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Slightly sticky, slightly greasy, they fell asleep together, beneath a sheet that smelled of debauchery and healing skin.
83
WHEN she woke up to go and check on Paulette, Camille stepped on the alarm clock and unplugged it. Nobody dared wake him up. Neither the distracted household, nor his boss, who took over for him without batting an eyelid.
He must be in such pain, poor boy . . .
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He left his room at about two in the morning and knocked on the door at the end of the corridor.
He knelt down at the foot of her mattress.
She was reading.
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“Hmm . . . hmm.”
She lowered her newspaper, raised her head and acted surprised: “Problem?”
“Uh, Officer, sir, I'm here to file a complaint.”
“Have you had something stolen?”
Okay, easy now! Calm down! He wasn't about to say “my heart” or any rubbish like that.
“Well, that is, uh, there was a break-in yesterday,” he continued.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“And were you there?”
“I was asleep.”
“Did you see anything?”
“No.”
“That's very unfortunate. Are you properly insured, at least?”
“No,” he replied sheepishly.
She sighed. “Your testimony is rather vague. I know such things are never pleasant, but . . . You know . . . It might be best to proceed with a reenactment of the incident.”
“Ah?”
“Well, yes.”
In one bound he was on top of her. She shrieked.
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“Hey, I'm starving too! I haven't eaten a thing since last night and you're the one who's gonna pay, Mary Poppins. Shit, how long has it been rumbling away in there. I'm going to eat the whole hog, now . . .”
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He devoured her from head to foot.
He began by pecking at her freckles; then he nibbled, kissed, chomped, licked, gobbled, chewed, picked, bit and gnawed her to the bone. While he was at it she took her pleasure and repaid him in kind.
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They hardly dared speak or even look at each other.
Camille seemed upset.
“What is it?” he asked worriedly.
“Ah, sir, I know this is really stupid, but I needed a second copy for our archives and I forgot to insert the carbon paper. We're going to have to start again, from the beginning.”
“Now?”
“No. Not now. But we mustn't leave it too long, all the same. Just in case you forget any important details.”
“All right. And youâd'you think I'll be reimbursed?”
“I'd be surprised.”
“The thief took everything, you know.”
“Everything?”
“Almost everything.”
“That's tough.”
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Camille lay on her stomach and put her chin on her hands.
“You're beautiful.”
“Oh, stop,” she said, snuggling into his arms.
“Nah, you're right, you're not beautiful, you're . . . I don't know how to say it. You're alive. Everything about you is alive: your hair, your eyes, your ears, your little nose, your big mouth, your hands, your adorable ass, your long legs, the faces you make, your voice, your softness, your silences, your . . .”
“My organism?”
“Yeah.”
“I'm not beautiful but my organism is alive. A great declaration. I've never heard that one before.”
“Don't play with words,” he said, clouding over. “It's too easy for you. Uhâ”
“What?”
“I'm even hungrier than before. I really have to go eat something now.”
“Okay, then, so long. Till we next have the pleasure, as they say.”
He panicked: “Do, do you want me to bring you something?”
“What do you suggest?” she said, stretching.
“Whatever you like.”
Then, after a moment's thought: “Nothing. Everything.”
“Okay. I'll get it.”
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He was leaning against the wall, his tray on his lap. He uncorked a bottle and handed her a glass. She put down her sketchbook.
They raised their glasses.
“To the future.”
“No. Please, anything but. To now,” she corrected.
Ouch.
“The future. Youâuhâ”
She looked him straight in the eyes: “Franck, please tell me: we're not going to fall in love, are we?”
He pretended to choke.
“Am, orrgl, argh . . . Are you crazy? Of course not!”
“Ah! You scared me for a minute. We've already done so many stupid things, the two of us.”
“Yeah, that's for sure. Though we're not really counting anymore, are we?”
“I am. Yes, I am.”
“Ah?”
“Yes. Let's fuck, drink, go for walks, and hold hands; you can grab me by the neck and let me chase after you if you want but . . . Let's not fall in love. Please.”
“Okay. I'll write it down.”
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“Are you drawing me?”
“Yes.”
“How are you drawing me?”
“The way I see you.”
“Do I look good?”
“I like the way you look.”
He licked the sauce off his plate, put down his glass and reluctantly returned to dealing with a few administrative hassles.
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This time they did not hurry, and when they rolled apart, sated, at the edge of the abyss, Franck spoke to the ceiling:
“Agreed, Camille, I'll never love you.”
“Thank you, Franck. Me neither.”
PART FIVE
84
NOTHING changed, everything changed. Franck lost his appetite and Camille regained her color. Paris became more beautiful, more luminous, a happier place. People smiled more and the asphalt seemed more elastic. As if everything was within reach; the contours of the world were more precise and the world itself was lighter.
Microclimate on the Champ-de-Mars? Global warming on their planet? A temporary end to gravity? Nothing made sense anymore; nothing mattered.
They navigated from his bed to her mattress, lay down as if on a carpet of eggs, and said tender things while they caressed each other's back. Neither one wanted to be naked in the other's presence; they were a bit gauche and a bit silly, and they felt obliged to pull the sheets up over their modest moments, before lapsing into debauchery.
A new apprenticeship or an initial rough sketch? They were attentive, and applied themselves in silence.
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Pikou doffed his dog jacket and Madame Perreira brought her flowerpots back out. It was still a bit early for the parakeets.
“Hep, hep, hep,” she said one morning, “I've got something for you.”
The letter had been posted from the Côtes-d'Armor in Brittany.
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September 10, 1889.
Open quotes.
Whatever was in my throat seems to be disappearing, I'm still eating with some difficulty, but at least am able to once again.
