enough for two, but she seems to have a high opinion of him, and would expect him to say something, though he has nothing to offer. He’s even lied to her, notably when he asked for help regarding the housekeeper. He’s afraid she’ll discover he’s not interested in much, or at least anything he’d like to share on a first date.
His life stopped when his wife left him. Louise would say it had stopped years earlier, when Marion left, that moment when couples realize they have nothing in common without their child. Plus Ferdinand is about as old as the hills, and Beatrice talks about things on the Internet that he doesn’t understand. In any case, what’s the point of trying? At his age, learning is meaningless. Unless he really does have ten years left to live . . .
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A Real Lady-Killer
The Sunday following lunch with Mrs. Claudel isn’t a day like any other: everything must be perfect. Ferdinand wants to show himself in the best light. He opens his closet and chooses a brown checked shirt, ironed and put away a long, long time ago. He unfolds it. A musty smell wafts up. Isn’t it a bit too large now? A little cologne will take care of the first problem. As for the second, the jacket will hide the turned-up sleeves. The pair of clean, pleat-front pants is all set. The jacket will be his everyday one, because Ferdinand doesn’t have any others. A bow tie will bring the whole look together. But where is that damned tie? He hasn’t used it since . . . his wedding! Fifty-eight years ago? Oh my, not the time to think about that.
Underneath a mountain of clothes—each piece more faded and holey than the last—is a brown velvet bow tie, which has been resting in peace for more than half a century. Doubt suddenly strikes him. Will Ferdinand remember how to tie the knot? He stands in front of the mirror, hung by its chain on the window’s espagnolette lock. His eyes have darker circles beneath them than usual; a pink scar sweeps across his right jawline, a souvenir from his bus accident. He looks a fright, but it could be worse. His complexion isn’t as pale as he’s used to. He did well to snag a little of Beatrice’s tanner on the sly.
He ties the velvet bow around his shirt collar and contemplates the result: the monochromatic browns suit him to a T. All that’s missing is a little blue to bring out his eyes. His cloth handkerchief, which is usually lodged in the pocket of his gray sweatpants, takes up residence in the front pocket of his jacket. And voilà! Ferdinand is ready. And stressed out. What if nothing goes as planned? Come on, come on, get a grip, Ferdinand! Now’s not the time to lose your nerve.
Summoning his courage, and holding the roses by their stems, the thorns determined to leave him with an indelible memory of this day, Ferdinand walks the five yards that separate his door from the one he’s so often spied upon. He rings the doorbell. Not a sound from inside. He rings a second time. Nothing. On the fourth ring, the door opens at last, revealing a terribly drowsy Beatrice in a pale pink wool bathrobe. Her eyes, without glasses, open wide upon seeing Ferdinand.
Beatrice has never seen Ferdinand like this, wearing something other than his perpetual shapeless brown pants. She’s never seen a proper shirt on Ferdinand, either, let alone what appears to be a bow tie—not very conventional these days, but it’s the idea that counts.
However, what touches the old lady is the awkwardness and fragility radiating from him. He has an almost stupid expression: smile plastered to his lips, eyes benevolent and soft. But what’s more unexpected is his hair. It’s back to being brown overnight. Out with the Bill Clinton–style white! In with the Silvio Berlusconi brown!
“What’s going on, Ferdinand? Why are you ringing my bell at seven thirty in the morning? Has there been a problem since our lunch yesterday? Did the sushi give you indigestion? Still annoyed you
His life stopped when his wife left him. Louise would say it had stopped years earlier, when Marion left, that moment when couples realize they have nothing in common without their child. Plus Ferdinand is about as old as the hills, and Beatrice talks about things on the Internet that he doesn’t understand. In any case, what’s the point of trying? At his age, learning is meaningless. Unless he really does have ten years left to live . . .
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A Real Lady-Killer
The Sunday following lunch with Mrs. Claudel isn’t a day like any other: everything must be perfect. Ferdinand wants to show himself in the best light. He opens his closet and chooses a brown checked shirt, ironed and put away a long, long time ago. He unfolds it. A musty smell wafts up. Isn’t it a bit too large now? A little cologne will take care of the first problem. As for the second, the jacket will hide the turned-up sleeves. The pair of clean, pleat-front pants is all set. The jacket will be his everyday one, because Ferdinand doesn’t have any others. A bow tie will bring the whole look together. But where is that damned tie? He hasn’t used it since . . . his wedding! Fifty-eight years ago? Oh my, not the time to think about that.
Underneath a mountain of clothes—each piece more faded and holey than the last—is a brown velvet bow tie, which has been resting in peace for more than half a century. Doubt suddenly strikes him. Will Ferdinand remember how to tie the knot? He stands in front of the mirror, hung by its chain on the window’s espagnolette lock. His eyes have darker circles beneath them than usual; a pink scar sweeps across his right jawline, a souvenir from his bus accident. He looks a fright, but it could be worse. His complexion isn’t as pale as he’s used to. He did well to snag a little of Beatrice’s tanner on the sly.
He ties the velvet bow around his shirt collar and contemplates the result: the monochromatic browns suit him to a T. All that’s missing is a little blue to bring out his eyes. His cloth handkerchief, which is usually lodged in the pocket of his gray sweatpants, takes up residence in the front pocket of his jacket. And voilà! Ferdinand is ready. And stressed out. What if nothing goes as planned? Come on, come on, get a grip, Ferdinand! Now’s not the time to lose your nerve.
Summoning his courage, and holding the roses by their stems, the thorns determined to leave him with an indelible memory of this day, Ferdinand walks the five yards that separate his door from the one he’s so often spied upon. He rings the doorbell. Not a sound from inside. He rings a second time. Nothing. On the fourth ring, the door opens at last, revealing a terribly drowsy Beatrice in a pale pink wool bathrobe. Her eyes, without glasses, open wide upon seeing Ferdinand.
Beatrice has never seen Ferdinand like this, wearing something other than his perpetual shapeless brown pants. She’s never seen a proper shirt on Ferdinand, either, let alone what appears to be a bow tie—not very conventional these days, but it’s the idea that counts.
However, what touches the old lady is the awkwardness and fragility radiating from him. He has an almost stupid expression: smile plastered to his lips, eyes benevolent and soft. But what’s more unexpected is his hair. It’s back to being brown overnight. Out with the Bill Clinton–style white! In with the Silvio Berlusconi brown!
“What’s going on, Ferdinand? Why are you ringing my bell at seven thirty in the morning? Has there been a problem since our lunch yesterday? Did the sushi give you indigestion? Still annoyed you
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