Waiting for Monsieur Bellivier Page 8

  He remembers that his mother always used to say that the only hurdle to good observational skills was vanity, and Mancebo certainly isn’t vain, far from it. If he really makes an effort, he can read from the baker’s lips that the man is now saying something about last night’s weather, that it’s an odd climate we’ve got nowadays, monsoon rain one day and a desert sun hanging over the city the next. Tariq says something about climate change. What does he know about that, Mancebo wonders, juggling a couple of plums as he greets two passers-by.

  Mancebo continues to swing on his stool, and amuses himself by placing it right on top of the marks it has made in the tarmac. What was it that made me put the stool here, of all places, he asks himself as Amir comes down and rests a hand on his father’s shoulder.

  ‘Everything OK, Dad?’

  ‘Yep, all good. When it’s too hot, no one feels like shopping, and now that it’s cooler, people want to seize the moment. Running to the shops is the last thing on their minds. I’ll be back in an hour or two. If you need help with anything, you know you can close up and ask Tariq. OK?’

  Amir nods.

  ‘I’ll be back in an hour or two, did I say that?’

  Amir nods again, sits down on his father’s stool and starts leafing through a comic.

  ‘Don’t forget to smile, my son. That’s the only thing we give away for free.’

  Mancebo pats his son on the cheek then makes his way towards the garage. He calls Raphaël from the road. First, the van needs seeing to.

  Today is my day, Mancebo thinks, accelerating gently. It feels like the van has more energy now that Raphaël has fixed it up. Mancebo had mumbled something incomprehensible about how he broke the headlight, but Raphaël didn’t seem to care, he was more concerned with how to fix it.

  Mancebo isn’t familiar with this area of Paris and has never set foot in the place he is now heading towards. He drives into the garage. He can’t afford to lose any time looking for a space. The barrier goes up and he spirals down into the depths of the garage. His decision to pay a visit to Galeries Lafayette department store is based on three things: he needs a shop which sells everything on his list; it’s not far from Raphaël’s; and Mancebo is sure that in this area of town he won’t bump into anyone he knows.

  He shares a lift with a young couple carrying a number of huge shopping bags. It’s the bags that make Mancebo feel uncomfortable, and he clasps his hands in front of him. But if he feels uncomfortable in the lift, it’s nothing compared to what will happen when the doors open. He’s met by glitter, noise, perfumes, a fast pace, money quickly changing hands, mirrors, crystal chandeliers, lights and crowds of beautiful people chasing after it all. He stands there in his blue coat and black cap, not knowing quite where to turn. It feels like everyone is staring at him, and he can’t remember ever having felt so like a fish out of water before.

  The fragrant, lovely people crowd past him and he feels like a ghost, an invisible ghost, one who has a job to do. He is suddenly struck by the thought that he might bump into Madame Cat. She probably comes to places like this all the time. She’s just as lovely as the other women here.

  Mancebo pulls the sheet of paper from his inner pocket. First on his list: a watch. He glances around for an information desk. In an attempt to get a better overview of this newly discovered world, he moves towards the middle, but all he can see are colours, lights and glitter. If Fatima only knew that I was in Galeries Lafayette, he thinks, which makes him smile. He dares to take a step into the inferno. And there, in the distance, he finally spots the information desk and reluctantly makes his way towards it.

  Small watches, big watches, glittery watches, matte watches, expensive watches, eye-wateringly expensive watches, colourful watches, discreet watches, ladies’ watches, men’s watches, diving watches, watches with inbuilt alarms, ugly watches, beautiful watches, loud watches and silent watches.

  ‘How can I help, monsieur?’

  ‘I’d like a watch.’

  ‘Mmm, what did you have in mind?’

  ‘A watch, a wristwatch.’

  ‘OK, any particular brand?’

  Mancebo isn’t aware of any watch brands, but he does know a country which makes them.

  ‘I’d like a Swiss watch, one which is discreet and not too expensive.’

  The young shop assistant smiles and goes away to fetch the perfect watch for a private detective.

  He crosses the word ‘watch’ from his shopping list. He knows exactly what he needs, but it feels more professional to have a list. The second, and therefore last, word on his list is ‘binoculars’. He decides to go back to the information desk. The helpful woman managed to send him the right way to the watches, so she can probably also tell him how to find the binoculars.

  Mancebo’s progress to the information desk is hindered by a crowd of Japanese tourists. Their guide is keeping them together like they are a flock of sheep, and it’s practically impossible for him to make his way through the homogeneous group. Mancebo has to wait patiently until they pass.

  There aren’t as many binoculars to choose between as there were watches. There are plastic binoculars, for hunting, he guesses, a couple of ordinary black types, and then two kinds of opera glasses.

  ‘Good afternoon. How can I help you, monsieur?’

  ‘Are these all the binoculars you have?’

  ‘Yes, what were you planning to use them for?’

  Mancebo cautiously glances around before he answers:

  ‘Espionage.’

