She waits for him to get over it. Ends up laughing along with him. Won over by his bluntness. That cruelty that she likes about him, that makes her want to be his woman.
Later, full moon, Pauline watches him sleep.
It left a bad taste in her mouth, to see Nicolas and be totally incapable of defending what they had between them, simply because Sébastien was there and she was afraid of upsetting him.
Memories of her mother come back, from when their father would hit Claudine. She would beg him to stop, she would cry. But she would let him do it. He was a force you couldn’t even try to restrain, that you just had to endure. The anger of their father was intimately connected to his presence. One didn’t exist without the other. No man without his violence.
Pauline wasn’t the one who got beat up, but she remembers it clearly. Huddled on the floor, forced against a wall, a ridiculously frail body, two arms crossed over her head. He is a sky unto himself, unleashed in a storm, and his voice thunders and rumbles. A disgruntled god. It’s not the blows that hurt the most—that’s just the punishment, for displeasing him so greatly. It’s that black adult rage, nowhere inside of you to protect yourself.
Their mother, while this was going on, would sometimes find the courage to hold back a raised fist, stop it from striking too hard. And when their father would back off she would lean over the little girl, “See what you make him do?” Because the anger of a man is legitimate, one must avoid provoking it.
Next to her, Sébastien breathes deeply. Sometimes he places a hand on her, as reassuring as it is heavy.
Of course, it’s her fear of him, too, that attaches her to him so plainly. If she’s afraid, it’s because he’s a man.
HE’S JUST COME back from buying groceries, puts what he bought in the refrigerator. The telephone rings, it makes him angry, he shouts “Again!” while slamming the refrigerator door.
She picks up, so that he won’t have to hear the three rings until the answering machine.
It’s the big boss on the phone, “the velvet voice.” The nickname suits him. He listened to their demo. He thinks it’s intriguing, really, even exceptional, can they have dinner together, one night this week, before he leaves on vacation?
They agree on a date and she hangs up.
Sébastien asks, “Who was it?” She replies, “A friend,” sitting down next to him. She doesn’t really know if she’ll go. But she doesn’t know what to make up as an excuse in the event she does decide to meet him.
Before, she never lied to him. To be fair, before, she never did anything.
IT’S A RIDICULOUS restaurant, in the same league as the party. Flaunted luxury, nice lighting, a lot of silverware, waiters who refill their glasses before they’re empty. So Pauline gets drunk quickly.
The big boss pulls out all the stops, acting like he really wants to take care of her. He garnishes his speech with “you, the artist.” It’s less to flatter her than to feed his own fantasy: to be surrounded by artists and play the patron.
He devours her with his eyes, dishes out compliment after compliment.
She lied to Sébastien, made up a good friend she met in Paris who really wants to see her.
She’s really bored. Like a child during the grown-ups’ dinner who isn’t allowed to go play.
He’s enthusiastic, brimming with joy.
“Your voice is remarkable. Have you taken lessons?”
“I went to a conservatory.”
“I thought so. You have a gift, a gift that’s been honed, you can tell right away . . . I was very angry with Martin for not recognizing your talent. I had a word with him, but I’m not under any delusions, if I want something done well I have to do it myself.”
He raises his glass, she meets his gaze as though diving into freezing water, clinks her glass. Then she gives him a big smile. She doesn’t like him, not his greasy affability or his stupid self-satisfaction, even less his crass elegance. She looks around her, everyone there is sophisticated, jazz playing in the background. She looks at the women: Are they wearing corsets underneath so that later they can go blow old dudes in sex clubs? It seems all the men are old, a little rigid, they look deprived of air.
The big boss wants to make the record. She has no idea why she stays seated opposite him smiling like a dope instead of draining her glass, asking for her coat, and taking off.
Actually, it’s pretty straightforward. She wants to take a big trip. She wants to make a few bucks and have a legitimate vacation.
He’s paternal with her, very bossy.
“We’ll have to find you a songwriter.”
“I like to write my own lyrics.”
He snickers, amused.
“I know. But there are people, it’s their job . . . I’ll introduce you to someone.”
She pushes back.
“I think my songs are good the way they are.”
“A rebel, huh?”
As if it were a good joke, something that would pass quickly. He’s all tender, nevertheless he adds, “It worked in the eighties, the whole raised-fist, fuck-the-system, long-live-anarchy thing. But that doesn’t work anymore, these days.”
She eats what’s on her plate without responding. A terrible salad, not even fresh, pretentiously presented.
He has opinions about everything, categorically. She imagines him, every morning, standing by the window of his suburban house in Neuilly, hands on his hips, chin raised, deciding, “Okay, so now it’s like this, like this, and like this.”
He’s more cautious about the other thing he has to say. “You have a big sound problem. Who did the production?”
“Nicolas, a friend. He borrowed the equipment, it didn’t really work.”
“I’m rather afraid that it’s not just the equipment. He’s your boyfriend?”
“No, he’s only a friend.”
