Elle

by Philippe Djian

  “Well, there’s a wrong way, believe me. He doesn’t know anything. He’s still a little boy, can’t you see that? I’m not saying she’s wicked, I’m not criticizing his choice, but it’s just a little too rushed. Isn’t it? Isn’t that obvious to you? Can’t you see what he’s diving into headlong? I’m wondering if you’ve actually taken the time to really look at them, if you still have time for that. I’m sorry, Richard, but I do honestly wonder.”

  “Settle down.”

  “Actually, I’m very unsettled. I’m not sure you’re up to the task here. But okay, look. I’m going to have dinner at my place as soon as Josie gets out of the hospital. The whole family together. Anna and Robert will be there, and so will my mother. I’ve invited your girlfriend as well. I thought she was lovely, by the way. You could do the shopping, what do you say? You could introduce us to your new flame.”

  I could’ve sworn I heard him gnashing his teeth and I could just picture his eyes squint and his shoulders drop. “I’m not going to make a big deal,” I say, “but I wish I could have heard it first from you.” I hang up before he does. I’m not saying I have the sweetest nature, and I can act like a real bitch, that’s for sure, but seriously he deserved that. He hurt me. I finally get out of the Place de la Concorde and I drive over the bridge of the same name, my teeth clenched, my eyes misting over. I just realized that I actually no longer have a husband, a son, or a father. I drive along the river, glance at the houseboats, those monstrous bateaux-mouches floating restaurants, the homeless people camping on the banks. I draw no conclusions, I’m just taking stock. I’m all alone and floating, and it’s like I’m caught up short, disconcerted.

  When I get home, I literally cross paths with my neighbor from across the road, Patrick What’s-His-Name. He appears in my headlights, staggering across the narrow strip of pavement, holding his head. He comes straight toward me as I get out of the car. “Get inside, quick! There’s a prowler!”

  “There’s a what?”

  “Get inside, Michèle. Don’t stay out here. That asshole practically knocked me out. Go inside, lock the doors. I’m going to take a look around.”

  “I could lend you my flashlight if you want. Are you all right? You’re not injured, are you?”

  “No, go ahead, don’t worry. I’ll return it tomorrow. Go. He better make sure I don’t get my hands on him. A word of friendly advice.”

  Those words taste like blood. There’s steam coming from his nostrils in the even colder night air. I’m not a famous person, my name is right there on my mailbox for all to see, but I’m still surprised he called me by my first name, like it was the most natural thing in the world, when in reality we have never exchanged more than three words and a few nods hello ever since they moved in last spring. Hello. How are you? I don’t know what to think about it. I turn my alarm off and invite him in.

  “My wife is still shaking,” he tells me. We go into the kitchen, I give him the flashlight. I pour him a glass of water. I don’t even really know who this guy is. He wants me to write down his phone number, tells me to call him any time of day or night if there’s trouble. He tells me that’s what neighbors are for. Then he ventures out into the night, on the heels of his assailant.

  If you ask me, there’s a good chance it’s the same man. And, in a way, I sort of regret that Patrick ran him off. Not that I have a precise plan or desire, not that there’s anything whatsoever to justify this morbid attraction he works on me. But just the idea that he’s really watching me, that the veil might have been lifted tonight, that we could have settled the score immediately—whatever price I might pay—makes Patrick’s stepping in and wasting the chance a bitter pill to swallow.

  But Patrick is a good guy, a bank executive, still surprised at the size of the pile he’s made for himself, at how easy it had been to become a homeowner prior to the Great Crisis of 2007, which brought us where we are and which never seems to be over. He brings my flashlight back in the early morning, asks how well I slept after the incidents of the previous night.

  “Let’s try not to make high drama out of this, Patrick. It isn’t worth it.”

  “The police told me they would beef up patrols.”

  “Great. You know, I don’t want to have to drive you to the hospital with a knife in your back or your skull cracked open with a log. So show me you can be a little more careful than you were last night. Please, don’t go overboard. You’re young. Don’t wind up on a stretcher or God knows what.”

