Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier Page 25

  ‘Yes, please, that would be nice. I don’t know anyone here.’

  ‘I think she’s preparing the food in the kitchen.’

  I suddenly realised that I should have brought something with me, and I sipped the drink I had been given. The man and I pushed our way over to the kitchen. There were three women inside, all brushing egg wash onto dumplings. My son and Monsieur Caro were sitting at the little kitchen table. It felt good to see my son, but he hadn’t noticed me.

  ‘Anne,’ the man shouted, and one of the women wiped her hands on her apron as though she knew she was about to meet someone.

  Anne was pretty, and at least ten years younger than her husband. She had lively, warm eyes.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said, holding out a hand.

  ‘She’s the one who saved Monsieur Caro’s life.’

  Maybe most of them knew what had happened in the graveyard that day. Maybe they all knew who I was.

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’ I asked Anne.

  ‘I think everything is ready, we can start taking the food out to the big table.’

  There were five large plates with various small dumplings on them. Another woman smiled at me, and a third handed me one of the plates.

  ‘Just put it down out there. It’s not too hot, so you can put it straight on the table.’

  Once I had carried the plates out, I sat down on the sofa and got into a discussion with a man who had plenty to say about the Marais district. Suddenly, I had the sense that someone was watching me, and I glanced to one side. There was Edith Prévost. I was happy to see her, and I may have smiled a little too much. She gave me a startled look and I decided to pretend I hadn’t seen her unless she made contact herself. My conversation partner changed frequently. The sun had started to set outside, and my son came back from the kitchen and glanced around the room. I waved him over and he crept up onto my knee on the sofa.

  ‘Who won?’ I asked.

  ‘Monsieur Caro.’

  ‘Couldn’t you let a little boy win?’ a man said to Monsieur Caro, who was now sitting in his armchair.

  ‘Why would I do that? It’s a nonsense to give in to kids. If you want to create a weakling, you’ll let him win.’

  ‘What is that, Mum?’ my son asked, pointing to the dumplings.

  ‘It’s bread with meat inside. Chicken, I think, and the others are sweet, full of apricots and almond paste. We can go if you like.’

  ‘Soon,’ he said, taking one of the chicken dumplings.

  Huge bowls of salad appeared, paper plates were handed out, and I realised that the dumplings had only been a snack.

  ‘I want to go now,’ said my son.

  We got up to say goodbye to Monsieur Caro at the very moment his brother came out of the bedroom.

  ‘We just wanted to say goodbye and thanks so much for everything. You’ll have to come over to our apartment next time.’

  ‘Are you leaving just because Daniel is here? I can send him back,’ Monsieur Caro replied from his seat of honour.

  ‘No, no, we were going anyway.’

  The brother paused next to us.

  ‘She’s the one who put flowers on Mother’s grave,’ he said listlessly.

  ‘I know. Nothing to worry about, we can’t keep track of what all the madmen and women get up to in this city,’ Monsieur Caro replied with a wink at my son.

  I gave Monsieur Caro two kisses on the cheek and we removed ourselves from the murmur, the laughter, the food and the madness. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Thank you,’ Edith whispered before she disappeared back into the room.

  The telephone rings a couple of times. It’s Mancebo’s suppliers, wanting the week’s payment. Three children come into the shop to ask for Chinese notebooks. Mancebo thinks he recognises them and suspects that they’ve been in for them before, but he wouldn’t dare swear on it. There’s so much going on in his head right now. Before the children leave, he counts the notebooks: there are seven left. He’s handed out sixty-two of them, so it’s probably not so strange that a few children might be back for a second helping.

  Tariq rushes in.

  ‘Hello, brother, time to get started then. Tough life.’

  Mancebo doesn’t reply. Tariq crosses the boulevard and unlocks his cobbler’s shop while he exchanges a few words with the baker. Everything is just like normal. Mancebo glances at his watch and writes down his latest observations, then he carefully stashes everything back beneath the till.

