Voice Over

by Celine Curiol

  The blinds in the overheated office are drawn; the walls are hidden by shelves crammed with files. Each one contains a record of the worries, pathologies, and sufferings of a human being. Some are slim, others far thicker, a collection of ills arranged in alphabetical order. The doctor has sat down behind her desk. She is suntanned; her black eyes express nothing in particular beyond a certain weariness. She takes a new file from a drawer and asks her to spell out her first and last name, to give her date of birth and to describe the reason for her visit. She is not unhappy to be asked questions in this way; she experiences a sense of relief, as though she were submitting to a procedure that would allow her to square herself with the authorities. So she gives precise answers to the person in front of her, whom she imagines as a fantastical being, a kind of magician immunized against pain. Undress, I’m going to examine you. The doctor points at the examining table, which she covers with a sheet of white paper. She takes off her clothes and drapes them carefully over the back of a chair. Once naked, she tries hard to act as if she were still dressed. The doctor asks her to step onto the scales, then to sit on the table so she can listen to her heartbeat. She takes deeper breaths. The cool pressure of the stethoscope against her back makes her feel as if she is being rocked by something invisible and soothing. The doctor wraps a black band around her upper arm, which she inflates with a small pump. Next, she makes her open her mouth, shines a light on the back of her throat, has a good look inside, feels her neck, asks her to lie down, then slowly palpates her joints, armpits, breasts and belly. The pressure of these hands is so calming that she already feels half-cured. She appreciates that the doctor intently going about her job does not look her in the eyes and behaves as if she were dealing with an organism just like any other, merely checking to see if it’s in good working order. Finally the verdict is pronounced, you have the flu, I’m going to prescribe a light course of treatment. The doctor returns to her desk and starts writing something that she isn’t entitled to see. Have you already thought about having children? For several seconds, she isn’t sure if the doctor was talking to her. No one has ever asked her that question and, just then, she doesn’t have the slightest idea how to respond. It feels as if the other woman has turned into a judge, and she is standing naked before her. Even worse, she will be given the maximum sentence if her answer is no. I don’t know. Perhaps the doctor is full of good intentions: in the next room, she might be keeping a fine male specimen whom she orders to inseminate, free of charge, any female patient who so desires it. The doctor is still writing, as though she were now taking notes on her reactions. Time passes quickly, you know. The sentence rings out like a warning. She thinks back to the little girl in the waiting room and how clumsy she had felt while talking to her. To imagine the physical sensation of a body inside her own, the plump bulge on which she would proudly lay her hands . . . yes, she remembers having already tried to, at the market, because of Marion’s child. But even with him, the thought of a child leaves her cold. Still, they say that once you find the man, having children comes naturally. She’s the exception that proves the rule. It all seems unnatural to her. Intrusion rather than fusion. She isn’t cut out for giving life, it’s as simple as that. Too noble and too abnormal for her. I know about the time factor, but I don’t think I’m cut out for it. The doctor has finally stopped writing and gives her an indulgent smile. I can assure you that you have everything you need. The situation is starting to get on her nerves. She came because of the flu, and now they want to sell her a baby. She might have everything that’s needed, like other women, but she knows that she doesn’t have the strength, the inner strength. She’d like to explain to her that it’s not her fault but she feels too shaky to talk. She realizes that she is still naked. To regain her composure, she decides to get dressed. Give it some careful thought. She has had enough. Still clutching her panties, she looks the doctor straight in the eye. And what about you, do you have children? Once again, she gives her that small, indulgent smile. No, and that’s precisely why I’m mentioning it to you. And she hands over the prescription.

  In the taxi that takes her home, she replays the scene in her mind. What this woman doctor tried to get across to her was the fear of regret. Yes, time passes quickly, she knows that; she isn’t arrogant enough to think that she’s immortal. Though she may have felt anxious as she left the office, telling herself that a day would come when she would no longer be able to have children, she now knows that it makes no difference. She doesn’t want children, doesn’t want to replicate herself, but she doesn’t know why. Any more than she knows why she is sitting in this particular taxi, watching, through this particular window, these particular buildings go by. At the first pharmacy they come to, she asks the driver to pull over. Minutes later, she is back with a small green-and-white bag containing a box of medicine. The doctor probably asks the same question of all her patients of child-bearing age, women who pounce on their partners that very night, demanding to be impregnated immediately before it’s too late, or else get depressed for lack of a proper sire on hand. In the long run, what intrigues her most is how the doctor had managed to figure out that she has never given birth.

