Voice Over

by Celine Curiol

  The plates are empty; Ange is clearing the table. After retreating to his laboratory under the watchful eye of his partner, he returns with a steaming casserole of boeuf bourguignon. Everyone holds out a plate to the chef, who serves the food himself. She takes advantage of the profusion of outstretched arms to give the porcelain a discreet wipe with her napkin and rid it of some of the salmon taste. Hardly has she done so than the man with the stoop grabs her plate and declares in a loud voice, Ladies first. Here then is the young man who has been reserved for her. Charming; perhaps he’d also like a round of applause? Someone says, it’s crazy how Le Pen . . . General approbation, use is made of the words “alarming,” “worrying,” “sad.” They all seem to have given the problem quite some thought. She notes that they take pleasure in agreeing. That strikes her as a bit sterile. Timidly, she puts her question: out of interest, do you have many French people of North African extraction among your acquaintances? Looks fly in all directions. I mean, it’s a strange term, French of North African extraction. One of the husbands fixes her with an annoyed stare. I really don’t see the connection. Neither do the others apparently. She looks to the end of the table for support, but he is leaning over to Ange and not looking in her direction. The husband is back on the attack, his tone more aggressive. And you, Miss, do you know many? She can’t stand people who use the word Miss to remind you that you are less mature or more unmarried than they are. It’s not Miss, actually, she would like to shoot back. That would have put him in his place. Luckily, Ange, ever the perfect hostess, enquires if everyone is enjoying the delicious meal lovingly concocted by her boyfriend lover fiancé partner sweetheart, i.e. the guy she allows herself to be groped by. But since everyone is waiting to hear if the girl at the end of the table knows, might one go so far as to say frequents—what was it she called them?—French people of North African extraction, Ange’s question goes unanswered. Do you like it? asks Ange again. Everyone makes mmm sounds with their mouths; compliments are made to the chef and to his hostess. A moment of true harmony. But the husband has not lost the scent: from the look in his eyes, she sees that he regrets not being able to sink his teeth into that piece of woman whose discretion gives him the right to pick on her. The conversation resumes, but she is no longer following.

  She thinks back to her dream of the night before. In a sunlit street, elegantly dressed young women are pushing strollers. There is a small crowd of them, all advancing at the same pace. They are filled with a quiet joy, which seems to suit them. At first, she can’t make out what they’re pushing in front of them. Finally she turns, her point of view shifts, and she sees what’s in the strollers: children, all too big still to be ferried around like that, their limbs gathered in, folded tightly in front of them to fit between the metal struts of the stroller; children dressed in military fatigues and all of them holding in one arm, leaning against the length of their bodies, a machine-gun practically as big as they are. She could perhaps tell them about that, but discussing dreams at dinner parties is not done. In one gulp, she finishes off her glass. She sees the hand of the man with the stoop reaching out for her plate, on which some tiny puddles of a rich, dark sauce remain. Or did you want to mop up with some bread? Without waiting for her to reply, he whisks her plate away. She wonders whether to pretend to laugh or reward him for his effort. No thank you, she replies politely. She notices the table is being cleared; he hasn’t looked at her since that wink in the kitchen. Ange gets up with the pile of plates, he follows her out. With the couple momentarily gone, the delicately-spun bonds among the guests start to fray. The two husbands lower their voices and turn to their wives; the two bachelors slowly light cigarettes; for a few moments, everyone abandons his or her social role, enjoys a well-deserved mid-performance break. For a brief instant, she fears giving in to the physical urge to rush out the door. That damn silence is starting to get to her. They’re acting in a seven-man locked room drama, and it feels as if she’s the last dead woman who has yet to grasp the rules of hell. She pours herself another glass of red wine, which she forces herself to sip for appearances’ sake. Someone decides to open another bottle to put everyone a bit more at ease. Since they all know each other already and she is acquainted only with the hosts, she senses there will be no escape: she is in for a full-blown interrogation. With everybody listening religiously as though her life were somehow thrilling. And sure enough, the guy with the stoop makes an exceptional effort and asks her what she does for a living. By chance, the question falls during a lull in the conversation, and the entire group feels invited to stick their noses in: the six others wait for the rather unassuming girl at the end of the table to speak up; damn it, it’s about time she contributed a bit more to the discussion. They are in such a hurry to find out what box to put her in. She imagines the husband must be rubbing his hands under the table, delighted at this perfect opportunity to go back on the offensive. All eyes are on her: a court waiting to hear the correct answer. She isn’t quite sure that she speaks their language any more. There is only one way to find out. I’m a prostitute.

