Out of Sorts Page 13

  “Oh, no! I don’t want to lose you. I’m sad for Alexandre and I hope he gets better as quick as possible, but I didn’t think I’d ever see you move, let alone so soon.”

  “I didn’t think I’d move abroad one day, either, let alone for good. But in any case, I feel like I’m doing something, even if deep down I feel completely powerless. It’s horrible, that lump in your gut when someone close to you is sick. It’s so unfair. I’m an old hypochondriac—sickness should have come looking for me! I’m going to be good for something or someone, for once in my life!”

  “But it doesn’t work like that. I can’t believe you’re leaving . . . And Gramma Maddie . . . She’s going to be so sad. Isn’t there the slightest chance you’ll stay? No . . . forget what I just said. Leave, it’s the best thing to do. I’ll think about you when I’m eating the nasty stuff the cafeteria serves, and also when I see Matteo lower his eyes when he sees me coming. You’ll be taking your puppy at least? So you’ll think about me sometimes?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s not going to be practical, but I think an animal could be fun for Alexandre.”

  “OK, and you’ll Skype me, now that you know how.”

  “Do you think I’m Beatrice? Yes, I’ll try, Juliette. Every week. You’ll have to see Sherlock grow up, since you’re kind of his mummy, too.”

  Chapter Forty

  The Die Is Cast

  Ferdinand is worrying himself sick. Too much change. Too many things pushing him beyond his comfort zone. He only wanted to live quietly, waiting for death to find his address. Even Dr. Labrousse had told him, “No emotional shocks.” He’s had plenty! Plagued by doubt while facing the immensity of his task, the old man decides to draw up a list:

  Pack my suitcase. But what to do with Sherlock?

  Get on the plane (for the first time). Everybody takes planes. There’s almost never an accident. But Ferdinand has a bad premonition. Note for later: check which airline Marion picked. Then again, it’s too late to change. This is starting out well!

  Go to a foreign country. This seems insurmountable because he speaks only French. Furthermore, he has a terrible sense of direction. As for telling the difference between the various natives . . .

  Make arrangements to move out belongings. Horror, horror, horror!

  Move in. Definitively. And to a place he doesn’t know, to live off his daughter, probably in a ridiculously small room, where he’s going to lose all autonomy. Back to square one: a kind of retirement home!

  Confront my hypochondria. For the first time in his life, see illness up close, real illness, the kind that can take your life. And unflinchingly endure the wait for a potential donor, daily visits to the hospital. Come each day with an even temper and courage to share.

  Confront the mailman. The illegitimate grandfather off the back bench, the Latin Lover of the postal service who stole his wife.

  There! Ferdinand decides to stop his list here and tackle the tasks, one by one. First, the suitcase. Despite the heaps of clothes scattered all around, the suitcase just stays empty. Sherlock, head tilted, tries to understand his master’s game: are you supposed to put things in or take things out of the suitcase?

  Ferdinand would like to stop time, or, rather, go back to the moment he left the jail. The moment the threat of the retirement home went away, the moment he didn’t have to choose between France and Singapore, the moment his grandson wasn’t sick, the moment before he knew Tony as a real person.

  No, this isn’t the time to hold a grudge or rewrite the past. Ferdinand has to concentrate on the future. Come on, pull yourself together. He still has an hour to pack his suitcase before leaving for the airport. Finally, the old man decides to take everything. He struggles with the zipper on his bag and manages to close it by sitting on it. In less than five minutes, the taxi will buzz at his intercom. Sherlock, intrigued, looks at his master, all ready to go.

  Ferdinand pulls on his overcoat, puts on his beret, and sits down on his suitcase. He looks at his apartment, scrutinizes every detail to bring the memories with him, reassuring, familiar. Over there, it’ll be the unknown, communal life, crowded in with Marion, crowded in a little hospital room, surrounded by strangers. Not to mention Marion, who’ll be—deservedly—stressed, but his presence may be even more stressful for her, considering how she frets over and infantilizes him. The more he thinks about it, the more Ferdinand has his doubts. What if he ran away? Run away, yes. Somewhere they’ll leave him be, without phone calls (damned telephone just rang, and he unplugged it), without doorbells bothering him . . . Absorbed in his new plans, Ferdinand is suddenly interrupted by the doorbell! Grrr . . . It can’t be true! Every time it’s Beatrice and she’s going to make me late. That is, if I do leave. Ferdinand decides to go open the door, takes a glance through the peephole, and discovers, dumbfounded, Eric. He opens the door and takes out his suitcase.

