Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier Page 23

  Adèle suddenly comes to life.

  ‘So you’re going to the races tomorrow. Fatima and I are going to the hammam.’

  She says it as though Tariq would try to force her to go to the racing with him. He surely doesn’t want her to come, and he doesn’t reply. The room is silent. Mancebo wonders how many of the people around the table know that Fatima smokes. His eyes focus on Adèle. She looks up and meets his gaze with a smile. She knows. Mancebo can see it in her eyes. Adèle resumes her filing. Mancebo turns his attention to Amir, but he is so engrossed in his book that he doesn’t notice his father studying him.

  ‘Amir, my son, why are you reading about blue whales?’

  Amir shrugs.

  ‘Why not? They’re interesting animals.’

  Mancebo is convinced that Amir doesn’t know a thing. Tariq’s turn. He’s more difficult. Mancebo doesn’t know where he stands with his cousin, whose eyes reveal nothing. Tariq must feel Mancebo watching him, because he suddenly says:

  ‘How’s it going, brother?’

  A musty smell hits them as they open the door to the apartment. Mancebo notices Fatima’s hand as she coaxes the key from the lock. It’s the same hand which, just a few hours earlier, was clutching a cigarette. The same one which, time and again, has pulled cigarettes from his own hand and wagged a finger at smokers. But it’s also the hand which has caressed him.

  They step into the apartment. Amir quickly heads off to his room. Mancebo hangs up his coat and Fatima starts taking off her jewellery. He isn’t sure how to take the next step, and he stays where he is in the hallway instead. Then he goes towards Amir’s room and is just on the verge of knocking when he changes his mind. He needs a day to develop his plan before he drags his son into it. Mancebo has big things brewing.

  The morning at home was one long torment, a wait. All I wanted and could think about was opening the box and confirming that again, today, it was full of polystyrene. The thought of it being full of books filled me with panic. Though the metro was running smoothly, the journey to La Défense felt twice as long as usual.

  I hurried past the florist and half ran the last part of the way to Areva, slipping in through the revolving doors, pulling out my pass and making it into the lift at the last moment before the doors closed. With the keys in my hand, I quickly made my way to my office.

  I dropped to my knees and pulled out the box, tore back the flaps and shoved both hands inside. My fingers groped through the smooth polystyrene pieces, right down to the bottom. There were no books, what a relief. Not a single paperback. Maybe there never had been. Maybe I had just imagined seeing them there. Relieved, I remained on my knees for a few seconds and found myself thinking of Christophe as he prayed in church. I got up and turned on the computer.

  The way Areva towered up against the grey sky made it look terrifying. Maybe there was a storm on the way. I left the plaza and climbed the stairs. I didn’t know quite who I was looking for, only that it was a woman. The place I had suggested to meet might not have been the best, but it meant I could slip away if I didn’t want to follow through on the meeting. Thoughts of the polystyrene chips had been weighing so heavily on my mind over the past day that I hadn’t given the meeting much thought. And as I stood there waiting, it suddenly struck me that it might have been Christophe’s wife who contacted me, to find out whether I was the one who had given him the flowers on the metro. Or maybe it had something to do with my real job and the revelations about the HSBC affair.

  She was late, but the minute I saw her coming up from the escalator, I knew she was the woman I was waiting for. Somehow, she seemed to belong to a different day and age, and in the ultra-modern business quarter, the contrast was striking. She was a small woman in her sixties, wearing a brown skirt and a black polo shirt. She had a beige shawl with red flowers covering her head, and she was carrying an old canvas bag in one hand. She stopped and looked dejectedly up at La Grande Arche, as though she was going to be forced to climb it. I felt a sudden urge to rescue her from the trendy, overwhelming surroundings, and I suppose I did in a way; I jogged over to her, all to shorten her suffering.

  ‘You must be Madame Prévost?’

  Her face lit up.

  ‘How did you know?’

  I smiled and she linked her arm through mine. A natural gesture for her, perhaps, and oddly enough it didn’t feel unnatural to me, despite the fact we had never met before.