  She said it so well, with a mixture of professional pride and personal regret, that the others believed her—she sensed it at once. There is a brief freeze-frame. The man with the stoop feels a bit of a jerk now that he has his answer. He manages a polite rejoinder, all the same: And have you been in the business long? Maybe he’s not quite so lacking in imagination, after all. Quick as a flash, her voice steady. Ten years, I started young. Even the virulent husband is taken aback; a few more details, and he could almost feel sorry for her. She knows that none of the four men will dare ask her how much she charges. Besides, they have ceased to look upon her with kindness: she is no longer innocent. Only the two women continue to regard her with curiosity. And then, all at once, a heart-felt cry from the wearer of Iranian veils: life can’t be easy for you. It isn’t sarcasm or disdain, but sincerity, and it plunges all present into what, from the outside, appears to be intense introspection. At which point he returns with a strawberry tart, Ange, and nine dessert plates. Ange inquires about the subject of their conversation. She then realizes that she has overstepped the mark. I was talking about my work, she says eventually, as the others maintain an obstinate silence. Yes, it’s unusual, says Ange, people always forget that’s a job, too. Frowns from the guests, surprised by such tolerance on the part of their hostess. Silence reigns as Ange dexterously divides the tart into near-equal portions. The sugary taste in the mouth helps the dinner to continue as if nothing had happened. No one else deigns to show any interest in her now; the man with the stoop hasn’t even dared lay another finger on her plate. One thing is for sure, there won’t be any more questions for the remainder of the evening. She wonders how many of them will remember the interlude which briefly disturbed the course of their evening. There was a prostitute at Thingamabob’s the other night; she seemed like a nice girl. She imagines herself as an anointed saboteur of the social order. A single word from her and she had switched identity in their eyes: reality had cracked in a place they never would have suspected.

  Before leaving, she went to the toilet. On opening the door to come out, she found the husband standing in front of her. Laughter was emanating from what seemed to be a very distant living room. At first she thought the husband was waiting his turn, but he made no move to enter. He took her for a different person; she had snared him with an unpremeditated lie. With dexterous movements of his thumb, the husband keyed her number onto the screen of his mobile phone; he asked for her first name again before entering the toilet.

  She kisses air, pressing her cheek to each of the guests’ in turn. Ange, tipsy, falls into her arms before he accompanies her to the front door. She is on one side of the threshold, he is on the other. He reels off end-of-evening phrases: thanks for coming, did you have a good time? I hope you enjoyed the food? She nods her head, understands that they won’t mention the kiss again. A mishap unworthy of further thought. Now all that stands between them is the false impre
ssion he has formed of her, but she feels unable to persuade him otherwise. The battle would be lost in advance if she were the one who decided to lead it. She turns towards the stairwell. I’ll call you. The door banging shut drowns out the last syllable. As she leaves the building, the street is deserted except for a couple walking in her direction. The woman is pushing an empty stroller. A few paces behind her, a man is carrying a baby in his arms. As the man passes in front of her, the child gives her a little wave.

  She thinks of her own death. As if it were a cessation, the sudden interruption of a current, the annihilation of what she is. At any moment. She concentrates on the physical duration of time. Each instant could be the last, yet each instant, once over, becomes a reprieve. And, one by one, the instants pass, nothing happens, or rather everything does: she doesn’t die. As if waiting for the impact of a shot which will be fired from an unknown direction and hit her in an unknown place, she forces herself to remain stock still to try to feel the imminence of her death. All she perceives now is her own breathing—automatic, beyond her control, capable of being smothered every time she inhales. She would have stopped breathing, swallowed her last gasp of air: she might have croaked without even realizing it. The exercise brings on a twinge of panic, but afterwards her confidence returns and she feels less vulnerable. She wonders what the last image she sees will be, what fleeting morsel of the world will flicker in front her eyes before it vanishes. She would never know what image sat on her retinas at the zero hour of their countdown to decomposition; she would never know what message was being relayed by the last nerve impulse to enter her brain. As a child she used to imagine herself dying then coming back to life to spy on the reactions of those closest to her. She enjoyed imagining the consequences of her death. The scene was always constructed more or less along the same lines. Those who had known her were crying, telling each other how much they had loved her, and from this grief, which she pictured in all sorts of ways, she drew strength. She was getting her revenge on them; her dying was their punishment. Much later she found out that this mode of behavior wasn’t peculiar to her. Psychologists have a term for this childish instinct which is supposed to disappear when you reach adulthood.

