Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier Page 6

  Tariq has just opened his cobbler’s shop for the day, and Mancebo has taken a moment to jot down his observations from the previous day in one of his many Chinese notebooks. But not for a single second has he neglected to observe whether anything is happening across the street. At one point, he jumped and thought something was about to happen, but it was only Tariq coming out to let down his sun awning. Mancebo proudly adds a final full stop to Thursday’s report, writes today’s date on a new, blank page, closes the gaudy notebook and stashes it under the cash box where it has to jostle for space with invoices, important receipts and a couple of till rolls. The other sixty-nine notebooks are stacked up at the very back of a shelf beneath the till. He has no idea what he’s going to use them for. He might just as well throw them away, but something tells him that doing so would be a waste of the earth’s scarce natural resources.

  Just as he is hiding the notebook under the cash box, a man in a brown hat comes down the fire escape of the building opposite. Mancebo’s first thought is to dash outside so that he doesn’t miss a thing, doesn’t miss a single movement or sound that could indicate a possible lover, but he restrains himself. Behave like normal, he tells himself, and he calmly and level-headedly picks up a rag and a piece of chalk and trots outside into the morning sun.

  The writer lithely makes his way down the steps and looks up at the sky as though to work out what the weather will do today, then he turns left, past the cobbler’s, and carries on along the pavement. He is carrying a small suitcase in one hand. The writer walks briskly, which means the suitcase can’t be heavy. That, in turn, suggests he won’t be away for long, which means he might only be going away for the weekend.

  Mancebo quickly comes up with a number of plausible explanations and alternatives. Maybe he’s going up to Normandy to spend a weekend by the sea with his lover? The thought takes root and gives Mancebo the energy he needs to carry out his task.

  He imagines himself following the writer to Gare Saint-Lazare, where he will watch him meet the woman he loves beneath the huge board showing trains departing to Normandy. They take their seats in first class and can’t keep their hands off each other. They kiss tenderly and, just as the train pulls away to start its journey towards the coast, Mancebo jumps on board. There he sits, behind them and across the aisle, with a newspaper covering his face, able to hear every word they say.

  From time to time the writer reads a chapter of his new book aloud. His lover listens. She’s beautiful, like a rose in bloom. For the moment, Mancebo can’t think of any better way of describing her face, anything less banal. When they go to the restaurant car to order two glasses of champagne, he writes it all down in his red Chinese notebook. When they come back, Mancebo discreetly puts down his notebook and returns to his paper.

  Mancebo suddenly realises that he needs to check what time it is and stop daydreaming. The writer could just as easily be meeting up with his wife so that they can spend the weekend together. He looks up at the clock tower to check the time for his report, but it stares back disdainfully, like a human face with no eyes or mouth, dumb and blind. The clock has stopped. Time has long since thrown in the towel. An old couple come into the shop.

  ‘Good morning, madame. Good morning, monsieur.’

  ‘Good morning, Monsieur Mancebo,’ the old lady replies.

  The man gives him a nod. The couple live a stone’s throw from the boulevard, and they have been Mancebo’s customers ever since he opened the shop.

  ‘How can I be of service this lovely morning?’

  ‘I want a packet of biscuits, dark ones if you’ve got them, with plenty of fibre. I’m having such trouble going to the toilet. Can’t get it out, if you know what I mean. The doctor prescribed high-fibre biscuits.’

  ‘Then I’ll need to see the prescription, please.’

  The old couple laugh, the man in a rather forced way. Mancebo checks to see what he’s got. Eventually, he spots a packet that has been there as long as he can remember. At least as long as the clock on the tower has been out of action. Wholemeal, it says on the packet.

  ‘I think this is what you want.’

  The woman scrutinises the packet carefully and spends a long time rummaging for her glasses in her big red cloth bag. The man snatches the biscuits from her hand and starts to read the ingredients aloud.

  ‘We’ll try them,’ the woman says after a while, mainly so she doesn’t have to listen to her husband read the entire list.

  Mancebo takes the packet and goes over to the till.

  ‘Is the van all right?’ the woman suddenly asks.