  ‘Where should we go?’

  ‘There’, I said, pointing up at La Grande Arche.

  It was a long time since I had last been to the top of the huge marble arch. There was a nice café at the very top.

  ‘Are you sure, madame?’ she asked gravely.

  Without replying, I steered her towards the lifts and bought tickets. The roomy glass box began its journey up to the top of the modern triumphal arch.

  ‘Did you know it was a Danish architect who designed this? Sadly he died before it was finished,’ I informed the woman.

  That was my anecdote for the lift journey, and I remembered that the man who showed me into Areva had told me something similar.

  ‘So, now I want to know what you want from me, how you got hold of my phone number,’ I said once we were sitting down in the café.

  She clutched her canvas bag.

  ‘My name is Madame Prévost. I’m Monsieur Caro’s sister.’

  The whole situation was starting to amuse me. I thought about how odd it was that she called her own brother monsieur, but considering his personality maybe that was natural. To begin with, I assumed she had contacted me because she was worried about her brother’s health, maybe she thought we were closer than we really were. Her fingers played with the canvas bag.

  ‘And I …’

  I had the sense she wasn’t feeling well. It was as though she disappeared elsewhere every now and then.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ I repeated, to get her back on the right track.

  ‘Monsieur Caro talks about you, how you’re a journalist, and I found your number next to his phone. I … I wanted to give you something.’

  Initially, I planned to tell her how I knew her brother, but I changed my mind out of fear that she would vanish again. She opened her canvas bag, which had a Velcro fastening. She pulled out a thick brown envelope and placed it on the table. Then she quickly closed the bag again, as though she was worried something might jump out. She licked her lips, took a worn green book out of the envelope and handed it to me.

  I wiped my hands on the napkin, mostly out of respect for the woman.

  ‘You want me to look inside?’

  She nodded. I opened it at random. The pages were thin, like greaseproof paper, and on the verge of falling out. They were covered in hard-to-read handwriting.

  ‘What is this?’ I asked with the same page still open.

  ‘It’s my mother’s diary.’

  ‘Judith Goldenberg’s diary?’

  Madame Prévost nodded.

  ‘Why do you want me to have it?’

  ‘Monsieur Caro said you wanted to write a book about her. He thinks it’s an awful idea, but I think it’s a good one.’

  I smiled.

  ‘It’s from when she was the doctor in the German concentration camp. Everything is documented.’

  ‘How could she have this? I mean, how was she allowed to keep a diary?’

  Madame Prévost gave me a questioning look.

  ‘Can’t you see?’

  I leafed forward a few pages and saw the stamps on almost every side. After reading a few complicated words and dosages, I finally understood.

  ‘Incredible. This was her prescription book.’

  ‘It contains information which never came out.’

  She opened her bag and took out two more brown envelopes.

  ‘Here’s another one from her time in the concentration camp, and this one is from Paris, post-war.’

  She put the books down on the table. I didn’t know what to say. I picked them up an
d leafed through them, mostly to give myself time to think.

  ‘Writing a book is an enormous undertaking. I know I said I wanted to do it, and I still do, but I’d like the chance to go through everything before I make any promises. All the same, it’s an honour … I’d be very happy to read them.’

  Something was scaring her, and I didn’t want to leave before I knew what it was, whether I could help her.

  ‘Does your brother know you called me, that we’re meeting?’

  ‘No.’

  So that was it.

  ‘And you don’t want him to know? I can understand that. I know what a temper that man has. I won’t say anything. You have my number.’

  My departure felt abrupt, but there was no more time, I had to get back to work. Madame Prévost held out her canvas bag.

  ‘Oh great, can I borrow it?’

  ‘Yes, I sewed Velcro into it this morning because it looked like rain.’

  She took my arm and we walked to the lift in silence. I had something valuable on either side of me, Madame Prévost and the canvas bag.

  ‘Why do you have the diaries?’