Close quotes.
Thank you.
When she turned the card over Camille beheld the febrile face of Vincent van Gogh.
She slipped it into her notebook.
They weren't going to Monoprix so much anymore. Thanks to the three books which Philibert had given Camille and Pauletteâ
Hidden, Surprising Paris
;
Paris: 300 Façades for the Curious
; and
Guide to Paris Tearooms
, off you go, kidsâCamille kept her head up and no longer said anything bad about her neighborhood, where Art Nouveau was on display beneath an open sky.
From that time on she and Paulette would ramble from the Russian isbas on the boulevard Beau-Séjour to the Mouzaïa of the Buttes-Chaumont, by way of the Hôtel du Nord and the Saint-Vincent cemetery, where one day they had a picnic with Maurice Utrillo and Eugène Boudin on Marcel Aymé's tomb.
“ âAs for Théophile Alexandre Steinlen, a marvelous painter of cats and human misery, he has been laid to rest beneath a tree, in the south-eastern corner of the cemetery.' That's a nice entry, isn't it?”
“Why are you always taking me to see dead people?” asked Paulette.
“Sorry?”
She didn't answer.
“Where would you like to go, Paulette dear? To a nightclub?”
No answer.
“Yoo-hoo! Paulette!”
“Let's go home. I'm tired.”
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And once again they found themselves in a taxi whose driver groused because of the wheelchair.
It was the perfect moron-detector, that buggy.
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Camille was tired.
More and more tired, heavier and heavier.
She didn't like to admit it but she was constantly having to keep Paulette from going over the edge: struggling with her to get her dressed, feeding her and obliging her to carry on a conversation. It wasn't even a conversation she wanted; a simple response would do. The stubborn old woman did not want to see a doctor and the tolerant young woman did not try to go against her will, first of all because it was not something she typically did, and secondly because it was up to Franck to convince her. But whenever they went to the library, Camille immersed herself in medical magazines or books, reading depressing things about the degeneration of the cerebellum and other Alzheimeresque delights of old age. She then put away these Pandora's boxes with a sigh, and made a few bad “good resolutions”: if Paulette didn't want to get care, if she didn't want to show any interest in the modern world, if she didn't want to finish her plate and would rather wear her coat over her bathrobe to go for her walk, that was, after all, her right. Her most legitimate right. Camille didn't want to pressure her, and if there were people who had a problem with that, then let them get her to talk about her pastâabout her mother, about the evenings during the grape picking, about the day the abbot nearly drowned in the Louère because he had thrown the casting net a bit too quickly and it had caught on one of the buttons on his cassock, or about her gardenâlet them try to put the spark back in her eyes, eyes which had become almost opaque. In any case, as far as Camille was concerned, there was nothing else to be done.
“Which sort of lettuces did you grow?”
“May Queen or Fat Lazy Blonde.”
“And the carrots?”
“La Palaiseau, of course.”
“And the spinach?”
“Ooh . . . spinach. Monstrueux de Viroflay. That was a good variety, grew well.”
“But how can you manage to remember all those names?”
“And I remember a whole lot more. I'd leaf through the seed catalog every night, the way others would get their prayer missals all sticky. I loved it. My husband dreamt about cartridge pouches when he read his hunting and fishing catalog, and I loved my plants. Folks came from all over to admire my garden, did you know that?”
She would put her in the light and draw her while she listened. And the more she drew her, the more she loved her.
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Would Paulette have struggled harder to stay on her feet if there hadn't been the wheelchair? Had Camille infantilized her by begging her to sit all day so that they could go faster? Probably . . .
Never mind. What they were experiencing togetherâthe looks they exchanged, hand in hand, while life was crumbling away with every passing memoryâwas something no one could ever take away from them. Neither Franck nor Philibert, both of whom were leagues away from even conceiving of the wild, improvised nature of Camille and Paulette's friendship, nor the doctors who would never prevent an old woman from returning to the riverbank, eight years old again and shouting,
“Monsieur l'abbé! Monsieur l'abbé!”
through her tears, because if the abbot went under, it would be straight to hell for all his choir children . . .
“I tossed my rosary out to himâwhat on earth good do you think that could have done the poor man? I think I began to lose my faith that day, because instead of begging God to save him, he was calling for his mother. Now that seemed fishy to me.”
85
“FRANCK?”
“Mmm?”
“I'm worried about Paulette.”
“I know.”
“What should I do? Force her to get some tests?”
“I think I'm going to sell my motorbike.”
“Right. I can see you really care about what I'm saying.”
86
HE didn't sell it. He swapped it with the grill man at work for his pretentious Golf. He was at the bottom of the abyss that week but he was careful not to show it and, the following Sunday, he gathered all of them around Paulette's bed.
Stroke of luck, the weather was fine.
“Aren't you going to work?” she asked.
“Oh, I don't know. Don't much feel like it today. Say, uh, wasn't it the first day of spring yesterday?”
The others were confused, between Philibert who lived in his fog of unintelligible scribbles, and Paulette and Camille who'd lost all notion of time for weeks now; so he was deluding himself if he hoped to get any sort of response.
But he didn't give up: “It is, you Parisians! It's spring, I swear!”
“Oh?”
Not very enthusiastic, this audience.
“You don't care?”
“Yes, yes . . .”
“No, you don't, I can see that you don't.”
He went over to the window: “Nah, I was just saying that. Just saying that because it's a pity to stay here watching the Chinese tourists sprouting on the Champ-de-Mars when we have a nice country house like all the rich people in the building, and if you get a move on we could stop at the market in Azay and buy what we need to make a good lunch. At least Iâwell, that's my vote. If you're not interested, I'll go back to bed.”