  He regrets his choice of word the minute it leaves his mouth. He could at least have said detective work. But the word ‘espionage’ was probably the right one for showing that he wasn’t just an old man who owned a grocer’s shop; he was a genuine detective, albeit in disguise, someone who demanded respect. Mancebo stands up straight. No one is perfect. No one is completely free of suspicion. No one is completely in the clear. Not to Mancebo.

  ‘Oh, that sounds interesting. In that case I’d recommend these, if it’s from a distance, if you’re sitting in a car or something.’

  The sales assistant takes out a big, classic-looking pair.

  ‘But if you’re closer to your person, or your object, or … well, then I would recommend one of these pairs of opera glasses. They’re more … discreet.’

  He places the two smaller pairs next to the bigger one.

  ‘I’ll take the more expensive of the opera glasses.’

  Choosing the most expensive pair is also a way of commanding respect in this new world in which Mancebo feels so uncertain. He crosses ‘binoculars’ from his short list. Mission completed.

  He puts on his watch, high up on his wrist so that it isn’t visible from beneath his coat, and stretches his arm to double-check. Maybe buying a Swiss watch from Galeries Lafayette was unnecessary if it’s not going to be visible to anyone. The watch shows 12.45 as he leaves the parking garage.

  He throws the parking ticket and the two receipts out of the window and pulls out into the traffic. Seventeen minutes later, he parks his van, shoves the binoculars into one of his coat pockets and waves to Amir, who is still engrossed in his comic. Mancebo heads over to Tariq’s shop and steps inside. Tariq has a customer, and Mancebo starts absent-mindedly playing with a flashing key ring as he studies his own shop. How much can you see from the cobbler’s? Can you see what Amir is doing? Where can you hide in the shop, without being seen from over here? Where does the light fall? He has time to observe and memorise all this before Tariq says goodbye to his customer.

  ‘You been out running?’ Tariq asks.

  ‘I was at Raphaël’s with the van.’

  ‘I thought you said it was going.’

  ‘It was, but then one of the headlights … it wasn’t sitting right, so I thought I might as well get it sorted today.’

  ‘Good idea. How’s he doing?’

  Mancebo wants to cut off the discussion, like he had earlier at Raphaël’s. He still hasn’t realised that he can relax. His
work is done for the day. He no longer needs an alibi.

  ‘Yeah, fine. And his wife, Camille, was as lovely as ever. The kind of woman you’d be glad to have. Always happy and young-looking.’

  ‘Not like ours, you mean?’

  Both men laugh, shake hands and tell one another to have a good afternoon. Mancebo crosses the boulevard with the watch strapped high on his wrist.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  Amir nods in reply and then slopes off. He probably has better things to do, Mancebo thinks, stashing the binoculars behind the sixty-nine Chinese notebooks.

  The sun will soon be setting, and since it’s early summer the swarms of German and English tourists have not yet arrived. A couple of horses appear in the distance. They’re training ahead of tomorrow’s race. There are a few children testing out their newly bought kites, but otherwise the only people left are the day’s swimmers, who are now packing up their towels, sun lotions and picnic baskets to head home for a shower before dinner.

  The writer and his lover have probably already showered and got ready for the evening. They walk along the beach, both have taken off their shoes and she has her arm linked through his. Maybe they’re talking about something serious, about how their love is an impossible card that no one would want to be dealt in a game of poker. But as in many games, their love is down to chance. Neither of them chose to love the other. They know that their time together is precious, rare, and that makes them melancholy. Mancebo tastes the word ‘melancholy’. He can’t remember ever having used it before, not even in his thoughts. But he does so now.

  Mancebo is sitting on the stool outside his shop as usual. Things have been quiet all day, and he’s grateful for that. It was just what he needed after a sleepless night and those hectic hours in Galeries Lafayette. His thoughts return to the writer and the beaches of Normandy, to Cabourg in particular. The young lovers are just passing the Grand Hôtel, which looms over the beach, impressive and stylish. The same hotel in which Marcel Proust, the writer’s great idol, used to stay. Cabourg was the only place where the famous author was able to get any respite from his terrible asthma. The writer tells his lover all of this, and she listens intently. The fact that Mancebo knows of an author like Proust is purely down to Amir having done a school project on him. He had practised his presentation on his family. Tariq kept the time and Fatima had said that maybe she should check in to the hotel in Cabourg to get away from the asthma she suffered as a result of everyone smoking around her. Mancebo remembers that part particularly clearly.

  The more Mancebo thinks about the sinful couple, the stronger his feelings of empathy for them grow. He suffers with them. That might seem strange considering everything Madame Cat has woken within him, but Mancebo can’t for anything in the world connect Madame Cat’s despair to the writer’s infidelity. It’s as though they’re elements from two different stories, and Mancebo is beginning to take the side of the villain in this tale.

  He wonders whether his feelings might affect his work. Shouldn’t a private detective stay on his client’s side, both practically and emotionally? Otherwise, it’s like a defence lawyer turning up for closing statements with a heart that beats for the prosecution. Their weighty words would fall flat, not even the prosecution would manage to catch them, because they weren’t directly aimed at them. Mancebo spends some time thinking about this similarity, and misses the moment when a Vespa and a car crash outside the bakery. People stream out into the road to find out what happened. Mancebo stands up to get a better look, and that gives him an idea. This is the perfect moment to try out his binoculars.

