Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier Page 30

  ‘Well, the game’s over now,’ Mancebo says theatrically.

  It takes a second or two for Fatima to spot her chance to regain control.

  ‘The game? There’s no need to be so dramatic.’

  She even tries a smile.

  ‘Yes, the game’s over. I know everything.’

  Fatima stares at her husband, astounded.

  They couldn’t agree on who first came up with the idea. It had started when the receptionist mentioned to her lover that the top floor of the building where she worked was completely empty. One night, after they checked in to the Hilton, Monsieur Baker had reluctantly admitted that his writing wasn’t going as he’d hoped. His publisher back in England was putting pressure on him, and he needed to come up with something new.

  On another occasion, also at the Hilton, the writer had revealed that he’d lost his enthusiasm for sitting alone all day, writing. Every morning, he would watch other people as they headed to work. He wanted to be one of them. He’d read about cyber nomads, the people who moved from café to café with their work, a modern way of working for those in solitary jobs like his. Maybe he could become one of them.

  During a sleepless night, the writer’s lover had come up with an idea, and she had presented it to him the very next morning. To begin with, Monsieur Baker had been wildly enthusiastic. The experiment would give him if not the entire story, then the inspiration for something new at the very least. And then he had lost his nerve; it would be too complicated to pull off. But the lover managed to convince him by saying she would take care of all of the details, that the concept was simple. The whole thing was self-sufficient. Like a human chain letter. By using the cashed cheques, Monsieur Bellivier, aka Ted Baker, would be able to find out the identities of his test subjects, and after the experiment was over, the plan was to gather them all together one evening so that they could share their experiences. It was a unique idea, and the book would be completely different to anything he had written before.

  The experiment required a lot of money, which the writer had; what he lacked was inspiration. And inspiration was precisely what he would find by watching how these creative cyber nomads managed to work, in complete isolation, on a boring, verging on pointless, task. At the end of each day, they would be given a randomly chosen gift. All to see how they reacted and what the consequences would be. Were they happy to just sit there doing as they were told, or did they take on the task of trying to work out who Monsieur Bellivier was and why they were carrying out this peculiar job?

  But now I had found them out. Neither the writer nor the receptionist asked anything of me, but they led me to understand that though I now knew everything, they would prefer it if I didn’t break the chain. Before I left, I had one last question for them: how many more people would there be after me? Two more, they said, and then the experiment would end. I didn’t need to make up my mind immediately. If I cashed the second cheque, Areva would welcome a new guest. I had time to think.

  I couldn’t remember when I had last been out at night. And for the first time ever, I had a babysitter. I glanced up at the fire escape, but I couldn’t quite picture how it must have looked as I was balancing up there on the narrow roof section. The pink shoe was illuminated, meaning that the cobbler’s shop was open. But the grocer’s was closed. Maybe Monsieur Mancebo was away on some kind of job. I decided to wait a few minutes. I wasn’t in any hurry. And if he didn’t turn up, I could come back another day. I was free and it wasn’t urgent. Or so I thought.

  ‘Good evening, madame.’

  I hadn’t needed to wait long. Monsieur Mancebo had a dogged look on his face as he unlocked the door and stepped inside. I followed him in. Somehow, in some strange way, I felt at home in the shop, despite the fact I had only ever been there once before.

  ‘Quiet?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, a lot of people are on holiday, and … or did you mean quiet across the street?’

  He nodded discreetly in the direction of Monsieur Bellivier’s building. I didn’t know quite what I had meant.

  ‘Well, I just came back to tell you what happened when I followed Monsieur Baker, I thought it might be of interest to you, too.’

  I had come here to tell the truth. He had helped me, so it was obvious that I should help him in return. That was how the world worked. Monsieur Mancebo grabbed the two stools, but this time he set them down inside the shop, and I sat down beneath a shelf of jars of olives.

