The Mad and the Bad

8

After Hartog left, Julie went to the kitchen to get Peter’s breakfast. There she found the valet Georges eating a sloppy omelet at one corner of the immense table. The fellow was in suspenders. His eyes were bloodshot. He got to his feet as Julie approached.

“Madame Boudiou is doing better,” he offered, his mouth full. “I’ll get you something for the snotty brat.”

Egg yolk dribbled down his chin.

“Don’t go to the trouble,” said Julie. “I’ll manage.”

She piled little boxes of cereal, which looked like little boxes of laundry detergent, on a tray. She could hear the valet chewing behind her.

“While you’re at it, would you open me a bottle of Guinness?”

Julie complied silently, placing the beer and a glass in front of Georges. The valet drank greedily and it seemed to make him feel better. Color returned to his cheeks.

“Is it true what they say, that you were in the nuthouse?”

“It’s true.”

Georges was embarrassed. “Before that, you were a domestic?”

“Before that, I was a juvenile delinquent.”

Georges was even more embarrassed.

“Would you excuse me please,” said Julie.

She left the room with her tray, taking the service elevator. Clamped between her elbow and her side was the photograph of Hartog’s folly. She was not conscious of having kept it.

The girl entered Peter’s room. The little boy was awake, playing with toy cars. He consulted an electric watch.

“You’re late.”

“Good morning,” said Julie.

“Where is Marcelle? Where is Old Polio?”

“She has left. I’m her replacement.”

Peter shrugged. “You’re late,” he repeated.

“Your uncle is going away. I had to say goodbye to him.”

“He never comes to see me.”

Julie put the tray down on the table and poured hot milk over instant cocoa and cold milk into a bowl.

“That’s because he is very busy.”

“No, it’s because he doesn’t love me. Nobody loves me, except for Marcelle. She told me so herself.”

“She was wrong,” replied Julie flatly.

Peter made no reply and went and sat at the table. He poured all kinds of cereal into the bowl of milk and began eating greedily. A knock came at the door. Julie opened the door. In the hallway was a very tall baby-faced man, very blond, wearing a blue suit.

“-oiselle,” he was saying, “I have the television set.” He gestured towards a large cardboard box beside him on the floor.

“Who are you?” asked Julie, taken aback.

“I’ve brought the television. Isn’t this the place?” He consulted a slip of paper. “Downstairs they told me it was here.”

“A TV! A TV!” cried Peter, jumping up and down.

“Yes, it’s definitely here,” said Julie. “But I wasn’t expecting you.”

The blond giant brought the large box into the room. Immediately nervous, Julie went over to open the window, raising the blind.

“Where should I set it up?”

Julie, stock-still, was gazing down at the street, at a white raincoat with epaulettes. A bus moved forward, blocking her view of it.

“Mademoiselle?”

The bus passed on. No more white raincoat. Julie turned.

“Mademoiselle. Where should I set it up?”

“Anywhere you like. On the floor. Over there. Near the socket for the antenna.”

Julie was jittery. The blond giant was opening the cardboard box. He was in no hurry. Julie stroked Peter’s fine- too fine-hair.

“You see, he does love you, your uncle,” she said distractedly. “This new television is his way of saying goodbye.”

“Anything I break,” said Peter, “they give me a new one.”