A Frozen Woman

by Annie Ernaux

  And at the same time, absurdly, we hope that somewhere there is a man who will not turn out to be the usual disappointment. You walk into the trap with your eyes open, O mad passion, surrealist predestination—I’ll bite hook, line and sinker: a man who will even spare me those snares and all that humiliation. Villa Borghese, those jerks gesturing like lunatics at me from behind statues, piazza Venezia, that insulting pickup artist preying on tourists, how come you don’t want to, got your period have you, and all those dog-men sniffing at our heels when my girlfriend and I try to enjoy the gardens of the Prado. A man who will protect me from the others, permanently. Time flies, first second third year, soon I’ll have my licence. Teacher . . . Some of the girls walk openly hand in hand with a boy, vanish from classes, reappear sometimes with the famous dreamy, smug look: they’re married. I’m a little less contemptuous. My relatives are asking, has she got a fiancé yet? My parents protest, I have my studies to finish, and once in a while they add that I’m a lot happier as is. But they don’t go into details, it’s really an excuse to justify my strange behavior. There’s always someone to tell me, “After all, you don’t want to end up an old maid!” That insidious pressure. I’m not a girl living alone, I’m an unmarried girl whose existence is still unsettled. So, what are you up to, where are you going on your vacation, that’s a cute dress—no one knows what to talk about with an unmarried girl. Whereas a husband, children, an apartment, a washing machine—endless topics of conversation. I couldn’t care less. Inexplicably, my existence seems to lack weight even to me. The anxiety of ten p.m., the black hole of the parking lot seen from the top floor in the cité universitaire. Or at the Métropole, sitting around a table with some seedy companions, prematurely aged at twenty-two by the neon lighting. Loneliness can easily lead to wallowing in misery. White nights and onion soup at dawn on the quays of the Seine, baby-sitting and youth hostels, a life far from the rat race—that’s all great fun. But there’s also the feeling that this freedom resembles a void. I distribute tracts outside the restau, I attend a rally against the organisation de l’Armée secrete in Algeria, but it’s almost as if I were an extra in a movie. I’m “floating,” one of the words we girls use to describe that strange torpor on certain days, the sensation of being insubstantial, unreal. Cars stream down rue Jeanne-d’ Arc, I weave my way through the flow of people on the sidewalk, like a bubble of silence untouched by the noise around me. Sometimes I think that with a man at my side, all my actions, no matter how insignificant—winding the alarm clock, fixing breakfast—will become charged with life, take on a weight that would let me stop floating, get a grip on the world.

  I’d met him the day before. Some girls—even one of my male friends—would tell me later that I’d made a tactical error, that I should have let him stew a bit. Impossible. Love what passes this way only once: whether this is the sort of idea a woman gets into her head or not, it has been following me ever since adolescence, and since I was leaving the next day for Italy, I didn’t have time to fool around. Making love seemed to me to be an absolute requirement for a perfect night with him. For a real relationship. An incestuous brother. Defloration, devirgination—primitive, unacceptable words. Laughter and complicity, speaking freely, finally. The overhead light in that hotel in the Alps burned all night long. In the morning, rain. Weeks of despair among Italian monuments. When the smell of sweat and tobacco vanished from the pullover I wore that night, I wept.

  Later, a train stops in Bologna at five in the morning: it’s the same poignant dawn I saw at twelve years old. I feel at home in the world. Factories are emerging from the blue darkness; traffic hums. I’m alone, I’m free, I’m going to find him again, I don’t see any contradiction anywhere. Still later, we’re in a room full of cloudy mirrors near the Stazione Centrale. Hitchhiking on the autostrada.

  For a long time, we don’t meet twice in the same spot. We pick the restaurants in train stations, the entrance gates to parks. Hotel rooms, twenty francs a night, quite steep. Love on the run, nothing pleases me more, including the melancholy. One more room to be a memory in a future I’m not certain will include him. From one day to the next, I keep telling myself, it could be ciao between us; we keep up the appearances of freedom. I’m writing a thesis on Surrealism. Love, freedom. The exhilarating impression that my life is surrealistic. We’re finishing up our studies in two cities six hundred kilometers apart. Nothing in his life, or in mine, has changed, aside from these rendezvous that always seem like adventures. My backaches on the Paris­Bordeaux night train in a compartment without couchettes are the prelude to happiness. Raw October mornings; the owner of the Café New York sets out his chairs on the terrace. As the aroma of coffee percolates through the air, we finish waking up with large cafés crèmes, some bread and butter. Walks. Movies. Bach’s Matthäus-Passion, both of us on the bed. The same room, now. His, not ours: I go and stay with him there. My visits are vacations for the two of us—no work when we’re together, aside from a few required poli sci courses for him. While he’s in class I take walks. I don’t know anyone. It’s my pleasure-city, exclusively, since I take my exams in Rouen. Bordeaux-love, Bordeaux-reward, I change my scenery on rue Fondaudège, rue des Trois Conils; on the train home, I can chart a whole geography around his face. Jealousy, spats, the suitcase half packed in a fury, often, but why spoil a treat that only lasts a few days, and I want to take away happy memories.

