Whatever the extent of the oddball’s divinatory powers, she is no longer in the mood for guessing games. A small gesture to the waiter, who is now studying them closely, not missing a crumb of their weird tête-à-tête, a perfect distraction for a rather dull late afternoon. She pays, gets up. The man’s voice for the last time. You’re right to go alone, trust me. She shrugs her shoulders but is happy to hear those words. No one has ever proved that guardian angels don’t exist. Not angels who have wings, like the ones she saw the other night on Ange’s back, but angels who protect you, the real guardians.
The rooflines of the apartment buildings appear perfectly distinct, their symmetrical placement down the length of the avenue far more striking than usual. The declining light bathes the façades in its orange hues. She has passed this way dozens of times, but this evening the sight of these stationary buildings does her good. Lit as they are, the walls are no longer barriers but mirrors, filtering moods so that only the best ones remain. One day she was given a pair of tinted orange sunglasses. They made the world more beautiful. She wore them at every opportunity, dreading the moment when she would have to take them off. After several delicious weeks, she lost them. Where or how, she had no idea. She has had other pairs since then, of course, but has never found the desired effect again. Which has led her to conclude that for every pair of eyes there exists a specific tint. Color is absorption, what remains of light deprived of certain wavelengths. Orange equals light minus blue, simple arithmetic. All the colors mixed together gives white. Maximum superposition, absolute density. What she needs is to filter out a certain blue wavelength which makes the world a little too cold for her. Yet she also knows that losing those glasses was not a bad thing. If they had stayed with her, she would have grown accustomed to them. Repetition would have diminished the effect.
It’s eight o’clock. She is outside the theater, which looks the way she imagined it would. A small, finely crafted building resembling a palace. Unique architecture for a special place. The few times she has been to the theater, it felt as if she were stepping into a sanctuary meant for an initiated few. The solemnity such places exude makes her uneasy. The artifice of the sets and the costumes prevents her from letting go of herself. If it were up to her, all plays would start out on the pavement. No calls for silence, no spotlights, no tiers of raised seats. The actors would mingle with the crowd and suddenly launch into their roles. At the foot of the stairs, people dressed for the occasion have started to gather. She feels rather drab by comparison. They are waiting as well, but not the way she is. They are out for the evening, want to have fun; whereas she is on a mission and has come to find the actress who bears her name. She collects her ticket and stations herself slightly off to the side of the stream of new arrivals. The muffled buzz of conversations, the clusters of lights on the walls and ceiling, the faces, made-up, freshly shaven, cleansed of worry in anticipation of what they are about to see, give her the impression that she is inside a cocoon. The notion of time has been abolished. The people are the same ones who gathered here a hundred years earlier, all they have done is change their clothes to keep up with current fashions. She seems to be the only one who has doubts about her role. What she lacks is an escort, someone she could imitate. No one is paying attention to her, she reflects, it therefore must mean that she really does stand out. If she were a ghost, she would roam the foyer at every performance in the hope of finally being seen. If he had been there, he would have acted as a buffer between her and them.
An usherette in a black suit is asking her if she is looking for someone. She hesitates. Yes, her husband, he’s been delayed. The young woman shows no sign of surprise; swallows the lie as painlessly as a gulp of saliva. The fingers with their manicured nails twist her ticket apart while the eyes take in her shoes. If your husband has his ticket, I’ll take you to your seat. One of the usherette’s tights has a run behind the ankle. She considers mentioning it but doesn’t, for fear of upsetting her. She edges her way between knees and the backs of seats towards the place the usherette indicates with a disproportionately large gesture. Strained smiles, heavy sighs, people shift their legs to one side, rise to their feet, as the entire row takes note of her arrival. She settles into her seat, relieved. A few seconds of required immobility to make them forget about her.
A young couple is sitting to her left. Their joined hands placed on the central armrest, as if they were on a plane about to take off. They’re having an energetic conversation, of which she catches only every other sentence . . . In the Solitude of Cotton Fields is much better . . . How can you say that when you haven’t read it . . . you have to read it otherwise you’ll never be able to understand Bernard-Marie Koltès’ other work. She doesn’t know who Cortès is. It sounds like the name of an explorer, a conquistador. If she had been an explorer she would have set out alone for distant places, by land and on foot. Perhaps he would have known about Cortès; it would have given them a topic of conversation. Not that silence between them would be embarrassing, but places of public entertainment oblige you to talk. Another couple have sat down to her right. Two generations older. Siamese lives: the past starts the moment they met. They have ended up looking similar, in the evermore dizzying rush of time their movements have slowed at an equal pace. After undoing their coats, folding them carefully, lowering the seat with trembling hand, sitting down and arranging their things on their laps, they stare at the red velvet curtain. All she can hear is their slow, sonorous breathing. She tries to breathe like the woman, imposing on her lungs the same intakes and exhalations of air. It’s always Shakespeare with you, I’ve had it with Shakespeare. The young man has raised his voice. Startled out of her daze, the elderly lady sits up in her seat and adjusts the dial of her watch. They’re late, she remarks to her husband. The man looks at his watch. They’re not late, it’s eight-thirty. A bell rings. The lights go down.