He’s relieved, visibly. That must have been the only black spot on the image: if she’s sleeping with this guy, it’d be tough to lose him. But if they’re just friends, he’s not a problem. The concept of friends for him must have been relegated to school, the people you play some soccer with. After that, things must have taken a more serious turn: the others, all those rivals to eliminate.
When the waiters come to take away her plate, he keeps talking, he doesn’t even see them. It’s effortless, it’s natural: there are people around who gravitate and serve him.
He asks, he is already pained for her, he has some difficult news to break, “And you’re very attached to him, this Nicolas?”
“Very. If I’m with you here today, it’s thanks to him from start to finish.”
He sighs, there are things she has to learn.
“It might be thanks to him that you’re here. But he certainly won’t take you much further.”
“His beats are good.”
She doesn’t think about it for a second. She knows very well that they’re crap, muddled, unbalanced, and unexciting. But the big boss refuses to hear it. It’s clear that he understands zilch, he acts like a music lover but he’s mainly a big mafioso. All that interests him is putting his people to work, so that it all stays in the inner circle. He wants to bring her into his machine, with the others, to feed it.
He leans toward her, tries to be convincing.
“You have everything it takes to become a big star. And I’m prepared to do everything to help you. You have to understand: we don’t get to the top in a group, we go alone, and those who stay behind stay behind, that’s how it is.”
She searches for the words.
“I need him, for a whole bunch of reasons. I need him for this album.”
The boss shakes his head no, really sorry he has to teach her how hard life is.
“You don’t need anyone. Emotion is emotion and business is business. You shouldn’t be afraid of working with better people, and I am going to introduce you to them.”
She acquiesces, she swallows it. She thinks: it’s their first meeting, she’ll wear him down, she won’t
let up on anything.
He gets on her nerves with his clichés. She wants to ask him: And what is your life like, for you to talk this way?
End of the meal, the big boss gets to the real question, his eyes narrow and lewd, all professional pretense gone.
“Do you go out often?”
She shakes her head no. He’s chock-full of complicity.
“Friends have told me . . . Very close friends, good people, it wasn’t to gossip or . . . anyway, I learned that you frequent . . .” He fumbles for the right words. She puts out her cigarette, lets him struggle. He finds the term: “. . . swingers clubs.”
She nods. He explains that sometimes he also . . . in the same tone he might use to say, “I, too, plant bombs sometimes.”
So it was that, from the start. He calls to the waiter passing by, takes out a credit card from his wallet, hesitates, puts it back, takes out another. She asks for another whiskey, he frowns a bit but orders it. Then she waits for him to suggest that they go there together, just to have a look around.
She remembers, in one of the pamphlets she took from the travel agency, how white the sand is on those beaches. She would do anything to plop her ass down on it.
AUTUMN
PAULINE WALKS OUT OF THE METRO. THE WHITE light leaves things gray and cold. Flower market nearby, display bursting with colors that seem out of place. A skater glides by, sort of grunge but also kind of clean cut. She passes an unbelievable woman who looks like a panther, tall boots thin legs white leather vest, like she’s from another era. As she passes, the woman gives her a little smile.
A slight headache, from the accumulated drunken nights, it won’t pass until after the first sip of wine.
Waiting to cross, she feels the cold along her arms.
Now she’s used to it, looks scrutinizing her as she walks by. She doesn’t even pay attention to them anymore, would be surprised if tomorrow she passed by unnoticed.
Photo shoot. Low-budget studio at the end of a shitty courtyard.
The photographer has a cold, isn’t feeling great. He examined her like an expert when she introduced herself. In ten seconds he’d decided on the best look for her, gave instructions to the makeup artist and to the stylist. Without even turning toward Pauline—“What do you think?”—he takes care of everything. He’s found some getup for her to squeeze into. Now just have to get rid of everything that doesn’t match.
Pauline stays seated for a long time on an uncomfortable chair while a young girl paints her entire face with foundation. She doesn’t think about Pauline, talks with her colleague.
So Pauline learns unintentionally that they’re very badly paid, it’s starting to get ridiculous, that the guy does coke, when he doesn’t have any it’s hell on earth, and that someone presented a lame collection the other night.
Then she’s in the hands of the stylist, Pauline tells her that she doesn’t want to wear the shoes because they’re ugly and way too small. The stylist rolls her eyes.
Then she’s standing in front of him. At first he’s unpleasant.
“They told me you knew what to do in front of the camera. Supposedly you make Marilyn look clumsy by comparison. So make an effort, shit.”
At this point she feels so incapable of staying in that absurd light any longer that she decides to tell him to fuck off.
But they’re interrupted.
A visitor for the photographer. Ten minutes vanish. And he comes back all reinvigorated, rubs his hands together, puts on music. He tells her, “Dance, just to see,” and it’s true that she can really move.
Then he gets heated, circles around her.
“Show me your eyes now, show me.”
And gives orders that she executes, he pummels her with compliments, “Yes, that’s good, just like that.”