  ‘Perhaps you should ask Monsieur Mancebo if he’s all right,’ the man sighs with a shake of his head.

  ‘The van?’

  Mancebo pretends to be unperturbed and uncomprehending, though he’s anything but.

  ‘Yes, we saw the accident, it was just outside our window, you see. A front-row seat, you might say.’

  The woman laughs and the man sighs.

  ‘Oh yes, the accident …’

  Mancebo wants to dismiss it with a joke, but he can’t think of anything amusing to say.

  ‘No, well yes, it’s all right, just a broken headlight. These things happen. I expect it was the hot weather that did it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what your wife said, too.’

  ‘My wife?’

  ‘Yes, Fatima.’

  ‘Perhaps we ought to be going,’ the man urges.

  ‘My wife, she saw the accident?’

  ‘No, but we saw her later that morning and asked her how you were.’

  ‘You saw her? Where?’

  ‘In the tobacconist’s below our apartment.’

  The woman is starting to seem confused, and the man just wants to take the biscuits and go.

  ‘What was she doing there?’

  The woman gives Mancebo a quizzical look.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. She’s often in there, having a coffee with the monsieur who works there. They’re usually behind the curtain, in his office. I thought you knew …’

  ‘Chérie, perhaps you should leave Monsieur Mancebo’s private affairs in peace. Let’s take these home and solve your problems.’

  The sun is high in the sky and the exhaust fumes find their way into every pore. Millions of people trying to survive in a red-hot cauldron that doesn’t stop boiling even at night. Mancebo wipes the sweat from his forehead and briefly considers taking off his cap. He dismisses the idea as quickly as it arrived. For the first time, he starts to doubt that he’ll be able to see this through. It’s all just too much. He can’t quite process this new information about Fatima. The words ‘behind the curtain’ are problematic. What is Fatima doing behind the curtain in a tobacconist’s shop? And if she knows about the van incident, why hasn’t she confronted him about it? She’s usually the first to have a go at him whenever he does anything stupid.

  The heat makes it impossible for Mancebo to think clearly. He gets up to fetch a bottle of water and quickly returns to his stool. It’s his safe place. The tarmac beneath the legs of the stool bears a clear imprint of its usual position, and every time he sets down the stool he unconsciously matches it precisely to the indentations in the pavement. The other shopkeepers have also carried chairs and stools outside to get a breath of air, though it could hardly be called fresh.

  Other than the Picard, which sells nothing but frozen goods, the shops are doing poorly in the hot weather. Many people go there just to cool off, and the rough sleepers crowd around its vents. But for someone who owns a tiny grocer’s shop, the heat is a curse. Mancebo hasn’t even got air conditioning to tempt the punters in.

  He spends the afternoon noting down the observations he made at lunchtime. He also writes a short shopping list of things he needs in order to continue his work. The only problem is that he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to get out and buy them. He would usually give that kind of task to Fatima, but how would he explain the sudden need for a wristwatch and pair of binoculars? He�
�s not entirely sure about the binoculars. After all, the aim is to act like normal, to behave like usual, but he also needs to adapt to the situation. There might be occasions on which he has to spy in a more professional way, albeit discreetly.

  Huge black clouds stack up on the horizon, making the heat easier to bear. A respite is on its way. Tariq whistles to signal that it’s time for their daily stroll to Le Soleil. Mancebo gives him a thumbs up. Since Tariq doesn’t have anything to bring inside, he can shut up his shop quickly, and he comes across to give Mancebo a hand, helping himself to an apple in the process.

  ‘Did you get a touch of sunstroke, brother?’ he suddenly asks, pointing to the apples.

  With all his attention on the writer that morning, Mancebo had rubbed out the old price and written in a new one. He is now selling apples for forty-nine euros a kilo.

  ‘They can’t be that tasty.’

  Mancebo scratches his head when he realises how it happened. I’ll learn, he thinks. I’ve got to develop my capacity for multitasking. He rubs off the price with his sleeve. They walk down the boulevard, Tariq with a red apple in his hand and Mancebo with white chalk on the right arm of his jacket.

