As if by magic, Rémi thinks, everyday life once again takes on the air of a celebration. Up early, Lucienne was already ready, dressed as though for a funeral. An uneventful drive. At this early hour, the city is only beginning to unfold its cacophonous arms. Claudine’s busy, weary greeting; the breads full of fragrance, standing in military ranks; Lucienne’s nose in every one of them: sourdough breads, poolish breads, health breads, chocolatines and croissants, white breads, baguettes, baguettes, baguettes. It is hot, and Lucienne quickly realizes she has put on too much; her brassiere is scratching her breasts. Rémi suggests that she remove it, but Lucienne refuses. She is not about to “play lesbian” at her age, and immediately apologizes to the perspiring Claudine, whose undershirt clings to her ample bosom.
Claudine announces that the mixer nearly gave out. Rémi grumbles. Guided by Claudine, Lucienne places the loaves on the sloping shelves. The reserve stock is at the back, opposite them on the service counter. Rémi is responsible for replenishing the stock, but if he is busy, Lucienne must see to it when there are no customers. Theft is unfortunately possible. Panhandlers are thrown out; they must go around to the back, and Rémi deals with them. Claudine and Lucienne laugh together; they like each other, that much is clear.
“My God, I’m so nervous!” Lucienne exclaims.
“Don’t worry,” Claudine replies. “The customers are kind. They’ll be surprised not to see Sylvain, because no one knows what happened to him. You can chat with them. Those are the baguettes for Il Mondo. Since it’s Monday, they won’t call again, but on the other days, especially Wednesday, we have to make more. I suppose Italians eat more bread that day. They call around eleven, and the baguettes have to be ready by six in the evening, but Rémi takes care of that. We always keep some poolish in reserve.”
Claudine often takes Rémi by the waist, kisses his neck and pinches his ass. Afterwards, she freshens up in the bathroom, changes in the basement and emerges transformed, motorcycle helmet in hand, announcing that she is leaving to meet her latest conquest, an Armenian woman newly arrived in the country. Rémi tells her to get some rest all the same. Claudine does not seem to listen. Rémi later explains to Lucienne that Claudine is excessive and often burns several candles at once, and that sometimes she cannot come to work. Double the labour for Rémi then. But it is so rare, and Rémi is very fond of Claudine.
Now they must unroll the awning over the storefront, a sign that the bakery has opened its great eye upon the world. A few moments later, the first customer, the same one for years: Michel, the confirmed bachelor from across the street, a librarian.
“Quick, quick! I need my drug! I’m in withdrawal!”
“Hello, Michel. Lucienne, it’ll be a sunflower loaf.”
Rémi introduces them, but Lucienne is still too busy finding the right loaf to greet him.
“Bottom right, my beautiful lady. Where is our Sylvain?”
They explain. As she hands him his bread, Lucienne giggles with pleasure and announces the price. The money is already on the counter. Lucienne’s happiness falls flat. Michel says he is delighted to meet such a pretty lady. Lucienne seems to take a few seconds to determine whether it is a bad joke or a genuine compliment. Faced with the librarian’s kind smile, her expression finally softens, she blushes, and the chatterbox starts up. In five minutes, she knows everything about Michel, or at least everything she needs to know for now.
The librarian leaves the bakery, promising to return tomorrow.
“He isn’t going to eat all that bread in one day?”
“Apparently he is.”
“He’s well built, though.”
“He doesn’t drink, doesn’t swear and does his little yoga routine every day.”
“He has no women.”
“No.”
“Interesting…”
“He seemed interested too…”
“You’re pulling my leg!”
“Not at all!” he replies, kissing her cheek.
“My God, my first day and my first prospect.”
“Aren’t you moving a little fast?”
“I don’t have any time to waste!” she says, laughing.
A second customer, the courier from Il Mondo. Then the waltz of the door opening and closing. The shelf of croissants and chocolatines is raided; Rémi puts a second batch of pastries in the ovens to be sold at lunchtime. So much to do: watch, count, make espressos—Lucienne will learn later. They must talk to the customers, pick up the thread of each person’s story, which for most has not truly strayed from its course. Many say they missed Rémi’s good bread. Each time, Lucienne proudly swells her chest, as though there were something of her in this handsome redhead. Rémi amuses himself with Lucienne, or at her expense, explaining who is who, when and how. Lucienne records the information and appears not at all tired after two hours of intense customer traffic. When the bakery suddenly empties, Lucienne sits on her bench and bursts out laughing.
“My God, why didn’t I come here before!”
Rémi leans against the counter.
“We’ll talk about it again in three weeks!”
“Did I do all right?”
“Impeccably. It looks as though you’ve done this all your life!”
