Hunting and Gathering by Anna Gavalda Page B

woman, two middle-aged men, and a teenager. They were all laughter, shouting, bowing and bursts of enthusiasm. The men tapped the old man on the shoulder and the boy gave him a high five.
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Then each of them returned to what they were doing, and the girl put two little glasses down in front of Camille and the old man. He nodded to her, then emptied his glass before filling it again.
    â€œI’m warning you, he’s going to tell you his life story,” said the girl.
    â€œNo problem. Whoa, this is strong.”
    The girl walked away, laughing.
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They were alone now. The old man was chattering away, and Camille listened earnestly, nodding whenever he pointed to the bottle.
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It was no easy thing to stand up and get her things together. She bowed good-bye over and over to the old fellow, then stood giggling and helpless by the door, tugging on the door handle, till the girl had to come help her to push it open.
    â€œYou’re at home here anytime, okay?” she said. “Come and eat here whenever you want. If you don’t come, he’ll be angry. And sad too.”
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Camille was completely drunk when she showed up at work.
    Samia said excitedly, “Hey, did you meet a guy or something?”
    â€œYes,” confessed Camille, sheepishly.
    â€œNo kidding?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat’s he like? Is he cute?”
    â€œReally cute.”
    â€œReally? That’s great! How old is he?”
    â€œNinety-two.”
    â€œHey, you’re bullshitting me. How old is he really?”
    â€œOkay, girls, whenever you’re ready!”
    There was Miss Josy, pointing at her watch.
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Camille walked away, giggling, tripping over the hose of the vacuum cleaner.

9
    MORE than three weeks had gone by. Franck was working every Sunday as a catering assistant in another restaurant on the Champs-Elysées, and every Monday he traveled to his grandmother’s bedside.
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She was in a convalescent home a few miles north of the town, and from first light on she’d be waiting for him to come.
    As for Franck, he had to set his alarm, head like a zombie down to the corner café, drink two or three coffees in a row, climb onto his motorcycle, then head off to catch up on his sleep in a hideous leatherette armchair by his grandmother’s bed.
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When they brought her dinner in on a tray, Paulette would put her finger to her lips and, with a jerk of her head, indicate the big baby curled up there, keeping her company. She watched over him jealously, and made sure that the jacket covered his chest properly.
    She was happy. He was there. Really there. All hers.
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Paulette didn’t dare call the nurse to ask her to raise the bed; she took her fork gingerly between her fingers and ate in silence. She hid things in her night table—bits of bread, a portion of cheese and some fruit—for Franck when he woke up. Then she quietly pushed the tray away and folded her hands across her stomach with a smile.
    Lulled by her youngster’s breathing and the sudden rush of memories, Paulette closed her eyes and dozed. She’d lost him so many times already, so many times. She sometimes felt she’d spent her life hunting for him: in the garden, in the trees, at the neighbors’, where he’d be hidden in the stables or slumped in front of the television; then at the café, of course; and now she hunted for him using little scraps of paper where he scribbled phone numbers that were never correct.
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She’d done her best, though, she really had. Fed him and kissed him. Cuddled and reassured and scolded him. Punished and consoled him. But none of it had done a bit of good. No sooner did that kid know how to walk than he was scampering off somewhere, and once he had three hairs on his chin that was it. He was gone.
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Sometimes when she was daydreaming she’d wince, and her lips would tremble. Too much sorrow, too much waste, and so many