The set stays the same throughout the play. The offices of a small PR company at the start of the twenty-first century. Six metal-and-plastic desks, six chairs with adjustable height and backs, six computers; some shelves and filing cabinets; a whiteboard on the wall; a coffee machine. Laid out on each desk are pots of pencils, notepads, Post-Its, staplers, along with a few of the occupant’s personal effects—a cuddly toy, a postcard, a framed photograph, a packet of sweets. The action takes place in an unnamed town in the United States. The play opens on a Monday morning as the six employees—five women and a man—arrive at their desks and pick up where they left off the previous Friday evening. There is one final character, who comes on later, the boss, whose adjacent office shares a door with the stage. The first, fairly ordinary, lines of dialogue serve to establish the atmosphere of the office and the role of each employee within it. Weekend activities are discussed, someone complains about a machine that’s not working or about a missing file; there’s banter to show most of the six employees know each other well. It’s mainly the women who reveal themselves in these small brushstrokes; in anecdotes that reveal the key aspects of their lives, the main traits of their personalities, their everyday worries but also their recurrent obsessions. As for the man, he is rather worn-out. Not much of a talker, he nevertheless makes an effort to take part in the women’s running jokes. Naturally, the boss is a tyrant; coarse, but not nasty. He likes having all these women under his command. Finally, there is one employee who stands out from the rest, the new one, Noémie. She talks less than the others; not that she ignores the conversations, but she keeps a vigilant eye on her work. She has the absent air of a person absorbed by a single ongoing thought. Noémie resists becoming part of the group, who do everything to draw her in with their questions, their teasing and provocations. Noémie doesn’t play the game; she wants to be left alone; she lets no one get close. But the more she holds back, the more the others are intrigued. Her secret is like a splinter, painful but invisible, except when very close. Prodded by her colleagues, who ultimately mean well, she finally opens up: her husband was in one of the Twi
n Towers of the World Trade Center during the September 11 attacks. All the women immediately assume that he didn’t survive, but Noémie can’t bring herself to admit it, for she has received no tangible proof of her husband’s death. To her colleagues, her hopes appear groundless and unhealthy. Yet none of them has the courage to talk about it. According to them, the best remedy is to forget, and the women encourage her to look for a new partner. But Noémie sustains herself on illusions and can do no more than haunt the margins of normal life. For her to fit in, she would have to think as the others did and give up the only thing that allows her to go on: the conviction that her husband is alive, somewhere. In the end, the male employee, normally silent, reveals to her that he was a volunteer in the Ground Zero rescue operations. From what he saw, her husband could only be dead. After hearing these declarations, Noémie does not return to work the next day, nor in the days that follow.
Right from the start, she feels certain that the actress playing Noémie is the one with the same name as hers. Her performance is so perfect, it seems to her that the actress has become Noémie, who from now on can only have this actress’s voice, postures, and expressions. After a certain point, all she sees on stage is another version of herself, who is the actress living the role of Noémie.
In the middle of the play, she turned around. Dozens of faces, illuminated by the diffuse light of the projectors, had their immense eyes trained on the same spot; not moving, intent. She found it fascinating.
The lights come back up. Eyes blink. To her left, the hands are apart, each one now resting on its respective thigh. The young couple have resumed their discussion with the same intransigent passion as before—the plot’s a bit hard to swallow; the main actress, a bit weak—and get up from their seats as soon as the applause has died down. The elderly couple to her right, by contrast, are quite motionless, their fingers entwined. The play has abruptly propelled them into a place to which only they have access. Their immobility is no longer a sign of their age; they are still in their seats because they have yet to return to themselves. She feels intrigued and gives in to her curiosity. Are you all right? A kindly, apologetic smile from the old lady, who shows no surprise at the question and is quick to reply that the play has brought back memories for her and her husband. From the war, you know. She doesn’t, but would like to know, only the husband then says, let’s go, thereby bringing to an end the conversation which has barely begun. No point insisting. Which of the two of them disappeared, which of the two of them thought the other one was dead, which of the two of them found the other years later, the mystery remains intact. And because of their sense of discretion, the hunched, grey-haired couple take their story away with them.
Someone told her it was the third door at the end of the corridor. Hanging from the walls are posters of past productions at the theater, testimony to the short-lived glory of the actors who appeared in them. She reads some of the now-forgotten names as she passes. Fame has never tempted her. She has never sought to do anything at all that could earn her the recognition of others. Nothing in her life strikes her as worthy of either praise or exposure. Her job consists of talking into a microphone and enunciating pieces of information as succinctly as she can. She produces sounds. Practically anyone could do it. In any case, she has never wanted to be indispensable. Seeing her name printed in a newspaper, being recognized and fawned over by people who have an idealized, distorted picture of who she is would embarrass her. She would believe she was a fraud. The last poster in the corridor is the one for the evening’s play. She sees her name, the actress’s, their name in fact. Like everyone else, yes, she would feel flattered to be admired. She would know lots of people, who would know her in return. Her telephone would ring, she would be invited to dinners in imposing mansions, where she would be served not smoked salmon but caviar. Her eccentricities would be indulged, might even add to her reputation. Lots of men would want to sleep and stay with her. As for him, he would like her more; Ange would no longer make the grade. But at the height of her glory, some meddling journalist would discover the switch. It would be too much for her to bear: suicide, and the end of the promising career of the SNCF train announcer-turned-celebrity. Her ex-colleagues would be interviewed: she was a wonderful person, we were all so close.