  “What do you want? You’ve come at a bad time. I’m going away. So if you don’t have a search warrant, you can get out of here.”

  “I know what you’re doing and I’ve come to stop you.”

  “Again? You’re a broken record, Super Cop.”

  “I’ve come to tell you it’s not worth catching your flight. Right now, Marion and Alexandre are on a plane and they’re landing at Roissy in two hours. And if you listened to what people tell you over the phone instead of hanging up, we’d all save some time!”

  “What are you talking about? I heard from Marion. Well, not exactly Marion—she was at the hospital in Singapore with Alexandre. They’re waiting for me. So I don’t understand why they’d change their plans without telling me.”

  “Marion thinks the care will be better here. I don’t know if she’s right. In any case, she’s wanted to come back to France for a while, and now she has a good reason to chuck everything. She wants to be sure she understands the subtleties of the procedure and the treatments. And Alexandre needs to be surrounded by his family, and by two potential transplant donors, you and me!”

  “Marion said that?”

  “No, but it’s the least I can do for Alexandre, don’t you think? Fine, it’s not everything, but I mostly came to ask you to prepare their rooms. After thirteen hours in flight, they’re going to need to rest. I would’ve invited them to my place, but my studio is too small. I’m off to pick them up from the airport. See you later. No hard feelings about last time?”

  Ferdinand closes the door on his ex-son-in-law, shakes his head, and pinches himself . . . Ow! No, he’s not dreaming. His family is coming. And staying with him. In less than three hours! His heart races with joy, stress, excitement. He waves his arms, hopping around in an unlikely dance. Sherlock isn’t sure he understands it all, but he yelps as feverishly as his master. The old man tries to recover his senses and ends up seizing his pen to draw up a new list, longer than the first one:

  Prove that blood ties are stronger than anything. Stronger than fear, especially. And the mailman! Even though he doesn’t know Ferdinand well, Alexandre needs him, needs his presence and maybe also his kidney. That’ll be what differentiates him from Tony. Blood ties. Yes, he loves Alexandre, but he can’t lie: that thing about the transplant scares him stiff.

  Resolve to give up my peaceful existence. And try to be happy about it.

  Make room in my house. To welcome two people, plus Sherlock.

  Support Alexandre on a daily basis. With the difficulties of treatment, setting aside his fear of medications, hospitals, sick people who vomit and cough . . .

  Put up with my enemies. Super Cop, for one. The mailman, for another, if he has the misfortune to show himself.

  Shake up my habits. His lunches with Juliette, his coffees with Beatrice, his future meetings with Madeleine . . . Oh, Madeleine!

  Leave room for the unexpected. For good and less-good news. Accept change, don’t fight against it.

  Change my epitaph. All things considered, “Alone at last” is perhaps a bit exaggerated. A little interaction can’t hurt.

&
nbsp; Ferdinand starts to realize he might be able to stay in his home. For good. He doesn’t dare believe it yet. He’s never had any luck, or respite, or happy endings. There’s going to be a ring, either at the door or the telephone. Probably someone he hates, Tony or Eric, the ghost of Mrs. Suarez or Louise. Like a cruel reminder of the reality of his life, and which will definitively remove all hope of happiness.

  But nothing happens. No ringing, no telephone call, no doorbell. Sherlock plays quietly in his basket. Suddenly, however, he gets excited. The puppy heads for the door, furiously wagging his tail. There’s someone in the stairwell. It can’t be Beatrice, she’s with her family. Nor Juliette. Marion and Alexandre are still on the plane, and Eric is heading for the airport. The old man is practically alone in the complex. Whatever happens, he’ll ignore whoever wants to bring him the next piece of news that will once more change the course of his life. Sherlock yaps noisily, and Ferdinand shoots daggers at him. The bell rings.

