The Elegance of the Hedgehog (22 page)

A
fter that, I get on with my duties as concierge and, for the first time all day, I have time to think. Yesterday evening comes back with a curious aftertaste. After a pleasant aroma of peanuts come the stirrings of a dull anxiety. I try to ignore it by concentrating on watering the houseplants on every landing in the building: this is the very type of chore that I situate at the antipodes of human intelligence.

At one minute to two, Manuela arrives, looking as excited as Neptune when he espies a zucchini peel in the distance.

“Well?” she says several times impatiently, handing me some madeleines in a little round wicker basket.

“I’m going to need your services again,” I say.

“Oh, really?” she says, insisting heavily, almost unintentionally, on the
real
.

I have never seen Manuela looking so excited.

“We’re having tea together on Sunday, and I’m in charge of the pastries,” I explain.

“Ooooh,” she says, radiant, “the pastries!”

And immediately pragmatic:

“I have to make you something that will keep.”

Manuela works Saturdays until lunch time.

“Friday night I’ll make you a
gloutof
,” she declares, after a brief pause for reflection.

The
gloutof
is a rather voracious Alsatian cake.

But Manuela’s
gloutof
is ambrosia as well. Everything that is dry and heavy about Alsace is transformed by her hands into an aromatic masterpiece.

“Will you have time?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says, over the moon, “I always have time for a
gloutof
for you!”

And so I tell her everything: how I arrived, the still life, the saké, Mozart, the gyozas, the zalu, Kitty,
The Munekata Sisters
and everything else.

If you have but one friend, make sure you choose her well.

“You are amazing,” says Manuela, when I have finished my story. “All the idiots in this building, and now you—for once there is a decent gentleman here—you are the one who is invited to his place.”

She gulps down a madeleine.

“Ha!” she exclaims suddenly, insisting heavily on the “h”. “I’ll make you a few whiskey tarts!”

“No, please don’t go to so much bother, Manuela, the . . .
gloutof
will be plenty.”

“So much bother? But Renée, you are the one who has been going to a lot of bother for my sake all these years!”

She pauses for a moment, as if trying to remember something.

“What was Paloma doing here?” she asks.

“Well, she was taking a rest from her family.”

“Oh, the poor kid! You have to admit that with that sister of hers . . . ”

Manuela’s feelings about Colombe—she would gladly burn her bag-lady hand-me-downs and then send her out into the fields for a little Cultural Revolution—are unequivocal to say the least.

“The little Pallières boy stands there gaping whenever Colombe walks by,” she adds. “But she doesn’t even see him. He should put a garbage bag on his head. Oh, if only all the young women in the building were like Olympe . . . ”

“That’s true, Olympe is very sweet girl.”

“Yes, she’s a good sort. Neptune had the
runs
on Tuesday, you know, and she really took care of him.”

One mere run on its own would have been far too stingy.

“I know, we’re good for a new carpet in the hallway. They’re delivering it tomorrow. No harm done there, the other one was dreadful.”

“You know,” says Manuela, “you can keep the dress. The lady’s daughter said to Maria, Keep everything, and Maria told me to tell you that she’s giving you the dress.”

“Oh, that’s very kind, but I can’t accept.”

“Don’t go on about that again,” says Manuela, annoyed. “In any case, you’ll have to pay for the dry cleaner’s. Just look at that, it looks like an
orange
.”

The orange, it would seem, is a virtuous type of orgy.

“Well then, please thank Maria for me, I’m really very grateful.”

“It’s better like this. Yes, yes, I’ll thank her for you.”

Two sharp knocks at the door.

I
t is Kakuro Ozu.

“Hello, hello,” he says, bursting into the loge. “Oh, hello, Madame Lopes,” he adds, upon seeing Manuela.

“Hello, Monsieur Ozu,” she replies, almost shouting.

Manuela is a very enthusiastic sort.

“We were having tea, will you join us?”

“Ah, with pleasure,” says Kakuro, grabbing a chair. And when he sees Leo: “Oh, what a fine specimen! I didn’t see him properly the other time. A regular sumo!”

“Have a madeleine, they’re made with
orgy
,” says Manuela, who is getting everything mixed up, as she pushes the basket in Kakuro’s direction.

The orgy, it would seem, is a vicious type of orange.

“Thank you,” says Kakuro, as he takes one.

“Marvelous!” he exclaims, the moment the madeleine has disappeared down his throat.

Manuela wriggles on her chair, blissfully happy.

