Hunting and Gathering by Anna Gavalda Page B

fill out all those forms. Maybe you could help me with this initial stuff?”
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll bring it up at the Club next Friday, it’s sure to cause a stir.”
    â€œThank you so much, Madame Carminot.”
    â€œDon’t mention it. It’s the least I can do, after all.”
    â€œOkay, well, I better get to work.”
    â€œI hear you’re cooking like a chef now.”
    â€œWho told you that?”
    â€œMadame Mandel.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œOh, my word, if you could just hear her. She’s still talking about it! You made lièvre à la royale , some sort of hare, that evening.”
    â€œI don’t remember.”
    â€œWell, she does, believe me! Hey, Franck?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI know this is none of my business, but . . . your mother?”
    â€œWhat about my mother?”
    â€œI don’t know, but I was wondering if she shouldn’t be contacted too. Maybe she could help pay.”
    â€œNow you’re being obscene and you know it, Yvonne, it’s not as if you had never met her, either.”
    â€œYou know, sometimes people change.”
    â€œNot her.”
    Yvonne was silent.
    â€œNo,” he repeated, “not her. Okay, I’m out of here, I’m running late.”
    â€œGood-bye, Franck.”
    â€œUh, Yvonne—”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œCan you try to find someplace a little bit cheaper?”
    â€œI’ll see, I’ll let you know.”
    â€œThanks.”
    Â 
It was so cold that day that Franck was glad to be at his galley slave’s station in the warmth of the kitchen. The boss was in a good mood. They’d had to turn diners away for lack of tables, and he’d just learned that he’d be getting a good review in some glossy upmarket magazine.
    â€œWith this weather, we’ll be able to bring out the foie gras and the vintage wines tonight! We’re done with salads and chiffonades and all of that stuff. Fi-nito! I want everything looking good and tasting great so that the customers leave here feeling ten degrees warmer! Let’s roll! Light those burners, boys!”

19
    CAMILLE was having trouble going down the stairs. She felt stiff and achy all over, and had a terrible headache. As if someone had planted a knife in her eye and was gleefully and delicately turning the blade whenever she moved. When she got to the entrance she leaned against the wall to keep her balance. She was shivering and suffocating at the same time. For a moment she thought of going back to bed, but the idea of climbing seven flights of stairs seemed even more impossible than the idea of going to work. At least on the métro she could sit down.
    Â 
As she stepped out of the entrance she bumped into a bear. Her neighbor, wrapped in a long cloak.
    â€œOh, excuse me, monsieur,” he said, “I—”
    He looked up.
    â€œCamille, is that you?”
    She had no strength to start up a conversation, and tried to dodge past him.
    â€œCamille! Camille!”
    She buried her face in her scarf and hurried away. The effort soon obliged her to lean against a parking meter to keep from falling over.
    â€œCamille, are you all right? My God, just look at you, what have you done to your hair? You look terrible! Your hair, your beautiful hair . . .”
    â€œI have to get going, Philibert, I’m late already.”
    â€œBut it’s bitter cold out, my dear! Do not go bareheaded, you’ll catch your death. Here, take my shapka at least.”
    Â 
Camille made an effort to smile.
    â€œDid this belong to your uncle too?”
    â€œGoodness, no! To my ancestor, more like it, the one who accompanied Napoleon on his campaigns in Russia.”
    He wedged the hat onto her head, down to her eyebrows.
    She tried to joke. “You mean this thing went through the battle of Austerlitz?”
    â€œExactly. And Berezina too, I’m afraid. But you’re so pale, are you sure