Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier Page 16

  ‘Would you be able to come and turn on the TV for me on Saturday? Sabbath.’

  ‘Sorry, to whom am I talking?’

  ‘Why the sudden bloody politeness?’

  It was Monsieur Caro. I had known immediately, but I wanted to tease him a little. I had left my phone number beneath his beautiful marble lamp the last time I was there, but I hadn’t thought he would call.

  ‘Aren’t I always meant to be polite? To whom do I have the honour of speaking?’

  I realised I was smiling as I talked to Monsieur Caro. An infatuated, ridiculous smile.

  ‘Honour and honour, it’s Monsieur Caro here. Could you come over on Saturday at 12.30? 12.25, actually? Yes or no?’

  My smile refused to fade. On the way to my son’s summer club, I debated whether I should ask my ex-husband to look after him on Saturday, but then decided I would take him with me. Maybe we could do something fun after our visit to Monsieur Caro’s apartment. And by doing so, that would give us a natural way of spending the day together.

  But the closer I got to his summer club, the more surreal it all felt – Areva, Bellivier, Christophe … The mother of one of my son’s friends came over and started making small talk. It felt like I was floating away during our conversation. An unpleasant feeling. But then, to my delight, I saw my son coming towards me with a smile, and I excused myself and said I had to go.

  Damned sun, what are you playing at, Mancebo thinks, pulling out a small hand fan which has been gathering dust beneath the till for years. Anything to defend ourselves against the sun’s weapon: the heat. The little hand fan is going flat out, but to no avail.

  ‘It’ll be the end of us all,’ Monsieur Cannava warns, pointing up to the sun as he passes by on his way to work.

  ‘Yes, this heat really saps your strength,’ Mancebo replies from his seat behind the till.

  Other than the necessary trips outside with the fruit and vegetable stands, he still hasn’t ventured onto the street. His fear and sadness have now transformed into anger, but Mancebo still isn’t ready to take up his surveillance of the boulevard. Anger, sleeplessness and heat are not a good combination. Before Monsieur Cannava has time to pass the shop, Mancebo spots Amir moving off on his scooter, not wearing a helmet. Mancebo shakes his head and sighs deeply.

  No one will stop me from doing my job, he thinks, placing the stool where it has always stood outside the shop. He angrily looks up at the window opposite. ‘Bastard writer, don’t think you can mess with me,’ he mumbles quietly. Mancebo almost feels like shutting up shop, crossing the boulevard and making his way up the fire escape. Knocking on the door and telling that word-loving jerk that he knows full well what is going on; that he, Mancebo, has been drawn into some stupid crime novel, and that he doesn’t give a damn. If the writer didn’t have any ideas of his own, then he should go for it. Let yourself take inspiration from a poor grocer, you miserable Englishman. He might not even speak French, but that doesn’t matter. He deserves to stand there like a fool, and even if he has no idea what Mancebo is saying, he’ll surely understand that the little grocer has managed to work it all out. And that would be the end of his new book.

  Two boys come into the shop. Mancebo gets up from his stool and shuffles over to the counter. They’re quick, the boys, and have already managed to grab two Coca-Colas.

  ‘Was that all?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Three euros, please.’

  Mancebo places the drinks in a plastic bag, and politely hands it over. The boys look up at him.

  ‘Did they run out?’

  ‘What?’

  Mancebo doesn’t know what they mean.

  ‘The Chinese notebooks?’

  Mancebo sighs and feels the urge to throw them out. Not because he’s tired of children coming in and asking for notebooks, but because he has more of an urge to cross the road and strangle Ted Baker than he does to play the kind uncle figure who gives out presents. But Mancebo manages to pull himself together, and he drops two notebooks into the white bag without a word.

  ‘Thank you, monsieur.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Just then, Amir comes into the shop, and the two boys leave.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Why did you drive off without …’

  But Mancebo immediately regrets the fact that he can’t even greet his son without giving him a telling-off.

