Free Hunting and Gathering by Anna Gavalda Page B

missing, the plates were porcelain, the cutlery was silver-plated and the glasses were crystal. It even contained a saltshaker, a pepper mill, an oil flask, coffee and tea cups, embroidered linen napkins, a vegetable dish, a sauce boat, a fruit bowl, a box for toothpicks, a sugar bowl, fish knives and a special pot just for making hot chocolate. And the entire set was emblazoned with his family coat of arms.
    â€œI’ve never seen anything so lovely.”
    â€œYou can see why I didn’t come yesterday. If you only knew how long it’s taken me to clean it and get everything shining.”
    â€œYou should have said!”
    â€œYou really believe that if I had said, ‘Not this evening, I’ve got to clean my trunk,’ you wouldn’t have thought I was out of my mind?”
    Camille was careful not to make any comment.
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They spread the tablecloth on the floor and Philibert Whatsisname laid the place settings.
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Like two children christening a new dolls’ tea set, they sat cross-legged, delighted, excited, acting ever so properly and making a big effort not to break anything. Camille didn’t know how to cook, so she had stopped in at Goubetzkoï’s and bought an assortment of tarama , salmon, marinated fish and onion chutneys. They filled all the great-uncle’s little bowls with painstaking care, and to reheat the blinis on the hot plate they fashioned an ingenious sort of toaster from an old lid and some tinfoil. They stashed the vodka in the roof gutter, and all they had to do was raise the blind and reach out for more. Opening and closing the window made the room chilly, to be sure, but the fireplace crackled and drew its fire from God.
    Camille as usual drank more than she ate.
    â€œDo you mind if I smoke?” she asked.
    â€œPlease . . . But I’d like to stretch my legs. They’ve gone to sleep.”
    â€œStretch out on my bed.”
    â€œOh, no, I, uh, couldn’t do that.”
    The littlest thing and he was at a loss for words again.
    â€œOh, go on, it’s actually a sofa bed.”
    â€œWell, in that case . . .”
    â€œMaybe we should call each other tu instead of vous , Philibert?”
    He went pale.
    â€œOh, no, for myself I couldn’t possibly, but you, you—”
    â€œStop! It’s okay, don’t worry. Besides, I think it’s perfectly charming to say vous to people, it’s—”
    â€œQuaint?”
    â€œExactly!”
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Philibert didn’t eat a lot either, but he was so slow and fastidious that Camille the perfect little hostess congratulated herself on planning a cold meal. She had also bought some fromage blanc for dessert—after having stood paralyzed, gazing into the window of a patisserie, utterly disconcerted and incapable of choosing a cake. She brought out her little Italian coffeepot and drank her brew out of a cup that was so delicate she was sure it would break if she closed her teeth on it.
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Neither of them were normally talkative people. Nor were they used to sharing meals anymore. So they didn’t really know how to behave, and it was hard for each of them to leave their comfortable solitude behind. But because they were polite, they made the effort for appearance’s sake. They acted jolly, raised their glasses, talked about the neighborhood. The checkout girls at Franprix, for example: Philibert liked the blonde one, Camille preferred the one with eggplant-colored hair; the tourists; the illumination of the Eiffel Tower; the dog poop. Totally unexpectedly, Camille’s guest turned out to be a charming conversationalist. He knew how to keep the conversation going, and came up with an endless variety of trivial and titillating subjects. French history was his passion, and he confessed that he spent most of his time in Louis XI’s jails, in François I’s antechamber, at table with peasants from the Vendée in the Middle Ages, or at the