Out of Sorts Read Free

motorized cart when she does her shopping, since it happens to be “extremely convenient,” as she says. Her eyes work much better since her cataract operation—the Figaro ’s newsprint even changed from yellow to white like magic! In order to read, she still puts on her big round glasses, which she doesn’t lose anymore since her grandkids gave her a very chic lanyard.
    Beatrice Claudel is doing well—very well, even.
    Today she’s invited one of her grandsons, his wife, and their ten-month-old son. She’s planned to cook braised chicken with mustard, her grandson’s favorite, complemented by a good Côtes-du-Rhône she bought in a case of six at the last wine expo.
    Everything is prepared. The Le Creuset casserole has been simmering for nearly two hours, the carrots and onions are caramelizing, the table is set. This time, Beatrice has placed her pillbox next to her wineglass. She no longer leaves her medications on the table, after her bridge friend’s grandson came to lunch and thought he’d add an olive to his plate . . . Thankfully, it was just a vision supplement.
    Beatrice sits down in her armchair by the window, takes out her iPad, and opens Facebook. She wants to learn about her grandson’s latest activities. This week, he made a business trip to Italy, ate at a fancy restaurant, and watched a reality TV show she hasn’t heard of yet. As for her granddaughter-in-law, she’s raving about their little one’s new teeth and just finished reading this year’s Goncourt Prize–winning novel. Beatrice checks her library for the last book they read in her book club, the one that lost the Renaudot Prize for whatever. She puts it on the table in the entryway, so she doesn’t forget to offer it to her granddaughter-in-law. They have the same taste in literature, so she should like this one.
    She goes to sit back down but gets right back up to put the appetizers on an earthenware platter. She picks the blue-green one her grandchildren gave her last Christmas. She also puts on the necklace she got for her birthday. 11:43 a.m. Beatrice even has time to take out the trash. The bag is full, mainly with stale bread.
    “Oh, my God! The bread . . . I completely forgot to buy some. Do I have time to get more? Yes, plenty. But what if they get here early?”

    Ferdinand watches his neighbor from across the way come back into the hall in a panic and rush back into her apartment. He doesn’t know what could have frightened her that much in the trash area. Perhaps she, too, heard of that horrific true story about a murdered man cut up and disposed of, day after day, piece by piece, via a garbage chute? He’d read all about it in a Pierre Bellemare book. Grim story , thinks Ferdinand. He’ll have to tell it to that silly old goose Mrs. Suarez, who loves snooping around the trash area so much.
    Ferdinand’s hindquarters are starting to hurt. Look, there’s the old hag coming out of her apartment, wearing an overcoat. That’s unusual: she’s going to be late. Ferdinand twists to see her go down the stairs. The old man takes the opportunity to stretch his legs in the kitchen. He fills a saucepan with cold water. Ferdinand has never used the hot water faucet—not for cooking, not for washing himself. He boils the water. It’s out of the question to pay for hot water from the building! Ferdinand is looking for the saucepan lid when he hears the sound of the cane on the stairs. In his slippers, he shuffles over to his stool and sits back down. The little lady is laboriously climbing the stairs. She’s certainly not young anymore. Much older than me , thinks Ferdinand. All of a sudden, she turns and heads in his direction. Ferdinand stiffens. She takes a deep breath and knocks on his door. What nerve!
    A husky voice says, “Mr. Brun, open up. It’s Mrs. Claudel.”
    Mrs. Claudel. He’s never bothered to learn her name.
    “Mr. Brun, I’m sorry to insist, but I have news about your dog. Open up, please.”
    “