Hunting and Gathering Read Online Free PDF Page A

blessing, that couple.
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From his parents Pierre had inherited a maid’s room in the building where they used to live; now he offered it to Camille, pulling the little tartan suitcase, the one that had brought her to them, out from under the bed:
    â€œHere you go,” he said.
    Camille shook her head. “I’d rather leave it—”
    â€œOut of the question,” he said sharply. “You take it with you. It has no business here.”
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Mathilde went with her to a furniture outlet, helped her to choose a lamp, a mattress, some bed linen, a few pots and pans, an electric hot plate, and a tiny fridge.
    â€œDo you have any money?” she asked, before saying good-bye.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWill you be okay, sweetheart?”
    â€œYes,” said Camille again, fighting tears.
    â€œYou want to keep the keys to our place?”
    â€œNo, no, it’s okay. I . . . what can I say . . . what is . . .”
    She was crying.
    â€œDon’t say anything.”
    â€œThanks?”
    â€œYes,” said Mathilde, pulling her close, “thanks, that’s okay, that’s fine.”
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They came to see her a few days later.
    They were breathless from climbing the steps, and collapsed onto the mattress.
    Pierre laughed and said that this reminded him of his youth, and he launched into “La Bo-hèèème.” They drank champagne from plastic cups, while Mathilde pulled all sorts of delicious treats out of a big bag. Emboldened by the champagne and a sense of well-being, they dared to ask Camille a few questions. She answered some of them, and they didn’t insist.
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Just as they were leaving, and Mathilde had already gone down a few steps, Pierre Kessler turned around and took Camille by the wrists:
    â€œYou’ve got to work, Camille . . . Now you have got to work.”
    She lowered her eyes.
    â€œI feel like I’ve been working a lot lately. A whole lot.”
    He squeezed harder, almost hurting.
    â€œThat isn’t work and you know it!”
    She raised her head, held his gaze. “Is that why you’ve been helping me? To tell me that?”
    â€œNo.”
    Camille was trembling.
    â€œNo,” he repeated, letting go, “no. Don’t be silly. You know very well we’ve always thought of you as our own child.”
    â€œProdigal or prodigy?”
    He smiled and added, “Get to work. You’ve got no choice, anyway.”
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She closed the door behind them, put away the dinner things and found a big catalog from Sennelier’s art supply store in the bottom of the bag. A Post-it informed her: Your account is still open . She didn’t feel like leafing through the catalog, so she drank the rest of the wine straight from the bottle.
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But she’d listened to Pierre, all right. She was working.
    Work nowadays was cleaning up other people’s shit, and that suited her just fine.
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They really were dying of heat in there. The day before, Super Josy had warned them: “Don’t complain, girls, these are the last nice days we’ll get. Winter will be here soon and we’ll be freezing our butts off. So no grousing, eh?”
    For once she’d been right. It was the end of September and the days were getting shorter before their very eyes. Camille thought that maybe she’d do things differently this year, like go to bed earlier and get up in the afternoon so she could see the sun. Her thoughts took her by surprise, and her mind was elsewhere as she turned on the answering machine:
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“It’s your mom. Well . . . ,” laughed the voice, “that is, if you still know who I’m talking about. You know—Mom? Isn’t that the word that darling little children use when they’re talking to their biological parent? Because you do have a mother, Camille, remember? Sorry about the unpleasant reminder, but this is the third message I’ve left since Tuesday. I just