  ‘Anyway, I followed him all the way to a café in La Défense, and waiting for him there was …’

  I heard a beep. I apologised and looked down at the phone I was clutching in my hand. It was the first time I’d left my son with a babysitter, after all. I’d received a photograph, taken by Monsieur Caro as he and my son sat by the chessboard. Only half of my son’s face was visible in my picture, and I guessed it was probably Monsieur Caro’s first selfie. ‘Everything’s fine. He’s still alive,’ he had written. I smiled. For a second, my weeks at Areva flashed through my head.

  Dusk had started to fall. A small bird was hopping around outside the door, and I suddenly realised what I was about to do. If I told Monsieur Mancebo the truth, I would be the one who had drawn a line under the whole thing. I would prevent other people from experiencing what I had experienced. I had solved my mystery, surely it was up to Monsieur Mancebo to solve his own. And if he couldn’t, then maybe it was meant to stay a secret. For everyone’s sake. I looked at the photo again. It hadn’t been difficult to convince Monsieur Caro to be my babysitter.

  ‘Sorry, the writer had a meeting in a café, with another male author.’

  Monsieur Mancebo gave me a quizzical look.

  ‘I didn’t see any sign of a lover. But what do I know?’

  ‘Did you find the answers you were looking for?’ he asked, unconsciously giving me an explanation as to why I had come back when I didn’t actually have anything to reveal.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur Baker is Monsieur Bellivier.’

  ‘So that Ted Baker is just a sedonym?’

  ‘A pseudonym, yes. It seems like we’ve both been waiting for Monsieur Bellivier.’

  I left Boulevard des Batignolles and headed in the direction of Place de Clichy. It felt as though I was going against the flow. As though the pavement was one way. People passed me by, but no one walked alongside me. I saw a couple of prostitutes getting themselves ready for the Paris night in a stairwell. They would probably walk over to Rue Saint-Denis or take a taxi to Bois de Boulogne.

  In the late-night pharmacies, addicts crowded for space alongside the parents of small children wanting to collect their prescriptions in the hope of a good night’s sleep. They all looked exhausted. The restaurants were welcoming their first guests of the evening, and though it was still quiet, the waiters seemed stressed. They always did. It went with the job. A couple of West African women held up bags of food to one another, and it seemed as though they were swapping vegetables between themselves. A few older men were playing boules on the little strip of sand in the middle of the avenue. A group of teenagers were pretending to fight while their friends cheered them on. A young man next to them, high on drugs, was seeing things no one else could. The police passed by without even noticing him.

  One person after another passed me by, each making an impression on me. Then I arrived. And there he was. He didn’t walk past me, he was more of an obstacle in my way. And it was as though he had been able to feel my approach from behind, because he turned around.

  ‘It’s my turn to give you flowers,’ Christophe said, holding out a bouquet.

  I realised that I could still appreciate flowers after all.

  There’s no doubt about it, Fatima has had time to tell Tariq what happened. That Mancebo found her at the tobacconist’s. Equally certain is the fact that Tariq will have come up with a more or less believable explanation for it all. Mancebo continues to process the situation in his head. Tariq knows that Fatima smokes. Fatima knows about Tariq’s arms dealing and
Adèle’s infidelity. She must.

  But what does Adèle know? Mancebo isn’t at all sure about that. She must know that Fatima smokes, but is that all? Her nerves might not be up to caring about the rest, or maybe it’s her knowledge of the weapons dealing that ruined her nerves. Mancebo feels like he has the power structures in his family clear in his mind as he locks the door to his shop and climbs the stairs towards dinner, towards the end of the drama, whistling as he goes.

  When he makes it upstairs, he is greeted by silence. Fatima smiles at him. Something she never normally does. There’s no sign of anyone else.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ he asks.

  Fatima seems relieved, as though the question shows that her husband will continue to act as normal, as though nothing has happened, as though he won’t bring up the events of the day. But she is wrong.

  ‘Adèle’s drying her hair and Tariq’s picking up Raphaël, he’s eating with us tonight.’

  Fitting, Mancebo thinks, very fitting. Couldn’t be better.

  ‘Which is good, because Amir’s not eating with us tonight,’ Fatima informs her husband before she vanishes into the kitchen.

