Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier Page 26

  Just a few hours of this strange story left. I was sitting with my eyes closed, feeling proud of myself, of everything I had done and managed these past few weeks. His laughter shattered the magical atmosphere. Christophe seemed to be in a great mood. We greeted one another with two kisses on the cheek.

  ‘Has something happened? You seem so happy.’

  ‘I’m happy to see you here. In church. Imagine, you find your own way here now.’

  ‘But I have to leave soon.’

  ‘Oh God, you always have to see everything from the dark side.’

  I felt ashamed. We’d had discussions about ourselves in the past, but the sentences we had just exchanged were probably the most personal thing we’d ever said. They meant so much more. I had rushed there in the rain to make the most of every second with Christophe. He had been happy when he arrived, and I made him sad.

  ‘Do you think I see everything as black because I don’t have any faith?’ I asked honestly.

  Christophe didn’t reply.

  ‘Speaking of faith, do you know where I’ve been? At a Jewish party.’

  ‘Does it have anything to do with Judith?’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘Last time we met you talked about the book Judith had written, and then you go to a Jewish party. There could be a link.’

  ‘Yes, in a way, but not quite …’

  ‘Is there anyone who understands you?’

  I mustered what little strength I could, looked him in the eye and shook my head. We sat in silence, we grew closer. I got up and said I had to go.

  The rain continued to drum against the window. The sound felt uncomfortable now. What would I do if no more emails arrived? If no one got in touch before the end of the day? What would I do if I didn’t get my money? Nothing. And what would I do on Monday? The money hadn’t been the driving force behind everything, but it would feel slightly sad if I wasn’t going to be paid after all. I heard a pling. The largest of Pavlov’s dogs woke up. A string of numbers. Possibly the last. The rain stopped suddenly. It went from sounding like a machine gun pointed at the window to complete silence. The end. Loneliness. Sacré-Cœur was bathed in a grey haze. Paris looked more like a battlefield beneath my feet than a romantic big city. I headed towards the lift, turned off and passed the other offices. All equally empty. Why did no one use this floor, when every square metre in the business district was so fiercely sought after?

  As I finished my lap of the floor and approached my door, I heard another pling. The emails didn’t usually arrive so close to one another. My heart was pounding. This time, there was no string of numbers. ‘Are you waiting for Monsieur Bellivier? Let’s say four o’clock by reception. Just leave the computer, lock the door and bring the key.’ So, all I had to do was lock up and go. That was it. In forty-seven minutes, I would be meeting someone. Monsieur Bellivier, perhaps. Or maybe someone else. There would be an ending.

  The choice of location, by reception, managed to calm me down despite everything. In my imagination, it had always been in completely different places. At a bar in Paris, somewhere I wasn’t familiar with, sometimes even in different countries.

  I packed up my own computer and moved around the room like a prisoner during exercise hour.

  Though I’d had almost an hour to prepare my exit, I realised that I was already four minutes late. I started to shiver, which was a clear sign that I was nervous. I locked the door and double-checked that Judith’s books were in the canvas bag. The lift seemed to take forever. Six minutes late. Reception was unusually busy. Maybe because it was Friday, some people left earlier, others treated themselves to an afternoon coffee. I suddenly worried that my pass wouldn’t work. That it might have a best-before date, which had expired six minutes earlier. But it beeped like always and the green light came on. I immediately felt like I was being watched, but I couldn’t tell from which direction.

  I sat down on one of the benches by the window. Whoever had sent the email would be able to see me without me having to make an effort to be seen.

  ‘Xavier Rossi,’ a man said politely.

  The man who had come into the café a few weeks earlier smiled as we shook hands.

  I got up.

  ‘Helena Folasadu.’

  ‘How does it feel?’

  I didn’t quite understand the question, and I gave him a quizzical look.

  ‘How does it feel to be free?’

  I didn’t know what to say. Since I still hadn’t been given any explanation, I wasn’t free. And he seemed to understand that.