  He is not outside her building when the taxi drops her off at the entrance. Throughout the journey she had clung to the hope he would be waiting for her. As she climbs the stairs, she invents excuses for him—his bosses asked him to work late; Ange, who had also fallen ill, wanted him to go and pick her up; his wallet was stolen in the métro. On reaching her landing, she tells herself that she won’t hold it against him. As she pushes open the door to her apartment, the telephone is ringing. She hurries over to answer it. I knew it was you. She says it in her new husky female voice without waiting for her caller to identify himself. She isn’t wrong. He wants to know how she is and to make sure she did go to the doctor. She is proud to confirm that she has followed his instructions. I just need to have children and I’ll be cured. He doesn’t laugh, and she has to tell him what happened. Do you want some now? No. He suggests that they meet the following Friday.

  He is usually the first to arrive at the café. But three-quarters of an hour have gone by, and she is still waiting. For a while, the hissing of the espresso machine, the clinking of the cups, the rise and fall of the conversations kept her distracted. She no longer hears anything and doesn’t take her eyes off the glass entrance door, except to survey the customers or turn suddenly whenever someone brushes past her. People are coming and going, but he is never one of those people. She has already drunk two espressos and orders a third from the waiter who gives her a goofy smile and assures her that her date will be coming soon. Who would have the nerve to stand you up? She doesn’t bother to reply. She is sitting at the same table, their table; he can’t possibly miss her. Again and again, her brain spews forth the same thought: one second from now, he is going to walk through that door. He is going to walk through that door, and he will be out of breath. He will look apologetic, will say that the métro had broken down, that there was too much traffic to take a taxi, he will tell her that he’s sorry. She’ll take hold of one of his hands, won’t utter a word of reproach, delighted to be with him again. A man with his elbows on the bar has caught her attention. From the back, she thinks she recognizes the length and cut of the hair. She gets up and hurries over, steps round expecting to find him on the other side. But the person she discovers is atrociously unlike him. The man politely asks if he can be of any help. She shakes her head and rushes back to her observation post. The glass door keeps opening and closing; each time, another punch in the guts. She can feel the man at the bar eyeing her, intrigued. She avoids looking in his direction. A blonde woman comes in, then two men in suits, then a man who hasn’t shaved, then another blonde woman, then . . . the whole of Paris is filing past her eyes and he’ll be the last one to arrive. So be it. She decides to stay until the café closes if she has to.

  The man from the bar is standing next to her; he offers to buy her a drink. Thanks, but I
’m waiting for someone. She doesn’t look up. Three very excited women have just entered the café. You’ve been waiting a while. She doesn’t answer. She hates this man sticking his nose into her life without so much of a by-your-leave. A young man with a pony-tail is tugging furiously at the glass door until, finally, he realizes that he has to push to open it. The time would pass more quickly if you talked to me. She wants to tell him to go back to sipping his beer and leave her the hell alone. But it seems wiser to ignore him and stick to her surveillance of the door. The man from the bar stands beside her for a few more seconds, his gaze weighing on her eyelids, which she refuses to lift, then, defeated by her hostility, he eventually walks off. She realizes that he has grey hair, invisible to her at first, and that he is in fact older than she had thought. She feels a bit guilty at not having been nicer. She does the arithmetic; she has been waiting for an hour and fifteen minutes. What on earth could have happened to him? Maybe he’s left a message on her answering machine, and once she goes home she’ll get a rational explanation for his absence. This thought helps her to relax a little. She takes a break from watching the door and orders a glass of white wine from the waiter, who ventures no further comments. Ten minutes later, the man from the bar is back on the offensive, standing next to her, his glass of beer in hand.

  I’ll leave the moment he arrives, I promise. The man is sitting down on the seat in front of her. She is about to protest, but he doesn’t give her the chance. I’m on my own, you’re on your own, I just want to talk, no harm in that, is there? He looks sincere, she doesn’t chase him away. After all, he might help to take her mind off things. You’ll leave when . . . He agrees with an understanding smile. He has yellow, smoker’s teeth, two odd lines in the middle of his forehead. To your health! She touches his glass with hers, nevertheless keeping an eye on the glass door, but everyone who walks in is a stranger. The man has noticed. So who’s the happy man? She affects an air of indifference. I don’t know if he’s very happy. She feels the man’s gaze intensify, his eyes are no longer on hers but are roaming over her chin, her cheeks, her forehead, as if he were putting her through a scanner. You should have more confidence in yourself. She lowers her eyes. The man has thick fingers, with a tiny tuft of black hair in the middle of each top joint. It has nothing to do with me; what I meant was, I’m not sure that he’s very happy . . . in general. A man in a suit has rushed into the café, clutching a bouquet of flowers. For a moment she imagines, but no. Relax, he won’t have any trouble seeing you when he comes in. Now that you’re here, I’m not so sure. The man clenches his eyelids as if he’d been stung in the wrong place. She doesn’t think she’s been hurtful, just honest. But he’s already expecting her to be kind to him, even if she didn’t know who he was just a few minutes earlier. She finds that sort of logic hard to understand. Why should she be nice to him? Because he came up and approached her? Of course, she’s a little on the defensive. She doesn’t feel very comfortable; he reminds her of someone. The glass door has opened, and a woman comes in with a bundle of enraged fur on her arm. Another flop. The man is lighting a cigarette and she takes the opportunity to observe him on the sly. He must be about fifty, heavy eyelids, the skin of his face molded by age into a rather sad expression despite the alertness in his eyes. Yes, he does remind her of someone. Residues of sensations, shadows of images flit rapidly through her mind. And suddenly she knows and bites down hard on the tip of her thumb. She tries hard not to panic. Tell him to get up, to go away, to get up herself, to go away. Impossible, he might be coming, now, immediately, in the next minute; tell him to get up and go, to leave her alone. You’re very pale; are you all right? She no longer knows how to produce words. She feels hot. She focuses her attention on the flat surface of the golden liquid in her glass in an attempt to calm herself down. But she is in the pink room, sitting at the piano. Beside her, he is on the bed. She screws her eyes shut to break the image. When she opens them again, the man is holding out a glass, looking worried. She drinks down the cool water with a sense of relief. You’ll feel better now. She thanks him, not knowing how else to express the wave of affection that has swept through her. She feels rather foolish. Let’s hope he doesn’t ask her for an explanation. He sits down again and talks to her as if nothing had happened and they were starting over from the beginning.

