Pretty Things

by Virginie Despentes

  Nicolas walks across the entire venue, explains to the sound guy for the third time that it doesn’t make sense to put the vocals so far up front.

  Three hours ago, he couldn’t have imagined that he would make all these back-and-forths because the sub-bass this or the equalizer that.

  Pauline is onstage; hands crossed behind her back and eyes glued to the floor, she begins to sing.

  Stiff, not smiling, and dressed like garbage, she becomes rather dignified. Quiet metamorphosis, impressive to see. As though it were coming to her from afar, these things pouring out of her mouth, so self-assured.

  Nicolas climbs onstage. “Is the feedback okay?” He cautiously wraps the microphone in fabric. Then moves away and asks her to sing again. “Can we try another song?” In passing he argues with a guy from the venue who wants to stop the sound check immediately because they’re running late.

  He quickly adjusts one last thing, jacks tangled up everywhere, the hall empty, stands exactly where he needs to be to hear all the sounds, since he likes the sputtering from the walls, the knobs, the red lights, adjusting the mic stand, the guys hanging off the scaffolding to adjust a projector.

  Like something you don’t even dream about anymore, to avoid the taste of bitter awakening.

  The guy from the venue turns plain nasty. They need to open the doors so the concert can begin.

  Nicolas meets Pauline at the edge of the stage, notices her hands trembling. “I’m going to buy some smokes, I’m all out. You want to come with me?”

  She shakes her head no, immediately reverts back to her usual demeanor; it makes him want to slap her. In any case, he’s relieved when she refuses because he actually just wants to call Claudine from a quiet corner. Reassure her, tell her that everything’s going well. And then a sort of guilt, this pleasure he gets from handling the sound check, as if colluding with the enemy.

  “You want anything?”

  “To be far away from these idiots.”

  Impossible to understand where her anger stems from. No one had spoken to her, no one had done anything to her. But it’s not faked, she seems completely put off.

  “Wait for me in the dressing room?”

  “No, I’m going to shut myself in the bathroom. That way no one will talk to me. Come get me when you’re back, I’ll be in the one that’s to the right when you come in.”

  “Everything okay, Pauline? A little stage fright?”

  She stares at him hard, glacial. “Don’t forget that we aren’t friends.”

  That little surge of guilt he had felt from enjoying working with her disappears all at once. Crazy bitch.

  THE THINGS IN her apartment are covered in a thin, viscous layer. Claudine washes her hands, the towel she uses to dry them seems greasy too. That happens, some days.

  Sun, Xanax, enveloped in an almost absurd calm that makes her gently sweat, clammy torso and back. Her eyes close, are heavy underneath.

  Nicolas just called: everything’s going well. Not a surprise. Pauline has always been like that: successful at anything she sets her mind to. She can play the girl with a nasty attitude who’s bored when she gets onstage. She knows her voice is good, she wants all the world to know. So she’ll put on a good show, even if it’s her very first.

  Kitchen. Coffee rising, burbling up in spurts. The seal is busted, light brown bubbles leak out the sides. The coffee maker needs to be replaced, Claudine never thinks of it. Now that she has, she feels a slight pang in her heart because it no longer matters. Fear doesn’t have much of an effect on her, just a small trace of bitterness.

  She spills some coffee over the side, wipes it up with the sponge, which is slightly black from being poorly rinsed. She doesn’t give a damn about household objects on principle: not to be like her mother.

  Don’t go, I’m begging you, don’t go, there are things in life that you don’t do, don’t go . . .

  Window open opposite, the street acts like a loud speaker, Claudine hears a song as if she were listening to it in her own apartment.

  Sharp attacks tearing her apart, the same headaches of the last few days, but the banging is getting worse, less bearable.

  Pink stain of the curtains, the sun setting. Irritated voices below. Reflexively, she leans out the window to see what’s going on.