  Tariq and François are talking about the weather. Mancebo tries to keep up with their chatter, but finds his imagination running away with him. In his mind, he isn’t in a smoky bar in Paris, he’s on a beach in Normandy. The sun is shining there, too, but the sea breeze prevents any sweaty brows. There’s nothing romantic about sweaty brows. The writer has it all planned. They’ve been talking about the trip for weeks, but they hadn’t really fixed the date. This is the first time the lover’s husband and the writer’s wife have both been away at the same time.

  The waves roll compassionately towards the shore as they take an aperitif to celebrate their weekend of love. Though are they really having a drink at the beach? Didn’t they order champagne on the train? Maybe they’ve already checked into their picturesque little hotel in the fishing village, or …

  Mancebo interrupts his thoughts with a theatrical clearing of the throat. He has to give the young lovers a bit of privacy. He can’t be too inquisitive. Be professional, my friend, Mancebo tells himself, downing his pastis. The last break of the day is over, time to get back to work.

  Since he is convinced the writer has gone away for the weekend, or at least for the night, he doesn’t feel in a hurry to get back to the shop. He’s perfectly justified in allowing himself a slight diversion on a private matter.

  ‘I’m just going to get cigarettes,’ Mancebo says apologetically as they emerge onto Boulevard des Batignolles.

  ‘You can have one of mine, brother. If you like, I can sponsor you for cigarettes for the rest of your life. It only comes to about a packet a month, seeing as you’ve got a wife who cares about your health.’

  If there’s one thing that amuses Tariq it’s Fatima’s rationing of her husband’s cigarettes. Mancebo doesn’t know why, but every time the subject comes up he feels humiliated.

  ‘Maybe it’s Fatima who sponsors your cigarettes?’

  The words leave Mancebo’s mouth before he knows it, questions about his wife’s relationship with the tobacconist are playing on his mind.

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  Tariq grabs Mancebo by the sleeve then thinks better of it and tries to calm down.

  ‘Sorry, but what do you mean by that?’

  Tariq’s eyes are black. They’ve never been blacker. Mancebo doesn’t recognise his cousin. Tariq is scaring him. The two men glare at one another. Mancebo knows he needs to get Tariq back onside. He can’t cope with having him as an enemy, not at the moment.

  ‘What? What did I say? Can’t even remember. Why so angry, brother?’

  Tariq studies him for a few moments, and then his face softens and he laughs.

  ‘Ah, sorry. Must be this heat making me crazy.’

  ‘It’s making us all feel that way,’ Mancebo says with a smile.

  Mancebo shouldn’t really have to conceal the fact that he’s decided to go to the tobacconist’s on Rue de Chéroy rather than his usual one on the boulevard. But he feels obliged to after his cousin’s outburst, and so he turns left, as he always does, towards the tobacconist’s where he usually buys his cigarettes. He wants to turn around to see whether his cousin is watching him, but doesn’t have the nerve.

  He steps inside the tobacconist’s, waits a second or two and then comes back out. He turns into Place Prosper-Goubaux and carries on around the block to get to Rue de Chéroy. Memories of the crash come flooding back to him as he passes the scene of the accident. No broken glass or skid marks. There’s nothing to suggest that any kind of collision took place at that spot. Mancebo feels grateful to the street cleaners of Paris and their long green brooms.

  What if Fatima’s behind the curtain, Mancebo thinks. He has only set foot inside the tobacconist’s once before. He was with Amir, who needed a daily paper for school. Mancebo has no idea why he never buys his cigarettes here. He has his ways.

  A bell rings as he steps through the door, and a glorious coolness hits him. Some shopkeepers have it easy, Mancebo thinks. The hugely fat tobacconist turns and raises his eyebrows at Mancebo, as though he’s surprised to see him in the shop. Odd, Mancebo thinks; to him, the tobacconist is a stranger. It’s probably just the heat making people act oddly, he reassures himself. But now that he’s here, Mancebo wonders why he really came. He hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s going to do, but he casts a furtive glance at the curtain.

