Elle

by Philippe Djian

  We’re strolling through the tombstones on display, browsing the coffins. On the other side of the street there’s an RV dealer with weathered pennants flapping against a gray sky. Richard gives me his arm. I hope Hélène will wind up seeing that things between him and me aren’t that clear and she’ll finally explode. And just watch, everybody will be looking at me, criticizing my attitude. As if I forced him to do anything whatsoever, as if I forced him to keep me company. I think he knows what he’s doing. And if he doesn’t know, then I’m very sorry.

  Be that as it may, I’m glad I have him here because my head is spinning and it turns out I am incapable of making choices, of deciding on one model or another, on which lining, and I beg Richard to do it for me, whatever he feels is best, while I step out for some air and even smoke a cigarette.

  The burial is Thursday. The sky is white, a few snowflakes swirling in the slightest breeze, sticking to the polished sheen of the coffin. I am flanked by Richard and Vincent. I can feel them ready to launch into action should I give out in the least. I don’t worry about whether there’s a nearby chair in case I start to go wobbly—I’m in good hands.

  I can’t make it all the way through, I don’t have the courage. I don’t want to watch the coffin get lowered, but I don’t want to interrupt the ceremony. I motion that all is well and that I don’t need any assistance, and I walk toward the exit. I take a few steps, then I faint.

  When I come to, I’m a little down the lane, on a bench that has been cleared especially for me. I am not surprised. It is a terrible shock. The groundskeeper, who has seen it all, advises me to eat a lump of sugar. I’m his third fainting this week. I sit up. I reassure the people leaning over me. I’m as white as a sheet of paper, I’m told. Probably, but I’m fine now. It was a fairly difficult moment. You always think you’re stronger than you are, and this is what happens, or so I tell them. Reality sets you straight.

  Patrick is the one who takes me home. I’ve been declared unfit to drive and it’s either get tied to the backseat of a car or give up the idea of getting behind the wheel, after the demonstration of self-control I just gave them, crumbling amid the tombstones like a frail wisp of nothing.

  I’m in a fairly dark mood. I would so much rather go home alone and not say another word until dawn of the next day, but they practically carry me to his car, sitting me down inside, fastening my seat belt, leaning into the window to tell me to be still until further notice. I avoid Robert’s ardent glare, which has become a worrisome nuisance.

  “Don’t make conversation,” I tell Patrick as soon as he pulls away. “Thank you.”

  We drive along the river, cross over it, then through the wood, and I never so much as glance at him or speak a word. He doesn’t make a sound, drives nice and easy, through a dusting of snow that is starting to darken the sky. “We got lucky,” I say.

  “They say there’s one hell of a wind coming tonight. Better close your shutters.”

  I nod. His company is not unpleasant, but speaking is really painful. And the truth is, I find him exasperating. That constant lag, the missed beat between us.

  When we pull up, I don’t wait. I get out. He still hasn’t driven off when I get to my door. Now that I have a better idea of what his wife, Rébecca, looks like, I’m more forgiving of him. Speculating on prices for vital resources, drilling down to the level of new financial systems probably doesn’t require exceptional humanity or uncommon sensitivity, but is a life with someone like Rébecca something one can truly wish on anyone?

  I shrug and I go inside. I turn off the alarm. I look outside but I can’t see him anymore because it’s suddenly snowing very hard. I put the heat up before I went out this morning, so the house is comfortable. It feels bigger now that I live alone, but it was perfect when Richard and Vincent lived here, and even better in the beginning when Irène was staying with us. I had fixed up a room under the attic, a place for me to work, with a desk and a few cushions and a big-screen TV. Irène had part of the ground floor and it was a little cramped in the end and she finally drove us so crazy that we decided to pay the rent on a place somewhere else before there was any bloodshed.