  A man, back to the window in the butcher shop, two men and a woman facing him. It’s the woman who’s speaking, she’s furious, hair covered, pink dress down to her ankles. The two men with her shake their heads to signal that they disapprove of what the third is doing. Impossible to know exactly what’s going on, they’re not speaking French. She can’t see them well from so far away, but the man with his back against the security gate doesn’t seem scared.

  The flowers have started blooming in the last few days, hanging from other windows.

  Her breath shortens, cuts off if she isn’t careful.

  How much longer are things going to be like this?

  Luck doesn’t change. It’s all bullshit.

  On a table, a photo of her and Pauline. They’re nine years old, it’s the only photo where they’re together and dressed the same. It looks like a silly special effect, like a hidden mirror reflecting one face. Two queens on the same card.

  She feels that terrible surge that passes through her from time to time. Anger, and she needs to retrace her steps to account for it.

  Her father would repeat, “They certainly do look a bit alike, and yet they don’t look alike at all,” letting a knowing glance fall over Claudine. Supposedly he didn’t talk about that in front of her, to avoid hurting her, supposedly he took precautions, because she couldn’t do anything about it. She was the one who was not very clever, frankly, not very smart.

  Sometimes her father invited friends to the house, called the two girls over. Secretive conversation, so they wouldn’t hear, as if they didn’t understand anything at all. Then he questioned them, to demonstrate to the audience how studious Pauline was: cunning, mischievous, and so sharp. And next to her, her sister, who never understood a thing. She did a bad job on her schoolwork, never connected anything with anything, couldn’t convey the desired information. Filled with shame in front of these strangers, she had to open her mouth, say something, if she didn’t say anything her father leaned in toward the other adults, said something mean, disparaging.

  And her bitch of a mother, rather than defend her daughter, rather than put a stop to all of it, would bring her to bed immediately, infuriated at seeing her be so stupid. The next day, to console her, she would put her hand on Claudine’s forehead, “It’s not your fault, my angel. With twins there’s always one that picks up the defects . . . my poor angel, there’s nothing you can do.”

  Her mother’s stomach wasn’t big yet. She had just learned that she would be having two.

  Her father was enraged. Since the beginning of the year her mother had been working, like him, as a teacher at a junior high school.

  Before that everything had been clear, easily summed up: he had married an idiot, oafish and dull.

  Of course, there were those weeks right after they met when her father would lean toward her—“You are my happiness”—and kiss her nonstop, craft compliments sweet as candy, talk dirty, he couldn’t get enough of her.

  And then slowly, as if he were opening his eyes, she became this meager thing. Inept. He didn’t leave her, didn’t cheat on her. He never got tired of watching her mess up every single thing she tried. Never got tired of watching her dress poorly, he who was so fond of elegance. Of hearing her speak poorly, he who so loved intellectual things. Every gesture she made was reproachable. Even her way of rinsing a sponge, of hanging up the telephone, of wearing a skirt.

  He never got tired of watching her be so pathetic. And he pitied himself, to have fallen for such a woman. And without ever lifting a hand to her he went after her with all his violence, his entire being focused on demeaning her.

  He wouldn’t leave her alone until she cried. And as soon as her eyes wat
ered, his fury would begin: How dare she complain? And what did she know of pain, the burning he felt?

  The same way he demanded all the space in the bed, his own distress demanded all the space. He was the most, as a matter of principle. The most tortured, the most sensitive, the most in touch with his emotions, the most reasonable. The one of the two of them that counted, the one at the center.

  She possessed only the right to listen to him because he loved to talk for hours. It was her duty to listen to him even if his words destroyed her, implied she was worthless, even if his words suffocated her, never left her any space.

  And her mother let it happen, made herself sick, like a woman, in silence. Her body eaten up in big chunks that never completely disappeared, vomiting, careful not to make any noise, at night her ruined sleep knotted up her throat. But above all she would never complain, because he suffered so much. Compared to his experiences, hers were garbage, just showing off her melancholy, who did she think she was . . .