  ‘Good day.’

  ‘Good day, monsieur, how can I help?’

  ‘It’s lovely in here.’

  The man gives Mancebo a nonplussed look.

  ‘Nice and cold.’

  ‘Ah, right, yes,’ the man says in relief.

  How can I bring things round to my wife in a natural way, Mancebo wonders desperately.

  ‘Well, I came in here because I’m looking for my wife.’

  ‘Your wife? Here?’

  ‘Yes. She told me she was coming here.’

  ‘Aha … And who is your wife?’

  ‘Fatima.’

  The man starts shuffling the newspapers on the counter.

  ‘No, it’s just me here.’

  ‘I can see that, monsieur, but doesn’t she come here sometimes?’

  ‘No. Sorry, but I don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t know a Fatima. Maybe you’ve got the wrong shop? There’s another tobacconist’s further up the street.’

  ‘Yes, maybe that’s it.’

  Mancebo realises he’ll have to employ the same tactic here as he did with Tariq a few minutes earlier. Best to throw in the towel. Give up. Play dead the way animals do.

  ‘Well then, monsieur, have a good day.’

  ‘You too,’ the fat man says with a false smile.

  Mancebo goes back along the street at a virtual jog. His jacket flies out behind him as he dashes round the block, and finally he’s back on Boulevard des Batignolles, where he flings himself into his usual tobacconist’s.

  ‘Afternoon, Mancebo. Out running on a day like this?’

  ‘I need to get back to the shop.’

  ‘Business is brisk, then?’

  Mancebo smiles and puts the exact change on the counter. On his way back across the boulevard he casts a glance at the cobbler’s shop. Tariq is standing in the doorway, watching him. There’s nothing odd about his cigarette purchase taking a long time; he often stops for a chat.

  Mancebo holds up the cigarette packet, proof that he hasn’t been doing anything stupid. Tariq nods and goes back behind his counter.

  The eagerly awaited rain finally arrives during the night, accompanied by its good friend thunder. The storm is rolling in over the city and Mancebo throws off the covers and gets up. He looks out at the empty boulevard and the equally empty apartment opposite. He wants a cigarette so badly, but he’s already smoked his evening’s allowance. Plus, what would Fatima say if she found him smokin
g in the middle of the night?

  He shudders. A flash of lightning and a loud crash make him jump. Even Fatima, who normally sleeps like a log, sits up in alarm. She drags her lumbering body over to the window as quickly as she can, and they stand there, looking out. Fatima’s eyes scan the boulevard to see where the lightning struck. Mancebo’s gaze is fixed on the apartment opposite. Not even the thunderstorm can tear him away from his assignment.

  ‘It must be the church spire,’ Fatima mutters.

  Mancebo looks at his wife. Studies her in profile. Her and the fat tobacconist? The thought is impossible. Mancebo tries to imagine the two of them behind the curtain, but he can’t. And why hasn’t she confronted him about smashing up the van? If you only knew, Mancebo thinks. I have my secrets, too.

  I googled Monsieur Bellivier’s name for the first time. The search brought up quite a few hits, but by the time I had weeded out the ones I considered irrelevant, a farmer in Belgium for example, there were only a handful left. One of them, a gynaecologist called Bertrand Bellivier, had a clinic in Pont de Neuilly, just a few stops away from the business district. I checked there was no one outside before I called.

  ‘Hello, I’d like to make an appointment with Doctor Bellivier.’

  ‘Are you an existing patient?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid Doctor Bellivier isn’t taking on new patients at the moment.’

  ‘It’s a bit of an emergency, my own gynaecologist is away, so it would only be this once, just to check something …’

  ‘OK. I can give you an appointment next week.’

  ‘It’ll have to be between twelve and one-thirty …’

  That morning, between plings, I also had time to look into booking a flight to the Maldives in the name of Monsieur Bellivier, using the code from the Air France card. Just to see whether the code matched the name. But before the booking could move on to the next stage, I had to provide a forename and telephone number. Back to square one. I tried another roll of the dice and called the airline’s customer service desk.