I'm off to bed. Right, bye P'p—Oh shit, I'll never get it right.”

“It's not a problem, Roland. Night, son.”

Ferdinand went back and sat down at the kitchen table.

That evening it was Marceline's turn to make supper.

She used only produce from her garden. Honey from her bees and eggs from the hens. She explained she couldn't face killing the animals she had reared; she always grew so attached to them. She had solved the problem by not eating meat anymore and that worked very well. Naturally he didn't ask too many questions, but he understood she didn't have the money. Because three days earlier when he had cooked chicken, she had eaten it and had even complimented him on the taste.

He had learned the odd little thing about her apart from that. She was Polish and not Russian or Hungarian, as he had thought. Her first
name was Marcelina, but everyone called her Marceline. She had gotten married here about twenty years before. That was why she spoke French so well, with hardly a trace of an accent. She had worked in many foreign countries while she was a musician. He really wanted to know why she wasn't doing that anymore, but didn't dare ask. Must be a pretty good reason. But not worth pursuing now.

She put the dish on the table. He winced.

“You don't like rutabagas?”

“I do, but they don't agree with me.”

“I've put a bit of baking soda in them.”

“How come?”

“It stops the side effects; you don't get gassy.”

“You really think that works?”

“It makes a difference. You'll see.”

“I hope so.”

She was amused.

“Well, if not, we'll have our coffee outside after dinner. Then you'll be more relaxed. Let's hope it doesn't rain again!”

Ferdinand thought of Henriette. They had never joked together in that way.

After dinner they went outside. Not because of the rutabagas—the baking soda did seem to work—but because Cornelius was noisily demanding a bit of attention. That donkey had a mind of its own; he liked to come and go as he pleased: he'd leave his stall and wander around the farm, spending a long time working out how to get through gates and fences, particularly ones leading to the vegetable garden. But when evening came he wanted you to go and say good night to him before he went to bed. Just like a child.