Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier Page 3

  ‘Sorry. It happens sometimes. I’m claustrophobic. The lift was an ordeal. Excuse me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You should have told me. As you see, there are stairs.’

  I followed the man along the corridor. There were windowed doors on either side, and I could make out huge conference rooms through the blinds.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said with a wave of his hand.

  I stopped. He produced two identical keys and unlocked the door with one of them. This time he strode in first. I loitered in the doorway. It was a large room with a boardroom table in the centre. Over by the window there was a low desk with a computer, and there was a shabby old swivel chair in one corner. The few items of furniture had a forlorn look to them. Even the computer looked second hand.

  The man glanced out of the window.

  ‘Rather spartan, I’m afraid, but it’s neat and tidy. A woman comes in to clean every day. Even if it’s only you here, the wastepaper bin will need to be emptied and the floor vacuumed from time to time.’

  Was I supposed to thank him at this point? I said nothing. He took one of the keys from the key ring and walked back to hand it to me. I took the key and he suddenly looked relieved. Like I had shouldered some of his burden.

  ‘Well then, I suppose I’d better explain.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘You certainly can’t complain about the view. You can see all the way to the foot of Montmartre from here. Can you see the Sacré-Cœur over there?’

  This talk of the basilica was clearly a way to entice me into the room. I accepted the invitation. The view was magnificent. We both looked out at Paris, and for a few seconds, our eyes met in the pane of glass. He turned around and I continued to study the unfamiliar woman reflected in the window.

  ‘Well. Where shall I start …?’ He put his briefcase on the desk, opened it and took out a document. ‘I’ll let you read it yourself, and then you can ask me any questions you have, I think that’ll be best. I’ll go and get us some coffee. There’s a machine on the floor below, by the way. You can use it whenever you want.’

  Just a few minutes earlier I had been sitting in the café, worried about revealing the slightest thing that could give away my identity. Now I was about to read what looked like a contract while my unknown employer went to fetch coffee. He left the door open, for which I felt a certain gratitude. I took out my mobile. Suddenly, it was no longer a threat but a source of security, not that I knew who I would ring if the need arose. But I checked I had reception all the same, and then I started to read.

  The contract was well written and comprehensive, but it didn’t answer any of my questions. My working hours were given, modest in length, and maybe there was some logic to them. They meant I would arrive later than most other people in the building, leaving before the standard working day was over.

  The contract was for three weeks. For obvious reasons there was nothing about a period of notice, but it did say what my task would be. The salary would be paid after the final working day. The amount was stated in bold type. A large sum of money. This couldn’t be a standard journalism job.

  I could do my ordinary work here just as well as in the café down below, and maybe I would also be given access to some interesting material. Though I doubted I would ever receive the promised sum, I decided that if I did, my son and I would go away on holiday. Otherwise he would be stuck in the city all summer.

  My eyes were resting on the Sacré-Cœur when I heard a knock at the door. I jumped.

  ‘Sorry if I frightened you, but you’ll have to get used to this being your office.’

  The man had returned with two plastic cups of coffee. In some strange way it was good to see him again, he was at least a real, living human. He wasn’t just a name, a signature or a shadowy figure. He suddenly seemed more real than I did. I had no idea who I was, and even less now I had read the contract.

  ‘So, as you’ve probably realised, there’s going to be a lot of dead time. Unfortunately, this isn’t a job in which a great deal happens. Maybe not all that intellectually demanding, either, but as I said, it’s stress-free. You’ll have plenty of time for other things.’

  He pointed to a brown cardboard box under the table. I hadn’t noticed it before now. I started to doubt it had even been in the room when we first came in.

  ‘Mr Bellivier said you loved reading, so he’s left you a whole box of books. So, are we agreed?’

  I made my signature illegible. It hadn’t occurred to me that contracts often demand you print your name underneath. The man took the contract and I made some other comment about the view, to distract him from the signature.

  ‘Good, so that’s that. In case we don’t meet again, I’d like to wish you the best of luck. But I’m sure it’s all going to be fine.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Take the afternoon off, you can start properly tomorrow.’