  So, then, perfection. The “before” picture is lovely, isn’t it, rather like a with-it ad for liberated women: girls today can’t stand to be tied down, they enjoy life to the fullest, with Coca­Cola or Whatsis tampons. Not quite. You have to leave room for weakness and fear. He’s holding my hand in a café near the gare Saint-Jean. “Set me free,” wails Ray Charles. Of course. The only moral rule. I watch people in the street, the girls going by; we’ve set no restrictions on each other, and in that crowd are cunning ones who will gladly give up their freedom, who will try to catch him. I hate train stations.

  My reflection in the mirror. Satisfactory. But at twenty-two, behind the real face is already the threat of another: imaginary, terrible, with crepey skin and sharper features. Old equals plain equals lonely.

  And always those questions, so natural, seemingly so harmless. Are you two still together? Are you planning on getting married? My parents’ desolation over this uncertain situation: “We’d really like to know where all this is going to lead you.” Love has to lead somewhere. And their secret pain. It would be so much more pleasant, less stressful for them to watch the usual story unfold, the announcements in the newspaper, the questions proudly answered, a young man from Bordeaux, she’ll be getting her degree soon, the church, city hall, “setting up house,” the grandchildren. I’m depriving them of traditional hopes. My mother’s panic when she learns. You’re sleeping with him? If you go on like that you’ll ruin your life! She thinks I’m being had, tons of novels are surfacing here, girls seduced and abandoned, and with a kid. Tiresome battles between the two of us every week. I do not yet know that while they’re urging me to give up my freedom, his parents are playing a scenario that is just as traditional, but in reverse: “You’ve plenty of time before you settle down, don’t let her get her hooks into you!” Men’s freedom is very well looked after indeed.

  The air is mild and faintly blue along the cours Victor-Hugo; October exams are now over, and we are drinking a glass of juice, as usual, at the Montaigne. He looks at the street, the cars, stroking and pulling at his blond beard. Abruptly he says, “It’s from Camus: loving someone is agreeing to grow old together. He’s right. Wouldn’t you say so?” I’m holding my breath. “We should get married. How do you feel about it?” I remember the sudden softness that turns me to jelly in my wicker chair, my unavowable joy masked by, “We’ll have to think it over. “The future, even old age seem as golden as that day, gleaming with a distant, delicate poetry, the gentle words of Camus. Growing old together: it’s as if a blessing has alighted on me out of the blue-an
d driven every iota of good sense clean out of my head.

  Marriage, what does that mean . . . In the evenings, we imagine how it would be. We would get our degrees, I’d find a job in a lycée, he’d work in some office, we’d live in a furnished apartment for a while, we’d figure out how to make a bit more money. That’s as far as our imaginations take us. It’s just another plan, one that wouldn’t change our lives, or only very little. We’d each continue to pursue our own interests: music for him, literature for me. The only problem we can see is whether we should be faithful to each other or not, because we’ve already grappled with that one. And the unpleasant prospect of always and forever seeing the same face looking at you—in short, the usual commonplaces about marriage. And for the finale, another trite idea: we simply have to take the plunge, it’s a “necessary adventure,” a challenge, even if we don’t feel all that up to it.

  We both start having doubts, and quickly. Occasionally, we have the fleeting impression that simply talking about marriage is quite enough, an exciting prospect, like hitchhiking to Denmark, but if we never get around to actually doing it, well so what. We want to be doubly sure we are really meant for each other, that there isn’t some mistake. At other times we feel our uneasiness comes from uncertainty itself and that we should take our cue from Pascal’s wager, spring boldly for marriage, and worry about the rest later. My super cowardice, impossible to admit: in the last circles of love, I want my womb to come into play and decide for me. Making love the way you read the cards: to learn the future.