  ‘I wanted to get to the library before it got too busy.’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘I only managed to get one of them, the others were already on loan. If you want, I can join the waiting list. But maybe you can start with this one and see whether you like it. You know, sometimes you might not like the actual language the author uses.’

  Mancebo’s anger quickly subsides, replaced by curiosity. But his fear is still there. He doesn’t want any information that could strengthen his suspicion that he’s being used as the inspiration for a book.

  ‘Thanks, Amir. Wear your helmet next time you go on the scooter. He’s probably not worth dying for.’

  Mancebo points to the photograph of Ted Baker on the back of the book.

  During the day, Mancebo tries to read the first chapter of Ted Baker’s The Rat Catcher, but he finds himself being constantly interrupted by customers. Mostly children looking for notebooks. Mancebo has no idea how many he has handed out. When the time comes for his afternoon break, he decides not even to attempt to start the book again today. He feels like he might need a break from Monsieur Baker and his fantasy world. Imagine that there are people who get paid for using their imagination, Mancebo thinks as he starts to close up the fruit stand. Tariq quickly locks up his cobbler’s and is soon over at Mancebo’s shop.

  ‘You’ve had a heck of a lot of customers today! Every time I looked over, you were busy. Hope they start running to your place so much that they wear out their shoes, then maybe I can get some customers too.’

  Tariq laughs. Mancebo doesn’t. Though his mood has improved slightly over the course of the day – once he decided to give up his attempts to read the book – he is still far from laughter. They walk slowly along the boulevard and leave the centre of commerce, Mancebo’s world, to make their way towards the periphery, Le Soleil. The world beyond the bar is somewhere they prefer not to, and rarely do, make their way out into. They say nothing and shake hands with François, who quickly pours them both a pastis.

  ‘Any ice?’

  Mancebo shakes his head. It might be warm, but ice in the pastis doesn’t appeal to him.

  ‘So how’s business in this heat? Things’ve been at a near standstill here.’

  François gestures with one hand over the empty bar.

  ‘Mancebo hasn’t had a quiet minute,’ Tariq explains. ‘Don’t ask me why. Mostly schoolkids.’

  ‘Schoolkids? Aren’t they on holiday?’

  ‘Yes, most of them,’ Mancebo replies, ‘but they go on trips, picnics.’

  ‘What do they buy, then?’ François sounds genuinely interested.

  ‘Juice, mostly.’

  ‘I was just about to say that you’ve taken my customers, but no, not schoolkids, I’ve never had those here.’

  Mancebo tries to find somewhere he can rest his gaze, because he’s bubbling inside. It’s all starting to get too much for a lone greengrocer to handle. Too much to keep to himself. And it’s not just that he’s keeping the task quiet, that he has two jobs to do, has been threatened in his shop and hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in a long time. On top of that, he also has a book to read and a constant stream of children coming in to ask for notebooks.

  His eyes dart around the bar, and drops of sweat glisten on his already damp forehead. He takes off his hat. A clear sign that something isn’t right. Tariq and François are talking, but Mancebo can’t make out what they’re saying. He’s out of it. He has departed reality, it’s given him too much to handle in too short a time. For a few seconds, Mancebo doesn’t know what he is doing in the bar. His head feels like
a ticking bomb, and it feels like his tongue is swelling in his mouth. Too many words have been stored up by that fleshy part of his body. Eventually, to put an end to the febrile activity in his mind, to stop his tongue from splitting at the seams, he shouts:

  ‘Bloody madmen!’

  François and Tariq fall silent. The bar owner quickly goes to fetch a glass of water, which he places in front of Mancebo.

  I knew it, Mancebo thinks. I’m going mad. Maybe I should go to the doctor. But what would I say to him? The truth, perhaps. Doctors are sworn to confidentiality, after all. Maybe I need to go and talk to someone. A psychologist? A psychiatrist? For the first time, Mancebo thanks God for the heat, which might lead Tariq and François to think that he’s simply suffering from an innocent bout of heatstroke. It can happen to the best of us.