  “What now?”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Two of a Kind

  Ferdinand musters all his courage and opens the door. He finds a familiar face, smiling.

  “Well, hello, Mr. Brun. I have your mail. A letter from Normandy, notably.”

  Mr. Suarez, even shorter than his wife, happily discovers the playful pup nibbling at his shoes and strokes him tenderly in return.

  “Ah, I see you’ve gotten another dog. You did the right thing! I liked your Daisy so much. I shouldn’t be telling you that, my wife must be spinning in her grave . . . It’s just that it was a difficult year for us. You can’t always choose what happens to you. I’ve finished my rounds, and you’re the only one who isn’t away for the holidays. How’d you like to make the most of the sunshine and drink a little port in the courtyard? It’s a bit brisk but we can introduce Rocco and . . .”

  “Sherlock. Well, I won’t say no. I really need it. I just had an emotional week and it’s not about to stop. Because the dog is one thing, but I just learned the family’s coming. My daughter and her son. If you only knew! My poor grandson . . .”

  “Oh, I forgot, I also have this for you.” Mr. Suarez hands a little black book to Ferdinand. “My wife’s book of grievances. There’s a whole chapter about you. I don’t have any use for it. Keep it or throw it out. I don’t feel right about saving the thing.”

  The two men descend the thirteen steps leading to the courtyard. While Mr. Suarez goes back to his loge for Rocco, Ferdinand heads toward the trash area. For the first time he discovers there are simple explanations for the sorting. Paper: yellow bin. The last voyage of the little black book! In the distance, he hears canaries singing, ignoring the happy sounds of Rocco and Sherlock squabbling over a piece of kibble.

  Mr. Suarez calls to Ferdinand, “You want a little slice of kings’ cake?”

  A bit of paper has just flown out of the black book and fallen at Ferdinand’s feet. Proudly, he moves to put it in the appropriate bin, when suddenly a word attracts his attention. Daisy. Ferdinand freezes. He sets his glasses on his nose and reads, on what looks to be a business card: Long-Term Kennel. There’s an address and a telephone number. Someone has hand-written the name of his dog. Ferdinand feels as though his heart will give out. A year, nearly a year since his dog died. Died and was cremated before his eyes. What can this scrap of paper change about that? He doesn’t dare hope anything. Impossible to hold his legs back, he rushes over to Mr. Suarez, who’s pointing to where Juliette’s father should install a beehive for the complex. Ferdinand cuts him off.

  “Do you know this kennel?”

  Mr. Suarez grabs the card, holds it out to bring it into focus. “Yes, that’s where we put Rocco when we go to Portugal in the summer. If my wife contacted the kennel when she was looking for Daisy, she’ll surely have dealt with José,” he adds, reading the dog’s name on the card.

  “Do you have one of those portable contraptions I can borrow?”

  “My cell phone? Of course. These things are useful, especially for emergencies.”

  Ferdinand types frantically on the keys, but nothing happens. He gets annoyed.

  “Wait, you didn’t unlock it. I’ll put the number in for you and when it starts ringing I’ll hand it over.” Mr. Suarez taps away on the screen and hands the phone to a feverish Ferdinand.

  Ferdinand steps away when a woman’s voice answers, “Long-Term Kennel, hello.”

  “Hello, ma’am. Would you happen to have in your kennel a female Great Dane, gray in color? Her name is Daisy.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Are we watching her right now? I only joined the team last summer . . .”

  “Could you ask José if he remembers my dog? A certain Mrs. Suarez would have asked him about keeping Daisy.”

  “Hang on. He’s out with the dogs. I’ll ask if that means anything to him. Stay on the line.”

  The woman leaves for two minutes and twenty seconds (that’s what the cell phone says). Ferdinand jumps up and down. He’s anxious and upset, hoping for something that can’t be. Three minutes and forty seconds. This will cost Mr. Suarez, too. Ferdinand can’t stand this torture anymore and is about to hang up, when the voice comes through again.

  “All right, it’s complicated. Yes, Mrs. Suarez inquired with us about a long-term stay for a female Great Dane. We did indeed keep her for several months, but we had to part with her.”

