Out of Sorts Read online

  Beatrice Claudel is doing well—very well, even.

  Today she’s invited one of her grandsons, his wife, and their ten-month-old son. She’s planned to cook braised chicken with mustard, her grandson’s favorite, complemented by a good Côtes-du-Rhône she bought in a case of six at the last wine expo.

  Everything is prepared. The Le Creuset casserole has been simmering for nearly two hours, the carrots and onions are caramelizing, the table is set. This time, Beatrice has placed her pillbox next to her wineglass. She no longer leaves her medications on the table, after her bridge friend’s grandson came to lunch and thought he’d add an olive to his plate . . . Thankfully, it was just a vision supplement.

  Beatrice sits down in her armchair by the window, takes out her iPad, and opens Facebook. She wants to learn about her grandson’s latest activities. This week, he made a business trip to Italy, ate at a fancy restaurant, and watched a reality TV show she hasn’t heard of yet. As for her granddaughter-in-law, she’s raving about their little one’s new teeth and just finished reading this year’s Goncourt Prize–winning novel. Beatrice checks her library for the last book they read in her book club, the one that lost the Renaudot Prize for whatever. She puts it on the table in the entryway, so she doesn’t forget to offer it to her granddaughter-in-law. They have the same taste in literature, so she should like this one.

  She goes to sit back down but gets right back up to put the appetizers on an earthenware platter. She picks the blue-green one her grandchildren gave her last Christmas. She also puts on the necklace she got for her birthday. 11:43 a.m. Beatrice even has time to take out the trash. The bag is full, mainly with stale bread.

  “Oh, my God! The bread . . . I completely forgot to buy some. Do I have time to get more? Yes, plenty. But what if they get here early?”

  Ferdinand watches his neighbor from across the way come back into the hall in a panic and rush back into her apartment. He doesn’t know what could have frightened her that much in the trash area. Perhaps she, too, heard of that horrific true story about a murdered man cut up and disposed of, day after day, piece by piece, via a garbage chute? He’d read all about it in a Pierre Bellemare book. Grim story, thinks Ferdinand. He’ll have to tell it to that silly old goose Mrs. Suarez, who loves snooping around the trash area so much.

  Ferdinand’s hindquarters are starting to hurt. Look, there’s the old hag coming out of her apartment, wearing an overcoat. That’s unusual: she’s going to be late. Ferdinand twists to see her go down the stairs. The old man takes the opportunity to stretch his legs in the kitchen. He fills a saucepan with cold water. Ferdinand has never used the hot water faucet—not for cooking, not for washing himself. He boils the water. It’s out of the question to pay for hot water from the building! Ferdinand is looking for the saucepan lid when he hears the sound of the cane on the stairs. In his slippers, he shuffles over to his stool and sits back down. The little lady is laboriously climbing the stairs. She’s certainly not young anymore. Much older than me, thinks Ferdinand. All of a sudden, she turns and heads in his direction. Ferdinand stiffens. She takes a deep breath and knocks on his door. What nerve!

  A husky voice says, “Mr. Brun, open up. It’s Mrs. Claudel.”

  Mrs. Claudel. He’s never bothered to learn her name.

  “Mr. Brun, I’m sorry to insist, but I have news about your dog. Open up, please.”

  “Daisy! They’ve found Daisy!” Ferdinand exclaims, opening the door wide.

  “I’m so very sorry, but I’m afraid the news isn’t good.”

  “You found her? Yes or no?” says Ferdinand.

  “Mrs. Suarez, our concierge, will be able to tell you more. She’s downstairs with your dog’s body. I’m really sorry, Mr. Brun.”

  Beatrice takes the old man by the arm and leads him down the thirteen steps separating him from his darling.

  Chapter Five

  Miserable as Sin

  For two days Ferdinand has been shut away in his home, huddled in his bed in the fetal position, surrounded by crumpled tissues. He doesn’t want to get up or go out. To go where, anyway? Everything would remind him of Daisy. He’d end up by the vegetable garden where Daisy used to relieve herself on the neighbor ladies’ tomatoes, or by the house where a pug would sit up and safely bark at her from behind his gate.