  I bought the house about twenty years ago, after the unexpected success of one of our first projects, and I keep it in good shape so there’s at least one good solid thing in this family, so it will remain standing, so that not everything will have been in vain. It’s been termite-proofed. A few tiles flew off the roof in the storm of ’99 and we decided it was a good time to renovate the roofing. Richard never liked it much because he couldn’t stand the idea that he owed these walls and this roof to my talents only.

  I never managed to chase those considerations from his mind. I finally gave up. In the end, I forgot that everything unresolved pops up again sooner or later, even sharper than before, and that hurt festered between us to the last.

  I go up to the attic to see how much space I have for Irène’s things and I use the opportunity to spy on my neighbors across the way. The snow is silently cascading. A few strings of Christmas lights are gleaming in the downstairs windows. Smoke rises from the chimney. Pale clouds darken the sky.

  I’m not very hungry but I decide to go downstairs and eat in order to get my strength back. I put some earbuds on and I listen to Nils Frahm’s album Felt while I break some eggs over a frying pan, a cigarette stuck in the corner of my mouth. Mom is definitely dead this time, no doubt about it, yet Nils Frahm does finally, completely win me over.

  There’s a real storm blowing now and it’s hard to know if it’s the weather or the time of day that’s darkening the sky. I can hear the wind howling right through the earbuds.

  I put on pajamas. I remove my makeup.

  Night has fallen when he comes over to say that he doesn’t feel right seeing all my shutters open in this weather. “I didn’t want to disturb you, but I thought this is so silly. Half her windows are going to get blown out unless we do something.” I hesitate a moment, then I let him in. We have trouble getting the door closed. He looks me up and down. This guy has a knack for bursting in on me when I’m dressed in odd ways. “You should’ve seen it in ’99,” I say. “It was the end of the world.”

  But I have hardly finished my sentence and he’s already at the first window, throwing it open, grabbing the shutter against the wall outside. He must now wage a merciless battle against the elements. He bends over, hair standing on end. He grunts. I think about leaping into the raging swirl that has already caused a little stirring around in the living room, but thank God he manages to get the shutter closed and all is quiet once again. “Patrick, I have never counted, but I think there are about twenty windows in this house.”

  “The wind is from the west. Let’s take care of this side first.”

  He is brimming with the authority he often lacks in other circumstances. I obey him, following him to the next window. He puts his hand on the handle. I give him a signal. The icy wind whips inside. While Patrick handles the window, I lean outside to grab the shutter and pull it back toward me with all my might. It slams. “Perfect,” judges my charitable neighbor who has quickly closed the window behind me. I stand there stock-still a moment, stunned by the whole operation. He reaches out, rubs my arms through the soft and delicate fabric of my pajamas. The length of his arms—a couple of feet—is all the distance between us.

  “Let’s go check upstairs,” he suggests, as I gather my wits and wipe the tears the wind brought from my eyes.

  My bedroom is on the west side. He stops outside the door. Gives me a questioning look. I lower my head and nod. We go inside. My bed is a mess, my underwear is tossed on an armchair. I wasn’t expecting anyone.

  “I wasn’t expecting anyone,” I say, following his eyes. He makes believe that he’s discovering the window, which is moaning and crackling in the wind blowing the snow toward the city. By this point, he has covered part of the ground toward me. At this point, he can win the day if he wants to.

  He seems to think it’s better
to first take care of the window and we pull our moves again. This time all that air in my lungs leaves me a little groggy. I sit down on the bed for a second to catch my breath. He sits down, too. He puts his hand on my knee, caresses it through the soft and delicate fabric of my pajamas.

  “Let’s go check the next floor up,” he says to me. “We’ve almost got it done. You hear that? Seriously, can you hear that wind? This is your bedroom? I like it. Did you do the decorating?”

  He rises. We go up to the next floor. My office. I don’t turn the lights on. There are the gigantic cushions. The western window has swollen from the humidity so it takes the two of us to turn the handle that opens it in the center. When it finally comes open, we both go flying onto the floor and he winds up on top of me, lying right smack on top of me, and I can feel an electric current in the time before he leaps to his feet to close that damn shutter and that damn window through which that damn wind is blowing.

