No Touching

by Ketty Rouf

  The only sound in the deserted corridor, with half an hour to go before the last bell, is the light clicking of my heels. Behind me, I hear a door open and Wallen’s voice, calling after me:

  “Madame, where are you going? Class isn’t over yet.”

  5

  I’m dressed in white. I’ve put on a mid-season dress, even though it’s a little too cool outside still. I’ve bought a bouquet of tulips and some women’s magazines. She likes flowers and photoshopped models. I came early, to prepare myself for this encounter. We haven’t seen each other in three months. It feels like forever. Fleur and the world of the night seem so far away now. I wonder if she’s gotten a different haircut, or maybe some new highlights. I rule out the possibility of a boob job.

  After checking in at reception I sit down in the waiting room. I stay still so my dress won’t wrinkle. Everything around me is white, except the chairs, which are jade green, set out in rows. There’s a copy of Monet’s Water Lilies on the wall across from me. The air smells like disinfectant and medication. I bury my nose in glossy magazine pages. Their perfumed smell does me good. I look up at the sound of muffled footsteps coming toward me. A nurse says, “She’s waking up, you can go in now. Room 203, end of the hall, on the left.” There’s no need for her to say anything else; she just smiles. She’s seen hundreds, thousands of women in the same situation. That’s her job: to listen to the cry, to read the anguish of that inner tearing that will bleed for the rest of their lives. I thank her wordlessly and stand up.

  Fleur opens her eyes just as I open the door to her room. She smiles weakly, lying still in her drugged-up lethargy. Her hair is shorter and curlier than I remember. The violet shadows under her eyes stand out against the whiteness of her skin. Her pupils quiver with emotion. With pain. Fleur, a china doll in a white bed, groggy from the anesthesia, lifts her right arm and tries to interlace her fingers through my own. I gather her into my arms and kiss her hot cheek. My baby doll.

  We’re waiting for the doctor to come by and sign off, and then I’ll take her home. I don’t want to know why she made this decision. Suddenly I regret not having called her, gone to see her. The shock of being unmasked numbed my heart, erased at a single stroke all the new emotions that the night had brought me. Forgetting, that was what counted. But Fleur didn’t forget me. Close your eyes and rest, baby doll. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. So beautiful, so vulnerable, she rests a hand on her belly, caresses it, then slaps it feebly. I open my mouth, but the words stick in my throat. Fleur presses a kiss into the palm of my hand. “It’s okay,” she says, “by tomorrow I’ll have forgotten already. I should have been more careful. It’ll never happen again.”

  6

  Lying together in Fleur’s four-poster bed, I hold Fleur while she methodically describes the nights, everything I’ve missed since I left. Holding hands, my body pressed against hers, I remember. The curtains and the soft lights, the erect cocks straining beneath trouser-fronts, the garter tucked full of tickets, the money, and Fleur’s body. I know the creases around her knee, her nipples, her face, beautified with makeup or drawn with fatigue. I know the glitter of her perfection, the little flaw she hides with foundation, the shape of each drop of sweat. Her body, as if it were my own, which I clutch firmly against me under the duvet. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep. Fleur has unleashed a tidal wave in my head, the urgent need to dispel the fear, maybe.

  “I hung on to your locker. I figured you just needed some time, or maybe you had too much work. I mean, you’re not going to be a civil servant your whole life, are you? You’ll turn all ugly and badly dressed! I can just imagine you in ruffled old-lady dresses!”

  Fleur eventually dozes off, and so do I. I have a dream in which I’m walking en pointe like a ballerina. I execute one pirouette, two, three. I’m wearing a pleated skirt and a black corset. My toenails are painted a gorgeous shade of red, and I’m holding the bottle of no. 11 Spicy Red nail polish in my hand. I’m looking for the road to get to school, but someone’s shouting. Calling for Rose Lee. Whose voice it? I look left and right. No one is there, but I hear someone say: “I recognized you from your style. I hadn’t forgotten you, Rose Lee.”