  Tariq is cutting a key and Mancebo is rocking on his stool. It’s back in its new position, and he peers up towards the balcony to see whether he can see Fatima, or at least her hand. To his horror, when his eyes return to the street, he sees the two men who attacked him approaching. Before he has time to really panic, they go into the cobbler’s shop. Mancebo watches Tariq put down whatever he was holding and welcome the two men into his office.

  Mancebo gets up from his stool and gets ready to run, if necessary. But just as quickly as the men arrived, they’re back out on the street, and they disappear in the direction of the metro. Each is carrying a shoebox beneath his arm. Tariq never usually invites customers into his office. My cousin knows the men who attacked me, Mancebo suddenly realises, and he wipes the sweat from his forehead. He’ll have to have the conversation with Amir tonight. It can’t wait any longer.

  ‘I’m just going to sell the lot and move soon.’

  ‘Where? Saudi Arabia?’

  François seems genuinely interested in where Tariq might go.

  ‘Yeah, why not? This is no good, shoes and keys, no way.’

  Mancebo studies his cousin and swallows a sip of pastis. He knows Tariq. Something is bothering him.

  ‘I should just bloody do it now. Sell all the crap here and take off. Live on the money as long as I can and hope more starts coming in soon.’

  ‘What about Adèle?’

  ‘Well, what does she do here that she couldn’t in Saudi Arabia?’

  That last point is true.

  ‘Maybe you’ll end up having to send money to your cousin, Mancebo?’

  Mancebo hasn’t been part of the discussion so far, but François draws him in and Mancebo shudders at the thought of having to share his money with Tariq and Adèle. It’s something he feels slightly ashamed of. Family should always be there for one another.

  ‘Yeah, but business will have to get a bit better first. Have you heard the story about the scorpion who wanted to cross the river?’

  Both men, Tariq and François, shake their heads and seem genuinely interested in what Mancebo has to say, or maybe they’re just happy to move on from the discussion about skydiving schools in Saudi Arabia.

  ‘Once upon a time, there was a scorpion who wanted to cross a river, but, of course, he couldn’t swim. So he asked a frog if it couldn’t carry him across on its back. “You’ll just sting me,” the frog replied. “I’d never do that,” said the scorpion, “I’d drown too. I’m not that stupid.” So the frog buys the scorpion’s argument and starts swimming out into the river with the insect on its back. But as they reach the middle, the scorpion stings the frog. Just as they’re both about to drown, the frog asks: “Why did you do that? Now you’re going to die too.” And the scorpion replies: “Sorry, but it’s in my nature.”’

  Tariq nods.

  ‘You’re saying I don’t have any choice in the matter, that I might just be going on a whim, but that it’s in my nature to take off, even if I’ll drag someone else down with me. Damn good story.’

  Mancebo doesn’t understand Tariq’s interpretation of the tale about the scorpion. He mostly told it for himself. He needs to get into the cobbler’s shop to find out what’s really going on there. It’s in his nature, as a private detective, to investigate and get to the truth, even if it involves risk. Even if it sinks his cousin. He has no choice. Mancebo makes up his mind to talk to Amir that evening.

  It falls like dirty snow, ash floating down through the air. The
gold-clad hand taps the cigarette up on the balcony. Mancebo could catch her red-handed. He wouldn’t even need to go up to the apartment to surprise her. Shouting would be enough. She would hear him from where she’s sitting above him. But something tells him he should keep this to himself. Amir knows, but that’s where it’ll have to stop.

  Rather than stay in his seat beneath the degrading shower of ash, Mancebo goes into the shop and starts pricing some bottles of ketchup which arrived earlier that day. He sees Tariq raise his hand in greeting. It can’t be aimed at anyone but Fatima. So, he knows too. Mancebo starts to feel weak, he wishes the day was over already. Everyone knows, but no one knows that he knows. That gives him the advantage, but it’s difficult to run at the head of the pack. It’s hard work seeing reality as clearly as Mancebo does.