  He points them in the direction of the crowd, but all he can see is a grey haze. It’s the first time he has ever used binoculars, but he knows how to adjust the focus. Suddenly, he recoils and tears them from his eyes. The people had become so sharp that it makes him gasp. He hadn’t realised that binoculars could be so powerful. He carefully studies every person around the accident scene and then points the binoculars at the building opposite. Everything becomes blurry again and it takes him a moment to adjust the focus to the new distance. He studies Tariq. His cousin seems unreal through the binoculars, it’s almost as though Mancebo is seeing him for the first time. Is he really so dark, Mancebo wonders, casting one last glance up at the fire escape before he carefully puts the opera glasses back into their case and hides them beneath the till. He returns to his stool and notices the rich scent of food making its way down into the shop.

  Alongside his exhilaration about his new job, a feeling of loneliness has also reared its head. The room is dark, and Mancebo knows that he needs to get a few hours’ sleep. If he’s going to manage to look after the shop and get his detective work done, he needs to sleep. But since the evening Madame Cat came into his life, nothing has been the same. Even though very little has actually changed.

  Mancebo is lying on his back with his arms crossed over his stomach, but he suddenly realises that in that position he looks like he has started his eternal rest. He quickly moves. He hears the sound of a car every now and then, the occasional siren, but otherwise the night is unusually quiet. The feeling of alienation had come over him during dinner, about the same time as he sat down in his new seat.

  For the first time in his life, he knows and is doing something that he hasn’t mentioned to his family. Or not intentionally, anyway. He doesn’t know, as he lies with his arms behind his head, staring up at the white ceiling and its worryingly large cracks, whether that change is good or bad. But one thing he does know: he has to keep going, he has to go the distance.

  Sacré-Cœur rose up like a shapely marshmallow above a hazy Paris. On the TV and the radio, presenters urged the population to leave their cars at home. My eyes were brimming with tears, but it wasn’t because of the pollution. My lack of sleep must finally have been catching up with me. There had to be some kind of punishment for staying up all night.

  The first email of the day arrived, ‘3A 3B 27E 27F’. It took a certain amount of energy just to forward it on. Ordinarily, I had impressive difficulty remembering numbers, but I started memorising all the strings of numbers and letters that I could.

  I spent the afternoon working on personal things, like making an appointment for a smear test with my actual gynaecologist, cancelling a place on a seminar and ordering a pair of shoes. I even had time to do some research into holidays before I started packing up to leave.

  The lift stopped on my floor, and though I was sure it was the cleaner, my body got ready to run. Maybe I would be able to make it out to the corridor before she came into the room. I did. She was holding open the lift doors while she hauled the cleaning trolley and vacuum into the corridor.

  ‘Afternoon.’

  She jumped, as though her mind had been somewhere else entirely.

  ‘Afternoon,’ she replied.

  The man hadn’t said anything about talking to the cleaner, just that I should try to be brief with the people who worked here.

  ‘Are you off?’ she asked.

  Maybe she had been given the same instructions. She pulled the vacuum cleaner into the office. I was still standing outside, debating whether to try to start a conversation.

  ‘Have you worked here long? Do you work in other buildings too?’ I asked.

  She looked up at me, and for the first time I realised that she was very cross-eyed. I didn’t know which eye I should focus on. She was a stout little woman in her fifties, probably with Arab heritage.

  ‘I clean here during the afternoon, and another building in the morning.’

  I had no idea what I was going to do with that information. Our conversation, if you could call it that, fell flat.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I said, heading for the lift.

  I mentally prepared myself to collect the day’s flowers.

  Lately, a new idea had taken root. I don’t know if it was any easier to handle than the thought that I was an isolated terrorist cell. I now suspected I was part of a study. Into what, I had no idea, but
it started with finding a carefully chosen individual to carry out the experiment. A depressed woman was perfect. That would then be followed by a study into how a person adapts to their environment and role. How someone reacts when faced with an indecipherable, completely meaningless task. A bit like a modern version of Pavlov’s dogs. Where his dogs were given food, I got flowers. If that was the case, it wasn’t the work which made me suffer but the reward.

  If the sole purpose of the flowers was to distinguish me from the crowd, then it was just as well I came face to face with whoever was looking for me. I sat down on a bench outside Areva with the flowers in full view in my lap. Though today’s bunch was one of the most beautiful I had received – they looked like they had come from a summer meadow – it still disgusted me. My cheeks were aching and I was fighting back tears. Feeling so alone and degraded and still having to be brave; I didn’t know if I had it in me.

  I was being watched. It wasn’t just a vague feeling, no paranoia this time; from the corner of my eye, I noticed a man studying me from ten or so metres away. I looked down before I had time to register his face.

  Had he been there every day when I left? Without looking up, I left the bench and calmly started walking towards the metro. If he followed me, I would have no trouble shaking him off. I knew the area well, better than most people. And if I managed to shake him off, we could swap roles. I could watch him. The idea gave me courage, but at the same time I realised that exposure could be the end of everything. And I wasn’t sure I wanted that.