A Frozen Woman

by Annie Ernaux

  I start using Brigitte’s strange words. I’ve already seen them often in print, but hearing them in her mouth proves to me that one can use this language in real life. She talks about seducers and femmes fatales, about sensual mouths. Her other main interests intrigue me as well. She cuts out photos of film stars like Daniel Gélin and Gérard Philipe from Cinemonde. So do I. She can tell you all the new songs, and her secret desire is to go on a radio talent contest and be discovered, but she never dares or maybe isn’t sure she’d win. I envy her ability to take down a song like “C’est magnifique” in shorthand. Five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon: two girls stagger out of the movie theater on place des Beiges. The world is a shimmer of gray; people’s heads look tiny and ugly. The girls drift through the crowd slowly flowing along the shopping streets. Tentative pauses before the dresses and magazines. Gérard Philipe and Michele Morgan continue to run toward each other across burning Mexican sands. Some guys are following us. Don’t answer, they’ll think you’re encouraging them. Brigitte is teaching me the ropes, running through the rules over and over again. Look good to everybody but don’t let just anyone come up to you. Especially if they’re guys “from the boonies.” We get tired of strolling in front of the same windows. No one interesting. Then we move on to the streets without stores, sometimes going as far as the edge of the forest. The primroses may be blossoming by the side of the road and the pussy willows bursting into bloom in the woods at the end of March, but with Brigitte I’m never off on a voyage of discovery. As far as she’s concerned, nature is where you get some fresh air after you’ve been cooped up in an office all week. Even stargazing is turned to good use: if you count nine of them for nine days running, then you’ll dream of the man you’ll marry. I go along without protest on these truncated walks. We talk about songs, movie stars, boys. No. More than that.

  Brigitte often lets herself go, forgetting the tame sentimentality of Nous Deux, and her proper-young-lady pose falls by the wayside. Together, we talk about “it.” And girls, I know, are not supposed to talk about “it.” Endlessly informative, she is, and she sets me free every Sunday with her jokes and raw language. With her, the world is one big sex organ, a colossal itch, a flood of sperm and blood. She knows everything, that men go with men and women with women, what you have to do so you won’t have a kid. Incredulous, I rummage through the night table. Nothing. Underneath the mattress I find a rumpled napkin, stiffened by stains. A horrible object. A real sacrilege. What word does she say, the one men use, “come,” “cream,” we wouldn’t know them yet, maybe the scientific term, perhaps she read it somewhere, sperm, but what is writing it compared to hearing it out loud in your parents’ bedroom when you’re thirteen years old? We tell each other stuff that would have appalled our elders. Anything at all can become obscene. Legs waving in the air, organs gaping or erect, the banality of porn rags—our stories are better, and more cheerful, too. No discrimination: our conversations, whether technical or just for laughs, give equal time to both sexes. Impossible to feel ashamed with Brigitte on the day I feel that first shudder under the sheets—that happens to me, too, she laughs, but don’t go telling the priest, it’s none of his business.

  And what a triumph when I announce to her that I have “it” now, too—no more pretending to have monthly cramps for me! I’m perfectly comfortable with my new condition.

  No, I hadn’t imagined it like this: casually lifting my pleated skirt, pulling down my panties and sitting on the toilet seat, not thinking of anything in particular, the elastic tight around my thighs just over the knees. Utter astonishment. Seeing what I’ve never seen before, my own blood, that blood. A part of my life is over. I sit staring the way fortune-tellers study tea leaves. That’s it. Five minutes later my mother is joking awkwardly, “Now you’ve become a young woman.” Neither more nor less of a young woman than I was the day before. It’s simply a marvelous event. Impossible to tell my mother how pleased I am—Brigitte is the only one who will understand that. I’m already going over the story in my head: So there I was, off to school on Monday as usual . . . And planning to mention to her as well my fear that it will suddenly stop, and the fact that while I would have liked a nice, limpid stream, I’ve got a swampy dribble, and what’s hers like?