  It’s six in the morning. I slip out of bed to make a quick stop at home before heading to the school. I don’t take a shower or change my clothes. I want to hang on to our mingled scents, the remains of my makeup from the night before, my tangled thoughts. But without frills.

  In the esplanade in front of the school, all I can see are enormous heaps of soot and garbage cans deformed by fire. I’d completely forgotten that the banlieue has been on fire for two days. Now it suddenly comes back to me. I wonder if I actually needed to come in today. What day is it? Spending time with Fleur has made me completely lose touch with reality. I pick my way across the debris. Inside the building, it’s total pandemonium, people yelling. The teachers’ lounge is like a town square on market day: the fishmonger and the baker trying to out-bellow one another, people milling and crowding and jostling. You can’t hear the bell ring, and I have no idea whether there will be classes or not. The classrooms and corridors are just as chaotic. Students arrive in waves and leave just as quickly. Groups are forming in front of the school, shouting about the new labor laws the government’s just introduced, protesting first employment contracts, which state that teachers under age 26 can be fired without justification after two years in a position, and clamoring in support of permanent contracts and their promise of job security (very expensive for schools). We’re the ones who’ll have to deal with the kind of outbursts and abuses that go along with this sort of protest, though. I bump into Hurley. “No class today,” he says. “Everyone’s coming out to join the demonstrations.” He asks me to come along with him. “We have to keep an eye on the students, make sure they’re safe,” he says, beseechingly. He’s scared. I’m sure his son, who’s in his final year at another high school, is participating in the protests. In my colleague’s awkward rush, I see the father desperate to find his little boy. I hate demonstrations. I’ve never participated in anything like this. The possibility of urban violence has always kept me far, far away from this kind of experience. There’s no way I’m going out to scream about my anger and my rights and my misery in streets full of people. I decide to take advantage of this whole thing to get caught up on my lesson-planning.

  I dodge and weave down the corridor, students and teachers hurtling past me like blanks fired blindly from a gun, all wearing the same expression of anxiety mingled with excitement. Passionate desire has finally touched this place, which has suddenly become a home, something beloved. I spot the principal amid the hubbub. He’s coming straight toward me. It’s too late to change direction, to melt into the throng heading for the street, the outside world. He asks me to come with him, and we battle upstream toward the office. As he rifles quickly through the pile of mail on his desk, I cling to my little water bottle, swallowing the repugnance this red-faced little man arouses in me, dissolving my fear of a sermon in a mouthful of water. I glance down at his stubby little fingers, the miniscule wedding band squeezing his left ring finger, his hands shuffling and rustling and folding sheets of paper, his index finger wet with saliva. He doesn’t look at me. It’s like he’s taking his time, and I can almost hear the rackety clamor of his garbled thoughts. His Certificate of Professional Aptitude in welding hangs on the yellow-green wall behind him; I knew he’d started his career as a teacher specializing in that subject. There are framed photos on his desk.

  “Do you need to take a few days, Madame . . . to rest?”

  No beating around the bush, then; we’ve gotten right to the crux of the matter. This isn’t the time to buckle under the fear and the doubt, to wonder, “What does he know about me?” I react. The best defense is always to attack. I complain.

  “Sir, every day I find myself more and more overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. We as teachers don’t have the proper working
conditions to do our jobs anymore.”

  “You’re too idealistic. Just focus on doing what you’re paid to do and not leaving your students before class is over.”

  “Yes.”

  “And, also . . .”

  “. . . yes?”

  “Also, there are some crazy rumors going around about you.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “They’re stupid. And what’s more, highly unlikely.”

  “Oh, well, if that’s all. Could this be retaliation because of a bad grade?”

  “That’s possible.”

  He gets up and holds out his hand to shake mine. I bounce out into the corridor, relieved to be away from those lightless eyes. I have a sudden desire to shit my pants—but also to laugh, to scream, to roll around on the floor. Everything seems unlikely, like reality is dissolving. I don’t believe it myself anymore. Was I really Rose Lee? Could Kevin have seen me and not believed his eyes?

