Hunting and Gathering by Anna Gavalda Read Free Book Online

that’s what the boys like—”
    â€œMom—”
    â€œWhat, ‘Mom’? I worry about you, that’s normal, you don’t bring children into the world to watch them waste away in front of your eyes!”
    â€œSo why did you bring me into the world, then?”
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The moment she said it Camille realized she’d gone too far and now her mother would put on her drama queen act. There would be nothing new, she’d seen it a thousand times and her mother had it down pat: emotional blackmail, crocodile tears, and suicide threats. At random or in that order.
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She wept, reproached her daughter for leaving her just like the girl’s father had done fifteen years earlier, said she was an ungrateful child and wondered what earthly reason she had left for living.
    â€œGive me a single reason to be here, one single reason.”
    Camille rolled a cigarette.
    â€œDid you hear me?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell?”
    Camille was silent.
    â€œThank you, my dear, thank you. Your answer couldn’t be any clearer.”
    She sniffed, put two restaurant coupons on the table, and walked out.
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Don’t get emotional; the sudden departure has always been the apotheosis, the curtain’s descent, on her mother’s theatrics.
    Usually the star would wait until after dessert, but it was true they’d been in a Chinese restaurant and her mother didn’t especially like fried bananas, lychees, or other sorts of sickly-sweet nougats.
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No. She mustn’t get emotional.
    It was never easy, but Camille had learned certain survival tricks long ago. So she resorted to her usual tactic and tried to focus on what she knew for sure. There were a few really simple tenets, full of common sense. Hastily assembled little crutches she could reach for when she had to see her mother. Because there wasn’t much point in these forced encounters—absurd and destructive as they were—if her mother didn’t get something out of them. And Catherine Fauque did get something out of them, for sure: being able to use her daughter as a doormat was very gratifying. And even if she often stomped off with an outraged flourish in the middle of dinner, she always went away satisfied. Satisfied and replete. With all her abject good faith and pathetic vindictiveness intact, and an ample supply of grist to her mill for next time.
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Camille had taken a while to figure this out and, moreover, she hadn’t managed it on her own. She’d had help. Some of the people who knew her, especially in the early days when she was still too young to judge her mother, had given her the keys to understanding her mother’s attitude. But that was in the old days, and all those people who’d looked out for her then were no longer around.
    And now the kid was having a very hard time of it.
    She really was.

8
    THE table had been cleared and the restaurant was emptying. But Camille didn’t move. She kept smoking and ordering coffees so they wouldn’t kick her out.
    A toothless old Asian man in the back of the restaurant was jabbering and laughing to himself. The young woman who had waited on their table was standing behind the bar. She was drying glasses, and from time to time she scolded the old man in their language. He would frown, sit quietly for a minute, then start up again with his nonsensical monologue.
    â€œAre you getting ready to close?” asked Camille.
    â€œNo,” the girl replied, putting a bowl down in front of the old man, “we stop serving but we stay open. You want another coffee?”
    â€œNo, no, thanks. Can I stay a little bit longer?”
    â€œOf course! You can stay. As long as you’re here, it gives him something to think about.”
    â€œYou mean I’m the one who’s making him laugh like that?”
    â€œYou or anyone.”
    Camille stared at the old man, then smiled at him.
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Gradually, the anxiety her mother had