  Mancebo knocks on Amir’s door, though he feels a little hesitant. He doesn’t really want to draw his son any further into this mess, but he has no choice.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Mancebo notes that Amir doesn’t say ‘come in’, and as a result he remains outside.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  It takes a while before Amir appears in the doorway, and Mancebo notices that his son’s face is slightly flushed. He wonders why.

  ‘Do you have a minute? There’s just something I wanted to ask you about.’

  Amir shrugs. Mancebo doesn’t just start to doubt his plans, but the whole of humanity. What on earth am I about to do, he wonders.

  Eventually, he sits down on the bed without waiting for Amir’s invitation. A couple of fire engines pass by outside, hurling their deafening sirens into the room where father and son are sitting at opposite ends of the bed. Words will soon start flying over the blue bedding, words which form the start of the end of one story and the beginning of a completely different one. They hear Fatima open the window to let in some cool air. Hear her pacing back and forth, puffing and panting. She does it every evening, but they’ve never noticed it as intensely as they do now. Amir’s cheeks start to return to their normal colour, and the honking of the fire engines disappears into the darkness. Maybe they’ve reached their destination, somewhere in the Paris night.

  ‘OK, what is it?’

  Amir sounds tired, and Mancebo thinks about how that isn’t a good basis for an important conversation. The task he wants to propose to Amir will require the utmost in energy and commitment, everything depends on him.

  Suddenly, the door flies open. Both men jump. Fatima takes the liberty of coming into the room without knocking. She holds out a couple of freshly ironed shirts. Amir gets up and takes them with outstretched arms, as though Fatima was handing him a baby.

  ‘What are you sitting in here for?’

  Mancebo looks up at his big wife and then at his son. It’s hard to believe that little Amir is this woman’s child.

  ‘Dad wanted to know how the English test for studying abroad went.’

  Fatima looks at Mancebo, who stares straight back at her. For a few seconds, their eyes are locked in battle. But what is it they’re fighting for? Fatima closes the door.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Thanks for what?’ Amir asks, sounding resigned.

  ‘The English test.’

  Amir shrugs.

  ‘How did it go then?’

  Amir shrugs again.

  ‘We get the results tomorrow.’

  Mancebo knows that Amir is tired and wants to sleep. The last thing he wants is for his father to come into his room and ask about obscure authors and deliver information about Fatima’s breakfast and smoking habits. But Mancebo has no choice. It’s just a matter of starting.

  ‘OK, I wanted to ask you for a favour. I need certain information from Tariq’s computer.’

  Amir’s tired eyes widen.

  ‘And I think, or I’m afraid, that you’re the only one who can help me.’

  ‘Why?’

  Mancebo wonders whether he should answer any questions as he goes along, or whether he should just continue his exposition.

  ‘I suspect, or rather I know, that Tariq is involved in some kind of dodgy dealings. It’s not really my problem, but you know, he’s still my cousin, we work and live so close to one another. And I’m worried that if he gets into trouble with … the police, the law, then it might also affect us. I just want to find out what’s going on, so I can work out what I need to do to help him.’

  ‘And you think you can find the answers on his computer? What are we talking about here? Cheating on his taxes? I doubt I’ll be able to see that kind of thing.’

  Now it’s Mancebo’s time to shrug.

  ‘I don’t know. And maybe I’m wrong.’

  Amir looks at his father. ‘Just think, Mum smokes,’ he suddenly says.

  Fatima is sleeping when Mancebo returns from Amir’s room. It strikes Mancebo that she might have hung around outside his door and eavesdropped on them. But when he catches sight of her looking like a beached walrus in the bed, he realises she must have been asleep for some time. She probably went straight to bed after handing over the clean, freshly ironed shirts. And the idea that she might be pretending to sleep is out of the question. No one pretending to sleep could look so grotesque.

  Mancebo rests his head on the pillow and runs his hand through his beard. He’s set the ball rolling. In a few hours’ time, the operation will start, and it’ll be over in less than a day.