  She is still in bed, studying the outline on the wall of the sun’s rays filtered through the window, when the phone rings. His voice. She can’t believe that he’s calling her so soon, less than twenty-four hours since they last saw each other. From the clipped, cut-off sound of his words, she can tell that he is annoyed. Because of the sweater, no doubt. Ange can’t have appreciated the fact that a piece of plastic was left attached to the material, and he is now going to order her to find a way to get that damn security disc off. He already must have spent the entire morning wearing himself out, directed by Ange’s nervous commands. No, I’m not asleep. It’s about last night. She senses that he is troubled, which makes her uneasy in turn. She could come clean with him about her shoplifting from Promod, but she fears the effect her spur-of-the-moment crime would have on him. It’s about what you told the others. He says that all his friends really believed that she was a prostitute. It can’t have done them any harm to meet one. Did you think you were being clever? He finds it pretty odd to lie like that, for no reason. Such is the paradox of a lie: so long as everyone equates it with truth, they’re prepared to accept it, but the moment a lie is discovered to be a lie, it’s seen as a personal insult. Why should there always be complex reasons for lying? Truth, that endless Chinese box, is not terribly attractive. A lie at least has the merit of being complete and is often far more coherent than its opposite. Apparently she has succeeded in putting off the man applying for the post of boyfriend. They believed me, after all; I must really look the part. From the sound of his breathing in the receiver, she senses that he has relaxed slightly. And this subtle change in mood indicates that he got the message. Her heart reminds her of its presence: something simultaneously shrinks and expands inside her chest. Neither one of them speaks. She waits for him to come out with the usual words, the ones that restrict her to a clearly defined category, the female friend. But this time silence no longer seems enough for him to push on with his usual, pre-formatted phrases. They remain silent, as if to absorb the transformation that is taking place. And through this interruption in the automatic rhythm of their verbal exchanges, she has the sense that, for the first time, they understand each other. For the first time—she can feel it—the thought of a relationship with her has crossed his mind. Eventually he says, Ange is calling me, I have to go.

  For a long while she continues holding the phone, half out of the sheets, her head back on the pillow. One by one, she connects the images that have lingered behind her eyes, the specters of distant things. A dreamlike association that she can nevertheless control. The bit of excess skin on her grandmother’s neck which she would push at with her finger, intrigued, whenever the old lady took her in her arms; the two straps and the metal buckles of her enormous satchel which, once she shrugged it off, would leave her feeling as light as a feather; the unease she felt in the damp corridors she had to walk down in order to get to the cellar; her frenzied, heart-clenched dance behind the closed door of her room on the afternoon she saw that her panties were stained with an unfamiliar blood; the igloo she started but never finished because the temperature climbed too fast; the mad dash in an ambulance after she cut her hand open while slicing the Gruyère; the steep climb up the stairs to get to her lesson with Mademoiselle Rousseau, who would become annoyed whenever she crossed her legs while playing the piano; the hours of detention spent gazing out hypnotically at the magnificently empty school playground; the filaments of the climbing rope that would work themselves into her palms while her irate gym teacher yelled at her to get her ass moving; the ridiculous slippers she’d kept on by mistake to go to high school; the comment at the bottom of her report card, year after year the same: inattentive, could do better; the mighty slap she’d received from big Caro in a corner of the playground; the exquisite fur of the neighbour’s cat as it rubbed itself against her legs every afternoon when she came home from school. The pink room in her grandparents’ house. She immediately shuts off the projector in her mind and rubs her hands over her face. The sun has sunk down behind the façade of a building; she shivers.

  The more use we make of our memories, the more they turn into fables, which we keep turning over in our minds so as to not forget who we are, their moral serving as our solace or our torture. But let us continue.

  11:30 am: she still has some time. She walks up the street towards the market. Between the two rows of parallel stalls, the crowd moves slowly. Shoulders twist right and left, boring a path through the throng. The market-gardeners, with their ruddy, florid complexions, plunge sturdy fingers darkened with vegetable dust into the mounds of produce. In a booming voice, they call out the prices. With rapid, precise gestures, they juggle the colorful, organic forms with the tarnished weights of their scales, the tiny coins and notes, which they lob into a small box set prominently in the midst of their wares. In an open-sided van, a refrigerated Punch and Judy show, a woman in a white apron, her fingers sheathed in plastic, is delicately removing from her display, as if they were precious stones, small round goat’s cheeses, wedges of creamy Brie or rich Comté, fresh eggs, slabs of butter sliced off with cheese wire. She wraps each customer’s order in wax paper. Standing amidst buckets of floating flowers, a man and a woman, their index fingers streaked with cuts from garden shears, are picking out delicately-flowered stems to make a harmonious bouquet, which will then be wrapped in cellophane and showy ribbons and conveyed upside-down to a mother or wife. For her, they are the last remaining survivors. People who still know the earth’s moods, who know that carrots don’t grow on trees, that cheese doesn’t come ready-made from the udders of cows. She loves the resistance and the solidity, the tenacity of these visitors from another world, a world where they don’t need to pile into underground train cars, to breathe in exhaust fumes, or to pretend they don�
��t hear the amorous panting of their neighbors coming through the wall.