Draught of fresh air. A man has come out of the dressing room and strides straight past her without a glance, even though there are just the two of them in the corridor. She can’t believe her eyes, she knows him. But by the time she finally decides to say, we’ve met, Maxime is already too far away. The door has remained ajar. Someone is humming; a woman’s voice. She knows the piece, which consists of only a few notes, one tone up, one tone down, again and again. She used to play it on the piano; she remembers the tune but not the name. She gently pushes the door and steps into the room. In the mirror covering one of the walls, she sees the actress examining herself in a piece of another mirror laid flat on a table. Noémie is the first word that comes to mind. Before she has time to say anything, the actress wheels around quickly, and the two of them are looking at each other. The actress belongs to the second category, the ones who immediately sense the presence of someone’s eyes upon them. As tense as an archer’s bow, sophisticated, a milky way of tiny freckles on her upper chest. What are you doing here? The actress expects an explanation. Find the words before the surprise turns to annoyance. I’ve come on account of our name, we have the same one. The actress raises her eyebrows in displeasure. What ridiculous undertaking has she launched into? She is no longer sure what she wants.
We have the same name. She has nothing further to say; it’s what she came for. The reaction of the person in front of her must now give her presence meaning. Caught off-guard, the actress replies that yes, that does happen, more often than one might think; a lot of people share the same surname. She is trying hard to come across as accommodating, despite having only one wish: to get rid of this odd intruder. Yet another star-struck fan, who will have seen in the similarity of their names a pretext to meet her. She is aware of the unease she is causing but is still convinced that she can’t just leave; that beyond the small talk and the apparent incongruity of her visit, something else needs to happen. The actress has stopped spouting platitudes. There could now be the slam of a door, the hum of ventilation, the meow of a cat, even perhaps an explosion, but instead there is a kind of grey silence made up of the remnants of distant sounds, which neither one of them bothers to identify. Eventually, the actress invites her to sit down in an armchair whose back touches the mirror. Listen, I don’t understand what you want. She doesn’t know what she wants either. She saw her name on the poster in the métro just before she found the dead man and thought there might be a reason. A reason? The actress knows that public figures receive attention from every kind of maniac, that she shouldn’t complain, but there has to be a limit to how much time she can give them. And then Maxime had been in the corridor. She knows Maxime? Touché. Curiosity is aroused. She has gone up a notch; the actress has started to wonder, to have doubts, to worry. And what are you doing here?
Maxime doesn’t give the actress money; he tells her that he’s in love. More noble, no trace, no responsibility in the eyes of the law. He makes love to her in the dressing room after her performances. She doesn’t even have the time to get out of character; she’s still immersed in Noémie’s denial, still has her voice, her mannerisms. She is tracking her phantom husband, and that phantom takes the form of Maxime. And as she passes from one body to the other, an imperceptible transition, the beating heart that slows after the race, she could not be more vulnerable. Their love-making prolongs the experience on stage. When pleasure finally brings her back to herself, he is already putting on his trousers. The time to ask questions has passed.
She knows all that; there is no need for the actress to tell her. The bearers of secrets are condemned to wander on the periphery, plunging into the world around them to create an illusion, regularly excluding themselves so as to let nothing
show. They are tempted to confess but are gagged by their own guilt at having kept silent for so long. A single judge has handed down their sentence, a judge all the crueller for being none other than themselves. And the only ones who can recognize them are those going through the same penance, those able to signal them without giving themselves away. The actress, on the defensive, refuses to let her in. And so she finally plucks up the courage to say it to her. If you’re so upset when he leaves, maybe you don’t trust him, maybe you sense that he’s lying to you about his feelings. A tightening, a closing down, why is this woman mixing herself up in all this? Quick, stop her from disrupting what the actress spends her evenings putting in order. But because the other woman has the same name, because her tone of voice attests to her honesty, because what she says makes sense, the actress doesn’t reply and sits down in the armchair opposite her. And suddenly it strikes her that the mirror no longer divides the space but multiplies it. They are not two any more but four, they and their reflections, the perfect image of their lives split in two. Four sides of a single person who doesn’t exist. They are no longer moving. No one can tell how long this lasts, not even they. And for a few seconds or several minutes, nothing happens in the dressing room. Until the realisation comes that she is ready to talk. Ready as she has never been before; without apparent reason or motive. For the first time since she was thirteen, she begins to tell the story of the rite of passage. She talks about the pink room, about the piano, the bed with the spring mattress, about the pink bedspread, the piano in the room. She is not emotional but focused on making her account as precise as possible, as if this were her only chance to consign what happened to the invisible pages of another’s memory. She doesn’t say I, but she.
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