  It seems I can talk to her about anything. Surely it’s this frank language that binds me to her, and that will later make me feel ashamed. No pruderies as at school, nothing you can’t confess. “Me, I like looking at women’s bosoms in the movies!” I can still hear her confident tone, on those summer Sundays, as she nibbles on the grass blades she keeps plucking and spitting out: “Women don’t enjoy doing it, my mother told me.” Then those cat’s-eyes of hers, and her laugh: “Too bad, I’m going to enjoy it!” I like the talk about our bodies and the laughter, above all. But I’m sure that it’s wrong. The ideal: that other Brigitte, the one in the series of books for girls, who goes to art shows and never says a dirty word. My Brigitte, she doesn’t forget that either, the code of the real young lady. “I’m going to enjoy it!” But she gets up, gracefully smoothes out her dress, and puts on a dignified expression, nose in the air. All our talk is kept just between us, so that other people won’t take us for depraved sluts who’ve “been around.” The code is even built into our secret conversations. I learn everything there is to know about virginity from Brigitte, and no mistake: the painful opening of this door by a man, breaking a seal of good conduct whose absence is impossible to hide, except with shots of astringent lemon, which aren’t a sure thing anyway. After Mass one day, Renee, Brigitte’s friend from the office, throws her head back and half-closes her eyes, saying rapturously, “He told me, if you’re not a virgin on our wedding night, you hear me, I’ll strangle you!” We’re in front of the electric household appliance and luggage store. What a thrill. As for unwed mothers, tough luck. Men can screw around as much as they want, in fact it’s actually better for them to have experience so they can “initiate” us. In spite of my active childhood and natural curiosity, I simply accept the idea of being offered up on my back. I don’t find this passivity disgusting to imagine: dreaming of a big bed or looking up at the sky from a grassy couch, a face bending over me . . . The rest of the process is always in his hands, never mine. I admit, we dare to describe our periods and our longings, but marriage begins to seem obligatory and sacred with Brigitte. And although we talk about our sexuality, it is tacitly understood that we cannot imagine being able to go all the way with it.

  Not easy to determine, the respective effects of conditioning and freedom: I thought the line my girlhood followed was a straight one, but it goes off in all directions. One thing is certain, my Brigitte period proves calamitous for my mother, whose glorious image takes some rude knocks. The damage is petty, but telling: dusty furniture, unmade beds, a spreading waistline. On my own home ground, Brigitte makes me see what I had hitherto felt without attaching any importance to it. No, my mother doesn’t know how to cook, not even to make mayonnaise, housework doesn’t interest her, and she isn’t “feminine.” That terrible pronouncement, one day during an argument: “Your mother’s a cow.” Most of the time it isn’t that direct, more of a laughing matter and lots of “you knows”: “You know, your hairbrush could use a good soak! You’ve never heard of ammonia? Ver-y use-ful.” The economic approach: “My mother makes my dresses, all of them, it’s much less expensive that way.” I always reply that my mother hasn’t the time, which is true, but why make that excuse and be ashamed to say that she’d rather see to her business and calculate her profit margins? Why be ashamed to admit she wouldn’t know how to sew a dress for me? Worst of all, Brigitte’s prying eyes the first time she found my father mashing the potatoes—oh, what an extraordinary sight—and the horrible astonishment of her pointed question: “You’re the one who does that?” Strange animals in a zoo, from another planet. You’re the one who peels the potatoes! You’re the one who does the dishes! Other girlfriends later on will show their amazement less blatant
ly, perhaps, but I can feel it all the same. Your father’s the one who—what a weird aberration, what a joke, like the guy in the Paris Match cartoons, the one wearing the frilly apron. If only my mother had some attenuating circumstances, fragile health or a horde of brats, but no. As though they have deliberately chosen to live in an abnormal fashion. I fail to persuade Brigitte that this way of doing things is unimportant, and even rather practical for the business. A househusband, unbelievable. And suddenly they’re both ridiculous: my gentle father is now a Milquetoast, and my mother, with all her vitality, is wearing the pants in the family. Now I am ashamed that he puts up with doing the dishes, that she shouts like that. And how I cherish the image of an industrious but discreet mother—a little Dresden china figurine, what a dream—instead of that powerful explosion. They’re so awkward, the both of them, they don’t fit the pattern. Which pattern? The one you see in nice, decent families, or families that are trying to be that way. It’s not proper for a man to be peeling vegetables; he ought to be a bit like the others, interested in sports, yelling at the slightest bad grade, grounding the culprit, sending slaps flying right and left. At school, these blustering fathers are a big success, and some girls proudly recount the latest paternal exploits: he locked me in my room, no parties until Easter. He’s their enemy, but they seem to adore him. Maternal authority doesn’t go over as well, however—too much hidden resentment involved. To top it off we get Les Femmes savantes in ninth grade, and we’re obliged to find those “learned ladies” comical (it’s Moliere, after all), to dump on Philaminthe and applaud Chrysale in her big monologue, even though I secretly don’t think it’s very funny.