  Only the attic left to go. I don’t mind. There’s an unusual atmosphere up there, full of things we haven’t touched since they’ve been here and that represent all that remains of what we were before, of what concerned my mother and me. Trunks, boxes, papers, photographs, never unpacked, never opened, never looked at. We climb up the little staircase. Up there, the wind is roaring like an airplane engine, the roof beams squeaking for all they’re worth. It’s fabulous. I turn on the light. The lightbulb blows. “Oh, shit.” We go in anyway.

  Now I am on the lookout for the least little sign, but he goes straight for the window and starts shaking the catch like crazy. When it opens, I’m in position and I lean outside to get the shutter. Then I let out a desperate yell, shaking my butt in my flannelette pajamas. “I can’t, Patrick! Help me!”

  I think it’s a little much to rely on me to make the first moves and I promise myself I will bring it up to him later. I find it a bit humiliating. Do I need to tease him to show him the way? Do I have to take his hand and put it between my legs? Whatever. I manage to close the shutter and Patrick suddenly comes up from behind and rubs himself against my back while he sticks his hand down my pants, held up by a mere elastic band, and straight down to my privates.

  I was beginning to think we would never get there. I sigh with satisfaction, I spread my legs and twist my neck around for a kiss, but he leaps backward, lets out a sort of whine, and scampers off into the dark toward the stairway, hurries downstairs. It takes my breath away.

  I have a very bad night. In the morning, I find flowers outside. I put them directly into the garbage.

  At about ten, he rings the bell. I cut his explanations short by telling him that I’m not interested, and I close the door. I watch him through the peephole. He has walked away about ten feet, hanging his head, looking glum. He plops down on the porch glider, the cushions of which I had removed, and rests his forehead on both hands.

  At noon, he’s still sitting there in the same position. The sky is clear, the wind has died down but it’s still regular, and it’s bitter cold. Would I be at all responsible if he snaps right there outside my house and I didn’t lift a finger to help? I go on with my day, going upstairs and down, and from time to time I double back to make sure he hasn’t gone, and that imbecile is still at his post.

  Anna calls me and I bring her up to speed. She advises me to send Patrick home as quickly as I can, so he won’t catch cold or make a scene. “How on earth do you get into these situations, anyway?” she asks me. “I can’t get over it. You want me to come over?”

  “No,” I say after glancing outside at Patrick, “that won’t be necessary.”

  I watch a movie with Leonardo DiCaprio and when I look up it’s evening and he’s still there. I pace around impatiently awhile longer, then I finally get dressed and go outside.

  I stand there in front of him, fists on hips. “What are you doing, genius? Are you going to stay in the glider all night long? Tell me.” There’s maybe a spark that flashes in his eyes, but that’s all. He’s gripping the collar of his camel hair to his neck, his hand seemingly soldered to the lapel of that overcoat, now glazed in white by the cold. I can sort of tell he’s making a pitiful attempt at a smile, but the muscles of his face are apparently stuck.

  I slip one arm under his elbow and force him to stand up. He isn’t very willing, trembling to the bone, completely hunched over and distraught. I sit him down on a stool—with no intention of keeping him long—in front of the fireplace and make him a hot toddy which, as soon as he recovers the use of his fingers, he will be able to consume. For the moment, he can only shiver.

  “What exactly is your problem, anyway?” I ask, “What’s wrong with you?”

  I don’t expect him to answer. I smoke a cigarette. He shakes his head. I can tell he’s trying to form words, but nothing is coming out of his mouth. I offer him a throat lozenge with a mild painkiller.

  “Drink your hot toddy and go on home, Patrick. Let’s leave it at that, all right?”

  His teeth chatter a little more, then he says he only wants to apologize, tell me how disgusted he is with himself for laying his hand on me.

  I look him over for a moment, quaking in front of the hearth.