  I run into Hadrien. He’s all sweaty, his messy hair falling into his face, but I know his blazing eyes, his fiery heart. I don’t turn around. I keep my head low and my steps quick, almost running, until his “Madame!” rings out like a plea. I can hear him coming to catch up with me. He lopes up and stops in front of me.

  “What are you doing, Madame? Aren’t you coming?”

  There is revolution in his voice, the seeds of the kind of noble exaltation that will make a man out of him. It’s like he’s rising up against me and my apathy. That’s right, Hadrien, I was going to go and work, like an ass, while the rest of you take to the streets, hoping to make this world a better place . . .

  “Madame, the school has chosen me as spokesperson. I’m going to make sure no damage is done, you know?”

  His voice cracks. In his excitement, he doesn’t notice it. Unable to find the right words, he takes my hand. I follow him. I’m eighteen years old. Hope floods through me. We’re free. For the few dozen yards I run hand-in-hand with my student, I can feel the universe quivering, the silent unexpected strength smoldering in Hadrien’s heart. I release his hand before we reach the yard where his classmates are waiting for him, I let him go ahead of me, but I’m still following him, not taking my eyes off of him. This will be my first demonstration, a holiday while the city burns. I spot Martin in the crowd, standing with a few other teachers. I go to them, to march with them against the first employment contract legislation. This is a serious moment, but I still feel like laughing, like dancing. I stick close to Martin, who is much more focused than I am. A muffled noise, louder than all the others, makes me look around. Behind me, in a group of parents, Kevin’s father is walking, looking for his son.

  Martin and I walk through the deserted streets to number 12a. Not a trace remains of today’s unrest; it looks like young Claire’s housewarming party will be peaceful and pleasant. And really, there would be no reason for it not to go well. Easter vacation is only a few days away; we’re all in a good mood. Martin insisted that I come this evening. I hate recreating the teachers’ lounge outside school. But tonight I agreed, in order to face my own fears. I’ve always found these kinds of parties deeply boring, and every time I expect them to peter out without either excitement or surprise. For whatever reason they usually end early, with the guests wanting to get home before dark, or dozing off, or rapidly getting drunk. Tonight I try to take an interest in poor little Claire again, already burnt out by the job but battling on with a valiant heart and an iron will. That’s youth for you, and its illusions. I also have a long discussion with Madame Louis, who, in a fleeting moment of inebriation, invites me to address her using the informal tu. I don’t even flirt with Martin, even though the prospect is my only hope of briefly forgetting about Kevin’s father. When we were all marching with the kids today, the man who was my customer turned his gaze in my direction. Without thinking, seized with animalistic panic, I left Martin, claiming a sudden migraine, and fled as inconspicuously as possible, keeping my head down and a hand pressed to my forehead. For once, I wished I wore a veil. God forgive me. But before I’d fully escaped the crowd and its agitation, I turned around just once without hiding my unveiled, confused face. And the man, whose first name I can’t remember, scanning the throng for Kevin, saw me again. A thousand questions flitted across his face, and then a frown, and then a smile. It was a staggering moment, because I wasn’t afraid anymore. In fact, I felt a sudden, profound desire to be recognized.

  Even now, I allow myself to be swept up in the sense of detachment the nights have come to arouse in me. I would love to catch a glimpse of anxiety or impatience on my colleagues’ faces. Who among them has experienced mad love, physical ecstasy? Who among them has made love with more than a hundred men or women? Who among them has seen America, Asia, Tahiti? Who is brought to tears by the second movement of Ravel’s Piano Concerto in G major? Who thinks of nothing but seeking out the extraordinary, the unattainable, the perfectly impossible perfection of existence?

  I lean with the full weight of my body against the balcony railing, searching for support, for a new equilibrium, perhaps.

  “What are you doing?”

  I answer Martin’s question with another question:

  “Don’t you ever think of just launching yourself into the void?”

