Free Hunting and Gathering by Anna Gavalda

sink in one corner which looked more like a urinal and doubled as both kitchen and bathroom sink. A hanging rail for a wardrobe and two stacked cardboard boxes as shelves. A hot plate on top of a camping table; a minifridge that served as workspace, dining room and coffee table. Two stools, a halogen lamp, a little mirror and another cardboard box for a kitchen cupboard. What else? The tartan suitcase where she’d stored some of the materials she still had left, three art portfolios and . . . No, that was it. So much for the tour of the property.
    Down at the end of the hall to the right the toilets were Turkish-style, and the shower was above the toilet. All you had to do to take a shower was to place the specially provided moldy grating over the hole.
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Camille didn’t have any neighbors, or maybe just a ghost or two: from time to time she could hear murmuring behind door number 12. On her door there was a padlock and, tacked to the door frame in pretty violet lettering, the name of the former tenant: Louise Leduc.
    A little servant girl from the nineteenth century.
    No, Camille is not at all sorry she bought her fireplace, even though it cost her nearly half her salary. Oh, what the hell—for all the use she made of her salary. On the bus she fell to daydreaming, wondering who she could invite over to inaugurate the heater.
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A few days later, she found her victim: “Guess what, I’ve got a fireplace!”
    â€œI beg your pardon? Ah! Oh! It’s you. Hello there. Beastly weather, isn’t it?”
    â€œI’ll say. Why did you just take your hat off?”
    â€œWell, I—I, um, I’m greeting you, aren’t I?”
    â€œOh, come on, put it back on. You’ll catch your death. I was looking for you actually. I wanted to invite you to dinner by the fire one evening.”
    â€œMe?” he choked.
    â€œYes, you.”
    â€œOh, no, but I, uh, why? Really, it is—”
    â€œIt’s what?” she said, suddenly tired. They stood there shivering outside their favorite grocery store.
    â€œThat is—”
    â€œCan’t you make it?”
    â€œNo, it is just—it’s just such an honor!”
    â€œOh,” she laughed, “such an honor. Not at all, you’ll see, it will be a very simple occasion. You’ll come, then?”
    â€œWell, yes, yes, I should be delighted to share your table—”
    â€œIt’s not really a table, you know.”
    â€œOh, really?”
    â€œIt’ll be more like a picnic. A bite to eat, informal.”
    â€œExcellent, I do like picnics. I can even bring my blanket and my basket, if you like.”
    â€œYour basket of what?”
    â€œMy picnic basket.”
    â€œOne of those things with dishes?”
    â€œYes, there are plates, and cutlery and a tablecloth, four napkins, a corksc—”
    â€œOh yes, that’s a very good idea. I don’t have any of those things. So shall we say this evening?”
    â€œWell, this evening, I don’t know—”
    â€œYou what?”
    â€œWell, I haven’t warned my roommate.”
    â€œI see. But then he can come too, that’s no problem.”
    â€œWhat, him? No, not him. To start with I don’t know if . . . well, if he’s a very suitable boy. I—Let’s get this straight, I’m not talking about his behavior, even if, well, I do not behave like that, you see, no, it’s more that—Oh, and besides, he’s not here this evening. Or any other evening for that matter.”
    â€œLet’s see if I’ve got this right,” said Camille, taking a deep breath. “You can’t come because you haven’t warned your roommate who’s never there anyway, is that right?”
    He looked down and fiddled with the buttons on his coat.
    â€œHey, you’re not, like, obliged, you know. You don’t have to say yes.”
    â€œIt’s just that—”
    â€œJust