the bugs arrive. In his entire life he’s only done housework maybe twice, and he doesn’t have any concrete memory of it. He’s nearing the point of telling himself it wouldn’t be so bad at a retirement home. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning, laundry, or meals. Lost in thought, he pushes his plate away and rummages in the plastic bag that Juliette put in the fridge, looking for chestnuts.
Juliette asks, “You want another spoon of macaroni or can I finish it off?”
“You don’t say ‘spoon.’ You say ‘spoonful.’ Haven’t your parents taught you anything?”
“My mother is dead. My father works a lot. He’s a landscape designer, specializing in sustainable development.”
“Well, good. So you go to school. What grade are you in?”
“Fifth.”
“Fifth? You’re quite the chatterbox for your age.”
“That’s what the teacher says, too. Now it’s my turn to ask questions. Why are you all alone? Is your wife dead?”
“What makes you think I have a wife?”
“You seem like somebody who thinks his life is over. You remind me of those old people who think that each passing day isn’t worth living, that they’d be better off dead because they’ll never know happiness again. I have a book about it. It’s called Old Age, Depression, and Addiction .”
“Should you be reading things like that? You’ve got a screw loose, my dear, I’m telling you.”
“It was to better understand my grandmother. She was very sad when her man-friend died. What are you reading? Thrillers, I bet. OK, so then, what happened to your wife?”
“I don’t like to talk about it. I get angry. I have regrets. I shouldn’t have done certain things. But now it’s too late. And now it’s time to leave, Juliette. We’ll discuss literature another time.”
The moment the words leave his mouth, Ferdinand wants them back. He doesn’t want her to take them as an invitation to drop by every day for lunch—he has other things to deal with.
“OK. I’m off. By the way, do you know how to use the things I brought you?”
Ferdinand feigns indignation. Juliette continues. “In addition to the toilets, don’t forget to wipe the floor. It’s sticky—my sneakers are sticking to the parquet and a strip just got torn up. It’s not like that in people’s houses, normally.”
He finally—thankfully—closes the door on Juliette, all while calculating how long he can postpone the drudgery of housework. He decides to take a nap while listening to his favorite radio program, True Crime . Might as well get the pleasures in before the chores. Though no matter how much he does and redoes the calculation, he arrives at the same result: he’s behind. And he’s going to have to make compromises. Certainly on the windows, and toilets, too. For the straightening up, he’ll find a closet in which to toss everything he hasn’t found a place for in two years. As for the rest, it’s bad. Up the creek, even.
Oh, well, since he’s screwed anyway, Ferdinand settles into his armchair, puts his feet up, pulls the blanket over him, and awaits the beginning of his program, eyelids already heavy. It can all wait until tomorrow, and it’ll be for the best: the silly old goose isn’t the queen of England! A little sleight of hand, and she’ll be completely hoodwinked.
Chapter Eighteen
Up the Wall
Only three hours separate Ferdinand from Mrs. Suarez’s inspection, and he still hasn’t touched the cleaning products. The silly old goose has just left him a letter indicating she’s moved the inspection up by a day: she’ll be showing up today, Tuesday, at 6:00 p.m.
It was while barely woken up from his postlunch nap and still unsteady that Ferdinand discovered a letter slipped under his door. Since then his heart has been racing.
What an old bag that concierge is! Ideally, Mrs. Suarez gets held up with something else this afternoon. Ferdinand reflects for a few minutes. I think I’ve found something to
Juliette asks, “You want another spoon of macaroni or can I finish it off?”
“You don’t say ‘spoon.’ You say ‘spoonful.’ Haven’t your parents taught you anything?”
“My mother is dead. My father works a lot. He’s a landscape designer, specializing in sustainable development.”
“Well, good. So you go to school. What grade are you in?”
“Fifth.”
“Fifth? You’re quite the chatterbox for your age.”
“That’s what the teacher says, too. Now it’s my turn to ask questions. Why are you all alone? Is your wife dead?”
“What makes you think I have a wife?”
“You seem like somebody who thinks his life is over. You remind me of those old people who think that each passing day isn’t worth living, that they’d be better off dead because they’ll never know happiness again. I have a book about it. It’s called Old Age, Depression, and Addiction .”
“Should you be reading things like that? You’ve got a screw loose, my dear, I’m telling you.”
“It was to better understand my grandmother. She was very sad when her man-friend died. What are you reading? Thrillers, I bet. OK, so then, what happened to your wife?”
“I don’t like to talk about it. I get angry. I have regrets. I shouldn’t have done certain things. But now it’s too late. And now it’s time to leave, Juliette. We’ll discuss literature another time.”
The moment the words leave his mouth, Ferdinand wants them back. He doesn’t want her to take them as an invitation to drop by every day for lunch—he has other things to deal with.
“OK. I’m off. By the way, do you know how to use the things I brought you?”
Ferdinand feigns indignation. Juliette continues. “In addition to the toilets, don’t forget to wipe the floor. It’s sticky—my sneakers are sticking to the parquet and a strip just got torn up. It’s not like that in people’s houses, normally.”
He finally—thankfully—closes the door on Juliette, all while calculating how long he can postpone the drudgery of housework. He decides to take a nap while listening to his favorite radio program, True Crime . Might as well get the pleasures in before the chores. Though no matter how much he does and redoes the calculation, he arrives at the same result: he’s behind. And he’s going to have to make compromises. Certainly on the windows, and toilets, too. For the straightening up, he’ll find a closet in which to toss everything he hasn’t found a place for in two years. As for the rest, it’s bad. Up the creek, even.
Oh, well, since he’s screwed anyway, Ferdinand settles into his armchair, puts his feet up, pulls the blanket over him, and awaits the beginning of his program, eyelids already heavy. It can all wait until tomorrow, and it’ll be for the best: the silly old goose isn’t the queen of England! A little sleight of hand, and she’ll be completely hoodwinked.
Chapter Eighteen
Up the Wall
Only three hours separate Ferdinand from Mrs. Suarez’s inspection, and he still hasn’t touched the cleaning products. The silly old goose has just left him a letter indicating she’s moved the inspection up by a day: she’ll be showing up today, Tuesday, at 6:00 p.m.
It was while barely woken up from his postlunch nap and still unsteady that Ferdinand discovered a letter slipped under his door. Since then his heart has been racing.
What an old bag that concierge is! Ideally, Mrs. Suarez gets held up with something else this afternoon. Ferdinand reflects for a few minutes. I think I’ve found something to
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