Hunting and Gathering Read Online Free Page A

them the answers they want, yes, but don’t look back.
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She went into the Franprix downstairs from her place and forced herself to buy a few things to eat, as a gesture toward the young doctor’s kindness, and Mamadou’s laugh. Mamadou’s expansive laughter, the dumb job at All-Kleen, that bitch Bredart, Carine’s unbelievable stories, the squabbles, the cigarettes they shared, the physical fatigue, their crazy uncontrollable giggles and the foul moods they got into sometimes—all of that helped her to live. It really did, it helped her to live.
    She wandered up and down the aisles a few times before she made up her mind, bought some bananas, four yogurts, and two bottles of water.
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There was that weirdo from her building. A tall strange guy with pants that were way too short, glasses held together by Band-Aids, and the behavior of a Martian. The minute he picked something up he put it back down, took a few steps, then changed his mind, picked it up again, shook his head and finally left the checkout line, when it was his turn at the register, to go and put the thing back where it belonged. Once she even saw him leave the store, then go back in to buy the jar of mayonnaise that he’d rejected only seconds before. Ridiculous, sad clown amusing the crowd, stuttering in front of the salesgirls, and wringing Camillle’s heart.
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Sometimes she saw him in the street or outside their front door, and he was always in crisis mode—some major problem or emotional meltdown. Sure enough, there he was, fumbling and muttering as he stood before the digital lock.
    â€œIs something wrong?” she asked.
    â€œAh! Oh! Um, excuse me.” He was wringing his hands. “Good evening, mademoiselle, forgive me, so sorry to bother—I am bothering you, aren’t I?”
    What a bummer, she never knew whether to laugh or to feel sorry for him. His pathological shyness, his incredibly convoluted way of speaking, the words he used and his perpetually spacey gestures: it all made her feel uneasy.
    â€œNo, no, don’t worry about it. Did you forget the code?”
    â€œGoodness, no. At least not as far as I know . . . well . . . I didn’t look at it that way. My God, I—”
    â€œMaybe they changed it?”
    â€œDo you really think they might have?” he asked, as if she had just informed him that the end of the world was nigh.
    â€œWell, let’s find out. 342B7—”
    The door clicked.
    â€œOh, I get so confused, what a muddle. I—But that’s what I did too, I don’t understand it . . .”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” she said, leaning against the door.
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He made as if to hold the door for her, and as he was trying to put his arm above her, he missed and knocked her hard on the back of her head.
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“Oh gosh! I didn’t hurt you, did I? I am so clumsy, honestly, please excuse me, I—”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” she said for the third time.
    He didn’t move.
    â€œUh,” she begged at last, “could you move your foot because you’re blocking my ankle there and it really hurts.”
    She was laughing. Nervously.
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When they were in the hall, he rushed toward the glass door to let her through.
    â€œOh, sorry, but I’m not going that way,” she said, pointing to the other side of the courtyard.
    â€œYou live in the courtyard?”
    â€œWell, not really . . . under the roof is more like it.”
    â€œOh, that’s great.” He was tugging on the strap of his bag, which was caught on the brass door handle. “That, that must be really nice.”
    â€œWell, yeah,” she said, making a face and moving away quickly, “that’s one way of looking at it.”
    â€œHave a nice evening, mademoiselle!” he called. “My regards to your parents!”
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Her parents . . . what a loon, that guy. She remembered one night—since it