  Mancebo looks down at the glass of water in front of him, but he doesn’t seem to be able to lift it up. His hand fumbles for it, but the glass seems to move every time he tries to get close. Suddenly, he can see two glasses. He’s seeing double. Two of Tariq, two of François. But Mancebo isn’t afraid, he’s already thrown in the towel, he can’t do it any more. He doesn’t even have the energy to be afraid. He needs to get help. He’s sure of that now. He sees the two Tariqs say something to him, but he can’t make it out. Mancebo now sees the four men glance at one another and exchange a few words. His head is pounding as though someone has hit him with a club.

  Mancebo closes his eyes and feels himself being carried away. The next minute, he realises he’s in his own van. Tariq is behind the wheel, his eyes darting between the road and his cousin.

  ‘Can you hear me? You’ll be OK soon. We’re on the way to the hospital. You don’t feel any pain in your chest?’

  Tariq is speaking with an unusually calm voice, but then he practically screams:

  ‘All we need now is for this boneshaker to stop working!’

  ‘It won’t. That was a lie. It’s always run smoothly,’ Mancebo says before he vomits onto the atlases between the front seats.

  ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ Tariq shouts, almost driving into the back of the car in front.

  He slams on the brakes, takes a deep breath and then holds up a hand in apology to the other drivers.

  ‘OK, OK, it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all, we’re almost there, stay with me, brother, we’ll sort you out, whatever the hell’s wrong with you.’

  Tariq doesn’t sound confident, and the sweat is running down his forehead as he pulls up outside A&E. There are two ambulances by the entrance, and once Tariq parks the van, it looks like three. Mancebo can’t make out anything but light and shadow at the moment. But in the midst of his suffering, he feels a certain relief. He’s given up. Someone else can take over. He needs help.

  Mancebo is lying on a bed. The strip lights on the ceiling are like long, bright dashes as he is rolled forward. He discovers that his upper body is bare and that there are some kind of suction cups on his chest. He notices people coming and going. Someone holds a pen in front of him and tells him to follow it with his eyes. Mancebo tries, but his headache is like a monster. It’s handicapping him.

  He looks straight past everyone in the room. Someone shines a light into his eyes and someone else quickly holds out two white tablets and a glass of water. He takes the glass and swallows the tablets with his eyes closed. The light is his worst enemy right now, but someone doesn’t want him to defend himself against it. A doctor asks him to sit up and open his eyes. But he can’t.

  ‘Could you tell me your name, monsieur?’

  Mancebo wants to be helpful. He is, by nature, a helpful man, but his mouth refuses to co-operate. He knows what his name is, but he can’t get it out.

  ‘When were you born?’

  ‘Second …’

  ‘What is the name of our president?’

  Sorry, sorry, Mancebo thinks, sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. I’m just a burden, I’m being a burden, I’m no good. Mancebo feels his bed start to move, and he hears someone tell him to close his eyes. He is moved onto a trolley and then pushed into an enormous tube. They’re going to take a closer look at his brain.

  He still has a headache, but the worst of the pain is gone. Mancebo glances around. He is alone in a relatively small room. He has been given a drip. There’s a glass of water on the table, and he wishes he could reach it. He’s wearing a yellow hospital gown, but he has no idea how he got that on. He hears voices and footsteps outside the door. Wonder if I can talk now, he asks himself, making an attempt:

  ‘My name is Mancebo. I was born on the second of May, our president is François Hollande …’

  The door opens. Fatima stares at her husband. She just heard him mutter the president’s name. The doctors have shared Mancebo’s diagnosis with her, but now she questions whether they’re right. She gently closes the door and moves over to her husband. She pulls out the chair, sits down and catches her breath.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  What should I answer, Mancebo wonders. He scratches his head and realises that his hat is missing.

  ‘Have you seen my hat?’

  ‘Have I seen your hat?’

  Fatima casts a quick glance around the room. She notices that there is a plastic bag over by the wardrobe, and that Mancebo’s black coat is at the top of the pile.

