Hunting and Gathering by Anna Gavalda Page A

hoarse, unsteady voice, “Wait a minute, I haven’t finished putting my things away.”
    Â 
One day, not long ago, she received a poorly wrapped parcel with this letter:
    Â 
Hello.
    My name is Eileen Wilson. That probably doesn’t mean anything to you, but I was Cecil Doughton’s friend, he used to be your drawing teacher. I’m very sad to inform you that Cecil passed away two months ago. I know you will appreciate me telling you (forgive my poor French) that we buried him in his native Dartmoor that he loved so dear, in a cemetery with a lovely view. I put his brushes and his paintings in the earth with him.
    Before dying he asked me to give you this. I think he would be happy knowing that you are using it and thinking of him.
    Eileen W.
    Â 
Camille could not hold back her tears when she unwrapped the box of Chinese painting tools—the same box she was using at this very moment . . .
    Â 
 
INTRIGUED, the waitress came to clear away the empty coffee cup and she glanced over at the tablecloth. Camille had just drawn a cluster of bamboo stalks. The leaves and stems were the most difficult thing to get. One leaf, lass, a simple leaf blowing in the wind, took the masters years of work, even an entire lifetime . . . Play with contrasts. You’ve got only one color to work with and yet you can suggest everything . . . Concentrate harder. If you want me to carve you your seal someday, you’ve got to make your leaves much lighter than that . . .
    Â 
The paper was really poor quality, and it curled and absorbed the ink too quickly.
    Â 
“May I?” asked the waitress.
    She held out a packet of clean tablecloths. Camille moved back and put her work on the floor. The old man was grumbling; the girl scolded him.
    â€œWhat’s he saying?”
    â€œHe’s complaining because he can’t see what you’re doing.” She added, “He’s my great-uncle. He’s paralyzed.”
    â€œTell him the next one will be for him.”
    The girl went back to the bar and spoke to the old man. He calmed down and looked fiercely at Camille.
    Â 
For a while Camille stared back at him; then, using the entire surface of the tablecloth, she drew a little laughing man who looked just like him, running through a rice paddy. Camille had never been to Asia but for a background she improvised a mountain in the mist, some pine trees and rocks, and even Zhu Da’s little hut on a promontory. She portrayed her old man in a Nike cap and a jacket, but she’d left him with bare legs and wearing only a traditional loincloth. She added a few splashes of water at his feet, and a group of children chasing after him.
    Â 
Camille leaned back to inspect her work.
    There were a few details she was dissatisfied with but, in the end, the old fellow looked happy, truly happy. So she opened the little pot of red cinnabar and set her seal onto the picture in the middle of the right-hand side. She stood up, cleared the old man’s table, put a plate under the tablecloth to prop the picture up, then went back for it and arranged it in front of him.
    No reaction.
    Â 
Oops, she thought, maybe I’ve offended him.
    Â 
When his great-niece came back from the kitchen, he let out a long, sorrowful moan.
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Camille, “I thought that—”
    The girl made a gesture to interrupt her, went to fetch a pair of thick glasses from behind the counter and slid them onto the old man’s nose below his cap. He nodded ceremoniously and began to laugh. A child’s laughter, clear and jolly. There were tears there too, and he laughed again, rocking back and forth with his arms crossed over his chest.
    Â 
“He wants to drink some sake with you.”
    â€œGreat.”
    The girl brought out a bottle and he yelled something. She sighed and went back to the kitchen.
    When she returned, she had a different bottle and the entire family in tow: an older