  ‘Monsieur Caro was going to burn them. I begged and pleaded for him to let me keep them. He agreed as long as I promised never to show them to anyone.’

  I nodded and could see that she was fighting back tears. Her fear had vanished.

  Since I had both a computer and a canvas bag full of one of the most significant events in world history, I had to hold the flowers in my mouth as I knocked on the concierge’s door. She was quick to answer, and I caught a whiff of food.

  ‘Good evening, madame. I don’t want to bother you. I just wanted to wish you a good holiday. I saw the note in the stairwell that you’re just working the rest of this week.’

  I handed over the flowers.

  ‘You can enjoy them for a few days, at least.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, they’re beautiful. They’re asters, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes … perhaps they are.’

  ‘Did you know that Monsieur Seguin, the one two floors up, is selling? Imagine, they’ve got three kids and …’

  ‘No, I didn’t know, I’m sorry to hear that, really. But I don’t want to bother you.’

  ‘You never do.’

  Back up in my apartment, I placed the canvas bag at the very top of my wardrobe, quickly got changed and headed back out to pick up my son.

  Mancebo is reluctant to haul himself out of bed that bank holiday. On the national day, no less, he has permitted himself to lie in until nine, and he is in no rush to get ready. He feels like a small child who doesn’t want to go to school and who hopes that Mum will write a sick note so that he doesn’t have to. Though who his mother could be by this point in time is something he has trouble imagining. Fatima hasn’t exactly been showing her most maternal side lately – loyal, honest and sage. Mancebo feels like a stranger around her. The radio is on in the kitchen, and Amir is moving around the apartment as though he’s looking for something. Fatima has already left for the hammam. Mancebo heard her shout goodbye.

  As Mancebo is brushing his teeth, the child, or at least the teenager in him, comes out. He spits the toothpaste into the sink, rinses his mouth and goes to grab his blue jacket from the hallway. He feels to check that the button is still there, grabs his packet of cigarettes, shakes one out and lights it. It’s the first time he’s ever smoked in the apartment. He even leaves the window closed and slumps down into an armchair, takes a few deep drags and studies the apartment opposite. The lights are off, and as a result he can’t work out whether anyone is home or if they’re just sleeping.

  For some reason, he takes it for granted that Monsieur Baker is still lying alone in bed. Writers probably take all the liberties they can, and Mancebo can’t imagine they work bank holidays. He takes a deep puff on his cigarette, which has never tasted so good. He would like a little fresh air inside, but his new-found obstinacy stops him. Instead, he allows the cigarette smoke to work its way into everything that might belong to Fatima: the clothes, sheets, hand towels. He blows a cloud of smoke straight at her pink bird, whose glittery wings change colour with the temperature. Not that the smoke seems to have any impact on it. It looks as pink as ever.

  ‘What’re you doing, Dad! Mum’s going to go crazy if she finds out you’re smoking at home! You know that! Put it out!’

  In all his teenage obstinacy, Mancebo had forgotten that Amir was at home. It’s easy to forget him, since everything he does is so discreet.

  ‘No, she’s not going to go crazy, she already is.’

  He regrets what he just said. He can’t allow his obstinacy to cross over onto his innocent son. But at the same time, something tells him that it’s not right to protect Amir from what is happening. His son is old enough to know the truth, what’s really going on around here. No son of his will live a life that’s not based on the truth. Even if it turns his view of his mother upside down. Amir is staring at the cigarette with wide eyes, as though it was a wild animal his father was playing with.

  ‘Sit down, Amir.’

  But Amir doesn’t move. Mancebo weighs up whether to let his son remain on his feet.

  ‘Please, sit down.’

  He taps the ash into one of the flowerpots and lets the butt lie. Amir is staring at his father as though he’s mad, and maybe he is. Amir’s powerful reaction confirms Mancebo’s suspicions – that he has no idea about Fatima’s smoking. But no more.