“I have come to ask your opinion,” says Kakuro, after four madeleines. “I am in the midst of an argument with a friend over the issue of European supremacy in matters of culture.” He sends a graceful wink in my direction.

Manuela ought to be more indulgent with the Pallières boy in future: she is sitting there gaping.

“He leans toward England, and obviously I am for France. So I told him I knew someone who could settle the matter between us. Would you mind being the referee?”

“But I’m a judge and being judged at the same time,” I say, sitting down, “I can’t vote.”

“No, no, no, you’re not going to vote. Just answer my question: what are the two major inventions of French and British culture? Madame Lopes, I’m fortunate indeed this afternoon, you can give me your opinion too, if you would.”

“The English . . . ” Manuela begins, in fine fettle; then she pauses. “You go first, Renée,” she says, suddenly remembering, no doubt, that she is Portuguese, and that she ought to be more careful.

I reflect for a moment.

“Where France is concerned: the language of the eighteenth century, and soft cheese.”

“And England?” asks Kakuro.

“Oh, England will be easy,” I say.

“Pooding-ghe?” says Manuela, spicing the dessert with her accent.

Kakuro bursts out laughing.

“No, we need something more.”

“Then the roog-eby,” she says, savoring every syllable.

“Ha, ha,” laughs Kakuro, “I totally agree with you! And you, Renée, what do you suggest?”

“Habeas corpus and lawns,” I laugh.

And this sends us off into another fit of giggles, including Manuela, who heard ‘baby porpoise,’ which is strictly beside the point, but it makes her laugh all the same.

At that very moment, someone knocks at the loge.

How extraordinary that this loge which yesterday was of no interest to anyone seems today to be the focus of global attention.

“Come in,” I say without thinking, in the heat of the conversation.

Solange Josse looks in around the door.

All three of us look at her questioningly, as if we were guests at a banquet being disturbed by an ill-mannered servant.

She opens her mouth, then thinks better of it.

Paloma looks in around the door at the height of the lock.

I remember myself and get to my feet.

“May I leave Paloma with you for an hour or so?” asks Madame Josse, who has recovered her composure, albeit her curiosity needle has gone right off the gauge.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Ozu,” she says to Kakuro, who has risen to his feet and come to shake her hand.

“Bonjour, chère Madame,” he says kindly. “Hello, Paloma, how nice to see you. Well, dear friend, she’ll be in good hands, you can leave her here with us.”

How to send someone gracefully on their way, in one lesson.

“Okay . . . well . . . yes . . . thank you,” says Solange Josse, stepping slowly back, still somewhat stunned.

I close the door behind her.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask Paloma.

“I’d love one.”

A true little princess among high-ranking party members.

I pour her half a cup of jasmine tea while Manuela plies her with the few remaining madeleines.

“What did the English invent, do you think?” Kakuro asks her, still at it with his cultural contest.

Paloma sits lost in thought.

“The hat, as a symbol of stubborn resistance to change,” she says.

“Excellent,” says Kakuro.

I note that I have probably greatly underestimated Paloma, and that I will have to dig deeper but, since destiny always rings three times, and since all conspirators are doomed to be unmasked some day, there is once again a drumming at the window of the loge, and I am distracted from my thoughts.

Paul Nguyen is the first person who does not seem to be surprised by anything.

“Good morning, Madame Michel,” he says, then, “Hello everybody.”

“Ah, Paul,” says Kakuro, “We have definitively discredited England.”

Paul smiles gently.

“Very good,” he says. “Your daughter just rang. She’ll call again in five minutes.”

He hands him a cell phone.

“I see,” says Kakuro. “Well, ladies, I must take my leave.”

He bows.

“Goodbye,” we offer in unison, like a virginal choir.

“Well,” says Manuela, “that’s a job well done.”

“What job?” I ask.

“We’ve eaten all the madeleines.”

We laugh.

She looks at me thoughtfully and smiles.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

Yes, it is incredible.

Renée, who now has two friends, is no longer so shy.

But Renée, with her two friends, feels a sudden undefined terror welling up inside.

When Manuela has gone, Paloma curls up in Leo’s armchair in front of the television, quite at home, and looking at me with her big serious eyes she asks,

“Do you believe that life has meaning?”

A
t the dry cleaner’s, I had had to confront the wrath of the lady of the premises.

“Spots like this on such a quality item!” she had grumbled, handing me a sky blue receipt.

This morning I hand my rectangle of paper to a different woman. Younger and dozier. She hunts endlessly through the serried rows of hangers, then brings me a lovely dress in plum linen wrapped tightly in transparent plastic.