  ‘It could be in the bag with your clothes?’

  ‘Can you get it for me?’

  Fatima peers at the bag, braces herself against Mancebo’s bed, and then heaves herself up, huffing and puffing as she does. She shuffles over to the bag. She returns, out of breath, with the black cap in her hand. Mancebo quickly pulls it on. Immediately, things feel a little better.

  ‘What’s wrong with me? Stroke? Brain tumour?’

  ‘Migraine.’

  Fatima sounds slightly disappointed when she says it, as though all the trouble they’ve gone through was worth more than a simple migraine.

  ‘Can you just suddenly develop those?’ Mancebo asks, sounding like a small child.

  He is neither relieved nor worried. His reaction would probably have been the same regardless of the diagnosis.

  ‘Apparently. They asked whether you’d been stressed lately, or sleeping badly, but you haven’t. Maybe you can develop them without any real reason.’

  Mancebo nods and thinks that considering everything he has been through lately, it might have been more surprising, a medical mystery even, if he hadn’t developed a migraine. The door opens and a young, male doctor comes in with a few sheets of paper in his hand.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘He … when I came in, he …’ Fatima begins.

  ‘I’m feeling better,’ Mancebo interrupts her.

  And it’s the truth. Just the fact that Mancebo manages to stop Fatima speaking on his behalf makes him feel better. A few weeks earlier, he would never have even realised that she often spoke for him. Maybe that was how he had wanted it, but not any more. And people have the right to change their minds.

  A pair of clean underpants is probably the only thing Mancebo is missing.

  Freshly showered, he is sitting in bed watching one of the many game shows on TV. Since he would normally be working at this time of day, it’s the first time he has ever watched that type of programme. Fatima is watching it too, but she already knows that the blue team will win. It’s a repeat. As Mancebo follows the games on TV, he busies himself with the tiny plastic cutlery and small pots of jam. He feels great, sitting there in his yellow gown and black hat. A nurse even offered Fatima a tray of food, but she said no.

  Just as the blue team is about to be given their knock-out questions, there’s a knock at the door. Mancebo takes a sip of his coffee and loudly and clearly asks whoever it is to come in.

  ‘Is it OK if Madame Flouriante stops by in a few minutes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mancebo replies. ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to ask madame to leave the room,’ the nurse says with a smile,
nodding at Fatima.

  ‘Yes, she will,’ Mancebo replies.

  Fatima gets up and leaves before Madame Flouriante even arrives. Madame Flouriante doesn’t look like a psychologist, but Mancebo has no idea what she could be otherwise. On the other hand, Mancebo doesn’t know if he’s ever met a psychologist before. The only one he can think of is the woman in The Sopranos.

  ‘How are you feeling, monsieur?’

  ‘Yes, fine, thanks.’

  ‘That’s good. Could you tell me a little about yourself?’

  Mancebo thinks for a moment, and imagines that the psychologist will interpret any pauses as something unusual.

  ‘I’m still working. In the service sector. Owner of a grocer’s shop, to be specific,’ Mancebo explains with his customer-service voice.

  ‘Aha, and where is that?’

  ‘At the foot of Montmartre.’

  ‘Ah. That sounds cosy.’

  Mancebo smiles. The word ‘cosy’ is probably the last one he would choose given the events of the past few days.

  ‘You’re smiling, what are you thinking about?’

  Mancebo is starting to dislike this entire situation. Typical psychologist, barging onto private property, into my head, asking seemingly innocent questions which don’t have any answers, Mancebo thinks, licking the jam from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Madame Flouriante nods and jots something down. I’ve done it now, Mancebo thinks. Now they’re never going to let me out. Maybe they’ll move me to a different ward. He had seen the arrows for the psychiatric ward when they rolled him through the hospital. Staying in could be nice for a day or two, of course, but no longer than that. He has a job to do, after all. He wonders whether it would be worth telling Madame Cat about the attack in his next report. It could have something to do with the case, after all, and it would also help to explain why he has been absent all day.