She pushed open the door and added calmly, “There's still some food in those boxes. Rice, tomato sauce and cookies, I think. There are some blankets over there, and here's the electric radiator. Don't put it on full or it blows the fuse. There's a Turkish toilet on the landing. In theory, you'll be the only one using it. I say in theory because I've sometimes heard noise across the way but I've never seen anyone. And . . . what else? Oh, yes! I used to live with a junkie so I know exactly what will happen. I know that someday, maybe even tomorrow, you'll disappear and take everything with you. I know you'll try to pawn it all so you can pay for a good time. The radiator, the hot plates, the mattress, the sugar, the towels, everything. Okay. I know that. The only thing I ask is, please be discreet. This isn't really my place either, so . . . so please don't get me in trouble. If you're still here tomorrow, I'll go and see the concierge so there won't be any problems. That's it.”
“Who drew that?” he asked, pointing to the trompe l'oeil. A huge window open onto the Seine with a seagull perched on the balcony.
“I did.”
“You used to live here?”
“Yes.”
Barbès sniffed around suspiciously, then lay down in a ball on the mattress.
“I'll get going,” said Camille.
“Hey.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because the exact same thing happened to me. I was on the street, and someone brought me here.”
“I won't stay long.”
“I don't care. Don't say anything. I know it won't be the truth, anyway.”
“I'm seeing people at the rehab, at Marmottan.”
“Okay, sure. Right. Sweet dreams.”
54
THREE days later Madame Perreira lifted aside the sublimely sheer curtains at her door and called to Camille in the hall:
“Mademoiselle, hello?”
Shit, that didn't take long. What a hassle. And they'd even given him fifty euros.
“Hello.”
“Yes, hello. Say . . .”
She made a face. “Is he your friend, that little pig?”
“Pardon?”
“The biker.”
“Uh . . . yes,” replied Camille, relieved. “Is there a problem?”
“Not one, more like five! He's beginning to get on my nerves, that boy! No kidding! I'm getting real fond of him. Come here and have a look.”
Camille followed her into the courtyard.
“Well?”
“I, uh, I don't see anything.”
“The oil spots.”
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Indeed, with a good magnifying glass you could clearly see five tiny little black spots on the cobblestones.
“Mechanics are all fine and good but it's a dirty job, so you tell him for me that newspapers aren't just for dogs, all right?”
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Once she'd dealt with that problem, the concierge grew more affable. A little commentary on the weather: “It's fine. It gets rid of all the vermin.” On the shiny brass door handles: “Well, for sure, to get them that way, you gotta make an effort.” On the baby stroller wheels full of dog shit. On the lady on the sixth floor who had just lost her husband, poor woman. And by then she'd calmed down.
“Madame Perreira . . .”
“That's me.”
“I don't know if you've noticed, but . . . I've got a friend staying up on the eighth floor.”
“Oh, I don't get involved in your business, you know! People in, people out . . . I don't say I understand everything that's going on, but anyway ...”
“I mean the one who has a dog.”
“Vincent?”
“Uh . . .”
“Yes, Vincent! The guy with AIDS, with his little griffon?”
Camille was dumbfounded.
“He came to see me yesterday, because my Pikou was barking like crazy behind the door, so we introduced them. That way it's easier. You know what they're like. They sniff the behinds once and for all and then is all squared away. Well, why are you looking at me like that?”
“Why do you say he has AIDS?”
“Sweet Jesus, because he told me so himself! We drank a glass of port. Would you like one, by the way?”
“No, no, I, well, thanks.”
“Ah yes, it's sad, but like I tell him, they can treat it now . . . They've found good medicine for it.”
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Camille was so puzzled that she forgot to take the elevator. What was that all about? Why weren't the rags with the rags and the napkins with the napkins?
Where the hell were they headed?
Life had been less complicated when she had nothing more to do than let her stones pile up.
No, come on, don't say that, stupid.
You're right. I won't say that.
“What's up?”
“Look at my sweater,” grumbled Franck with disgust. “It's the fucking washing machine! Shit, this was one I really liked, and look! Just look! It's way too small now.”
“Hang on, I'll cut off the sleeves and you can give it to the concierge for her rat.”
“That's right, go ahead and laugh. A brand-new Ralph Lauren.”
“Well, all the more reason! She'll be delighted! On top of which, she adores you.”
“Oh, really?”
“She just said so. âAh, doesn't your friend cut a fine figure on his motorbike!' ”
“No way.”
“I swear.”
“Okay, then, why not. I'll take it down to her when I leave.”
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Camille bit the inside of her cheek and custom-tailored a chic little tube for Pikou.
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“You know she'll give you a kiss on the cheek, lucky you.”
“No way, don't scare me!”
“And Philou?”
“You mean Cyrano? He's at his theater class.”
“Really?”
“You should have seen him as he was heading out. Disguised again like I-don't-know-what . . . With a big cape and all.”
They laughed.
“I adore him.”
“Me too.”
She went to make some tea.
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“Want some?”
“No, thanks,” he replied, “I have to get going. Sayâ”
“What?”
“Don't you feel like getting out for a change?”
“Pardon?”
“When was the last time you got out of Paris?”
“Ages.”
“Sunday we're slaughtering the pig, you want to come? I'm sure you'd find it interesting . . . I mean, for your drawing.”
“Whereabouts?”
“At a friend's place, in the Cher region.”
“I don't know . . .”
“Yes, you do! Ah, come on, you have to see this at least once in your life. Someday it will all be a thing of the past, you know.”
“I'll think about it.”