  ‘If I have any questions, I mean, if anything happens, if the computer stops working, is there anyone I can ask, anyone I can get in touch with?’

  For the first time, he lost his way in the script. He changed tack. Now we were in a different play.

  ‘Nothing’s going to go wrong, everything will work. But if anything should happen, it’s important that you don’t contact any … outsiders. If something isn’t working I’m sure Monsieur Bellivier will soon notice and contact you personally.’

  We walked to the lift together. What was I supposed to say if some Areva employee came up and asked me what I was doing there? I didn’t ask the question out loud, but I knew what the man would have answered: ‘Nobody’s going to come up here.’ And maybe he was right. The lift arrived and we got in.

  ‘Do you know who once lived up here? This whole floor was his apartment.’

  I shook my head, I didn’t dare guess it had been Monsieur Bellivier.

  ‘Before Areva, Framatome owned the building, and before that, Fiat. And the CEO, Giovanni Agnelli, took this floor as his private residence.’

  It was a good lift anecdote, both in length and form. It could even have been written for that purpose.

  ‘It’s best for you not to have any contact with the people who work here. How shall I put it … it’s important that you’re as discreet as possible. But I’m sure you understand that.’

  I understood.

  Mancebo is woken by Fatima shaking him. This is only the third time in twenty-eight years that he has overslept. He looks at the alarm clock, 6.59, swears once and swears again.

  Fatima gets up, slots her feet into her slippers and shuffles around, looking for her husband’s trousers.

  ‘Where on earth did you get undressed, husband?’

  Mancebo eventually finds his trousers on the sofa, then turns the apartment upside down looking for his van keys. They’ve never sneakily vanished like this before.

  ‘Take it easy, husband dear. You don’t run a sushi restaurant.’

  As Mancebo always told his wife, the sushi restaurants had to be first in line at Rungis. The best fish sells fast. Especially the fat-rich tuna.

  He casts a quick glance over to the apartment opposite, but its windows are all dark. Amir passes the bedroom and looks at his father with tired eyes.

  Down at the van at last, Mancebo puts the key into the ignition then stops himself. If he goes to Rungis now, he won’t be able to open the shop before ten o’clock, maybe even later, depending on the traffic. He can’t be late starting his new job. He looks into the mirror as though to remind himself what he looks like, and runs his hand over his stubble. He quickly debates the matter. He could go to Rungis for fresh supplies, but that would mean opening at least an hour late. How would it look if Madame Cat discovered he was cutting corners on his first day? She knows his opening times, after all. But if he doesn’t go to Rungis, it’ll be the first time in his long career that he hasn’t had fresh fruit and vegetables midweek. What eventually makes him leave the van is the memory of Madame Cat’s green eyes and the thought of being able to tell his family about his m
ission – once it’s complete.

  He unlocks the door. He hauls up the grille. He drags out the fruit and vegetables and says good morning to Madame Brunette as she passes with her badly groomed white poodle. These are the things he does every day. But nothing is being done with his usual energy or concentration. Because this is not a usual day. He is focused on the building opposite.

  The city is still slumbering. The smell of rain casts Mancebo back to the night before, and he smiles to himself. Whatever happens, this has happened. He has met a woman by the name of Madame Cat, and she has asked him to be her private detective and spy on her husband. No one can take that away from him. Even if he’s sacked from his new job on the very first day, or if no writer in a cap ever appears, he’ll still have a story to tell.

  Right, off we go, he thinks, wheeling out the slightly wizened apples and freshening them with a spritz of water. The city is starting to wake, in the way big cities do. Slowly, as though preparing to welcome millions of people. The sun is now glittering on the rooftops; a lovely day is dawning after all that rain.

  Many of the carrots go straight into the bin, and the tomatoes don’t look that great either. As Mancebo starts sorting through the peppers, something catches his attention. This early in the day he can still keep on top of everything, even if it’s only a leaf drifting to the ground. It’s going to get harder as the day wears on.

