Rien Ne Va Plus

by Margarita Karapanou

  —Yes, I answered.

  That thought brought me a huge sense of relief. But the sweat was still pouring down my face, and I kept dabbing at it with a tissue. I was about to faint from the heat.

  The psychiatrist smiled again, a warm, friendly smile.

  —Why didn’t you ask me to turn the fan toward the middle, so that we’d both have a little air? Is it necessary for either one of us to melt in this heat? Isn’t there some middle ground?

  —I don’t know, I answered.

  Again I felt nervous, embarrassed, as when we’d both fallen silent. The psychiatrist turned the fan toward the wall, and finally the office cooled down.

  Now the psychiatrist was looking out the window. He seemed distracted. He was smoking his pipe. I lit another cigarette. There was another long silence. But this time I wasn’t nervous. I relaxed, crossed my legs, and let my purse fall to the floor.

  —What are you thinking about? he asked.

  —How I forgot to walk my dog, Lyn, before I came.

  —Why did you forget?

  —I wanted to make myself look nice for you, so I didn’t have time to take her out.

  —So you didn’t forget.

  —No, I answered. I didn’t have time. Like I just said.

  —You said you’d forgotten.

  —No, I said I didn’t have time, I repeated stubbornly.

  —And why did you want to make yourself look nice for me? So I would like you better, or to give you some advantage over me?

  —So I wouldn’t have to talk to you.

  This came from me spontaneously, without any thought, and I relaxed even more.

  —So you dressed as if putting on a suit of armor?

  We both laughed.

  —When you feel beautiful, does it protect you from getting close to others?

  —I’ve never thought of it that way before, but now that you mention it, around the people I love and trust I never wear makeup or dress up, I just wear jeans, a t-shirt and tennis shoes.

  —Perhaps now we can get down to business.

  Again a deep silence fell.

  —Did you really want the abortion?

  I was taken aback.

  —Have you ever seen a movie called Kiss of the Spider Woman? I asked him for no real reason, just to say something, anything, to avoid answering his question.

  —What brought that particular movie to mind? Yes, I’ve seen it, it’s a remarkable film. What do you think of when you hear the word “spider”?

  —An insect that eats its own children.

  —That is, a creature that kills its children by devouring them, like a cannibal.

  I felt extremely uncomfortable when he said the words “devouring” and “cannibal.”

  —I feel uncomfortable, I told him.

  —To swallow and digest your own flesh, which is what your child is—isn’t that a kind of murder? Though in primitive societies, people often ate babies born with deformities, it was a ritual, there was nothing wrong with it. But you haven’t answered my question. How do you feel about your recent abortion?

  —I don’t feel anything, I answered, and started to cry.

  He handed me a few tissues from the box on his desk. I blew my nose noisily. This time the silence lasted a long time. I couldn’t stop crying.

  —Is there perhaps another reason why you’re crying?

  —Yes, I told him. I’m crying because I didn’t take my dog Lyn for a walk before I came, and now she’ll want to go to the bathroom and she’ll have to hold it in. She’s so clean, you know, she never goes inside the house, or even on the terrace.

  —Would you like to leave now to go and walk your dog?

  —Yes, I’d like that very much, but now I’m here and it’s impossible. Besides, it’s so hot. Even if I was at home I might not take her out, I might just wait until evening when it cools off.

  —Would you like another dog?

  —Yes. I saw a black cocker spaniel in the window of veterinarian’s office, where one of my husband’s colleagues works. He’s so small and black, with little round black eyes that stare mournfully out at passersby. The other day I went and held him in my arms. He licked me on the nose right away.

  —Tell me about your dog, Lyn. I can tell she occupies an important place in your life, perhaps even the most important.

  He shifted in his seat.

  —And you still haven’t said anything about your husband.

  —But we’re talking about dogs, and I don’t take my husband for a walk every morning so he can pee.

  He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look my way. He concentrated on cleaning his pipe, lit it again, then looked me straight in the eye.

