Hunting and Gathering (9 page)

“I've never seen anything so lovely.”

“You can see why I didn't come yesterday. If you only knew how long it's taken me to clean it and get everything shining.”

“You should have said!”

“You really believe that if I had said, ‘Not this evening, I've got to clean my trunk,' you wouldn't have thought I was out of my mind?”

Camille was careful not to make any comment.

 
They spread the tablecloth on the floor and Philibert Whatsisname laid the place settings.

 
Like two children christening a new dolls' tea set, they sat cross-legged, delighted, excited, acting ever so properly and making a big effort not to break anything. Camille didn't know how to cook, so she had stopped in at Goubetzkoï's and bought an assortment of
tarama
, salmon, marinated fish and onion chutneys. They filled all the great-uncle's little bowls with painstaking care, and to reheat the blinis on the hot plate they fashioned an ingenious sort of toaster from an old lid and some tinfoil. They stashed the vodka in the roof gutter, and all they had to do was raise the blind and reach out for more. Opening and closing the window made the room chilly, to be sure, but the fireplace crackled and drew its fire from God.

Camille as usual drank more than she ate.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked.

“Please . . . But I'd like to stretch my legs. They've gone to sleep.”

“Stretch out on my bed.”

“Oh, no, I, uh, couldn't do that.”

The littlest thing and he was at a loss for words again.

“Oh, go on, it's actually a sofa bed.”

“Well, in that case . . .”

“Maybe we should call each other
tu
instead of
vous
, Philibert?”

He went pale.

“Oh, no, for myself I couldn't possibly, but you, you—”

“Stop! It's okay, don't worry. Besides, I think it's perfectly charming to say
vous
to people, it's—”

“Quaint?”

“Exactly!”

 
Philibert didn't eat a lot either, but he was so slow and fastidious that Camille the perfect little hostess congratulated herself on planning a cold meal. She had also bought some
fromage blanc
for dessert—after having stood paralyzed, gazing into the window of a patisserie, utterly disconcerted and incapable of choosing a cake. She brought out her little Italian coffeepot and drank her brew out of a cup that was so delicate she was sure it would break if she closed her teeth on it.

 
Neither of them were normally talkative people. Nor were they used to sharing meals anymore. So they didn't really know how to behave, and it was hard for each of them to leave their comfortable solitude behind. But because they were polite, they made the effort for appearance's sake. They acted jolly, raised their glasses, talked about the neighborhood. The checkout girls at Franprix, for example: Philibert liked the blonde one, Camille preferred the one with eggplant-colored hair; the tourists; the illumination of the Eiffel Tower; the dog poop. Totally unexpectedly, Camille's guest turned out to be a charming conversationalist. He knew how to keep the conversation going, and came up with an endless variety of trivial and titillating subjects. French history was his passion, and he confessed that he spent most of his time in Louis XI's jails, in François I's antechamber, at table with peasants from the Vendée in the Middle Ages, or at the Conciergerie with Marie Antoinette, a woman to whom he devoted a veritable cult of adoration. Camille would launch into a theme or era and Philibert would come up with a host of spicy details: costumes, courtly intrigues, the amount of the salt tax or the genealogy of the Capetians.

It was very entertaining.

She felt as though she was surfing an Internet history site.

Click, and you got a summary.

“Are you a teacher or something?” she asked.

“No, I . . . that is . . . I work in a museum.”

“Are you a curator?”

“My, what a fancy word! No, I am more on the commercial side.”

“Oh”—she nodded gravely—“that must be fascinating. Which museum?”

“It depends, I move around. And you?”

“Oh, me . . . nothing so interesting, I'm afraid. I, like, work in offices.”

She looked put out and, at the sight of her expression, he had the tact not to pursue the matter.

“I have a nice
fromage blanc
with apricot jam. Would you like some?”

“With pleasure. And you?”

“Oh, thanks, but with all these little Russian goodies, I feel stuffed.”

“You don't have to worry about getting fat.” Fearful that he had said something hurtful, he quickly added, “You are very, uh, graceful. Your face reminds me of Diane de Poitiers.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Oh, more than pretty!” He blushed. “I, you—have you never been to the Château at Anet?”

“No.”

“You should go. It is a marvelous place. It was a gift from her lover, King Henri II.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it's very beautiful, a sort of hymn to love. Wherever you go, their initials are intertwined—in stone, in marble, in iron, in wood, on her grave. It's very touching. I seem to recall that her cosmetic jars and hairbrushes are still there, in her dressing room. I shall take you there someday.”

“When?”

“In the springtime, perhaps?”

“For a picnic?”

“That goes without saying.”

 
They sat in silence for a moment. Camille tried to ignore the holes in his shoes and Philibert did likewise with the damp stains all along the walls. They made do with gingerly sipping their vodka.

“Camille?”

“Yes?”

“Do you really live here all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Well . . . uh, to, I mean . . . to use the facilities . . .”

“On the landing.”

“Oh?”

“Do you need to go?”

“No, no, I was just asking.”

“Are you worried about me?”

“No, I mean, yes—it's just that it's so Spartan here, that's all.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. Really, I promise. And besides, now I have this great fireplace!”

He did not seem quite as enthusiastic about the fireplace.

“How old are you? If that is not indiscreet, of course.”

“Twenty-six. I'll be twenty-seven in February.”

“Like my little sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“Not just one, six!”

“Six sisters!”

“Yes, and one brother.”

“And you live on your own in Paris?”

“Yes, well, with my roommate.”