“Thank you,” I say, picking up said item after an infinitesimal hesitation.

To the chapter of my turpitudes I must now add the abduction of a dress that does not belong to me, in place of one stolen from a dead woman, by me. The evil is rooted, moreover, in the infinitesimal nature of my hesitation. If my vacillation had been the fruit of a sense of compunction linked to the concept of ownership, I might yet be able to implore Saint Peter’s forgiveness; but I fear it is due to nothing more than the time needed to ensure the feasibility of my misdeed.

At one o’clock Manuela stops by the loge to drop off her
gloutof
.

“I wanted to come earlier, but Madame de Broglie was looking at me out of the corner.”

According to Manuela, the corner
of her eye
is a superfluous clarification.

As far as
gloutofs
are concerned: nestled amidst a profusion of rustling deep blue tissue paper are a magnificent Alsatian cake, succulent with inspiration; some whiskey tarts so delicate you hesitate to touch them for fear they will break; and some almond
tuiles
crisply caramelized on the edges. The sight of these treasures instantly causes me to drool.

“Thank you, Manuela,” I say, “but there will only be the two of us, you know.”

“Well then, just start in right away.”

“Thanks again, really, it must have taken you a lot of time.”

“Fiddle-dee-dee. I made two of everything and Fernando has you to thank.”

This broken stem that for you I loved

I
wonder if I am not turning into a contemplative esthete. With major Zen tendencies and, at the same time, a touch of Ronsard.

Let me explain. This is a somewhat special “movement of the world,” because it’s not about a movement of the body. But this morning, while having breakfast, I saw a movement.
The
movement. Perfection of movement. Yesterday (it was Monday), Madame Grémont, the cleaning lady, brought Maman a bouquet of roses. Madame Grémont spent Sunday at her sister’s, and her sister has a little allotment garden in Suresnes, one of the last ones, and she brought back a bouquet of the first roses of the season: yellow roses, a lovely pale yellow, like primroses. According to Madame Grémont, this particular rosebush is called “The Pilgrim.” I already like that for a start. It’s loftier, more poetic, less sappy, than calling a rosebush “Madame Figaro” or “Un amour de Proust” (I’m not making this up). Okay, I won’t go into the fact that Madame Grémont offers roses to Maman. They have the same relationship that all progressive middle-class women have with their cleaning ladies, although Maman really thinks she is the exception: a good old rose-colored paternalistic relationship (we offer her coffee, give her decent pay, never scold, pass on old clothes and broken furniture, and show an interest in her children, and in return she brings us roses and brown and beige crocheted bedspreads). But those roses . . . they were something else.

I was having breakfast and looking at the bouquet on the kitchen counter. I don’t believe I was thinking about anything. And that could be why I noticed the movement; maybe if I’d been preoccupied with something else, if the kitchen hadn’t been quiet, if I hadn’t been alone in there, I wouldn’t have been attentive enough. But I was alone, and calm, and empty. So I was able to take it in.

There was a little sound, a sort of quivering in the air that went, “shhhh” very very very quietly: a tiny rosebud on a little broken stem that dropped onto the counter. The moment it touched the surface it went “puff,” a “puff” of the ultrasonic variety, for the ears of mice alone, or for human ears when everything is very very very silent. I stopped there with my spoon in the air, totally transfixed. It was magnificent. But what was it that was so magnificent? I couldn’t get over it: it was just a little rosebud at the end of a broken stem, dropping onto the counter. And so?

I understood when I went over and looked at the motionless rosebud where it had fallen. It’s something to do with time, not space. Sure, a rosebud that has just gracefully dropped from the flower is always lovely to look at. It’s so artistic: you could paint them over and over! But that doesn’t explain
the
movement.
The
movement . . . and we think such things are spatial.

In the split second while I saw the stem and the bud drop to the counter I intuited the essence of Beauty. Yes, here I am, a little twelve-and-a-half-year-old brat, and I have been incredibly lucky because this morning all the conditions were ripe: an empty mind, a calm house, lovely roses, a rosebud dropping. And that is why I thought of Ronsard’s poem, though I didn’t really understand it at first: because he talks about time, and roses. Because beauty consists of its own passing, just as we reach for it. It’s the ephemeral configuration of things in the moment, when you can see both their beauty and their death.

Oh my gosh, I thought, does this mean that this is how we must live our lives? Constantly poised between beauty and death, between movement and its disappearance?

Maybe that’s what being alive is all about: so we can track down those moments that are dying.