  —Just now you said, “I don’t take my husband for a walk every morning so he can pee.” That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day, yet you’ll have noticed that I didn’t laugh, as I did earlier. Perhaps your secret desire is to put your husband on a leash and walk him every morning, as if he really were a dog? At any rate, that’s what I understood you to mean, with what you just said.

  I was angry.

  —So you’re suggesting that I’d like to put a leash around Alkis’s neck and take him out to pee? You must be joking.

  —You said it, not me. Listening to what you said, I sensed that what you really want is for your husband to be your slave, a slave who adores you, just as your dog Lyn does, as a dog adores its master, devoted until death.

  Suddenly he laughed—a fresh, contagious laugh—and the atmosphere changed.

  —Well, at least for today, it’s a sign of progress that you forgot to take Lyn on her walk—or, as you said, didn’t have time to walk her because you wanted to make yourself look nice for me. This all happened because you were coming here. Today, at least, I seem to have come first. He laughed again. That is, today you forgot to take your husband for a walk. And I’d never say that if, deep down, you hadn’t identified your husband with your dog Lyn.

  —I want to buy that black cocker spaniel I saw in the window, I told him. He’s very lively, so I’ll name him Tramp.

  —Why not? he said.

  Again I was angry.

  —I love my dogs more than I love my husband.

  —Why? Because they obey you, and your husband doesn’t?

  —It’s not that at all! Not at all! I cried.

  Again there was a deep silence. I was trembling like a leaf.

  —Why did you have the abortion when you love your dogs so much? You have a great deal of love inside of you. Wouldn’t you have loved the baby even more?

  I felt as if I were about to throw up, just as in the dream when I’d vomited the baby and the poor thing had grabbed me by the neck with its little hands. My throat closed up completely and I felt my body breaking open, as if I were giving birth that very instant. I doubled over.

  —I hate my husband, I suddenly cried. I hate him without knowing why. I don’t want our flesh to come together. I would have liked to have some stranger’s baby, but his I would have killed with my own hands—which is exactly what I did. You know it wasn’t a miscarriage, it was an abortion, an operation. I was in my fourth month but I insisted on an abortion, I chose to do it, because it would have been part of Alkis, too. I wanted to drive him to absolute despair, maybe even to suicide.

  I started to sob and shout at the same time.

  —I hate all men! I want to kill them all, to annihilate them. When I was little I would wait every Sunday for my father to come and take me on an outing. I would get dressed the night before and sleep in my good clothes so I’d be ready. I would put on my dress with the little pink flowers, my shiny black shoes with Mickey Mouse on the toes, and get my lunch box ready: two sandwiches and a chocolate bar with almonds.

  At dawn I would be waiting at the window, holding my lunch box. I wanted so badly for him to come! On the phone the night before he’d sworn on my life, understand, on my life, that he would come no matter what, that nothing could stop him from coming.

&
nbsp; “Sunshine,” he would say, “be ready at nine tomorrow morning. I’m going to take you to the beach to go swimming. So don’t forget your swimsuit. Bring the one I like, the purple one with the green flowers that I bought for you when you were two.”

  “But Dad, it doesn’t fit me anymore. I’m seven now.”

  Every Saturday we would say those exact same words, like a ritual. In the end my father would always say, a little absentmindedly:

  “I’ll go right now and buy you a new swimsuit, and I’ll bring it to you tomorrow. What color do you want?”

  “This year I want a bikini, all one color,” I would say.

  “Okay, sunshine, tomorrow I’ll bring you a fantastic bikini, I saw one the other day in a shop window. My beautiful baby will wear it tomorrow, and I’ll admire her as she builds castles and digs moats in the sand.”

  My father never came, not a single Sunday. He never brought me a bikini. We never went to the beach. Every Sunday, after standing motionless at the window from morning until late at night, I would take off the dress with the pink flowers and the shoes with Mickey Mouse on the toes, put the sandwiches in the fridge, and eat the chocolate bar while reading Hector Malot’s Nobody’s Boy. Then I’d put on my white nightgown and get into bed, but I wouldn’t sleep. I would try to understand why he hadn’t come, when he’d sworn on my life that he would come, no matter what.

  Maybe it’s my fault? I’d ask myself. Maybe I don’t deserve his love?

