Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier Read online

‘No, I haven’t asked her. I want her to tell me herself. You know, if you’ve discovered something that has been kept secret, you really want to hear it from the person involved. I’ll see what I can do to make her tell me herself. I think that would be best for all of us. You’ll have to give me some time. Until then, we’ll keep quiet about this. OK?’

  Amir seems to buy his explanation without protest, which does surprise Mancebo, but he feels relieved all the same.

  Amir packs up his notebook and pens. He’s going to the library. Out on the streets, the Parisians have started making their way to weekend brunch. The queue outside the bakery grows, people rush by with bouquets of flowers, and a few take the dog out before they leave to see their relatives. Mancebo glances at the clock in the kitchen and realises that he’s late, then he lights a new cigarette and blows more smoke at the little pink bird which might soon turn a shade of grey.

  He feels strong and calm, and is looking forward to the coming days. By telling Amir, he also managed to clarify the situation for himself, which was a very good move. Recent events have lined up like beads on a string, one after another, and all the information he receives from now on will simply lengthen and improve his string of pearls. Cigarette smoke is hanging over the living room like a blanket. The annual military parade down the Champs-Élysées is being shown on TV. Tanks driving up towards the Arc de Triomphe is the last thing Mancebo sees before he leaves the apartment, heading out to war himself.

  Mancebo obstinately rocks back on the stool. With his new-found teenage hormones, the bank holiday is boring, there’s nothing interesting going on. The apartment opposite seems to be empty. Mancebo doesn’t even have Tariq to spy on, because he’s spending the day at the races. He goes into the shop and opens a pack of toothpicks, returns to his stool and nonchalantly pushes one into his mouth. In the distance, further down the boulevard, he spots Fatima.

  ‘Hello,’ she says as she reaches her husband, who is sitting on his stool like always. ‘What do you say about going out for lunch today? It’ll probably just be you and me. Adèle’s at her pottery class, Tariq’s at the races and Amir said he wouldn’t be eating at home. There’s no point cooking just for two. We could go to the Pakistani place.’

  The Pakistani place isn’t actually Pakistani, the owner is from India and opened a restaurant with his family not far from Le Soleil. Mancebo swallows, his tough teenage lingo has suddenly vanished. A one-on-one lunch with his wife wasn’t something he had planned, and nor is it something he is looking forward to.

  Reluctantly, Mancebo closes up his shop. Fatima has gone up to the apartment to drop off her things, but she quickly returns.

  ‘Did the window open itself up there? Or did you open it? I think it’s better if we try to keep the heat out.’

  Mancebo immediately knows what she’s talking about. Amir must have decided to air the apartment out of fear that Fatima would notice someone had been smoking.

  ‘No, I haven’t opened any windows. Ask Amir.’

  ‘Why on earth would he suddenly start opening windows?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They begin to make their way down the boulevard, and before they turn the corner Mancebo casts one last glance back towards the writer and Madame Cat’s apartment.

  He is eagerly awaiting Fatima’s remarks about how good it is that the smoking ban now applies to restaurants. Mancebo knows she’ll say it any minute now, but what he doesn’t know is how he’ll react. He doesn’t quite trust himself. He might start laughing, but he could just as easily smash his fist against the table and spit out some truths. He could even start crying. He just doesn’t know, he’s unsure of himself in this situation.

  They sit down at a table close to the window. There is only one other couple in the restaurant, a young pair, plus an old man who is getting ready to leave. Fatima is quiet and starts absent-mindedly reading through the menu, though she quickly puts it down again. She seems to know what she wants. She probably knew before she even suggested they go there. Mancebo doesn’t know what he should order, but he knows exactly what Fatima will choose. He knows his wife in that regard, at least, if not in many others. She looks around the room and Mancebo starts to tremble with fear at how he will react when she brings up the smoking ban. He might be just seconds from surprising himself.

  ‘It’s so nice that people aren’t allowed to smoke wherever they want any more!’