  Fitting, Mancebo thinks, very fitting. The conditions seem ideal. Amir is smart, Mancebo thinks. My son, he’ll go on to do great things. Adèle comes into the room and wraps her headscarf around her hair, but she deliberately leaves one strand loose. Mancebo knows why, and he sits down at the table and lights a cigarette. Adèle stares at him with wide eyes and then starts to giggle hysterically.

  ‘What next? Have you been given permission to smoke before dinner?’

  If Fatima hears Adèle’s words, she doesn’t come out of the kitchen. Mancebo is sure she’ll stay there until Raphaël and Tariq arrive. He draws the smoke deep into his lungs. It tastes good. It’s the best damn cigarette I’ve ever smoked, Mancebo thinks, looking out at the boulevard. Adèle peers at him in amusement and then they hear the sound of the door downstairs. The last few are on their way up. Mancebo stubs out his cigarette, though it isn’t finished, and lights a new one. Tariq and Raphaël come into the room. Tariq produces a strained smile for Mancebo. The same kind of smile Fatima recently flashed at him. They’re alike, those two, Mancebo thinks. You would almost think they were related.

  ‘Have you seen this, he’s smoking before dinner!’ Adèle laughs.

  ‘Yeah, what are we going to do with this one,’ Tariq jokes.

  Fatima appears from the kitchen. Adèle eagerly waits to see what she will do or say when she sees her husband smoking before they eat.

  ‘Can’t you see?’ Adèle blurts out.

  Fatima looks nonplussed.

  ‘Your husband’s smoking before dinner! It’s his second cigarette!’

  ‘Yes, what are we going to do with him,’ Fatima mumbles before she heads back into the kitchen.

  Adèle seems bewildered by Fatima’s cool reaction. Raphaël shakes Mancebo’s hand and greets Adèle with kisses on the cheek. Hypocrite, Mancebo thinks, taking a long drag on his cigarette. Fatima returns with bowl after bowl of food and places them all on the table.

  ‘Well, dig in,’ she says as she sits down.

  It’s time for Mancebo to do it. But because he is enjoying the situation so much, he feels a slight reluctance. He wants to draw it out a little, but he knows that he risks losing the perfect moment if he does. Amir could come home, Raphaël has an uncanny ability to suddenly run off to fix something, Adèle might decide to go and lie down … He has to seize his chance now.

  Mancebo picks up the heavy rice spoon and wipes it with his napkin. He has never clinked a glass to get everyone’s attention before, and he does it a bit too hard. The gentle clinking he’d planned sounds more like an attempt to break the glass. But it has the desired effect all the same. Everyone stops talking and pauses, other than Adèle, who continues chewing and smiles in amusement.

  ‘Yes, I’d just like to say a few words. It won’t take long.’

  Tariq and Fatima try, despite their nerves, to look as cool and peaceful as they can. Adèle and Raphaël are calm, albeit slightly confused.

  ‘We all have our secrets, or so I’ve learnt. Secrets can cause damage. Your secrets have hurt me, and I would like to share what I have learnt so they don’t do any more damage. We’re all grown adults here, and that means we can take responsibility for our actions.’

  ‘Darling, can’t we do this later, we have a guest this evening.’

  Fatima nods in the direction of Raphaël. I was right, Mancebo thinks, Raphaël was only invited as a kind of buffer, a shield, a way of keeping the evening nice and calm.

  ‘No, it’s an excellent opportunity precisely because we have Raphaël here.’

  Adèle casts a quick glance at Raphaël, who takes a deep breath before he meets his lover’s eye.

  ‘It’s always difficult to know where to begin, but I’ll start with the parts which affect me directly. My wife smuggles cigarettes to the fat tobacconist on Rue de Chéroy. She gets the cigarettes from Tariq, who runs an extensive cigarette-smuggling ring.’

  Mancebo looks out at the people around the table and realises that this information was news only to Raphaël. He knows them so well that he can tell precisely what they know, even though they all react differently.