  At school the next morning, after a sleepless night, I would have dark circles under my eyes, and sometimes I’d fall asleep at my desk.

  But during recess I would describe each and every detail to the other kids, who listened entranced as I told them what a wonderful Sunday I had spent with my father. How he’d bought me a bikini, all one color, how we’d gone to the beach to go swimming, how I’d eaten five Chicago ice creams, and in the evening we went to see a movie with Danny Kaye.

  “You’re so lucky,” my friend Eleni would say. “I had to stay inside and finish my homework.”

  “Yes,” I would reply. “I’m very lucky to have a father like mine.”

  Suddenly I stopped talking. Again the room filled with silence.

  —Why do you hate your husband? the psychiatrist asked.

  —Because he’s a man, I answered.

  —We have to stop for today, the psychiatrist told me, rising to his feet. I’ll see you next Thursday.

  One of my heels broke in the street. I had to hobble the rest of the way home. As I walked I said out loud, again and again:

  —You’ll pay for this, too, Alkis. You’ll pay a high price for this broken heel.

  43.

  As soon as I left Alkis I started watching videos and eating. Day and night, now, I watch videos and eat.

  Alkis calls every ten or twenty minutes, but I never pick up. Sometimes I listen to his messages, when I feel like taking a break from the movies. Alkis’s desperate voice on the machine:

  —Why aren’t you picking up? I know you’re there.

  But how can I answer the phone, stuffed as I am with pizza, ice cream, spinach pies, cheese pies, chicken pies, sausage pies, apple pies, ham pies? Only once, I wasn’t thinking and absentmindedly picked up the receiver.

  —Leave me alone. I’m watching Gone with the Wind. You interrupted me right when Rhett Butler gives that never-ending kiss to Scarlett, holding her by the waist and bending her backward like a reed, almost to the ground. If you had kissed me that way I’d just have been bored, but in the movie it makes me cry.

  I’ve been watching videos and eating for a month. I’ve gained twenty kilos. The first day, I just happened to rent a movie because I had nothing else to do after my dance class. I was on a diet then, nothing but mineral water and fruit. The movie was called Love Me to Death. The plot touched me deeply: a woman falls in love with a veterinarian who has cancer. Later on she discovers that she has cancer, too. They fall passionately in love and die in one another’s arms.

  What gorgeous kisses! I would pause the movie at the moment of the kiss and stare at those united lips for half an hour. On the frozen screen, the lovers seemed already dead.

  The next morning I rented ten movies, all romances, and bought lots of fancy foods: lox, caviar, strawberries, avocados, filet mignon, Madeira sauce, and plenty of fresh shrimp. And a bottle of pink champagne. That first week I watched nothing but exquisite romances, full of love and kisses. And the foods I ate were exquisite, too. Before stretching out on the bed to begin the séance I would put on my best dress, by Yves Saint Laurent, and black high-heeled Rosseti sandals. I would make up my face lightly, pull a little table over to the bed, and place a silver case of Davidoff cigarettes beside the food. That first week I watched about ten movies a day, from four in the morning until evening, then fell asleep early, around nine.

  I was so happy! The house filled with kisses, soft music, and words like, “Darling, I’ve found you again after so many years. I’ll never let you leave again!”

  Alkis called constantly.

  —Darling, answer the phone, I know you’re there. I’ve thought it over. I don’t want us to separate, I don’t want you to leave again.

  Alkis’s messages seemed so boring compared to the endless kisses and tears in my movies. Even my TV seemed to be crying, I saw hot tears welling up and trickling down the screen, tears and saliva from the kisses and love-making.

  I ate constantly. Exquisite flavors filled my mouth as I sipped champagne and watched the lovers in one movie after another, without even a break between them anymore. Where had I seen that kiss? The movies got confused in my mind, just like the tastes of the various foods. Avocados or shrimp? Strawberries or ice cream? I watched and ate insatiably. In one scene, in a room at the Ritz, a gentleman in a tuxedo gazes at a woman in an evening gown printed with black and purple flowers.

  —I’ve wanted you for so long, he tells her. Now that your husband is dead, nothing can stand in our way.