  Her words come at him like a cannonball, smashing into everything in their path. Though Mancebo was expecting it, her words still surprise him; it’s like waiting for the pop of the champagne cork flying into the air. But the content is far from champagne. Mancebo gives himself some time. It’s over now, calm, he tries to tell himself.

  ‘It’s good to get out like this and avoid cooking,’ Fatima says when the waiter brings their food.

  Mancebo helps himself to the warm bread. He tries to forget that he has company and simply enjoy the food. But things take a difficult turn. The fat tobacconist comes into the restaurant. Mancebo reaches for his glass of water and wonders whether he should say something to his wife, who is sitting with her back to the door. The restaurant owner shakes the tobacconist’s hand and gives him the food he pre-ordered in two white plastic bags. Mancebo waits until after the tobacconist has vanished onto the pavement to remark on his visit.

  ‘The tobacconist from Rue de Chéroy just left.’

  Fatima stares at her husband.

  ‘And?’ she eventually says.

  ‘You might have wanted to say hello to him?’

  ‘Why would I want to do that? And if I had, you should’ve bloody said before he left.’

  She has a point there, Mancebo thinks, emptying his glass.

  ‘It smells like Christmas!’ Adèle shouts as she settles down at the dinner table.

  Raphaël has stayed behind for dinner after fixing Adèle’s hairdryer. Tariq is talking about a horse which ran in the wrong direction at the racetrack. Everyone laughs.

  ‘It’s the saffron in the stew,’ Fatima interrupts as an explanation for Adèle’s Christmas feeling.

  The three men, Mancebo, Tariq and Raphaël, are smoking.

  Fatima doesn’t say anything, but she energetically flaps her hand in front of her face. Every time she puts something down on the table in particular. One person in the room is quiet, but his eyes speak volumes. Amir glances nervously at his father. Is he going to smoke more than he’s allowed?

  The morning’s cigarette demonstration has affected him more powerfully than Mancebo could ever have imagined. And now that Mancebo’s teenage hormones have left his body, he does regret having drawn his son into things in the way he did. It’s purely down to Raphaël’s presence that dinner is bearable. The evening’s guest helps to lighten the tense mood of lies and unspoken truths. Raphaël is a breath of fresh air that enables them all to breathe.

  The two women are chatting in the kitchen. Amir stares at his father. Raphaël lights a new cigarette and Tariq goes through the race programme again, to memorise the winners for next time.

  France’s national day is almost over, and everything will soon be back to normal, whatever that means. To Raphaël, it might mean getting a broken toaster to toast bread again. To Tariq, it means shoes to reheel, and to Fatima … Mancebo stops wondering and breaks off a piece of baguette to soak up the sauce on his plate.

  ‘Are you starting the washing-up at the table, Mancebo?’ Tariq asks, and everyone laughs.

  The first thing I did when I got to the office was to open the box and check, once more, that it still wasn’t filled with anything but polystyrene. It wasn’t. There were no books to be seen.

  My morning consisted of three plings and Judith’s fate. What struck me was the pride with which she carried out her duties and daily tasks. There wasn’t a hint of self-pity or complaint.

  Against my better judgement, I had to admit that it did actually feel slightly provocative. The woman hadn’t just tended to the worst monsters of our age
, she had done it with a certain amount of love. Matter-of-factly, she gave an account of life in the surgery. And even when she described the terrible conditions, she never placed the blame with those who had taken her freedom. I was starting to understand where Monsieur Caro’s hatred came from.

  It was the absence of plings which made me realise I should take my lunch break. I was fifteen minutes late and placed the diaries back into the canvas bag, I didn’t dare leave them unguarded. I hurried towards the lift. I didn’t want to think about why I was in such a rush.

  The door of the church was stiff, and I clung tightly to the canvas bag. Here I come, with a Jewess who took care of the Nazis during the war, I thought as I ran up the stairs. I was out of breath as I came into the main hall. He was sitting inside, and he was worryingly pleased to see me. As usual, we didn’t say much to begin with.

