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Authors: Anna Gavalda
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âI know, the redheaded guy, Iâll try and get ahold of him. And you do your exercises like youâre supposed to, okay? I hear the physio isnât too pleased with you.â
When he saw her astonished expression he added, facetiously, âSo you see, I do telephone from time to time.â
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He put away the tools, ate the last strawberries from the vegetable garden and sat there for a moment. The cat wound its way between his legs, mewing hoarsely.
âDonât worry, Puss, donât worry. Sheâll be back.â
The jangle of his cell phone roused him from his lethargy. It was a girl. He did his rooster act; she giggled like a clucking chicken.
She invited him to a movie.
All the way home he rode at over a hundred miles an hour, trying to think up a way to get laid without having to sit through the movie. He wasnât crazy about the cinema. He always fell asleep before the end.
10
IN mid-November, when the cold weather began its dirty work of undermining everyoneâs morale, Camille finally decided to head for the nearest home improvement store, in order to improve her chances of survival. She spent her entire Saturday there, wandering up and down the aisles, touching the wooden panels, admiring the tools, the nails and screws, the door handles, the curtain rods, the tins of paint, the moldings, the shower cabinets and sundry chrome mixer faucets. She then went to the gardening section and made an inventory of everything she might dream of having: gloves, rubber boots, the combined hoe and fork, chicken coops, sowing buckets, organic fertilizer, and seed packets in their infinite variety. She spent as much time observing other customers as she did inspecting the wares: a pregnant woman among the pastel wallpapers; a young couple arguing about a hideous wall lamp; a sprightly man with an air of early retirement about him, in his Timberland shoes, and with a spiral notebook in one hand and a carpenterâs yardstick in the other.
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The school of hard knocks had taught her to beware of any certainty or projects for the future, but there was one thing Camille knew for sure: someday, a long long way down the road, when sheâd be quite old, even older than now, with white hair, a zillion wrinkles and brown spots all over her hands, sheâd have her own house. A real house with a copper pot for making jam, and sugar cookies in a metal box hidden deep inside a dresser. A long farmhouse table, thick and homey, and cretonne curtains. She smiled. She had no idea what cretonne was, or even if sheâd like it, but she liked the way the words went together: cretonne curtains. Sheâd have a guest room andâwho knowsâmaybe even some guests. A well-kept little garden, hens whoâd provide her with tasty boiled eggs, cats to chase after the field mice and dogs to chase after the cats. A little plot of aromatic herbs, a fireplace, sagging armchairs and books all around. White tablecloths, napkin rings unearthed at flea markets, some sort of device so she could listen to the same operas her father used to listen to, and a coal stove where she could let a rich beef-and-carrot stew simmer all morning long.
A rich beef-and-carrot stew. What was she thinking.
Â
A little house like the ones that kids draw, with a door and two windows on either side. Old-fashioned, discreet, silent, overrun with Virginia creeper and climbing roses. A house with those little fire bugs on the porch, red and black insects scurrying everywhere in pairs. A warm porch where the heat of the day would linger and she could sit in the evening to watch for the return of the heron.
And an old greenhouse she could use as a studio. Well, that one wasnât for sure. So far, her hands had always betrayed her and maybe it was better not to count on them.
Maybe she couldnât count on her hands to give her a sense of peace after all.
But then what could she count on? she wondered, suddenly
âI know, the redheaded guy, Iâll try and get ahold of him. And you do your exercises like youâre supposed to, okay? I hear the physio isnât too pleased with you.â
When he saw her astonished expression he added, facetiously, âSo you see, I do telephone from time to time.â
Â
He put away the tools, ate the last strawberries from the vegetable garden and sat there for a moment. The cat wound its way between his legs, mewing hoarsely.
âDonât worry, Puss, donât worry. Sheâll be back.â
The jangle of his cell phone roused him from his lethargy. It was a girl. He did his rooster act; she giggled like a clucking chicken.
She invited him to a movie.
All the way home he rode at over a hundred miles an hour, trying to think up a way to get laid without having to sit through the movie. He wasnât crazy about the cinema. He always fell asleep before the end.
10
IN mid-November, when the cold weather began its dirty work of undermining everyoneâs morale, Camille finally decided to head for the nearest home improvement store, in order to improve her chances of survival. She spent her entire Saturday there, wandering up and down the aisles, touching the wooden panels, admiring the tools, the nails and screws, the door handles, the curtain rods, the tins of paint, the moldings, the shower cabinets and sundry chrome mixer faucets. She then went to the gardening section and made an inventory of everything she might dream of having: gloves, rubber boots, the combined hoe and fork, chicken coops, sowing buckets, organic fertilizer, and seed packets in their infinite variety. She spent as much time observing other customers as she did inspecting the wares: a pregnant woman among the pastel wallpapers; a young couple arguing about a hideous wall lamp; a sprightly man with an air of early retirement about him, in his Timberland shoes, and with a spiral notebook in one hand and a carpenterâs yardstick in the other.
Â
The school of hard knocks had taught her to beware of any certainty or projects for the future, but there was one thing Camille knew for sure: someday, a long long way down the road, when sheâd be quite old, even older than now, with white hair, a zillion wrinkles and brown spots all over her hands, sheâd have her own house. A real house with a copper pot for making jam, and sugar cookies in a metal box hidden deep inside a dresser. A long farmhouse table, thick and homey, and cretonne curtains. She smiled. She had no idea what cretonne was, or even if sheâd like it, but she liked the way the words went together: cretonne curtains. Sheâd have a guest room andâwho knowsâmaybe even some guests. A well-kept little garden, hens whoâd provide her with tasty boiled eggs, cats to chase after the field mice and dogs to chase after the cats. A little plot of aromatic herbs, a fireplace, sagging armchairs and books all around. White tablecloths, napkin rings unearthed at flea markets, some sort of device so she could listen to the same operas her father used to listen to, and a coal stove where she could let a rich beef-and-carrot stew simmer all morning long.
A rich beef-and-carrot stew. What was she thinking.
Â
A little house like the ones that kids draw, with a door and two windows on either side. Old-fashioned, discreet, silent, overrun with Virginia creeper and climbing roses. A house with those little fire bugs on the porch, red and black insects scurrying everywhere in pairs. A warm porch where the heat of the day would linger and she could sit in the evening to watch for the return of the heron.
And an old greenhouse she could use as a studio. Well, that one wasnât for sure. So far, her hands had always betrayed her and maybe it was better not to count on them.
Maybe she couldnât count on her hands to give her a sense of peace after all.
But then what could she count on? she wondered, suddenly
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