  It’s past ten o’clock: she has been in the café since six. The man has bought her three, perhaps four more glasses of white wine, she has lost count. He never came. She can’t remember exactly when she stopped watching the glass door. But when it occurs to her to look around again, all the faces appear to have changed, without her noticing the bodies those faces belong to come or go. Whether he is in Ange’s arms or lying injured in hospital, she no longer cares. The man has talked a lot about French politics, about globalization, and capitalism in the United States, she can’t remember all the details. He has talked about the younger, very pretty woman he lives with, who has gone away on a trip for a week. She needed to shove off for a while. The expression struck her; she imagines a woman with very long black hair alone in a boat, rowing herself through the water. He has talked about his work as a photographer, about the subjects he prefers to shoot, about his financial problems. Now he asks her if she would agree to pose for him. She starts to giggle; she’s drunk, she knows her face has turned scarlet. I might as well tell you, I’m not going to bed with you. The man bursts out laughing. Men, she reflects, always burst out laughing whenever they are caught out. Nothing could be further from my mind. But she sees that his cheeks have gone red. You have an unusual face. She grimaces. I’m not sure what I see when I look in the mirror, but I think you’re lying. The man smiles, and in that instant she senses that he is happier than he has been in a long time. And what about you, do you lie? That’s my speciality. Everything is a bit blurry around her. She feels rather content to be there. You can’t say no. She is finding it difficult to focus on the man. She should go home. He tells her that he’ll help her find a taxi. Think about it, at least take my card.

  He pulls out a small cardboard rectangle from one of his pockets and pushes it across the table. At first, she has a twinge of doubt. She reaches down to the floor, rummages in her bag, and finally extracts a business card, which she lays alongside the other. Identical. The man frowns. He picks the second one up to examine it more closely, looking perturbed. You have my card? I found it in a taxi, Olivier Chedubarum.

  She had climbed the stairs and battled to get her key into the lock of the door. The answering machine is flashing. Not bothering to switch on the light, she presses randomly on the machine until the cassette clicks into motion. I’m sorry, I hope you didn’t wait too long for me, something urgent came up at the office, I’m going away for a week, I’ll call you when I get back, I send you kisses. Going away for a week? Where to? Who with? Why? She listens to the message a second time. After the brief explanation he has taken the trouble to give her, she ought to feel reassured. Instead, she feels like throwing up. Rushing to the toilet, she lifts the seat and leans her head over the bowl. She stays like that for one long minute, coughs, spits saliva, sticks her index finger down her throat and waits for a liberating contraction, which doesn’t come. Can’t even just puke. The floor tiles are hurting her knees. Good for nothing that’s what she is. A salty taste of tears reaches the corners of her mouth. She doesn’t know what to do now. Go on waiting, not just for an evening, but for an entire week. She begs God, who doesn’t exist, to make sure that he never comes back.

  Out of bed, métro, office, métro, dinner, into bed. Seven times in a row, each one virtually identical. A week spent waiting for him to return, reliving in her head her favorite moments at the café, going through the motions just to keep up a good front.

  Sunday. She gets the idea to draw seven lines on one of the walls in the kitchen so she can cross one off at the end of every day, just as she saw it done in an American film. But she can’t find a pencil and worries that if she uses a pen the owner of the apar
tment will hold back part of her deposit. Afterwards, she forgets to buy the necessary equipment to begin her accounting project.