  A bulky woman in black shuffles across the street. She distracts him from the vivid colours of the vegetables, and it takes him a few seconds to realise that it’s Fatima. Mancebo didn’t realise she ever went out before lunch. He isn’t sure why he assumed she stayed at home in the mornings, but maybe it’s because she never mentions going out. Maybe because he thought she told him everything she did each day. He goes out onto the pavement and watches his wife cross the boulevard. But then something strange happens. As though she has eyes in the back of her head, she turns around and stares at her husband, who is standing at a loss, a pepper in each hand.

  ‘What are you doing here now?’ she shouts, turning back towards the shop.

  For a moment or two, Mancebo forgets that under no circumstances is he meant to be in the shop yet. It’s only eight. He’s supposed to be on the motorway back from Rungis, his van full of fresh fruit and vegetables. But Mancebo quickly regains his wits, as any good private detective should.

  ‘That rust bucket wouldn’t start. It coughed and it spluttered and then it just died on me. This is no good. What’ll the customers say? Come and look at the veg!’

  He pretends to wipe a tear from his cheek, just to be on the safe side. Fatima inspects the vegetables and angrily evicts a few carrots.

  ‘I told you that heap of scrap would conk out. What’re you going to do tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, how are you going to get to Rungis tomorrow?’

  ‘Well, yes, er … I’ve got the rest of the day to sort something out.’

  Mancebo is so focused on getting out of his corner that he forgets to ask why she is out and about so early.

  ‘Those apples don’t look too pretty either. You can’t sell those,’ Fatima declares, confiscating the spray.

  Mancebo suddenly loses his temper, because if it were true, if the van really had broken down and he hadn’t been able to get to Rungis, then she shouldn’t be angry with him. She should feel sorry for him – shouldn’t she?

  ‘And what are you doing out so early?’

  Fatima looks up and shakes her head.

  ‘Early? I heard the van, it was coughing its head off, you said so yourself. I was shaking rugs on the balcony and I thought I should come down and help you sort out the fruit. What’s so strange about that?’

  Mancebo notices that she is carrying her handbag. And why was she crossing the boulevard? Because she was, wasn’t she?

  He holds his tongue, not only because he is afraid of Fatima but also because, from now on, he’ll have to be careful.

  People start fighting for space on the pavements, making it harder for Mancebo to keep track of all the passers-by. There isn’t a brown cap in sight. It isn’t ten yet, but his stomach has already started to rumble. He thinks it must be because he was deprived of his usual coffee that morning. The hot drink seems to have the ability to keep his stomach quiet right up until lunch. He looks over to the other building again, but it’s completely dark. Mancebo hears sounds on the staircase and then Tariq comes dashing in.

  ‘I heard about the van. What a pain. Do you want me to ask Raphaël if he can drop round and take a look at it?’

  Raphaël is Tariq’s best friend. He works as an electrician, but he can repair anything. His latest trick was to fix Fatima’s foot spa, which had been gathering dust in a corner, in the belief it would never work again.

  ‘Thanks, but I can ring him. I’ll try fixing it myself first. It’s bound to be a quiet day seeing as the shop looks like a compost heap.’

  ‘Bloody bad luck.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Tariq lights a cigarette, almost certainly not his first of the day, and sets off across the boulevard. It strikes Mancebo that Tariq might know the writer; he lives above the shop, after all. Maybe he’s a good customer. But Mancebo can’t remember hearing Tariq talk about a customer who lives above the shop, nor of a writer who pops in from time to time. It’s strange, because everyone needs to get their shoes resoled or have a key cut every now and then. And people go to the nearest cobbler which, in the writer’s case, would be Tariq.

  If nothing happens, what will he report to Madame Cat? The morning is passing without drama, with no visible action from across the road. The smell of cooking slowly penetrates the shop. Mancebo is so hungry he feels queasy. Reluctantly, he shuts up the fruit and vegetable stands, his eyes fixed on the building opposite. Still nothing to report. Tariq ambles across and helps to pull down the grille. They go upstairs in silence, towards the smell of cooking, towards the lunch that is served as usual, on a day that is anything but.