“Don’t lay it on too thick, my boy! But you’re right, we’ll see in three weeks. I’m not thirty like your Sylvain, either. And he’ll come back eventually.”
“He’ll be away at least three months because of his leg. I have to find a replacement.”
“Really? Could I have the job?”
“I have no objection! But one day at a time, okay?”
“Hee, hee, hee. All right, it’s time you taught me how to use that machine,” she adds, pointing at the espresso maker.
Time flies. Like demanding dictators, the tasks to be done set the rhythm of the hours. Some morning customers return for a sandwich and coffee. Lucienne talks with them while Rémi plans the rest of the week.
The afternoon is much quieter, except that the radio Rémi usually turned on remains silent in the face of Lucienne’s incessant chatter. In a few hours, Rémi reconnects with his past: who is who, what is what, who will end up with whom. He does not recognize everyone; he left the country so young.
“For someone who was bored, you must have been glued to the telephone all the time to know all this!”
“Not even! You know, told like this, it sounds as though lots of things happen, but it’s like everything else: you have to wait a long time before you can make a single sentence out of someone’s life. People don’t move much…”
“They aren’t obliged to.”
“Well, they should be forced! Take Marie-Claire and Luc, for example. Sometimes, if I hadn’t been there to tell them what to do, they would have let everything fall apart. They haven’t done anything with the manor.”
“Yes, they have: children. And they each have a profession.”
“And they were bored, so they did what you know.”
“Aren’t you being a little harsh, Lucienne?”
“Maybe, but in my day, things were simpler…”
“Don’t start that with me, will you? In your day, people may not have made love in threes, but they either made love into a void, closed their eyes while doing it, or went into the barn to try out the neighbour or the milkman, every orientation included. Before your day, people worked even harder and were promised hell before paradise. Before that, they often died before ejaculating their first litre of semen. And if we go even farther back, women died in their own waters, people devoured their enemy’s entrails for vitamins, and entire villages drugged themselves on poorly stored grain. Then they brought out the stakes and burned heretics who had visions. Go back like that as far as you want and you’ll find sweat, pleasure, kisses, relentless toil, adultery, massacres and a great, great deal of boredom. Your past, my good Lucienne, was not simpler. It was different!”
Lucienne does not answer immediately, her eyes wide.
“Christ!” she finally says, bursting out laughing. “I was only saying!”
Rémi smiles, unsettled by his outburst. Lucienne sits down again and taps the cash-register keys.
“Don’t you empty the drawer from time to time? It seems full.”
“You’re right. I completely forgot.”
As he empties the cash drawer, Rémi makes a rough count.
“I do this only because I love making bread. Just enough to cover the expenses.”
“I won’t get paid?”
“Of course you’ll get paid!”
“I was joking.”
“No, I insist. I’m not rich! Victor supports me. The money I make here pays the fixed expenses, which include your wages, and leaves me enough for unexpected costs—small ones, at least. And as you know, Victor is paying to install the air conditioning.”
He points above the door.
“We’ll install it there, then put in a real door to separate the front from the back. That way, the customers will stay nice and cool. You see, if I hadn’t got back together with Victor, I would probably live in a small apartment, content with my lot, peaceful. I have a wandering soul.”
“And a travelling pouch.”
“The pouch?”
She laughs.
“Your testicles!”
“Ah! Where did you get that?”
“From my grandmother.”
She watches him sort the bills and turn them all the same way, famous face over famous face.
“You’re unhappy.”
He stops, then resumes examining the bills, crumpling a large one and holding it up to the light.
“I forgot to tell you. For bills over twenty dollars…”
He shows her what to check, asks her to read the various notices issued by the police, the counterfeit serial-number sequences, the latest batches of fake bills, and makes sure she understands. She answers with a broad smile of satisfaction, and while she does her homework and he continues sorting, she gently returns to the attack.
“You didn’t answer me.”
He does not look away from the bills.
“Yes, I’m happy. I live in the most beautiful country in the world, I eat my fill, I fuck my fill.”
“And you don’t even get fat.”
“It runs in the family.”
She sighs and returns to studying the police bulletins. Rémi is grateful that she does not pursue the subject. Unhappy? He has other things to do for now. He will see tomorrow, or after, after, the day after tomorrow. One thing at a time, and for now those things are counted in banknotes.
A man comes in and asks whether he may hang his small advertisement on the bulletin board. Rémi flashes him a broad smile and invites him to do so. The man complies and thanks him before leaving.
Rémi goes to see what he has to offer. Yoga classes for men.
“Travelling pouch, you said?”
“Damn men!”
When Rémi puts the key in the door, twelve hours have passed. The street purrs in the shadow of the main thoroughfare. To reward Lucienne, Rémi takes her to a restaurant.