Then it’s over, he distractedly shakes her hand. She finds herself outside again. Her stomach is wrecked. Humiliation, she wants to vomit. She ended up doing exactly what he wanted her to do. Why didn’t she leave? During the shoot, she felt like she was tapping into her inner self, even that it excited her, in a filthy and totally overwhelming way, to enter into that game.
Gestures came to her that she had never done before. Demeanor of a lascivious woman that she belittled herself to imitate. It was enough to hear him prompt, “Keep going, yes, like that,” and to feel him walk around her for her to flaunt herself like a whore. As if it were second nature.
The massive hostility it used to provoke in her, to see a girl “lacking self-respect.” Things were so clear back then: what everyone does, they decide. She was still unaware of how easy it is to get carried away.
She had isolated herself to such an extent that she had never crossed paths with any false guides, any silver tongues.
Now that she has stepped outside, she feels like everything is slipping away from her.
She thinks of Claudine often. Her aversions change with time.
In junior high Claudine became a woman overnight. A transformation as rapid as it was radical. Welcomed from all sides with applause.
Claudine, who until then had only accumulated abuse and was of no interest to anyone, had become “a beautiful young woman.” That was enough for people to accept her. And she had quickly understood that it would be enough for people to adore her.
She who had taken up the habit of always slumping in her chair, keeping as low a profile as possible, had suddenly landed a fantastic deal: act like a girl, then you’ll be able to stand up straight.
She took it as gospel, devoted herself to it entirely.
Pauline observed the metamorphosis and its accompanying celebration as though she were witnessing reality derailing itself. Stupefied, at first she had hoped that all these people would wake up and act reasonable again. But they revealed themselves to be unanimous and inflexible: encouragement from all sides.
As a response, Pauline became the only surviving witness of their young childhood. She never missed an opportunity to remind Claudine of what she had been, what she should never forget being. Slow, dim-witted, awkward. An idiot. To a pitiful degree. An idiot to the bone.
Claudine did the same to her, seizing every opportunity to reduce her sister to what she was: unattractive, unlik-able, ugly and drab, not even nice.
SHE KNOWS THE path by heart, to get to the record label. She has to go over there all the time—see this, take care of that, meet so-and-so, sign things.
The receptionist is always friendly with her. Takes her for an idiot, like everyone else. No one tries to talk to her, they’re all already up to speed: she’s hot as hell, but she’s not all there.
It was disconcerting at first, catching eyes rolling every time she said anything, and the badly stifled giggles if she made a critique. All she had to do was open her mouth and people were lying in wait for the enormous idiocy that would inevitably come out. She couldn’t even say, “I could really go for a coffee,” without them making fun of her.
Frankly, the people at the label aren’t exactly geniuses themselves.
Seated in Martin’s office. He calls someone every time she’s there, he says three words, it rings, he’s on the phone for a full fifteen minutes, then three more words, it rings, and off he goes again for another fifteen minutes.
He is visibly angry with her. He does everything as he should because the boss is watching. But he does not appreciate that they forced her on him. She becomes his punching bag.
Today, he observes her in silence, pensive, then frowns.
“We’ll have to get your nose redone.”
“Great, I’ll go tomorrow.”
“I’m serious, Chloé is the one who told us. I’m going to look into it.”
“Please, keep me posted.”
They talk about her when she’s not there. And when she shows up they hit her with “We’ll have to . . .” and “Don’t forget to . . .”
They’re bursting with fantastic ideas, totally original. She finds them all laughable.
He’s more
bitter than usual because yesterday the boss got angry. She said yes to the songwriter, yes to the sound guy, yes to the stylist. They have what she wants: a lot of money. She’s waiting for the day she can get her hands on it.
She didn’t want them to replace Nicolas. She thought that in choosing a single point of resistance she could hold out. They can’t stand working with someone who isn’t already known. They’ve identified the talent, he’s in their binder and they won’t go looking elsewhere. It’s a kind of reflex: the job has to revolve around a small number of people, otherwise the riches dry up.
So the boss summoned her, much more enraged than usual.
“Listen up, Claudine: if we don’t make this record, I’ll be very disappointed, but tomorrow when I wake up, I won’t be devastated.”
She was sitting in his office, the disgruntled boss was waiting for her to make the right decision. All of it is for her own good, so why is she being a pain in the ass?
She said that he was right. Back home, called Nicolas. She has to see him tonight.
She waits for Martin to finish explaining something to her, how it’ll work in the studio. If it can be said in four or five sentences, it takes him seven or eight paragraphs. He is incapable of being concise.
Before she leaves, Martin signals that he’s not finished.
“The boss wants to see you.”
With a contemptuous sigh, to make it clear he knows why.
He can shove his contemptuous sigh up his ass. When she sits down opposite him, he loses his train of thought as soon as she shifts a leg.
She walks through the office. In the center, there’s a huge room where people are busy working. Several lift their heads, pointedly, then gossip once she’s gone.
Everyone knows why the boss wants to see her so often, that she was signed because he’s screwing her.
She knocks before entering, but Martin had already called to let him know he was sending her over. When he speaks to the boss, he talks about her with respect.
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