“Do you two get along okay?” When he did not reply, she pressed him further, “Not that well?”

“Yes, yes, it's okay. We never see each other anyway.”

“Oh?”

“Let's just say it is not exactly the Château at Anet.”

She laughed. “Does he work?”

“That's all he does. He works, sleeps, works, sleeps. And when he's not sleeping he brings girls back. He's a strange fellow, barking seems to be his primary mode of communication. I cannot understand what those girls see in him. Or, uh, I do have my own theory on the matter, but there you are . . .”

“What does he do?”

“He's a cook.”

“Oh? And does he at least fix you some nice meals?”

“Never. I've never once seen him in the kitchen. Except in the morning to chastise my poor coffeepot.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“Gracious, no. I found him through an ad he'd left on the counter at the bakery across the street: ‘Young chef at the Vert Galant seeks room for midday siesta during his break.' In the beginning he only came for a few hours a day but now, there you go, he's there all the time.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Not at all. I even suggested it, because you'll see, actually, that my place is a bit too big for me. Also, he knows how to do everything. I can't even change a lightbulb, so it suits me fine. He can do anything, and he's an incorrigible rogue, as well . . . Since he's been there my electricity bill has melted away like snow in the sun.”

“You mean he fiddled with the meter?”

“I get the impression he fiddles with everything he lays his hands on. I don't know how good a cook he is, but as a handyman, he is first-rate. And since everything at my place is falling apart . . . No, well, I like him all the same. I've never had a real chance to talk to him at any length, but I think that he, well, I don't know . . . Sometimes I get the feeling I'm sharing a roof with a mutant.”

“Like in
Alien
?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.”

Since Sigourney Weaver had never had any dealings with a king, Camille decided to drop the matter.

 
Together they put everything away. When he saw her tiny sink, Philibert begged her to let him wash the dishes. His museum was closed on Mondays, so he had all day to do them.

They made a great show of their parting.

“You shall come to my place next time.”

“With pleasure.”

“But I'm afraid I don't have a fireplace.”

“Hey. Not everyone has the good fortune to have a cottage in the heart of Paris.”

“Camille?”

“Yes?”

“You'll take care of yourself, won't you?”

“I'll try. And you too, Philibert.”

“I ... I . . .”

“What?”

“I have to tell you. The truth is, I don't really work in a museum, you know. I work outside. In shops, I mean. I—I sell postcards.”

“And I don't really work in an office either. More like outside too. I clean for people.”

 
They exchanged resigned smiles, and said good-bye, rather sheepishly.

Rather sheepishly, and with relief, as well.

 
Altogether a very successful Russian dinner.

12

“WHAT'S that noise?”

“Don't worry, it's the Grand Du-duke.”

“But what the hell is he doing? Sounds like he's flooding the kitchen.”

“So what, who cares. Come over here, you.”

“No, leave me alone.”

“C'mon, get over here. Why don't you take off your T-shirt?”

“I'm cold.”

“Go on, come over here.”

“He's weird, isn't he?”

“Completely out to lunch. You should have seen him when he went out earlier, with his walking stick and his clown's hat. I thought he was on his way to a fancy-dress ball.”

“Where was he going?”

“See some girl, I think.”

“A girl!”

“Yeah, I think so, I don't know. Who cares, anyway? Hey, turn around, shit.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Hey, Aurelie, you're starting to piss me off.”

“Aurelia, not Aurelie.”

“Aurelia, Aurelie, same difference. All right. And your socks, you going to keep them on all night, too?”

13

CAMILLE put her clothes on top of her new stove, even though it was strictly forbidden, stayed in bed as long as possible, got dressed under her comforter and warmed the buttons of her jeans between her hands before pulling them on.

The PVC weatherproofing didn't seem to be working very well and she had had to move her mattress to get away from the horrible draft drilling a hole in her forehead. Now the bed was against the door and this made it a real hassle to get in and out. She was constantly having to tug it this way or that just to move three steps. Is this any way to live? she wondered. What a dump. And what the hell, she'd given in, she was pissing into her own sink now, holding on to the wall to prevent the sink from coming unstuck. As for her Turkish baths, the less said, the better.

 
So she was dirty. Well, maybe not quite dirty, but not as clean as usual. Once or twice a week when she was sure they were out she went to the Kesslers'. She knew which days their cleaning woman was there, and the woman would hand her a big towel with a sigh. They weren't exactly taken in. Camille always left with a bit of food or an extra blanket. But one day Mathilde came home and managed to corner her while she was still drying her hair:

“Wouldn't you like to come back here to stay for a while? You could have your old room.”

“No, thank you, both of you, but it's okay, really. I'm fine.”

“Are you working?”

Camille closed her eyes.

“Yes, yes.”

“How are you doing? Do you need money? If you gave us something, Pierre could advance you some money, you know.”

“No, I don't have anything finished just yet.”

“And what about all the paintings at your mother's place?”

“I don't know . . . I have to go through them. I don't feel like it.”

“And your self-portraits?”

“They're not for sale.”

“So what are you working on exactly?”

“Stuff.”

“Have you been by the quai Voltaire?”

“Not yet.”

“Camille?”

“Yes.”

“Can't you turn that damn hair dryer off? So we can hear each other better?”

“I'm in a hurry.”

“So what are you doing these days?”

“Sorry?”

“How is life, I mean, what's going on with you at the moment?”

 
So that she'd never have to be subjected to this sort of questioning ever again, Camille rushed down the stairs of their building four steps at a time and barged into the first hairdresser's she could find.