  Ferdinand remains speechless. “Several months.” How is that possible? He saw her lifeless body. He cremated her. She didn’t have her collar anymore and what remained wasn’t pretty. But there was no doubt. You can’t replace one dog with another so easily. Daisy was dead: how could she simultaneously be in a kennel? And if she was alive, what did “we had to part with her” mean?

  “I’m not sure I understand. ‘Part with her’? What do you mean by that, exactly?”

  “According to what José told me, the Great Dane, Daisy, came to us at the beginning of spring. There weren’t many dogs at the time but she wasn’t very sociable. She seemed lost, she barked all the time. With summer and the number of dogs in the kennel, it wasn’t possible to keep her anymore.”

  “Could you tell me, please, where Daisy is now?”

  “José said he sent her to the neighborhood veterinarian, Dr. Durand. I have his number, if you want.”

  Ferdinand plunges his arm into the yellow bin to retrieve the notebook. For once he’s in luck—he finds a pencil inside. He jots down the number, trembling, and hangs up, forgetting to thank the woman. He presses the buttons. Nothing happens. He turns to Mr. Suarez, who shouts, “The green button!” Three rings later, a deep voice on the prerecorded message announces that Ferdinand has indeed reached the veterinarian, but the office is closed during lunch hours. Ferdinand looks at his watch. It’s already 12:10.

  He’ll never be able to wait for two o’clock. And then Marion and Alexandre will be here, and he can’t let them down by running to the vet if . . . Ferdinand stops himself from finishing his thought. He returns to the middle of the little garden and sits down next to Mr. Suarez. A glass of port is waiting for him. He looks at it for a moment then asks, “Do you know a veterinarian? A certain Dr. Durand?”

  “Yes, quite well. He’s Rocco’s vet. He works miracles. Our poor baby had a problem with his throat. When he barked he sounded like Rocky. He was ordered not to leave the house to avoid pollution, basically a dog’s life. And, well, the doctor’s operation changed his life. He barks normally, can walk around town and not even scare the canaries. The poor things, they were hearing a monstrous groan, but didn’t see anything coming. They had the jitters! Dr. Durand has even become a friend, at least to my wife. Why do you ask?”

  Ferdinand hesitates to share his theory. One, because he doesn’t know the end of the story yet. And two, the poor man has just lost his wife—he doesn’t need to know how diabolical she was.

  “The people at the kennel didn’t know much, but they directed me to Dr. Durand. I just tried to call him, but I got his answering machine.
Lunch break, apparently. I’m going to have to grin and bear it,” says Ferdinand, picking up the glass in front of him.

  “I can call him if you like. I have his cell phone number. He’ll surely pick up.” Mr. Suarez searches through his contact list and nods. “I’m calling him. It’s ringing! Yes, Dr. Durand, it’s Mr. Suarez. I’m sorry to bother you at lunch but I have a friend who’d like to ask you an important question. Here he is.”

  Ferdinand seizes the phone, moves some distance away, and explains as calmly as possible how the clues led him there.

  From afar, Mr. Suarez follows the conversation: a shrug of the shoulder there, a surprised hand gesture there. All of a sudden, the old man seems ill and collapses onto the wall surrounding the courtyard’s roses. Ferdinand spasms. He’s shaking all over. Mr. Suarez rushes over and asks him what’s going on. The old man answers in such a weak voice that the concierge can’t understand at first. Then, he manages to read the few words on Ferdinand’s lips: “Daisy is alive.”

  Epilogue

  Happy-Go-Lucky

  The scene is surreal. Ferdinand’s house is crowded, overflowing. Suitcases, bags, noises, words shouted from one room to another, yapping, closet doors banging. From the kitchen where he’s cutting a zucchini into slices, which he’ll season with a mustard and balsamic vinaigrette (a new recipe from Beatrice), he’s trying to get a handle on his emotions. His heart is always pounding. It would really be his luck to pop off now . . . It’s decided, he’ll buy cod liver oil. He read it’s excellent for the heart. Or the memory. He doesn’t remember anymore. And then he’ll take advantage of his morning at the hospital with Alexandre to visit Dr. Labrousse. A little checkup, just to make sure everything’s OK.