  Brigitte’s house is a shining example of normality for me. Mme Desfontaines, always there, busy—busy in her kitchen, a little washing, a little sewing, dainty chores, and don’t go into the dining room, you’ll get it dirty. A tiny universe, to my eyes, preoccupied with trivial tasks, like polishing the doorknobs, what a joke, and how can anyone seriously spend five minutes wondering whether to make noodles or shepherd’s pie? A universe in slow motion, impressively quiet to someone who lives day in and day out in the crucible of voices I call home. The silence of those kitchens in the afternoon. Empty, oppressive, not like the silence in school when the students are working, that full silence ready to explode into shouting and laughter outside. A numbing silence. I can’t wait to leave. That’s where I discover an astonishing and unexpected domestic complicity between mother and daughter. “Did you see your sweater? I washed it in soap flakes—like new. I’m going to make you a new bedspread: cretonne would be nice, I think,” and so on. Brigitte helps out in the kitchen and smugly makes me feel that I don’t know how to do a thing. It’s true, I can’t whip up a mayonnaise or even peel a carrot efficiently, but I could say that in school I manage rather well. No, that won’t make up for it. Everyone understands that for a girl, not knowing how to do a thing means being incapable of cooking, cleaning, ironing properly. How will you cope later on when you ‘re married? The big question, with its irrefutable logic, to rub your nose right in it, can’t even boil an egg, well just wait, you’ll see how your husband likes eating out of cans! Makes me giggle—marriage is so far off, and I watch absent­mindedly as Brigitte pulls her sheets taut, smoothing every wrinkle from the bed, instead of drawing the covers up like I do. All the same, I start to think there must be “something missing.” Since all girls and women have to look after their homes, I should learn those things too, as well as my future profession. One summer during my adolescence, despite my mother’s shrugs—don’t waste your time with that, go ride your bike—I clean my room every morning, and even hers, too, since I am now so easily offended by messiness. I iron dishcloths, handkerchiefs, simple things, to get into the habit. I hang up the wash: a towel, a clothespin; a shirt, a clothespin; slowly festooning the line as the mild September breeze caresses my legs. Girls’ work, quiet and innocent. On Sundays, I make chocolate mousse. Proudly. I can do it, too. At the family dinner on August 15, Ascension Day, I bask in the attention; they all dig in, happily stuffing themselves with my chocolate mousse, saying, “Much better than store-bought!” No more, “What’s to become of that one!” The exultation of being complete, with nothing missing anymore. But I shouldn’t make too much of this ironing and baking; it’s fun, a game, a relaxing change from reading, a way to stave off boredom toward the end of vacation, an excuse to taste with impunity the provoking sweetness of eggs and sugar beaten together, to eat whole spoonfuls of warm melted chocolate. As soon as school starts again, that’s the end of domestic diversions. First things first.

