The Elegance of the Hedgehog
A young girl and a concierge find kinship.
The concierge of No. 7, rue de Grenelle, in Paris, is so very typical of that peculiarly French breed that the inhabitants there sometimes joke about her at their dinner tables. Aside from that, they never really see her.
“I am a widow, I am short, ugly, and plump, I have bunions on my feet and, if I am to credit certain early mornings of self-inflicted disgust, the breath of a mammoth,” Renée Michel informs readers on the first page of Muriel Barbery’s The Elegance of the Hedgehog. “I did not go to college, I have always been poor, discreet, and insignificant.”
“The Elegance of the Hedgehog,” Barbery’s second novel was a phenomenon in France, winning the 2007 French Booksellers Prize and making headlines because at least one psychotherapist prescribed “Hedgehog” to her patients. (Please don’t hold that against the book.)
Renée Michel has a secret: Behind her housedress and worn out slippers, she hides a keen, questing mind.
“I stand up, careful to drag my feet: the slippers in which they are clad are so very typical that only the coalition between a baguette and a beret could possibly contend in the domain of cliché,” she notes with some pride.
The cliché, which Renée delights in acting to perfection (going so far as to buy food she would only feed to her cat, because it’s what people expect concierges to eat), is a protective armor that protects her from the unimaginative stares of the wealthy inhabitants of No. 7, where she’s been the concierge for 27 years without exciting the interest of anyone except her friend, the cleaning lady.
Manuela is similarly invisible, despite the fact that – support hose and all – she shines with more aristocracy than the wealthy women she picks up after.