  ‘Maybe we should start with the most important thing.’

  He opened a black plastic folder and took out a cheque for the amount which had been written in the contract.

  ‘This is for you. And this, too.’

  He took out another cheque, but then changed his mind and put both back into the folder.

  ‘I should probably explain first. The first cheque is your payment. It’s all yours. Just needs to be cashed. You’ll also be given another one, but you need to use that one, or use the money, more accurately.’

  He sighed.

  ‘I’m not very good at explaining, even though I did practise at home.’

  In his uncertainty, he was simply tightening the noose he was trying to loosen. I’d been expecting answers to my big questions first.

  ‘OK, I’ve had the exact same task as you. It’s like … a chain letter, I suppose you could say. And now it’s your job to find your successor. The first cheque is your payment. But you’ll also be given a second one, and you need to use it. Your successor needs to have something delivered to them every day.’

  ‘The flowers?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But it can be anything.’

  ‘What did you get?’

  I don’t really know why I asked. There were probably more relevant questions, but in a way I was trying to make the mystery more manageable.

  ‘Bottles of wine.’

  ‘Flowers are healthier, then.’

  ‘Yes, and let me tell you, I’m tired of red wine from Bordeaux.’

  We laughed. It was as though we were playing some kind of party game. Taking turns to roll the dice and being drawn deeper and deeper into a game with unusual rules.

  ‘So you can choose who your successor is, and what he or she will receive after each day’s work.’

  I noticed that the cheques had been made out by a Monsieur Bellivier, and that the line for the recipient’s name was empty.

  ‘And then there’s this.’

  He took out an envelope and handed it to me.

  ‘In this envelope, there’s an extra key which you need to keep, plus the contract. It contains the start and end date for whoever you choose. When you bring the new person here, there’ll be a pass for him or her at reception. You keep your pass. On the last day, you come back at 16.00, like I did, and you collect a plastic pouch from reception. Inside it, there’ll be two cheques and a new contract. And now you’ve got everything you need. All the information. You just need to find someone new. You know how I did it. You do it however you want.’

  Monsieur Rossi fell silent.

  ‘Who is Monsieur Bellivier?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I know as much as you.’

  ‘But his address is on the cheques.’

  ‘I know. I went there, but I couldn’t find anyone by that name.’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, sounding surprised.

  ‘The woman at reception?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

  ‘She must know. How else could she go along with delivering things? And what about the cleaner?’

  ‘I think we’re all doing things where we don’t know, or understand, what they’ll lead to. I think we’re all just carrying out meaningless tasks. We’re probably all employees of Monsieur Bellivier.’

  I hadn’t seen it like that. But I knew that he’d had more time to thi
nk over his time at Areva. I was still in it.

  ‘What do you think of it all? Now that you’ve had time to reflect on it,’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe I’ve realised that we have a real bloody duty to make the most of our experiences. You don’t need to have gone through anything dramatic to be able to utilise them. You don’t need to have come close to death to appreciate life. I’m leaving for Chile tonight. A long trip. The idea took root while I was forwarding those meaningless messages. I know I need to go. My biological father lives there.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t know what I’ve learnt or how I should make use of this odd experience,’ I said.

  ‘Write a book.’

  We headed towards the revolving doors.

  ‘Madame!’

  The receptionist smiled as I took the bouquet.

  Monsieur Rossi and I walked out into the rain.

  ‘I’m going that way,’ he said, pointing towards the taxi rank.

  ‘Here,’ I said, holding out the flowers.

  ‘No, it would be a shame. I’m going away.’

  ‘We all are.’

  In the end, he took the flowers and hopped into a taxi.

  Before I left Areva, I cast a glance back towards reception and saw the cleaner emptying a bin. She looked up, but I don’t know if she saw me, her eyes were so crossed. I decided I had to say goodbye to her.

  ‘Afternoon, I just wanted to say goodbye. I won’t be coming to the top floor any more.’