  My mother, the teachers, that’s what they all tell me. I believe them, but the future is clouding over. Primary school teacher will be fine. Bad enough that people say, “Teachers don’t get married.” School becomes a drag: I’m into a serious slump. After I hit the eighth grade, nothing really interests me anymore in class. The Chasles formula or Euclid’s postulate, pretend that you have lost something dear to you in 250 words or more, well, I couldn’t care less. The French Revolution, Hiroshima, a few explications de texte—perhaps a flicker of interest. As far as work is concerned, I’ve outlived my former enthusiasm: my eager curiosity is all gone, leaving only a fierce desire not to fail, sheer pride and nothing more. Or else I don’t dare bank entirely on my charm, keeping two irons in the fire, whatever the cost. I prefer to think that I’m not completely shucking off a certain idea of myself: if I do nothing, I am nothing—my mother’s words. But what energy it takes, during those desperate years, not to lose ground. Evenings when I spend three hours cranking out my geometry homework, tracing straight lines and perpendiculars with a song by Aznavour running through my head. In class I slouch in my chair, elbows on the desk, face propped up in my hands, eyes seemingly riveted on the book or the blackboard. The perfect position for daydreaming. I develop the habit of switching off the teacher after the first few words; for four years I never listen to one lesson from start to finish, and try to catch up in the evenings with my textbooks. Some teachers dictate the lessons, which is more tiring, but with a bit of practice you can manage to write while thinking of something else: boys, fantasies of romance, songs, longings . . .Yes, I heartily recommend the seated position. I’m wrapped in a big soft dream from which I emerge painfully to translate a Latin passage. As we walk home from the movies on Sunday, when I think of the homework awaiting me—while Brigitte trots along at my side toward her cozy evening of getting her clothes ready for Monday, washing her hair to look nice for the accountant—sometimes, just for a moment, I envy that placid, carefree existence. What will we be quizzed on tomorrow, and what about all those things I still have to learn, those pages to write, those exams to pass? How about a little job, typing’s pleasant enough; you’d have money to buy clothes and could go out whenever you want, like most girls, a life of pure futility, and waiting . . . My parents’ acquaintances and customers are starting to make knowing remarks. “Well, your girl’s going to be leaving you one of these days soon, heh heh!” My mother gets a mite testy. “She’s got plenty of time, let her enjoy her youth,” but sometimes she adds, “Marriage is part of life,” and says she’d hate to see me left an old maid. These days, I long to take it easy, not be so responsible, and I tell myself that studying is a practical way to spend the meantime, because after all, you have to go on living while you wait for your grand passion. Letting someone take your hand, mon erifant ma soeur, Baudelaire’s invitation to a voyage of love . . . The gleaming kitchen, the strawberries under a musical stream of water, one day, you’ll see, we’ll meet and you’ll belong to me. And nothing in school to successfully counteract this confused obligation to please, to be loved, to be chosen. The good sisters rant about “modesty,” fulminate against wearing pants that arouse men’s desire (another reason to wear them) and urge us to read Christiane, a magazine with photographs of girls in the most incredibly dowdy outfits, wearing idiotic smiles of beatific Christian joy, who wax ecstatic about the upright life
and pure, honest friendship with boys. The sisters pass around Now That You’ve Become a Woman, a set of instructions for body and soul that reeks of restriction and boredom. Nothing but pitfalls to be avoided, in delicately veiled terms, and above all, watch out for boys, as they are “physically very different from you in their reactions,” the victims of “a sudden, imperious impulse that they cannot control.” Whereas we, it seems, don’t feel all that much, so if we give in, it’s on purpose—a fine distinction. To this advice for perfect innocents, our favorite insult between us girls, I prefer the novels and tips on how to have a blooming complexion in Echo de la mode, a popular women’s weekly. The only religion that makes my heart beat faster at the age of fifteen is love. I’ll do anything, if you ask me—Piaf is right. And I wake up for Corneille’s Le Cid, love and honor, preposterous, but in any case preferable to the War of the Austrian Succession. Are my classmates all off in dreamland the way I am? I remember their “I sure slept through that!” in French, in math. All apparently diligent, homework always done, never any rebellion, nothing but chuckles and whispering. We just want to get by, a herd with no ambition. There are exceptions: Leguet, the workaholic, one of the few we all know will go far, but forget admiration—what a weirdo, sullen, dressed any old how, and so we rather pity her instead of envying her brains. After the big push at the end of ninth grade, complete collapse in the tenth. Our math teacher is an enormous woman who wears a black cloak over her checked blouse. She’s a screamer. “Mesdemoiselles, you are not putting your hearts into it! Nothing but numbskulls and lazy lumps! A little enthusiasm if you please!” Pure Greek. As the years go by, the faces in the classroom change. Some weeding out. First the ones without much money, off to be secretaries or salesclerks, then the shopkeepers’ daughters, also in the selling line but with a different air, and the farm girls who vanish forever into their acres. Others arrive; the convent school is full of shooting stars: scatterbrained things expelled from lycées, languid lovelies who get married during the next school holiday, airheads forever off in the clouds, and always a tyrannical father thrown in for good measure. Children of people of means, girls who care only for dancing, partying, and listening to the moody songs of Brassens. I soon fall under their influence. Replacing the picture of Jean Marais in my math notebook with one of James Dean seems like an improvement to me, as does switching from Mariano to the Platters, never realizing that it’s still the same crush. Discussing the future with my new friends means talking about flirting, the same as with Brigitte. Pop stars, boyfriends, clothes, and gossip about one another are the main topics of our conversations. I feel I’ve come a long way.