  One day, she started teaching, like him, in the same junior high school. And in one year, everything switched.

  Her mother turned out to be a good teacher, in any event perfectly capable of keeping the kids in check for the duration of class.

  He had always been pretty mediocre, neither loved nor feared, interesting to no one, especially not to his students, who mocked his drinking; rather than picking up on the desperate beauty of the gesture, they picked up on his breath and used it to fuck with him.

  And so one day, her mother, correcting homework, was interrupted by her father who, leaning over her shoulder, shared his opinion on a comment she had just written. Without even raising her head, frowning, concentrated, she replied, “Excuse me, but I think I know what I’m doing.”

  Her father’s wrath was terrible. At first he tried to make her apologize, but since she persisted he started breaking things and insulting her like he never had before . . . the idea that she could even think of opposing him was intolerable, that she could draw the strength from somewhere to believe in herself in spite of him.

  The rage of powerlessness, like a child’s tantrum, took hold of him that night and for the first time he moved from threats to action, started breaking everything until she begged, fear in her eyes, until she was the first to give in.

  Her mother quit teaching, shaken by having hurt him so considerably for a job that, in the end, didn’t interest her all that much.

  But her father stayed angry. He had always pulled out when he felt himself coming and ejaculated on her stomach, because he was too young to have a kid and because he wasn’t sure—far from it—that he wanted to have one with her. From that day on, he started fucking her like he was nailing something into the ground, all the way inside so she would get a fat stomach and stay put.

  But almost as soon as she was pregnant, her mother began to rise up and get comfortable with him. Supposedly she knew better than him about certain things regarding her condition. “Because I’m a woman,” she would reply, shrugging her shoulders. Her mother proposed that they call the twins Colette and Claudine. Her father was firmly against it; she didn’t concede.

  “Then we’ll each choose one name.”

  And so it was done, her stomach ripped in two.

  THE VENUE IS filling up. Security regulates the flood of people, the bouncers glance in their bags, make them take off their jackets. It serves no purpose, to tell the truth, but it’s part of the ritual.

  At the top of the stairs people meet and chat, share rumors and opinions about what’s going on. The stoner version of a social gathering, most of them are overly done-up: bleached pierced tattooed gap-toothed scarred high-heeled.

  Nicolas moves through them, making himself look like he’s in a hurry because he doesn’t want to run into any old friends. It gets him so down, every time, makes him confront the reality of aging when he sees old faces again. Already a little wrecked, withered, fatigue settling in, and cynicism to top it all off, extinguishing what’s left of their gaze.

  Pauline, sitting fully dressed on the toilet seat, smokes cigarette after cigarette. She regrets being there. She’s dreamed of this moment for a long time. But it was nothing like this. It was her own name, and Sébastien was there, backstage, proud of her as he heard her sing. And it wasn’t in front of these idiot kids who’ve come to have their souls sodomized, ready to swallow any subversive commodity as long as it makes them think that it adds something to their identity.

  Mainly, she misses Sébastien.

  Chest strained by his absence, she remembers and lists the best things about him, like a little internal song playing on loop.

  The first time she saw him she didn’t really give a shit about him, he seemed like kind of an idiot.

  Older than her, he had a car, drove her home.

  Then there was that day: he brought her to her place and, sitting on the hood of his car, told her jokes. Claudine showed up, gave him her number. And when she walked away, Seb had remarked, “It’s funny to see the two of you together. Your sister is super pretty. But she doesn’t have what you have.”

  He was neither flustered nor aroused; he was the first boy to resist her sister’s charms. To prefer her, Claudine’s sister. So, in his arms, she realized that he was her entire world. And since then, nothing had ever weakened the hold he had on her.

  Until one night in March, she had been waiting for him, irritated that he was late. They were supposed to go see a movie and he wasn’t very excited, so she was getting annoyed looking at the time, convinced he was doing it on purpose. Then night fell and worry kicked in.