  ‘I’m reading a book about the Second World War. It was written by someone who survived the concentration camps,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, what’s the author’s name?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘People are funny. It’s the same for books and wine. People can drink a good wine and then forget to memorise the name. They’ll remember the colour of the label, though. It’s the same with books, people remember the covers but not the name of the author.’

  Since I was neither of those people, his comments bothered me.

  ‘Her name is Judith. She lived in terrible conditions in one of the concentration camps, but when she writes about it it’s as though she’s defending the Germans. Or maybe not defending them, but she doesn’t blame them. She doesn’t seem to hate them.’

  Christophe was silent. I hadn’t been planning to share any more, but I was confident he would know how to treat sensitive information.

  ‘She wrote it inside the concentration camp. It’s her diary,’ I continued.

  Christophe looked up at me, and it was hard to read his expression.

  ‘Well then,’ he replied.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She did it to survive. The simple explanation would be that she did it out of fear they would find what she wrote. The more complicated explanation, but maybe also the true one, is that she likely did it to survive. It was probably too difficult to acknowledge the situation she found herself in. Maybe she wrote it for herself, to distort her view of reality and therefore survive.’

  It felt like he knew more about Judith than anyone else. I wanted to give him more information so that he could help me understand.

  ‘She was a doctor and was forced to work for the Germans in one of the camps.’

  Christophe looked up at me again.

  ‘Interesting.’

  Sadness overwhelmed me. I wanted to believe it was because of Judith’s tragic fate that I started to cry, but it wasn’t. It was the knowledge that I was close to the end which made me so sad. Judith was just an excuse. I couldn’t remember when I had last cried, but I did so now. In a church. With a man I didn’t even know.

  ‘Was she a relative of yours?’

  I was crying even harder now, and I think he interpreted that as a yes.

  ‘These will be your last flowers, Judith,’ I said, placing the yellow bouquet onto the grave.

  Now I’ve even started talking to the dead, I thought, spotting a man in a blue tracksuit approaching.

  ‘Madame, madame, don’t do that.’

  The memory of meeting Monsieur Caro reared its head, and I stepped back, away from him.

  ‘Madame, I beg you, please remove those flowers, right now.’

  There was nothing threatening in his voice, only afraid. He stayed at a safe distance, and at first, I thought it was me he was afraid of, but then I realised it was Judith’s grave which was scaring him. His eyes were fixed on the headstone, as if it were a living creature that might attack at any moment.

  ‘Good evening, monsieur. Why don’t you want me to put flowers on this grave?’

  ‘My brother forbade it.’

  The man started to hit himself on the head, and then he raised his hands to his face.

  ‘My brother has forbidden anyone to leave flowers on this grave. You should watch out for my brother. He isn’t evil, but he’s just. That’s my mother lying there, under all that earth, under the stones, and we shouldn’t honour her because then the world will split. The universe.’

  I realised who he was. Monsieur Caro’s schizophrenic brother.

  ‘I know your brother. He knows I’m putting flowers on your mother’s grave. He’s not angry.’

  The man looked at me.

  ‘You don’t need to say you’ve seen me if you’re afraid your brother will be angry,’ I continued.

  ‘You need to take the flowers.’

  ‘I’ll do it if you leave.’

  ‘Promise?’

  He nervously ran his hands over his face and then wandered away. I broke my promise, shoved my empty hands into my trouser pockets, and looked down at the pretty flowers before I left the churchyard.

  To begin with, I had said that the invitation was a bit last-minute, but then I said yes anyway, without really knowing what I was getting myself into. My son was happy when I told him we were going to see Monsieur Caro again.

  We were early, and so we snuck into a café. It was raining, and the city finally felt a little cooler.

  ‘How did the rook move again, Mum?’

  ‘I don’t know, but you can ask Monsieur Caro.’

  My son sipped his juice.

  ‘Why do they have those hats on their heads?’ he asked, pointing to a boy in a kippah passing the café.

  ‘Because they’re Jewish, their religion is called Judaism. They believe in Jesus, but not that he’s God’s son. The hat they wear is called a kippah. They wear it to show that they’re Jewish and that they have respect for God.’