  She glanced up and gave me a look which said that I shouldn’t poke my little nose into other people’s business.

  Tariq charges down into the shop. If only he knew what the day would have in store, Mancebo thinks, stashing the day’s post beneath the till.

  ‘Wait, brother, before you run off, I need to ask you a favour.’

  Tariq pauses, places a hand on the counter and waits impatiently for the question.

  ‘Amir needs to borrow your computer today. I don’t know why exactly, but I think it’s to check some kind of exam result, for studying abroad, and there’s such a long wait for computers at the library. Is it OK if he stops by sometime before lunch?’

  Tariq seems relieved, as though he had been expecting something completely different, less agreeable.

  ‘Sure, I’m always happy to help the boy, you know that.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But listen, when’re you going to get yourself a computer? You know Raphaël can help with that kind of thing. It’d be good for the boy to have the Internet at home.’

  ‘Yes, there’ll be a time for that,’ Mancebo says with a smile.

  Tariq waves goodbye, and Mancebo takes out a knife and opens the day’s post.

  It’s approaching lunchtime when Amir appears. Everything happens very quickly. Too quickly for Mancebo to keep up. He is busy serving an old woman when Amir waves to him from the other side of the boulevard. As Mancebo listens to the old lady’s ailments, he tries to see how his son is getting on, and by the time she leaves the shop, he sees that Amir has already positioned himself behind the computer in the office. Tariq is in the room with him, keeping himself busy. Every now and then, he positions himself behind Amir and points at the screen. Both laugh. Mancebo is nervous. If Amir doesn’t find out the password, the whole plan will fail. Mancebo knows that he has set a huge ball rolling.

  The scent of cooking makes its way down to the shop, time for lunch. Amir gets up and moves away from the computer. He and Tariq exchange a few words, and then Amir comes out onto the street. Mancebo starts to despair. But then Amir bends down and ties his shoelace. That’s the sign. The task was a success. And with that, the plan moves into its second phase. Mancebo closes up the fruit and vegetable stands, and Tariq casts a quick glance at his cousin. He realises it’s time for lunch.

  Everyone is already at the table by the time Mancebo makes it upstairs. Amir ignores his father, out of fear that someone might see they have something on the go. But in reality, there still isn’t anything to reveal. The game has only just begun. Fatima waves away a couple of flies which have landed on the table.

  ‘We need to go and buy food today.’

  Her words are directed at Adèle. Once a week, the two women take their trolley bags up to Franprix to buy everything Mancebo can’t get hold of at Rungis. It’s the only thing the two women do together other than visiting the hammam on Sundays. And their breakfasts, of course.

  Amir casts a glance at his father. Mancebo knows why. He’s worried that Fatima and Adèle’s chores will hinder their plan. But over the past few weeks, Mancebo has developed the ability to think on his feet, and before Fatima even has time to finish her sentence, Mancebo realises that this new information doesn’t change a thing. In fact, it could be good for Fatima and Adèle to disappear for an hour or two. At worst, they’ll leave or come back while Amir is in the cobbler’s shop. But even that scenario wouldn’t be a disaster.

  Their plan also accounts for the worst, and slightly unlikely, prospect of Tariq deciding to leave Le Soleil early. If that happens, Mancebo will have his mobile phone with him, and he’ll call the cobbler’s shop. Mancebo nods calmly and hopes Amir will understand the gesture and feel less stressed. Amir breathes out and helps himself to a piece of freshly baked bread.

  Lunch passes relatively painlessly for Mancebo. Though he has plenty on his mind, he manages to enjoy the food. But when the oranges appear at the table, his pleasant calm is disrupted.

  ‘No pastries today?’ Tariq asks when he spots the fruit.

  ‘No, because someone in this house has to think of our health. There’s enough smoking and eating pastries as it is. You need to look after yourselves a bit better, you’re not spring chickens any more. Fewer cigarettes and a bit more fruit won’t do any harm.’