  I think he’s the type to play squash with a branch manager because he looks like he’s in good shape. We had a big dog when I was a child, and the problem we had was that we couldn’t tire him out. My father took him on long walks after he got home from work but it wasn’t enough, and all night long we could hear the animal pacing around the kitchen, inexhaustible. Finally, my father put him down. That’s what this Patrick does to me; he’s a ball of energy, but it’s a vain, useless kind of energy. When he and his wife came over to introduce themselves, right after they moved in, I didn’t really notice. I made some joke about having a banker as a next-door neighbor in times like these, that it was like knowing a farmer during a period of famine, and it took him a while to react. He had a weak handshake and, honestly, I didn’t see the action hero, the type A personality in him. The change is surprising. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he takes DHEA or some kind of amphetamine, but they say you need nerves of steel to work in finance, that those little darlings are under horrible pressure according to the markets. “But thank you, Patrick,” I say, tugging the collar of my bathrobe snugly to my throat, because it’s a nice day but the sun provides practically no heat and cold air is whistling through the trees and the bushes. “I’m a grandmother,” I add, as he smiles goodbye.

  Don’t ask me why I say this, or exactly what it means. But I certainly don’t expect it will win me a compliment. “Oh, congratulations,” he answers, looking me straight in the eyes.

  I spend the day at home, my screenplays all around me, allowing myself only a walk in the neighboring wood, bundled up, a woolen hat on my head, enjoying the bright light, the biting cold, the carpet of autumnal leaves, the squawk of birds, and the tranquil, subtle calm of a fall afternoon. After miles of notes and suggestions, passages to be reworked, developed, clarified, thrown out, underlined in red, once, twice, three times, ad nauseam, and never finding anything truly satisfying. There is still some misty undergrowth, certain clumps of bushes remain in darkness, but I never get off the paths. There is a map of the wood at the top of the hill where some retired seniors are gathered, with their exercise clothes on—spandex tights and bright yellow headbands, futuristic sneakers, phones strapped to their arms, earbuds, red cheeks, and drippy noses. I can see the roof of the house below, through half-bare branches, the home of my closest neighbors, Patrick and his wife, the gate outside the Audret family house, all lit up for the holidays. To the left, a small set of six condos. Then the rest gets lost in the trees, with the exception of the local area minimart, which can be picked out because of the brick-colored pavement in the parking lot and the banners whipping proudly in the wind.

  I smoke a cigarette while the aging athletes exchange energy bars and vitamin drinks.

  I’m not sure I want to get that old, but that, too, could change. I can’t say that Patrick is exactly my kind of man either, but compared to Robert, whose touch no longer thrills me in the least, my young banker does awaken some fuzzy feelings in me. And that is fairly huge because it’s the first sign of a sexual awakening since the rape, and thank heavens. I’ll once again be able to hold a man in my arms. I was so afraid, I was so terribly afraid that something in me just snapped and that all of that was behind me. I’m not so demoralized now. I go home. I masturbate while thinking of him, I bite my lips, the machine still works. I am practically in tears I’m so happy, so grateful. I wipe my fingers, keep my eyes closed for a whole minute.

  I’m upstairs, in my bedroom, when he gets home. I’m in the dark. I even
turned off the screen of my iPad when he got out of his car. I’m watching him through binoculars. He’s much better looking than he was in my mind when we only waved and said hello like neighbors. He’s much more alert, much more vigorous. That forced smile I had when he made that first impression on me! I follow him with my eyes. I know this is just because it’s easily available and that I’d be better off going into town where I would get a wider menu. Patrick is the most common sort of man at parties—the pleasant and artificial sort, narcissistic and noncommittal, in a Ralph Lauren polo shirt. It probably wouldn’t be hard to do better than that, but I don’t feel like it. I think there are times when making the easy choice is the better part of wisdom.