  The silence in the apartment is oppressive. His old habits now seem senseless. He no longer feels like doing anything, not even eating, just like when he got divorced. He still forces himself to swallow some expired preserves. He throws up a little, but he doesn’t feel well anyway. Death by food poisoning or something else—what does he care? Besides, he’s feeling pressure in his chest, a weight that hinders his breathing. That sense of suffocation doesn’t leave him, as if to fill the void left by Daisy.

  Though sadness and solitude are his new companions, there is still room for an even more invasive feeling: anger. Ferdinand cannot resign himself to accept the theory of an accident. There must be someone to blame, someone on whom to focus his hatred. Daisy was so young, barely four years old. And she was the sweetest creature there was—she wouldn’t have hurt a fly. She’d never even gone near the concierge’s canaries. Even the attacks by the neighbor’s cat, the one in 2B, didn’t affect her. She’d just side-eyed it with panache.

  It’s incomprehensible. Daisy had never tried to escape when he tied her up to the post outside the market. She’d had exemplary patience. And if the knot in her leash had come undone, she wouldn’t have run away. At worst she would have gone home, and for that she had no need to cross the street. She knew the route by heart. They walked it every day. So why? Why had she disappeared? Why had she crossed the road all alone?

  What if this is a case of mistaken identity? What if he is the target? Once again that damned bad luck that takes away his women, one after the other, has struck.

  Ferdinand bellows, not realizing he’s talking out loud, “If you had to take somebody, it should’ve been me, not her! What am I supposed to do now? And what am I going to do with my darling? Cremation or burial?

  “And what about your things, Daisy? I can’t throw them out, not your chew bone, or your threadbare old pillow. I’ll never be able to replace you. I miss you so much, my darling. I think this is the end—my end. There’s nobody left to say hello to me at the door in the morning, to make me take a walk and go buy lunch. Nobody left to look at me with those sweet eyes, or disapproving ones when I rake a TV host over the coals.

  “I’m not anything anymore. Just a grub. I don’t even have a picture of you. Just memories, and mirages, too, when I think I see you in the distance. Sometimes I tell myself that all this is just a terrible nightmare, that the telephone will ring and they’ll tell me about a regrettable mistake. And you’ll be there, alive, tail wagging, happy to see me again. Other times, I dream I wake up and you’re there, we go out for a walk by the lake where you loved watching the mallards so much. I’ve thought a lot about it. I don’t want this life without you. I don’t want to see anybody anymore. I don’t want fake sympathetic looks from my damned neighbors. I know what they’re thinking deep down: ‘Serves him right! He had it coming. He should’ve been nicer. You only get what you deserve!’ But you didn’t deserve that.

  “I don’t understand: if there’s a God, how could he let this happen? Yes, I know I don’t believe in God, but I don’t know how to imagine what comes next. I guess we both knew what was coming. The calendar’s just sped up, that’s all. See you in a few days. I just need to square away the last details, my Daisy.”

  Chapter Six

  Pushing Up Daisies

  On a lovely winter’s day, after a week of talking to himself and rejecting reality, Ferdinand rouses from his stupor. It’s a lovely day to go for a walk. A lovely day to make a fresh start.

  Ferdinand finishes cleaning his nails. Dark green corduroys have taken the place of his old worn-out pants. The creases are sharp. He puts on clean underwear and socks without holes. The old man is dressed to
the nines: hair combed, face freshly scrubbed, shoes shined. He’s ready. And precisely on time. He writes a few words in his notebook and puts on his overcoat. The walk will be pleasant, he tells himself. In the courtyard, the birds chirp at him in greeting. Blackbirds, most likely.

  Outside, he looks at the world around him. The Earth didn’t stop turning in Daisy’s absence. Everyone goes about his or her business: the baker makes change, the florist prepares a bouquet, the bus driver waves to his colleague. Everything seems lighthearted.

  The clock strikes ten, and Ferdinand looks at his watch: right on time.

