Hunting and Gathering by Anna Gavalda Read Free Book Online Page A

plunged her into began to fade. She listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen: running water, pots and pans, the radio, and incomprehensible refrains in a shrill key which had the young girl jiggling her feet, keeping time. Camille watched the old man as he lifted long noodles with his chopsticks, dribbling broth down his chin, and she suddenly felt as though she were in the dining room of a real house.
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There was nothing on the table in front of her other than her coffee cup and tobacco pouch. She moved them over to the next table and began to smooth the tablecloth.
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Slowly, very slowly, she ran the flat of her hand over the cheap, stained paper that covered the table.
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She went on doing this for several long minutes.
    Her mind grew calmer and her heartbeat accelerated.
    She was afraid.
    She had to try. You have to try. Yes, but it’s been such a long time since—
    Ssh, she murmured to herself, ssh, I’m here. It will be fine. Look, it’s now or never. Go on, don’t be afraid.
    She raised her hand a few inches from the table and waited for it to stop trembling. Good, you see? She reached for her backpack and rummaged inside: there it was.
    She brought out the little wooden box and put it on the table. She opened it, took a small rectangular stone and rubbed it against her cheek; it was soft and warm. Then she unfolded a blue cloth and lifted out a stick of ink; there was a strong scent of sandalwood. Finally she unrolled a little mat of bamboo slats in which two brushes nestled.
    The larger one was of goat’s hair, and the other, much finer, of pig silk.
    She stood up, took a pitcher of water from the counter and two phone books, and bowed slightly to the crazy old man.
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She put the phone books on her seat so she’d be able to stretch her arms out without touching the table, poured a few drops of water onto the slate stone and began to grind the ink. The voice of her master echoed in her ear: Turn the stone very slowly, little Camille. Oh, even slower than that! And longer. Maybe two hundred times because, you see, as you do that you’re loosening your wrist and preparing your mind for great things . . . Don’t think about anything anymore—stop looking at me, you naughty girl! Concentrate on your wrist, it will guide you for the first stroke and it is the first stroke alone which counts; that is what will give life and breath to your drawing.
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When the ink was ready, she disobeyed her master and began with little exercises on a corner of the paper tablecloth to recover the memories, all too distant. She made five spots to begin with, from deepest black to the most diluted, to remind herself of the ink’s colors, but then when she tried different strokes she realized she had forgotten almost all of them. A few remained: the loosened rope, the hair, the rain-drop, the rolled thread and the ox’s hairs. Then came the points. Her master had taught her over twenty of them, but she remembered only four: the circle, the rock, the rice and the shiver.
    Enough. Now you’re ready. She picked up the finer brush between her thumb and index finger, held her arm above the tablecloth and waited a few more seconds.
    The old man, still rambling on in his corner, encouraged her by closing his eyes.
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Camille Fauque emerged from a long sleep, with a sparrow, then two, then three, then an entire flock in flight, birds with a mocking look in their eyes.
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She hadn’t drawn a thing in over a year.
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AS a child she had never been talkative; she spoke even less then than she did now. Her mother had obliged her to take piano lessons and Camille hated it. Once, when the teacher was late, she’d picked up a thick Magic Marker and painstakingly drawn a finger on each key. Her mother had wrung her neck and her father, to make the peace, showed up the following weekend with the address of a painter who gave lessons once a week.
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Not long after,