  I take pleasure in spying on a man from the darkness of my bedroom. I feel a kind of childlike excitement. I hide halfway behind the curtain while he opens his door and glances one more time behind, toward me, and even though he can’t see me, I hold my breath. This is new, or rather, very old—and it’s fun, it’s nice. When he goes inside, I go up to the attic for a better view of the windows in his house. From downstairs they’re hidden by the branches Richard didn’t trim on purpose, to protect our privacy when that was still important to him. I can see him moving behind the lighted windows, little illuminations floating in the night—Patrick hanging up his coat, Patrick crossing his living room, Patrick kissing his wife, Patrick in his bathroom, Patrick leaning over his sink…and then suddenly my phone rings.

  “What are you doing?” asks Richard.

  “Nothing. I’m reading. What do you want?”

  “I want to explain why I didn’t tell you.”

  “Look, I don’t care.”

  “I didn’t tell you about it because I’m just not fucking sure about anything.”

  “You’re never sure about anything, ever notice that?”

  “Come on, why would I hide it from you if there was anything to it? How would I benefit?”

  “Richard, I’m busy.”

  “You’re reading. You call that busy? Isn’t that a little much? Anyway, I want to know if you’re setting me up.”

  “What?”

  “I want to know if you’re setting me up.”

  “And you think I would just tell you? You think I would do that?”

  “Still, I don’t see what would justify it. I don’t get how I’m guilty here. I’ve played by our rules. We owe each other the truth. I totally agree. And the truth is, there is nothing really brewing. I’m sort of seeing the girl, fine. But I didn’t tell you about it because, in my estimation, there is nothing to talk about.”

  “What makes you think I’m setting you up for something?”

  “That fucking invitation! Inviting her to fucking dinner!”

  “Nice. You manage to work ‘fucking’ into every sentence. Really very nice.”

  “It feels like a trap. It feels like one of your world-famous traps.”

  “You’re losing it here, honey. I’ve got better things to worry about, you know. Don’t get paranoid. And by the way, is there anything she won’t eat? Any allergies at all? Marty is shedding like crazy.”

  Many married women are great mistresses and I think he is taking risks with a single woman. I remind him that we agreed not to take risks, precisely in order to avoid this kind of problem, and I ask him if this is what he sees as not taking risks, splashing around in those waters with single women of childbearing age. Or is he just putting me on?

  When I hang up I find myself alone in my attic, tossed among dusty and useless things, while Patrick suddenly disappears into the darkness of his bedroom just when his wife joins him in her nightgown.

  There is nothing much to fear from women who wear nightgowns. Generally, their husbands are there for the taking.

  Anna comes by to pick up the three screenplays I’ve chosen and I warn her that there isn’t much to get excited about. “I don’t know how you do it,” she says. “In your shoes I’d already have an attack dog.” She stays for dinner. She has stopped on the way at Chez Flo’s and decides she would rather share the meal with me than with Robert, who has been so on edge since he got back.

  I know he’s on edge, I get his messages, I can see he’s calling me. I try not to think about it because I’m not at all crazy about what could happen if he took it the wrong way. If he took my lack of interest in him the wrong way, the distance between us steadily and irreversibly growing. And if he found out that I’ve been fantasizing about my neighbor across the street, that merely thinking about him makes me feel sexually vulnerable, something could happen. Something I don’t want to think about, don’t want to imagine. Something approaching chaos could happen.

  First and foremost, I think my friendship with Anna would split apart and disappear into thin air. I have practically no memory of my relationships before the day my father walked out of the house armed to the teeth. I never saw anyone again in any case. And Anna rushed into this unoccupied space and I have only her. Other than the members of my family I have only her. I don’t want to test it. There’s no reckless gambler in me when it comes to her. I don’t want to test anything at all.

  Knowing the scope of her feelings for her husband, a betrayal in love would have little to do with what would break the bond between us, but a betrayal in friendship would, yes, no question. She would never forgive me for doing that, behind her back—no more than I would have forgiven her myself—and yet I want to tell her just how much I feel like I slid into the relationship with her husband, got dragged into it, went down an irresistible mental incline that made me numb. I want to tell her just how pathetic our battles are, but I think she already knows.