  My phone pings. It’s a message from Fleur.

  7

  We drop our suitcases off in the little one-bedroom in Vieux-Port, and Fleur gives me just enough time to take off my sweater and tights and, bare legs pale beneath my cotton skirt, we go out. Our arms, chilly at first, loosen and relax. Fleur wraps an arm around my waist and draws me to her, pressing kisses to my neck, like a woman in love. I’m excited to be here beneath this blue and cloudless sky with her, bathed in sunlight so bright it makes us blink. We head for the Plage des Catalans. Fleur bought two tickets to Marseille and invited me for a few days’ vacation. She’s forgotten her tears now, obliterated her grief with lipstick and nail polish. Guerlain Intense Red.

  At 8 P.M. we take a taxi to the 8th arrondissement. “You’re going to love my friends,” Fleur assures me. She’s loaned me a dress, wants me to be extra pretty. The order to be beautiful amuses me. It’s Givenchy, pure silk, with a plunging neckline. “I go to private sales,” she says, as if justifying her possession of haute couture. “You’ll have to come with me next time.” I nod as we pull up at our destination, a house surrounded by cascades of light.

  “Looks like we’re the first ones here . . .” Fleur kisses the cheek of the man who’s come out to greet us. “This is Joséphine. You used to have the same job.”

  “We did? Fleur didn’t tell me,” I say, surprised.

  “I think she wanted it to be a surprise. I started my career as a teacher, yes. But all that’s a long way behind me now. Except—well, come in. You’ll see.”

  Marc, the owner of the house, ushers us into his living room, which is dominated by an impressive library of books. Shelves of mostly French literature stretch between the black leather armchair and the crystal-and-china-laid table.

  “In choosing literature and teaching, I broke away from what you might call the family business,” he explains. “But they pulled me back in soon enough. Like my father and my uncle, I became a nightclub manager. It’s not literature, but the people are often very interesting, with life stories that deserve to be told. That’s the most fascinating part of the job.”

  He pours us each a drink. I savor the champagne in little sips, to make the pleasure last. Along with Fleur’s presence and the aftereffects of the sun, the bubbles dissolve the last of my remorse about going away. I’m entitled to a few days of relaxation; I’m allowed to forget all the work I was supposed to do over the Easter vacation, still waiting for me at home.

  Marc gives me a tour of the house, shows me the garden, where a lit-up swimming pool reflects our images like a mirror. The doorbell rings, and he hurries off to welcome his guests. I stay th
ere, breathing deeply the coolness of the evening, waiting for its sobering effect. But the voices coming from the living room sound familiar. I go back inside. Champagne glasses in hand, already comfortable in their light clothes, Poppy, Rebecca, and Mélisse—whom I know only by sight—are standing in the living room. There are two young men with them. The moment they see me, they turn from elegant queens into squealing little girls. Fleur jumps up and down and claps, pleased with her trick. So this was the surprise she had planned for me. They’re here for three weeks, dancing at the place owned by Marc and his two partners, who are all friends with the owner of our club in Paris. I wonder if Fleur’s going to try to convince me to start dancing again. It’s out of the question, but I’m not angry with her. I feel good, being around them. It’s not just the champagne, the marinated tuna, the filet of John Dory with citrus and leek butter, the vanilla millefeuille. Nor is it the shelves of literature lording over our enjoyment, or the Givenchy dress. It’s the indescribable rush of life, surging through me like a dizzy spell, the fantasy of freedom, the joy of knowing that it can all stop right here, before the dances, before the night. Fleur climbs up on the table, her bare feet deftly avoiding the plates and half-full glasses. We watch her strip with slow movements. Naturally sensual and erotic as only she can be, she offers us her breasts. She is sublime, burying all sorrow beneath perfectly rhythmical movement. Fleur, who always wants to go further. I climb onto the table with her and dance her dance, holding her to me. No, Fleur, not your G-string. You are beautiful. Dance with me.