  I could feel that it was the last day in every inch of my body. Strange, since such charged days tend to lose all sense of what makes them remarkable when they finally roll around. Never before had the water in the shower felt so purifying. Never before had the colour of the shower gel been so bright, never had it smelled so good, never had I made a coffee with so much attention. I chose my clothes carefully. The same clothes as the first day. I was ready to draw a line under things. I was well prepared for something you couldn’t prepare for.

  When I come to pick you up, I thought as I kissed my son’s soft cheek, it’ll all be over. The next time I put my key into the lock, I might know who Monsieur Bellivier is, and maybe I’ll understand what I’ve been doing these past few weeks. Maybe I’ll be surprised, tired, happy, sad, afraid, disappointed … I’ll feel something, anyway. How many days, weeks, months has it been since I last felt a thing as I unlocked this door?

  The neighbour’s dog barked goodbye as I pressed the button for the lift.

  The metro quickly came thundering into the station, and I managed to find a seat. I could see my face in the windowpane. I looked tired. Final stop. Several hundred people left the train together. Some half ran, maybe they were late for a meeting, stressed about tasks of more or less importance. I took it easy and politely greeted the florist as I passed, but then turned back after a few steps to ask him a question.

  ‘It’s the last bouquet today, isn’t it?’

  He looked thoughtful, as though he was wondering whether that was information he could give out or not.

  ‘That’s right,’ he eventually replied.

  I smiled. It felt good to know. That was coming to an end, at the very least. I started walking towards Areva.

  ‘Madame!’

  I turned around.

  ‘If I were you, I would be … careful.’

  ‘Careful?’

  ‘Yes, though maybe discreet is a better word.’

  ‘Discreet?’

  The florist looked embarrassed and self-conscious.

  ‘I mean, if you’ve got a devoted admirer, there might be others who don’t like it.’

  A customer appeared, wanting to look at some of the flowers, and the florist seemed relieved that he wouldn’t have to explain what he had just said. I hesitated for a moment. Why had he said that? Was it just that he thought the entire situation was insane, anonymously delivering flowers to someone every day, and therefore took it for granted that Monsieur Bellivier must be crazy?

  I had to leave to avoid being late.

  I stared up a
t the huge Areva tower. It looked dark up at the top. The woman in reception greeted me politely. Nothing about her suggested it was going to be a special day. As I stepped into the office, horizontal rain began to thud against the window, and it made me happy. It was raining on my last day. That was fitting. Good reading weather, I told myself, double-checking that the box was still full of polystyrene chips before I turned on the computer and opened Judith’s last diary from captivity. ‘She’s writing to survive,’ ran through my mind. There was a pling. I read the string of numbers carefully to make sure I wasn’t missing any message about what might happen today, but the numbers revealed nothing about the end.

  I had made it halfway through the diary. Judith still wasn’t free, but judging by the date, it wouldn’t be long. I wasn’t all that familiar with the literature of the time, which meant I had no real idea whether I was in possession of unique material or not. Many of the Germans were mentioned by name, so maybe there was some value in that? And after reading a paragraph in which one of Judith’s patients told her in detail how he had tortured three Jews, I looked up and watched the rain drumming against the window. As Judith wrote about the car pulling up in the yard and the way she left the camp, I closed the book. Odd that Monsieur Caro had been able to tell the story with such clarity. He must have read the diaries a number of times.

  It was time for lunch. Despite the rain, I wanted to get out. I had to go to the church. I shut down the computer, packed Judith’s diaries into the canvas bag and left the office.

  The rain whipped at my face as I ran into the church and bumped into the priest, who was just on his way up to the main hall. It was the first time I had ever seen him there. We said hello and I hoped he wasn’t on his way to a funeral or Mass. But the church was empty. No ceremony, no one praying, and no Christophe. I sat down at the very back, and clasped my hands for the first time, mostly to see how it felt. But it felt completely wrong, and I gently lowered my hands to my lap and looked down at them. It was empty without him.