  The telephone rings, the lawyer calling on his behalf. He was picked up that morning, in the papers they’re calling it a “big catch,” he’ll have his sentencing soon, he doesn’t know how much time Sébastien’s facing, he can’t answer any of her questions, it depends on who he does or doesn’t give up. The lawyer has tact, a distant politeness, but doesn’t care at all, just fulfilling an obligation: notifying the girlfriend of one of his clients.

  Clean break, everything on hold.

  FROM THE OTHER side of the door, some of the people working the bar are getting riled up talking among themselves.

  “This crowd pisses me off, they’re always trying so hard to be fashionable.”

  Another voice, from elsewhere. “When it’s the Americans doing it, everyone thinks it’s so cute, but when it’s the French it’s not funny anymore.”

  Aggressive tone, between people who have already been drinking, trying to convince one another without seducing one another, sterile conversations that make up mosaics of meaning. Everyone is actually saying something different. An unhappy ex-child interjecting at every opportunity—sometimes while trying to affirm something, something else emerges—little pieces of poisoned cakes that we’d rather spit out.

  Two girls loiter by the sink for a bit, she listens to them talk. They’re probably washing their hands, touching up their makeup, redoing their hair. One of them says, “Two-hundred-thousand-franc advance, that’s not nothing.”

  “But is the money for them or for gear?”

  “It’s for them, to get them to sign there instead of somewhere else. It’s an advance against what the label thinks they’ll sell.”

  “Two hundred thousand! Just like that, your problems start melting away.”

  “I’d certainly hope so . . .”

  “For all the time you’ve spent slaving away, he must have no shame.”

  “That’s definitely him: shameless. You’ll never guess what he told me. He’s going to give me two thousand a month—to pay the bills.”

  “No way.”

  “Oh yeah, he’s a kid, this guy, he doesn’t understand that he could pay the rent too. For him, money is pocket change, it’s for buying his toys. I have to say, maybe I did let him take advantage of me.”

  “Still, with two hundred thousand, you’d have to be really stingy to only give away two.”

  They leave.

  Then N
icolas’s voice. “You in here?”

  And as soon as she opens the door he tells her to wait five seconds. While he pisses he says, “It’s nerves, makes me have to piss every five minutes. Does that happen to you?”

  It’s only right then that she puts a name to what she’s feeling: panic and fear, like being up on the highest diving board. That emotion deep inside of her, anxiety mixed with a terrible desire to be elsewhere, to backpedal. And mixed with impatience, too, to feel its effect.

  Pauline follows him backstage, asks, “Is it really possible for someone to give you a two-hundred-thousand-franc advance to make an album?”

  “It’s possible, but it doesn’t happen to everyone.”

  “You’d need to already be famous?”

  “Yeah. Or make everyone really like you.”

  SHE’S THREE STEPS from the stage, standing where there’s no light. First rows of the audience, people gathered together standing and talking, red tips of cigarettes, general commotion. Two sound guys are moving around again onstage, taping up one last thing, moving the floor monitor a bit. She no longer feels her legs, nothing but her throat, it’s like a chasm inside of her, she doesn’t want to go onstage. Yet she’s crippled with desire to be there, it makes her tremble through all her limbs.

  Someone tells her she has to go on. She’s in another time, no consciousness of anything, a moment when she does things automatically, hypnotized.

  The stage plunged into darkness, the people below form a sort of flow of faces, a murmur runs through the crowd when she walks onstage.

  She won’t be able to do it. Or even move an inch, or even open her mouth. Spotlights on her, blinding, and the track begins. She has the time to think, I’ll forget the words and my voice will never come out.

  She’s ashamed of being there and of everyone seeing her. She feels ridiculous, humiliated, exposed. And with absolutely no reason to be there, planted there, under the eyes of all these people. And where to put her arms and where to put her legs and how to disappear, not have to do this.