  “All right, it’s okay. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

  I light another cigarette and slip it between his lips. “Tell me the truth, Patrick. You’re not attracted to me?” He is so indignant he practically retches. He stammers. Night has fallen.

  I watch him. I don’t say anything. I think I’ve lost patience. I’m tired. I wait for him to get a little color back, until he’s finished drinking his toddy, then I see him outside, pointing him toward his car, parked out front. He turns back to me twice, pounding his chest, and I give him the slightest of nods. It’s a full moon. I watch him pull around on the black ice and up in his driveway across the street. I have met some weird guys in my time, but Patrick takes the cake. Still, in spite of it all, I like him. Part of me wants to give up on the whole thing, right away, completely and immediately cut it off, because getting involved with such a complicated and unpredictable man can only mean trouble. But I guess I’m not very old yet because I feel I still have a few unusual adventures left in me, I still have the capacity and the propensity. I imagine this game can’t be over so soon.

  I sit by the fire awhile, my mind wandering, then I go upstairs to my office to wrap some presents. I’m late—Mom’s death has wreaked havoc on my plans. I write a few cards, slip them inside, then I yawn. I still have my hand over my mouth when someone comes up from behind and hurls me down onto the floor, which is carpeted. In our fall, I grab the wire from my lamp and the room is suddenly dark. I scream. I get hit hard in the jaw. My attacker is wearing a ski mask. I’m a little stunned but I muster all my strength and scream even louder. This time, either he went about it the wrong way or I’m just completely off the charts, but he can’t quite hold me still. I have no fear, my fury is a black hole, I don’t even know if he’s armed or not, that’s how blinded I am by anger.

  He does, however, fall on me with all his weight and gets hold of me around the neck. Screaming “Help! Someone help me!” has earned me a good, hard blow right in the face but my rage is too great for fainting. While he tries to get his pants down, I latch on to the base of a bookshelf stacked with books and I manage to squirm out of his hold, turning, kicking from my back and hammering at his skull with my heels.

  But he regains the advantage and I’m forced to retreat, expecting him to rush me again. I’m sitting on the floor, back to the wall when, by chance, my fingers close on the scissors I had been using to wrap my presents. He lunges toward me again, his hand up to grab me, but that hand gets stopped, pierced in midair, stabbed through and through with a wild thrust of my seamstress scissors.

  Now it’s his turn to scream, to make his voice heard. But I already know who he is—perhaps I have always known—before I tear his ski mask off.

  I leap to my feet, scissors pointed at him. “Get out of my house,” I tell him. It’s an orde
r, issued in a hushed voice trembling with rage. “Out of my house! Out!” I wave the point, all red with blood, in front of his eyes. There are flames shooting from my eyes. I’m spoiling for a chance to come at him again. I will be quick as lightning. I am that furious. He can see it, and I’m glad he can see it. He grimaces, backs away in panic, holding his injured hand close. But behind that grimace, I don’t know. I don’t know what he is really feeling. He rushes down to the front door. “Get the hell out!” I yell, “Don’t ever come near me again!”

  He turns and grabs the door handle. The most troubling thing for me is taking this out on Patrick. On the Patrick I know, that is, the one who is my neighbor, who flirts with me and all that. It was obviously not that Patrick who just assaulted me—that guy in the ski mask is not him. If he didn’t have that wound in his hand, my confusion would be endless. I’d be telling myself, “What on earth are you doing? That’s your friend, Patrick. Don’t you recognize him?”

  The door opens. He’s backing away. I follow him with my scissors still pointed at him, face high. The full moon is practically blinding. I blink. The two Patricks then overlap in my mind and I stop. He keeps backing up and now I can see his double perfectly, the one who raped me once and who has just tried to do it again. He slips on a patch of ice and falls to the ground. I have to stop myself from going to help him, a reflex reaction.

  It occurs to me to call the police, but I don’t. I’d rather take a bath. Even to myself, I don’t dare say the truth.