  ‘Judaism?’

  I nodded. My son took another big sip of juice and I looked into his curious brown child’s eyes.

  I automatically entered the door code. The door buzzed open and we stepped inside and crossed the courtyard. Monsieur Caro’s window was open, and we could hear laughter and voices up above. I smiled to my son, who didn’t seem the least bit bothered that apparently there were a number of people inside Monsieur Caro’s apartment.

  ‘Imagine if we see that green lady with no shoes again, Mum.’

  Since Monsieur Caro had explained he was inviting a few other friends over, I thought I had prepared myself for all eventualities, but now it felt like absolutely anything could happen. The front door was half open, and a small boy around my son’s age was busy putting on his shoes.

  ‘Kippah,’ my son whispered, discreetly pointing to the boy.

  The boy greeted us politely and then rushed downstairs. Since the door was open, I paused for a moment and didn’t know whether we should knock or just go straight in. My son had already gone ahead, and so I followed him.

  He seemed to feel much more comfortable than I did, and he led me down the hallway and into the living room. But then he stopped. He probably hadn’t expected to see so many people. A few were standing, others sitting, but they were all engaged in various discussions. The apartment smelled of food and cigarette smoke. There was no sign of Monsieur Caro. My son looked up at me and I knew it was my responsibility to try to make him feel comfortable. I took his hand.

  ‘Let’s see if we can find your chess mentor. He might be hiding in the kitchen.’

  We pushed our way through the room. Most people paid no notice to us, but those that did smiled warmly. A few placed their hands on my son’s head as we passed.

  ‘There she is!’ a man suddenly roared.

  The room grew hushed, and everyone looked first at the man who had shouted and then at me. The man had a glass of water in one hand and he was pointing straight at me. I recognised him immediately. It was the man from the graveyard. Monsieur Caro’s brother. Though the room was full of people, I felt vulnerable.

  ‘Don�
�t mind him!’ I heard Monsieur Caro roar from the kitchen. ‘He’s not right in the head!’

  Monsieur Caro hurried over and guided his brother away; the man didn’t put up any resistance.

  ‘Monsieur Caro didn’t have the option of taking psychology at school,’ one of the men closest to me joked, and a few of the others laughed.

  He quickly returned.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said, wiping his brow. ‘Please, sit down.’

  ‘Where did your brother go?’

  ‘I locked him in the bathroom.’

  I started to doubt it was a good idea to have brought my son here.

  ‘I’m joking. You’ve got no sense of humour, woman. I sat him down with his favourite puzzle in the bedroom. I hear you had a nice meeting in the graveyard.’

  Monsieur Caro smiled.

  ‘Yes, you like the dramatics in your family.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes … Come on, let’s have a game. I’ve set up the chessboard in the kitchen, so we can skip that,’ Monsieur Caro said, putting an arm around my son.

  My security blanket, my son, was suddenly gone, and I was left alone in the living room. No one had reacted badly to the brother’s outburst. Maybe it was a common occurrence. I moved over to the window and looked out as though it was the first time I had been to the apartment.

  ‘Good evening, madame. I had no idea Monsieur Caro knew such beautiful women.’

  The man who had come over was in his fifties, and he was wearing a black hat from beneath which his long side locks stuck out. We shook hands.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  I hadn’t noticed what the others were drinking, so I didn’t know how to reply. He seemed to detect my nerves, and he asked me to wait while he went to fetch something nice from the kitchen. He quickly returned with a small glass.

  ‘How do you know Monsieur Caro?’

  It struck me that I didn’t know what Monsieur Caro had chosen to say about how we had met.

  ‘I bumped into him outside, by coincidence. He wasn’t well, so I helped him get to the hospital.’

  ‘That was sweet of you. And I’m sure you never got as much as a thank you for it. He has a big heart, however hard that might be to believe at times. I’m an old friend of his. We’ve lived in the same building for almost twenty-five years. We often play chess or go for a stroll together. Or else we go to the synagogue here in the neighbourhood. Would you like me to introduce you to my wife?’