“You do that, think about it. That's your specialty, thinking about things. Where's my sweater?”
“Here,” said Camille, pointing to a magnificent pale green yappylittle-dog suit.
“Fuck. And it was a Ralph Lauren. I can't believe it, I swear to God.”
“Go on . . . you'll have two new friends for life.”
“Shit, he better not piss on my motorbike, the pop-eyed little runt!”
“Don't worry, it'll be fine,” she giggled, holding the door for him. And, adopting her best Portuguese accent, “Yes, yes, I swear, you frienda, he cuts a fine figure on his motorbike . . .”
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Camille ran to switch off the kettle, took her sketchbook and went to sit by the mirror. She began to laugh, finally. To laugh like crazy. Like a kid. She could just picture the scene: Mr. Smart-Ass, always so smug, knocking casually on the window of the concierge's kiosk with his little offering of doggie felt and his balls on a silver tray. It was so good to laugh! So, so good. She hadn't fixed her hair, so she drew her spikes, her dimples, her silly mood and wrote:
Camille, January 2004,
then took a shower and decided that, yes, she would go somewhere for a change, with Franck.
That was the least she owed him . . .
A message on her cell phone. Her mother. Oh, no, not today. To delete, press the star key.
Right, okay. Here we go. Star.
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She spent the rest of the day listening to music, with her treasures and her box of watercolors. Smoking, nibbling, licking her sable-fur brushes, laughing to herself and grimacing when it was time to put on her overalls.
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You've done a great job clearing the terrain so far, she thought, trotting along to the métro, but there's still work to be done, you know that. You don't want to stop just yet, do you?
I'm doing what I can, I'm doing what I can.
Go on, we have faith in you.
No, no, don't have faith in me, it stresses me out.
Tsk, go on, hurry up. You're already very late.
55
PHILIBERT was unhappy. He followed Franck around the apartment: “It's not a good idea. You're leaving too late. In an hour it will be dark. It's going to freeze over. It's not a good idea. Leave to-tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning we're killing the pig.”
“But, but what sort of an idea is that! Ca-Camille,” he pleaded, wringing his hands, “st-stay here with me, I'll take you to the Pa-Palace of Teas . . .”
“That's enough,” grumbled Franck, stuffing his toothbrush into a pair of socks. “We're not going to the ends of the earth. It'll take us an hour.”
“Oh, d-don't say that. You're going to d-drive like a lunatic.”
“No, I won't.”
“But you will, I kn-know you.”
“Philou, cut it out! I won't drop her, I promise. You coming, mademoiselle?”
“Oh, IâIâ,” fumbled Philibert.
“You what?” barked Franck.
“I have no-no one else but you two on earth.”
Silence.
“Oh, my, my . . . I don't believe it. Bringing out the violins now.”
Camille stood on tiptoe to kiss Philibert: “Me too, you're all I have on earth. Don't worry.”
Franck sighed.
“How the hell did I get mixed up with such a bunch of lunatics! Any more melodrama and we'll be drowning in soap bubbles! We're not going off to war, fuck! We'll be gone forty-eight hours!”
“I'll bring you back a nice steak,” said Camille, heading into the elevator.
The doors closed on them.
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“Hey.”
“What?”
“There's no steaks in a pig.”
“No?”
“Hell no.”
“Well, what is there?”
He rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
56
THEY had not even reached the Porte d'Orléans when Franck pulled over to the hard shoulder and motioned to Camille to get off the bike.
“Listen, there's something not quite right here.”
“What?”
“When I lean into the curves, you have to lean with me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I'm sure! You'll run us off, the way you're leaning now!”
“But I thought by leaning the other way I was keeping us balanced.”
“Fuck, Camille, I don't know how to give you a physics lesson but it has something to do with the center of gravity, you see? If we lean together, the tires grip better.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. Lean with me. Trust me.”
“Franck?”
“What is it? Are you scared? You can still get back on the métro, you know.”
“I'm cold.”
“Already?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Let go of the handles and press yourself up against me. Get as close as possible and put your hands under my jacket.”
“Okay.”
“Hey.”
“What?”
“Don't take advantage, all right?” he added, ironically, pulling her visor back down with a snap.
A hundred yards farther along she was already icy cold again; by the time they turned off the freeway she was deep-frozen; and when they reached the farmyard she could not feel her arms.
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He helped her climb off and supported her as far as the door. “Ah, there you are, well, what have we here?”
“A young lady who might as well be a fish stick.”
“Come on in, please, come in. Jeannine! Here's our Franck with his girlfriend.”
“Oh, the poor thing,” lamented Jeannine, “what on earth have you done to her? If that isn't a shame . . . She's completely blue, poor child. Out of the way. Jean-Pierre! Put a chair by the fire!”
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Franck knelt down in front of Camille.
“Hey, you need to take your coat off now.”
No reaction.
“Here, I'll give you a hand. Let's start with your feet.”
He pulled off her shoes and three pairs of socks.
“There . . . that's better. Okay, now the rest.”
She was so rigid that it was only with great difficulty that he got her arms out of her sleeves. There, there. Let me do it, little ice cube.
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“Good lord! Get her something hot!” someone shouted.
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Camille was the new center of attention.
Or, how to defrost a Parisian girl without breaking her.
“I have some hot kidneys,” shouted Jeannine.
A flutter of panic from Camille where she sat by the fireplace. Franck rescued the situation: “No, no, let me take care of it. You must have some bouillon kicking around,” he asked, looking under saucepan lids.
“That's from yesterday's chicken.”
“Perfect. I'll take care of it. Give her something to drink in the meantime.”