  —Yes, says the woman, yes.

  He rips open her dress and kisses her naked breasts as the two of them tumble onto the green and gold carpet.

  —You’re so refined, yet so raw, he tells her later, putting on his pants.

  —You’re so smart, yet so stubborn, says Alkis, crying into the answering machine.

  I fell asleep.

  The next day I rented only horror films. I was tired of the fancy foods, so I bought pizza, spinach pies, cheese pies, sausage pies, ham pies, and nine éclairs. I didn’t dress up or put on any makeup. I stayed in my nightgown. But I painted my fingernails and toenails a dark red. My nails were the same color as the blood that now flooded the screen, the blood that welled from the screen and spilled onto the floor.

  I began watching movies night and day.

  In Dressed to Kill, a psychotic psychiatrist dresses up as a woman and uses a silver-handled razor to kill one of his patients, because he’s in love with her husband.

  I eat constantly. The pizza is greasy, as hairy as a spider. I no longer sleep. I stare insatiably at the screen. Knifings, throats being slit, heads rolling over freshly polished parquet, bodies dangling from stalled elevators, a man falling from the twentieth floor of a New York skyscraper.

  Underneath the red polish, my nails are now black. I don’t smoke Davidoffs anymore, but a brand of filterless cigarettes that leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

  The next day I rented only hard-core porn. I didn’t buy anything new to eat, just ate the half-spoiled leftovers from the day before. On the screen penises move in and out of vaginas with demonic speed to the rhythm of African music. I listen to the grunts and sighs as I chew on a spoiled éclair. Enormous breasts, thighs, black garters, expressionless faces—the room filled with filth and sweat, and at last the tears began to flow down my cheeks.

  A month later I’d lost all the weight I had gained, and started going to my dance classes again. But every night I went alone to the movies and watched kisses, love affairs, murders, naked bod
ies making love. I no longer ate at all. I was like an alcoholic who suddenly stops drinking—I felt the same sadness, the same exhaustion. I was thin again, and very beautiful, but there was something so melancholy in my gaze that the usher always avoided meeting my eye.

  44.

  Two years had passed since I’d divorced Alkis. I hadn’t seen him since; we hadn’t even talked on the phone. I left as soon as I realized I had conceived again, on that night during the heat wave. One night, after two years of complete silence, I called him up.

  —How’s Caesar? I asked.

  —Fine. And Lyn?

  —Fine. She’s stretched out at my feet, sleeping with her eyes open, remember?

  —What made you call me tonight in particular, after two years of silence? Alkis asked.

  —Tonight I’m celebrating. I just finished a novel. I’ve been working on it ever since we separated, after the abortion, remember?

  —You mean the miscarriage?

  —No. It was an abortion, I just never told you.

  There was a long silence.

  —And you, you wrote a novel? Alkis laughed.

  —Yes. Me. Why are you laughing?

  —Because I never expected you to actually finish anything. You were always leaving. I always picture you with a suitcase in your hand. I can’t picture you sitting at a desk. I always see you in motion.

  —Yes. But back then I was leaving you. Now who would I be leaving? I have only myself to leave now, and

  I do think about sometimes. As for the book, I started writing it as soon as we separated, the very next morning. These two years, I haven’t even left the house.

  —Have you found a title?

  —Yes. Rien ne va plus.

  —Like at the casino? he asked. Only you would come up with a title like that.

  Again there was a long silence.

  —It’s not just the casino, it’s how life works, too, I answered. When the croupier says Rien ne va plus in those gorgeous salons smothered in red velvet, with those glittering chandeliers and huge mirrors and ladies wearing long gossamer gowns so they won’t get hot while they play, their fingers weighed down with diamonds, faces broken beneath façades of deftly applied makeup—those ladies of a certain age who keep asking for a light from young men who smoke only Les Must de Cartier, the same young men they’ll later spend the night with for a hefty sum and some gift, a black lacquer Dupont lighter or a fat gold Cartier chain—isn’t all that like life itself? The game, the cruelty of old age, the wheel that spins without mercy—and you never know where the ball will stop.