  As he sits at the low dining table, Mancebo angles his head so he won’t miss a thing. He can’t afford to, not on the first day. One by one his family members sit down without saying a word, and Mancebo wonders whether it’s usually like this. They all have set places. His is with his back to the window, in the corner beside Tariq.

  He can’t remember why he was allocated that seat, years before, nor why the others were allocated theirs. But, for as long as he can remember, this is the way it’s been. Adèle sits at one end, Amir opposite Tariq, and Fatima opposite Mancebo. But perhaps there is a logic to their seating plan. Fatima’s place is nearest the kitchen, meaning she doesn’t have to disturb anybody when she dashes in and out to fetch the delicacies she has prepared. Amir sits next to her. Maybe that’s because he often gets home later, and can sit down without having to squeeze past the others.

  From her seat at the end of the table, Adèle can survey everyone and everything, though why she should need to do so Mancebo has no idea, beyond the fact that she is, after all, their hostess – this is her home, even if she isn’t responsible for the cooking. Mancebo mops the sweat from his forehead and studies his family. They’re strangers to him. He’s never felt that way before. But he has never had a secret to keep before. Mancebo can’t really follow the rapidly changing topics of conversation, but he knows that he must. It’s part of his assignment – to behave as normal. And that’s the hard part. On top of the fact that his right eyelid has started to uncontrollably twitch, he has also spilled water from his glass and failed to hear Adèle ask, repeatedly, if they’re going to Tunisia this summer.

  I can’t sit with my back to my work, I have a job to do, Mancebo thinks, and decides to act. He gets to his feet and, since Amir hasn’t arrived yet, sits in his place. It’s as though he’s committed a crime or moved to a different continent. The table becomes an ocean. A few seconds earlier, his natural place was on the opposite shore. Tariq looks up wearily and lights a cigarette.

  ‘What are
you doing?’ he asks.

  ‘What am I doing?’

  ‘Yeah, why are you over there now?’

  Fatima comes in with a steaming bowl of rice.

  ‘What are you doing there? Move, man, so you don’t burn yourself.’

  Risky behaviour demands focus, and Mancebo is more focused than ever before. Adèle casts a glance at Mancebo, but she says nothing.

  ‘Why are you over here now?’ Fatima repeats the question, sitting down beside her husband.

  ‘Maybe he wants to see more of me,’ Tariq laughs. ‘Staring at me all day long isn’t enough.’

  ‘What have you done to your seat?’

  Fatima peers at the rug by Mancebo’s official place to see if she can detect a spillage or some other explanation.

  ‘Feng shung.’

  Tariq stubs out his cigarette and grins at the others.

  ‘It’s called feng shui,’ Adèle laughs.

  Fatima glares at her husband.

  ‘The way we were sitting, or the way I was, it was no good. Two old men over there and nobody here because Amir hasn’t arrived, and then the window there and … no, it’s very bad feng shui.’

  ‘What makes this any better?’ Adèle asks. She sounds genuinely interested.

  ‘I’m here, man and woman, on the same side, and it should be the same over there, man and woman. So you should move next to Tariq and let Amir sit at the end when he gets here.’

  He has no idea where these words are coming from, but a few weeks earlier Adèle had been explaining feng shui to a clearly uninterested Fatima. Fatima had been so obvious in her indifference that Mancebo had felt sorry for Adèle and feigned an interest himself. But even if you’re only pretending, you have to actually listen so that you can ask polite questions. His act of mercy is now bearing fruit.

  ‘What do you know about it?’ asks Fatima.

  ‘After Adèle introduced us to it, I got interested. And I happened to hear something about it on the radio, in the van. The way we’ve been doing things isn’t good feng shui. We’ll have to change. Then things might go better for all of us. The shop might do better. Fortune follows good feng shui. Balance, harmony, success. It’s a whole way of living.’