  Fatima cuts the oranges into slices, puts them back onto the plate and then offers it around as though she was distributing medicine. Mancebo suddenly feels a lump in his throat. All the times Fatima has rapped his fingers when he tried to light one cigarette over his daily allowance now feel like a slap in the face. Why on earth is she doing this to me? Why does my family have so many secrets? Tariq smirks as the plate reaches him, and he takes a handful.

  The plate approaches Mancebo. The orange-coloured slices look like sneering mouths. Mouths laughing at the way he is being kept in the dark. Mouths whispering secrets he isn’t allowed to hear. Mouths screaming that he’s being deceived. Everyone knows Fatima’s secrets. And the conversation they recently had was solely to make fun of Mancebo’s ignorance. He knows that. Mancebo takes the plate from Fatima, who can’t move around the table with it herself, and he passes it on to Adèle without taking any orange. Adèle takes the plate with bewildered eyes. She seems to be wondering why he hasn’t taken any, but she doesn’t say anything. Mancebo is grateful for that. No one else has noticed that he isn’t eating dessert.

  A girl and a boy come into the shop. Mancebo says hello to both of them, he knows exactly what they want. He’s learnt to recognise the look that those who want the Chinese notebooks have. The phone rings and Mancebo picks up. It’s someone trying to sell a new card machine.

  ‘No, thanks, I have one which works. But you don’t sell those devices for checking notes, do you?’

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘You know, for checking whether they’re genuine or not,’ Mancebo continues.

  ‘No, I’m calling from Cebex, we make card machines.’

  ‘You don’t know where I can turn, do you? If I want one of the machines for checking notes, one of those lamps?’

  ‘No, monsieur, I can’t help you with that.’

  ‘Thanks anyway, and have a good afternoon.’

  Mancebo turns to the children.

  ‘You want two notebooks? Am I right?’

  They nod. Mancebo searches beneath the counter. There aren’t many left now. He finds a dragon and a tiger, and places them into a bag along with the pack of chewing gum they want to buy. They
hand him the right change and then run out of the shop. They practically crash into Fatima and Adèle, who are standing just outside ready to go to Franprix. Adèle waves and Fatima smiles at Mancebo, and then they head off to do their shopping. Mancebo sees his chance. Tariq has come out onto the street to wave to his wife on the other side of the boulevard.

  ‘What do you say, brother, should we follow our wives’ example and fly the nest?’

  Mancebo doesn’t normally shout straight across the boulevard, but he has no choice. It might be a little too early for a drink, but he can’t let this opportunity go to waste. This way, Amir can carry out his task in peace and quiet.

  Before they turn off the boulevard on their way to Le Soleil, Mancebo casts a glance back towards his apartment, but there’s no sign of Amir. He feels a pang of anxiety. Could he have missed Tariq leaving? Or has he already noticed, and now he’s getting ready to carry out his task, making sure that not even a second goes to waste? Once they get to Le Soleil, Mancebo tries to gain some time by starting a meaningless discussion about the new pension reforms with François.

  ‘It doesn’t bloody affect us, we don’t drive buses or trains, do we?’ Tariq grunts, hinting that it’s time to go back.

  The two men thank François and head out into the heat.

  During the afternoon, Tariq closes up shop twice to sit down at the computer in his office. Mancebo consciously stops himself from devoting any effort to working out what he is doing. Whatever it is, he’ll find out that evening, so why waste energy on guesswork? His work has to come first now. No one is paying him to spy on his cousin.

  The thought that Tariq might suspect someone has been inside his shop that afternoon strikes Mancebo, but he decides not to worry about that either. It makes no difference whether he suspects anything. Amir could just say he had forgotten a book in the office and gone back to pick it up. They keep a spare key for the cobbler’s in the apartment. No one would suspect a thing. Just like no one would suspect an old man outside a grocer’s shop of spying. People aren’t always who we think they are.