  ‘Please, Amir, my son, sit down and I’ll explain what’s going on. It’s not so bad, you’ve seen me smoke a thousand times. Never here, but still. Please sit down.’

  Amir sits down on the tired old armchair and stares at the cigarette butt in the flowerpot, as though it might suddenly launch an attack.

  ‘You know it was a surprise to me that your mother … my wife often calls your sister, that she buys pains au chocolat every morning, and that she runs …’

  Amir’s expression makes it clear that the things he has just mentioned are nothing compared to smoking in the apartment.

  ‘I know you don’t think it’s the same thing, but I’m trying to explain something very, very complicated so that you can understand everything that’s going on here.’

  Amir looks worried.

  ‘For almost thirty years, we, your mother and I, have lived here. That’s longer than you’ve even been alive. Can you imagine that? And for all these years, she’s complained that she doesn’t get a chance to sit down all day. When she talks about her day, she’s never mentioned that she goes to the bakery to buy breakfast. Isn’t that odd? After thirty years? But the strangest thing is that she has breakfast with Adèle. The woman she has done nothing but moan about for ten years. Every day for ten years, I’ve had to listen to her complain that dinner is a torment because she has to spend time with Adèle and hear about all of her aches and pains and so on. And if we ever stayed a minute longer than planned in their apartment, she would complain about that extra time she had to spend with Adèle. For ten years now, I’ve had to listen to it!’

  The teenage obstinacy has now taken full control of Mancebo’s body, and he does nothing to stop it. In fact, it helps him relay everything to Amir in the right way.

  ‘So when I found out that she runs over to the bakery every morning to buy pastries for herself and Adèle, of course I was surprised. And here comes the interesting part. When I confronted her with this truth, she denied it! If she’s been hiding that for ten years, what isn’t she capable of hiding? And what else is she lying about? I’ll spare you the other things she does during the day.’

  Amir’s expression has changed, and his eyes leave the cigarette butt and move to his father, as though he wants him to continue. Something he’s more than happy to do.

  ‘What I’m about to tell you is something I need you to believe. Yesterday, by changing my routine, I discovered that Fatima smokes.’

  Mancebo can see that the information in itself isn’t enough for Amir.

 
‘Due to various circumstances, I moved a short distance away from the shop, and when I looked up I saw Fatima, my wife, smoking a cigarette on the balcony. She tapped the ash straight down onto the pavement. This was in the afternoon, when Tariq and I were at our respective jobs and you’re usually in school. Where were you yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘At Khaled’s.’

  ‘That’s when Fatima smokes. She’s probably been carrying out this ritual at a different time every day, all depending on the circumstances.’

  Mancebo is pleased with that last sentence. The room is silent.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘More than sure.’

  For a moment, Amir seems to be thinking, and then he starts acting as though he were Fatima’s defence lawyer. A desperate one.

  ‘Are you sure she was the one smoking? She might’ve been helping someone else tap the ash from the cigarette …’

  Amir immediately realises how his attempt at a defence sounds. Bad.

  ‘So why does she say she’s allergic to cigarette smoke?’ Amir asks, going back to his pondering.

  Mancebo shrugs.

  ‘She didn’t even come to my poetry reading at the bar. She said there was too much cigarette smoke and …’

  Amir falls silent, and Mancebo suddenly feels a great deal of sympathy for his boy. He would never have imagined that this information about Fatima’s cigarette habit could hurt Amir so much.

  ‘My son. We’ll have to take it for what it is. We don’t know why she does what she does.’

  ‘Haven’t you asked her?’ Amir wonders, sounding surprised.

  So far, Mancebo has forgotten to say that no one else must find out that they know about Fatima’s smoking habit. He bites his lip, attempting to gain enough time to find a reasonable explanation as to why they shouldn’t confront Fatima with what they know. If they do, Mancebo is worried she will just become more cautious and that any other habits she has will never come out. He can’t tell Amir about his surveillance on Monsieur Baker, either. His son isn’t ready for that, and nor is he. The case isn’t mature enough to be released yet.