  On Rue Garibaldi, a woman sits at the bus stop with a newborn nestled in her arms. An old lady begins to offer advice: “If I may, since, you know, I’m a grandmother . . .” The young mother simply nods, smiling. All of a sudden, she stands up and screams. The old lady also stands up suddenly. The bus . . . it was pulling up when . . . a man, an older gentleman . . .

  The baby cries. A crowd gathers. The bus has stopped. The bystanders, like bamboo shoots, lean this way and that for a better view. The young mother is on the phone: help is on the way. She bounces her baby to calm him. Crows settle in the trees along the street. People whisper and speculate.

  EMTs arrive at the scene. They move the passersby aside and bring in the stretcher. Everything goes very quickly. A body is lifted from the ground and taken away. There’s blood—on the victim’s overcoat, on the pavement—in front of the bus—and a little farther up on the sidewalk. The ambulance leaves the scene. The passengers from the bus are asked to exit the vehicle, and the bystanders are asked to be on their way.

  At the corner of Rue Bonaparte and Rue Garibaldi, there’s nothing left to see. Just a police officer who has taken up position near the large dark spot, keeping away the crows that are waiting for the lane to be free. Next to the brown stain are minute shards of glass from a watch. Mr. Brun’s watch.

  Chapter Seven

  A Bitter Pill to Swallow

  There’s a very thick white fog. Noises, too, in the distance. Noises that repeat, endlessly.

  Where am I? Am I already there? I can’t see anything. I feel like I’m rolled in cotton. Like the inside of a cloud. I hear voices, like a choir, and those pings, those electronic sounds. Beeps. Beeps like the cash register at the mini-mart. But where am I?

  Ferdinand’s mouth feels full of paste, with an aftertaste of iron. His tongue passes over his teeth, one by one. A hole. The lower left canine has vanished. A bottom tooth is missing!

  I’ve always had all my teeth! All except the wisdom teeth. Could this be a toll of some kind? I don’t understand. I can’t see anything. I don’t recognize my mouth, or my body. I want to holler but no sound comes out. Yoo-hoo! Is anybody there? Help me!

  As if out of nowhere, a blurry white shape appears, without distinct features. The long immaculate dress comes near and leans over. Then he hears a kind voice. “Mr. Brun. Everything’s OK. You’re with us now. You’ve certainly taken your time. You gave us quite the fright.”

  Ferdinand would like to nod, but a sharp pain shoots through his jaw.

  “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Dr. Labrousse. You have a guardian angel, Mr. Brun. If you weren’t so tall and the bus’s rearview mirror so low, that would have been the end of you. The bus would have hit you head on and crushed you. We get people less fortunate than you in here every day.”

  Rearview mirror. Bus. Fortunate?!

  “Apart from the dislocated jaw, which we’ve put back in place, you’re fine. Not the slightest fracture. Just a few scrapes and a missing tooth. A real miracle!” Ferdinand touches the lower half of his face. Dr. Labrousse continues, “Yes, we’ve put a bandage on to keep your jaw in place. You’ll have to leave it there for another week.”

  Ferdinand begins to understand. “But if I’m not up there, where am I?”

  “At Saintes Grâces Hospital. Fifth floor.”

  “But if I’m fine, why can’t I see anything?”

  “Don’t worry, we put compresses around your eyes to keep the swelling down. They’re obstructing your vision for the moment, but have no fear, we’re going to take them off. I requested further analysis and the results are rare: diabetes, cholesterol, liver, and heart workup—it’s all perfect! You have an iron constitution, Mr. Brun, and your heart is good as new. It’s like it’s never been used. I hope for the same when I’m your age. Don’t change anything and you’ll see a few decades more.”

  Still alive? Still around for more than ten years? Despite the doctor’s pronouncements, Ferdinand is determined to finish what he started, as soon as he gets out of the hospital.

  Chapter Eight

  Not Out of the Woods Yet

  No weapons, no hatred, no violence.

  “Not a bad epitaph,” Ferdinand muses aloud. “The problem is it doesn’t apply to me,” he concludes, immersed in the biography of Albert Spaggiari, a nonviolent thief.