  But the signs of what really lies ahead for me? I miss them all. I take a break from working on my thesis on Surrealism and step outside the library in Rouen, crossing square Verdrel, where the mild weather has brought the swans back to the ornamental pond, and suddenly I realize that I’m living perhaps my last weeks as a single girl, free to go where I like, to skip lunch this noon, to work in my room without being disturbed. I will permanently lose my solitude. How can two people stay out of each other’s way in a tiny apartment? And he’ll want his meals every day. All sorts of pictures flash through my mind, and they’re not a pretty sight. I repress them, ashamed of being a spoiled only child, selfish and uncaring. One day, he’s tired and has a lot of work to do; why don’t we eat in the room instead of going to the restau? Six in the evening on cours Victor-Hugo, women rushing to the Docks supermarket across from the Café Montaigne, taking this and that from the shelves without hesitation, as though their heads were completely programed for that evening’s dinner, and tomorrow’s as well, perhaps, for four or more people who all like different things. How do they do it? Perhaps it’s the crowd, the heat, most of all that automatic pillaging of the shelves by these women—I wander from one aisle to the next at a complete loss. Outside of steaks, eggs, and packets of soup, I don’t know how to make anything quickly. It would take me hours to fix what he likes tonight: cucumbers, French fries, a chocolate mousse. I’m surrounded by stuff to eat, without any idea what to get, and on the verge of tears. I’ll never make it. I don’t want any part of this life punctuated by shopping and cooking. Why didn’t he come to the store with me? Finally I buy quiches lorraines, some cheese, and pears. He’s listening to music. He unpacks everything with childlike enthusiasm. The pears are soft in the center: “You’ve been had.” I hate him. I’m not getting married. The next day, we go back to the restau universitaire, and I forget. All my fears, forebodings—I stifle them. Suppress them. Okay, when we live together, I won’t have as much freedom or spare time because there will be the shopping to do, the kitchen, housecleaning—some, anyway. Then why are you shying away, being such a coward, when lots of girls manage to “adjust,” and with a smile, instead of fussing the way you are? On the contrary, they lead real lives. I persuade myself that marriage will free me from this useless self going around in circles over endless questions. That I will achieve equilibrium. A man: a shoulder to lean on, someone down-to­earth who banishes tormenting thoughts. Why doesn’t she get married, then, it’ll calm her down, even your pimples will go away, I laugh, of course, but in a vague sort of way, I believe it. Sometimes I think that he’s self-centered and never takes an interest in what I do, never looks at my books, Andre Breton or Louis Aragon, while I read his sociology texts. Then feminine wisdom comes to my rescue: “All men are self-centered.” Moral principles, too: “Accept the other in his otherness.” Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

  His misgivings must erupt in his sudden bad moods, his fits of aggression that almost lead us to break up. An hour later, things are patched over. We drink to our reconciliation with a fruit juice at the Montaigne. He smiles at me: “We’ll make it, don’t worry.”

  The futile agitation of the last few weeks arrives, leaving no time for any questions. Announcements, rings, doctor’s appointment, dress, cookware, coffee grinder. Entertaining, but I won’t have time to finish my thesis by the June deadline. Yet this wedding is only a formality, no great expense or festivity, just the parents and the witnesses, because all that complicated rigmarole with a long gown and wedding reception, we both agree, is for fakers who want to show off. We’re going to do things more informally, a concession to society and our parents—even the priest is for them, really, “They’d be so hurt,” and a contract signed before a notary. But we’re not taken in by all this, oh no, and what a good time we’re going to have! It’s the only way to get through it. Because of this attitude, we have the marvelous impression that we’re doing things differently, getting married as a lark. True, it isn’t a solemn affair, what with watching all those weddings one after the other one Saturday morning at the town hall—fifteen minutes and next, please—and hearing those words, so worn-out and familiar that they sound like a stage play, will you take this man, and then galloping off to the church where a new wedding traffic jam shunts us off into a chapel (with only ten people, they could even have popped us into the sacristy). The ring he tries to slip onto my finger is too small and stops halfway, interrupting the ceremony. It just won’t budge, the priest is growing impatient, too bad, the pinky will do. Things aren’t so jolly in the restaurant afterwards; it’s hard to feel festive at a banquet when the guests don’t know one another.They’re so different. My father seems off in his dreamworld as he tucks into his rock lobster, leaving my mother to chat. Across the table it’s the reverse: my father-in-law is a senior executive, an imposing, strong personality with natural authority who takes charge of the conversation, but his delightful and bejeweled lady wife is not dreaming, she’s listening to her husband and bubbling with laughter at his jokes. You’ll see, he’d told me, my mother’s charming. I’ve often heard that said about mothers, but in his case it’s an understatement: a woman obviously incapable of annoying anyone, with marvelous tact regarding the right moment to murmur to her husband that perhaps, Robert, you’re overdoing it just a bit. Next to her, I feel like some variety of woman with all the rough edges showing—it’s almost as though we weren’t even of the same sex. This couple makes me feel somewhat nervous, but I never imagine that the picture they make can ever come to reflect us.