  Robert was the easy choice, too. Boredom, proximity, security. But there is no one here who could make that sad assessment and jump to hasty conclusions. My job left me no more time than it does now, and finding a relationship is not simple when you leave the office in the dead of night and you’re bringing work home and you have no appetite. Robert could adapt to my schedule and the good news was he could get his hands on Christian Louboutins for half price and he was on the road for long periods of time. It’s almost laughable. The other good news is that over twenty-five years Anna and I had other things to think about besides our love lives, and we built a solid company, put together a catalog we could be proud of, and even sold a few ideas to the Americans. AV Productions. She was already talking about it when we were in the hospital, chewed my ear for hours. She was resolute and, when I got home, I told Richard we could now look for an apartment with an extra bedroom for our kid because I had found a job.

  “Huh? What job?”

  “Anna and I are going to produce a movie.”

  “Produce a movie? Oh, fine. What a great fucking idea.”

  He’s crying at our door now and blames me for not using my pull to help him, but being completely without a sense of humor he doesn’t get the irony and he goes on thinking that for some dark and inexplicable reason I am blocking his way to the top, ever since he got it into his head to write screenplays. I did pay for his writing classes with the best people out there, the Vince Gilligans and the Matthew Weiners, guys who won WGA prizes, but they couldn’t convey the gift they have, never being on the outside but on the inside, being generous, the gift they have in any case to elevate entertainment to the level of fine art. I think it will probably take a generation or two before someone actually can play in the same league with those guys and not get laughed out of the room. Perhaps less; there are some emerging names locally, especially among the writers. Anyway, what’s the difference? Those classes cost a fortune, a veritable fortune, and Richard hasn’t yet shown he got anything out of them, even though he says he did.

  I go smoke a cigarette outside after Anna leaves. I don’t stray. I keep leaning against the wall. I’m just showing that I’m not frightened out of my wits, that I’m not hiding under my bed. Anna offered to let me sleep at her place for as long as I liked, but it wasn’t because I would be living under the same roof as Robert that I de
clined the invitation—though that idea was enough to make my hair stand on end and frown, horrified. No, I don’t know what exactly I’m looking for. It’s cold, the days are getting shorter. I’m not reading any good screenplays. I’ve been raped. I don’t talk about my relationships with my husband and my son, I don’t even hint at anything about my parents. The worst part is it’s time to start thinking about presents.

  Fine, there wasn’t much time to tidy up and they were probably very rushed trying to finish painting as they had planned, but it’s a total shambles and it doesn’t smell right—a whiff of shit and sour milk. Never mind. I have stuffed all my resentment, every hurtful remark, each negative thought into the bottom of a big black bag that I tied up tight and left on the doorstep of their new apartment.

  “Fabulous!” I say as I sit down at the kitchen table with Josie, who is wearing baggy sweats, baby at her breast. Unlike many mothers, I hate kissing the soft, crimson cheeks of a newborn, but I say, “He’s so gorgeous. Can I kiss him?”

  Vincent said something about sixty-five pounds, but I think it’s more like a hundred. She’s enormous, she doesn’t look like she just gave birth. She hands me the child, saying that now he has the same name as I do. “Oh, that little rascal,” I say, holding the infant high over my head. Then I give him another little peck and hand him back.

  “Now let’s get down to brass tacks,” I say. “What would you like for Christmas?”

  They look at one another, puffing out their cheeks.

  I help them out: “Kids, how would you feel about a good washing machine? With a newborn, that would be just the thing. Don’t you agree?” They stare back at me like I’m trying to sell them a bill of goods.

  “A vacuum cleaner? A sewing machine? A Kenwood food processor? An oven? A dishwasher? A fabric steamer? A refrigerator?”

  “I think I’d rather have a good flat-screen and lots of pay channels,” says Josie.

  I nod. “Yeah, but I’d advise you to go with the most important thing first—”