  “I’d need something more like, Alone at last! No regrets, no tears, no psychobitches. I don’t know if they’ll let me put psychobitches . . . Then again, if it’s in the dictionary, they’d have no reason not to.” Ferdinand grabs his dictionary, which is covered in dust. “So, under P we find . . . pooch. Hmm, not really a good time to bring that up again. Ptarmigan . . . ah, too far.” He flips back and skims.

  “Bah, it’s not there! Psychobitch isn’t in the dictionary. And it’s the best one! Somebody’s gonna have to explain to me why they put words in there nobody ever uses, like psycholinguistics or ptomaine. Maybe it’s because my dictionary is too old. 1993. Didn’t psychobitches exist back then, too? Fine, what’s your advice, Daisy? Because ultimately this concerns you, too!” He turns toward an urn set on his desk.

  “Oh, yeah, did you think I could leave without you? I’m going to request they bury the urn with me. Marion will make a fuss. Then again, if I’m paying, I’ll do what I want!

  “Come on, let’s make an appointment with the funeral parlor. We’re doing this! It ought to be put to use in no time. We’re done with failed experiments like the bus. I’ve found a better way to rejoin you, Daisy. So where are the yellow pages?”

  The telephone rings.

  “What is with this phone only ringing when I want to use it?” Ferdinand grumbles as he picks up the receiver. “Yes? Who is this? Oh, Marion, it’s you. Bad timing, I’m busy. Call back later.”

  “No, Papa. It’s urgent. You have to listen to me. I have important things to tell you.”

  “You’re just going to talk to me about your damned cop ex-husband again. Thanks, but I’ve had my fair share of your tales of woe. I’m not your shrink! Anyway, you should think about seeing someone. Don’t they have shrinks in Singapore?”

  “No, Papa, it’s not about that. This isn’t easy for me, but you’ve left me no choice. I’m sorry . . . At least before, there was Daisy. Her presence reassured me. If something happened to you, she would have let somebody know, one way or another. Now you’re all by yourself there, you don’t go out anymore, you don’t bathe, your place is a mess, you eat badly, you’re hostile with everyone. And you jump in front of buses!”

  “Are you finished?”

  “No. What will it be the next time? You’re scaring me, Papa! And I’m too far away to take care of you.”

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  “Papa, you don’t understand. I called a retirement home and we’re in luck—they can take you in as soon as next month. You’ll start off with a small room where you can have some of your own furniture, and later, you can move to a bigger room when—”

  “What’s all this about? Why should I go to a retirement home? It’s out of the question, Marion! You can’t get rid of me like that. And nobody decides for me! Period.”

  “Papa, I’d prefer other options as well, but you’re a danger to yourself and others. If you’d at least give me a good reason to trust you, if you’d prove to me you wanted to change . . .”

  “You don’t change anymore at my age. It’s t
oo late. I am who I am. Take me or leave me.”

  “OK. End of discussion. You’re going to a retirement home. They’ll come pick you up on the first Monday next month. With Eric’s help, if necessary.”

  “You’re getting the police involved with this? I’d rather die than go to a retirement home. You’ll have my death on your conscience, Marion!”

  “Papa, this is to protect you from yourself. I love you and I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating? Hurt myself? A bus knocked me over and I’m suicidal? That’s a good one!”

  “Papa, prove to me you’re making an effort and I’ll stop the whole thing.”

  “Fine, I’ll try, if I really have to . . .”

  “Great, then I’ll have someone come inspect your apartment, your refrigerator, and your hygiene. This person will report to me every month and if you’ve been rude to your neighbors, or you’re neglecting yourself, or you’re showing signs of self-destruction, I’m calling Eric so he can take you to the retirement home. I’ll hold the reservation on your room just in case. Understand? I’m counting on you.”

  “Do whatever you want, my girl. Send whoever you want. I don’t care. I have nothing to hide. And I told you, I’m not looking to die.”

  “I’m going to ask Mrs. Suarez to look after you, too.”

  “That was the only thing missing! That silly old goose? You couldn’t find worse? She’ll be delighted to play gestapo with me.”