  The shadows lengthen around the flower beds, along the restaurant terrace; we’re on the bank of the Seine, gazing out at the dark forest of Brotonne. I used to come walking here with my mother, at Caudebec. Waiting for the bus in the evening, I’d see the same black forest from the other side of the water, and the landing stages for the ferry. I was a little girl. Well, that’s over and done with. Huge joke or not, I’m married. He’s sitting next to me, smoking. A bit groggy. Menstruation, making love, that had to come, but getting married? Everything that I’ve just experienced seems like all those things that are neither deliberately willed nor firmly rejected, and are therefore bathed in a romantic glow. One of those days, I know, that reveal their significance only with time.

  We’re heading for, Bordeaux in a rattletrap of a car. Off on another adventure. Of course, he’s the one at the wheel, small detail, you really want to drive, he asks
and agrees, as though humoring the silly whim of a stubborn child. I give up so as not to seem like a fool. Marriage doesn’t weigh heavily on me, at first. On the contrary. An incredible lightness. Saying “my husband,” hearing “my wife,” is droll, incongruous, so I avoid the word “husband” and he often says “mon femme,” and there’s something of the brother in that, even better—the pal. My name, the one I learned to write slowly, perhaps the first word my parents required me to spell correctly, the one that meant I was myself wherever I went, that rang out sharply when I was punished, and glittered on the honor roll, on letters from those I loved—this name has melted away. When I hear the other, shorter name with its muted sounds, I hesitate a few seconds before claiming it. For a month I float between two names, but painlessly. Disorienting, that’s all.

  “Barn or palace / Mansion or shack / Country cottage / With a garden in back,” the skip-rope whistles and snags on a heel: palace! Can’t afford it. We’ll take the shack, the furnished apartment for a modest budget. In the crushing heat of Bordeaux in July, the car clatters over the cobblestones, with all our worldly goods packed into the backseat: blankets, pots and pans, record player, typewriter. We hurtle down dank streets to emerge onto esplanades glaring white with sunshine, a terrible rodeo between light and shadow to find a place to live. The game of marriage is no longer amusing. Frightening rents, squalid premises. The bastards. But we’re not much more than twenty, sweaty from our hunt through the streets, feeling triumphant and in league against these maggoty landlords of crummy furnished rooms in big gloomy buildings. The chase ends at a detached house with a garden in a suburb, and a twinge of regret, as I would have preferred the center of town; my former world—university, library, cafés—is suddenly too far away. In its stead, silence, and flowers. And the excitement of moving in: we’ll put some hessian cloth over there, the record player here, the first record, exploring the kitchen, seeing if the gas works. A ridiculous house with its mismatched rococo furniture, rubbishy rejects, to be abandoned next year after our final exams. The first months of marriage are like a return to childhood. I mimic the gestures of married women. “Two steaks,” I say to the butcher, adding, “nice and tender,” because that feels right, I’ve heard it often enough, and I’m trying to appear confident so no one will know that I don’t know anything about cheap cuts of meat. And dinner for two, charming. The tomatoes gleaming in their vinaigrette, the inviting aroma of fried potatoes, us at the little table, loving tenderness, cooking for newlyweds, a Dutch interior of peace and harmony. Our mini-tableware: two plates, silverware for two, a couple of glasses, and a frying pan—less than Snow White had for the Seven Dwarfs, and it’ll dry all by itself on the drain board until the next meal. Too bad about the stove top turning brown from all the boiled­over food, and the dust beneath the furniture, the unmade beds. Once in a while we borrow the landlady’s vacuum cleaner, and he’s the one who runs it, without complaining. We go to the supermarket together, shopping on a tight budget—a leg of lamb, let’s splurge—and drawn together by our lack of money, sharing the laughter and sense of risk inspired by our adventure. Where’s the slavery I’d read so much about? I have the feeling our life from before is simply going on in closer quarters, that’s all. The Second Sex? Completely off base!