  ‘You’re exaggerating,’ says Fatima. ‘I sold a few packets left over after Tariq was given them by a friend. I told you as much already. So, can we eat now?’

  ‘No, not yet. Tariq has a cobbler’s shop, we all know that, but in actual fact, on the side of the cigarettes, his business is in dealing weapons.’

  ‘No, enough now, man!’ Fatima shouts.

  Tariq glances at Fatima, as though looking for an explanation as to how his cousin could have found that out. Did she squeal in an attempt to exonerate herself from what happened earlier?

  Mancebo looks at everyone around the table. This was news to Adèle and Raphaël.

  ‘Don’t listen to what he says,’ Tariq whispers to Adèle, taking her hand. ‘He’s gone mad.’

  Adèle seems terrified.

  ‘Yes, and that brings me to Adèle and Raphaël.’

  Mancebo has reached the part he was most looking forward to. He turns to Tariq.

  ‘Your wife is having an affair with your friend Raphaël.’

  Everyone but Tariq knew about this, Mancebo quickly determines. Tariq drops his wife’s hand. Adèle raises both hands to her face.

  ‘Do you know what you’re accusing us of?’ Raphaël snaps.

  ‘Yes,’ Mancebo says, loud and clear. ‘And finally, being a greengrocer isn’t my primary job. I’m a private detective now. So, time to eat.’

  It didn’t take me long to work out what I needed to do to hand over the baton. I’d done some preparation. I didn’t really know whether that was allowed, maybe there were rules about the victim needing to be a complete stranger, someone you had never had any contact with. But I had felt compelled to soften up my chosen person a few days earlier, by smiling at him as he worked in a café.

  A newspaper article had given me an idea of what I should use the second cheque for. The article was about a study which had shown that the French preferred l’éclair above all other baked goods. That was what would be awaiting him at the end of every day. I had ample budget for three weeks’ worth of éclairs.

  I went to the biggest bakery in the business district. The assistant gave me a strange look and asked me to wait. After a while, an older woman came forward and asked what I wanted, despite the fact that she had probably already been told. I suppose she wanted to make sure someone really was asking for éclairs to be delivered to an office every day for a few weeks.

  The woman shook her head and said that they didn’t do that kind of thing. I could have turned on my heel, I could have come up with something else or gone to another bakery, but I just wanted to get it over and done with. I explained how much I was willing to pay. The older woman studied me and asked me to wait. By now, practically every member of staff knew a
bout my request. They looked at one another and then smiled at me. Their smiles were quite hard to read. Maybe they felt sorry for me, maybe they thought I was mad. The woman came back.

  ‘We have an apprentice who could deliver them, but we’ll need to know the exact address and the relevant days.’

  I felt quite proud of myself, pulled out the contract and wrote out everything necessary.

  But reality caught up with me. What was I about to do? If the man was going to accept the task, there were so many obstacles in the way. For the first time, I became convinced that the strange chain letters were going to end with me. It would be a shame. My eyes scanned the people in the café. The man was sitting where he usually did. Now or never. I felt ill. He wore a gold signet ring on his chubby ring finger. I hate signet rings. I slowly moved over to his table. He snatched the newspaper out of the way. I smiled.

  ‘Are you waiting for … Monsieur Bellivier?’

  Monsieur Rossi hadn’t said that I had to start with that question, but it felt as though it was part of the game. If you took that away, maybe the rest of it would collapse. I did, however, modify the question by adding an unnaturally long pause before uttering Monsieur Bellivier’s name. In doing so, it was clear that there was no Monsieur Bellivier and that it was just an excuse to start a conversation.

  ‘Am I waiting for Monsieur Bellivier?’ he asked, sounding slightly amused.

  He didn’t want to seem unsure. Not to me, in any case. A scared man was good. This was all just a game. I fished out the key to the office and started playing with it in my fingers. I had been planning to save that gesture for later, but I didn’t know what I would do otherwise. I nodded in reply to his question. Bit my lip, but quickly realised that my improvisation was starting to turn into some kind of parody. The newspaper on the table saved me.