Voice Over

by Celine Curiol

  Monday. Nothing.

  Tuesday. At the office, one of her co-workers makes a personal remark to her. It comes from the woman who has been there the longest, the one whose conversation she overheard in the toilets. The day before, Régine was given a gold-mounted diamond from her husband for their twentieth wedding anniversary. Although the two of them never speak, the party in question comes over to show off her jewel and, while she’s at it, inquires about her. No date tonight? The answer flies out of her mouth without a second thought. The diamond would look nicer with the price tag on it. The other woman gives her a withering look, tells her that such bitterness is painful to watch.

  Wednesday. She is lying naked on her bed. She looks at her pubic hair and finds it ridiculous to have that much of hair in that particular spot.

  Thursday. The telephone rings early in the evening. Wrong number. The man wants to speak to Audrey.

  Friday. The telephone remains silent. He has now been gone for a week.

  She should call Ange. Ask her if anything has happened, if he’s back, if he’s safe and sound. But she has the feeling that trying to get in touch with him would violate an unspoken rule, one inherent to their relationship. In addition, she would run the risk of losing him if Ange found out what was going on. What is going on? They meet in a café, kiss and touch; they make no plans except to keep doing it, they promise each other nothing. Not much to get excited about. She can’t imagine that Ange, to whom he always returns, the ravishing and divine Ange, could ever become jealous. Would he leave Ange for her? Now and then she tells herself that he might want to, but most of the time she avoids asking herself the question.

  She is sitting on the sofa with the telephone on her lap. From time to time, she pretends to dial the number, moving her fingers over the buttons but not pressing down on them. She could always give a false name. She leans down to grab the phone book from under the coffee table, opens it at random, and plants her index finger in the middle of the page. Marie Masson. A petite brunette, sporty, bubbly, early thirties. She grew up in a rather modest family with her brother and sister in the suburbs of Paris. She was an attentive eldest child whose parents continually praised her. Full of determination, she passed her law exams with high honors. She then chose to defend people seeking political asylum in France. She loves her job, would like to have children but is waiting for the right man. Hello, my name’s Marie Masson. Ugh. She shuts the phone book and opens it again at another page. Alice Tournelle. Blonde, tall, and slim, dynamic and ambitious. The only daughter of two Parisian intellectuals, the mother is an anthropologist, the father a journalist. From an early age she showed a genuine talent for the sciences. At twenty-two, she graduated from the École Polytechnique and was immediately hired by the Alcatel Corporation. Within a few years, she was promoted to a position with considerable responsibilities. She earns a good living, goes out a lot, denies herself nothing, has an occasional romantic adventure with one of the dynamic young executives she meets at her business conferences. She has the respect of her subordinates, who consider her kind but firm. Alice Tournelle speaking. The role suits her, but she wouldn’t last five seconds. Last try. Isabelle Léonier. A redhead, obviously, curves in all the right places, gentle features. Married very young to a boy her own age, she was divorced five years later and finished her studies. She is currently working on her philosophy thesis at the Sorbonne. She has many friends, does volunteer work for an NGO, and is mad about rock climbing. It’s Isabelle, Isabelle Léonier.

  She pushes the directory to one side and goes back to staring at the phone. Ange is too perceptive. She’ll recognize her voice or else start asking all sorts of questions, finding it suspicious that a woman she has never heard of is calling them at home. If he were back, he would have been in touch, there’s no question about it. Which means that he’s still out of town, in a place where the telephone hasn’t been invented. His trip has been extended, he is up to his eyes in work, he lost his address book with her number in it, it’s been stolen along with the rest of his papers. Wait, have confidence, convince herself that nothing is gained by worrying about nothing, remember that life has a nasty habit of eluding whatever predictions you try to impose on it. Wait, but what to do while waiting? She has to find someone to talk to in order to stop brooding. She goes to fetch the two business cards from her bag.

  Olivier Chedubarum remembers her at once. I’m delighted that you haven’t forgotten. The session will be fun, he tells her. She doubts that she is very photogenic. Photogenic is a word invented by bad photographers as an excuse to justify their bad pictures. He invites her to stop by his place in the afternoon. She writes down the address on the back of one of his business cards. It’s easy to find, you’ll see.

  The stairway is dim. She couldn’t find the timer-switch. A faint white light drips down from a window on the first floor, emphasizing the horizontal edges of the stone steps. The silence here is clean and cold. She slides her hand up the polished-wood banister to find her way. The building once belonged to Madame de Staël. The deep voice resonates down the stairwell. Looking up, she catches sight of Olivier Chedubarum’s head trapped in the perspective of the spiralling stairs. She doesn’t know who Madame de Staël is, even though the name sounds familiar. She leans on the banister to say that she didn’t know, but Olivier Chedubarum’s head has disappeared. She begins climbing again. This building would be a perfect place for Alice Tournelle; he’s probably trying to call her right now; she’s forgotten to put on make-up, which isn’t going to help the photo. The door is ajar. She knocks gently and, an instant later, Olivier Chedubarum materializes before her, cigarette balanced on his lower lip, his hair a mess, his eyes alert beneath his rather swollen eyelids. How are you, come on in, this is my studio.

  Olivier Chedubarum has headed over to a table strewn with unpacked boxes of film, rolls, negatives, papers, magnifying glasses, pencils, screwdrivers, lenses, cameras, which he starts to move about efficiently but in an order that seems arbitrary to her. Hanging on one of the studio walls are twelve color photographs arranged in two rows, one above the other. It takes her a few seconds to comprehend what she’s looking at. Kiwis and breasts, kiwi hearts and nipples. The cross-sections of six kiwis and the nipples of six women have been photographed close-up. Inlaid into the emerald flesh, the black seeds ring the pale green core, its outline always different, unique, similar to the outline of the nipple encircled by its brown aureole, whose diameter and coloring always vary. Do you like them? She says yes, in the same way she could have said no, for she isn’t sure what effect these photos have on her, other than that of looking at familiar things she has never paid much attention to. When she turns around, Olivier Chedubarum is busy positioning two large floor lamps that are directed at a stool, behind which hangs a large sheet of black cloth.

  Someone is watching her. On the threshold of what until then had been a closed door, there is a long woman in a dressing gown. Only expanses of white space are visible between the doorframe and the contours of her body, as if the room behind her contained no furniture, no limits. Who is she? the woman asks. Olivier Chedubarum straightens up, surprised by the sudden apparition as well. He says to her “my darling.” The woman hardly reacts. My darling. The woman’s eyes are still trained on her, as if to push her back. She says her name, but it sounds false, it doesn’t belong to her any more. The woman hears it, ponders it for a moment, shoots an outraged glance at the photographer, and closes the door again. Don’t worry, she’s a bit jealous, she’s, how shall I put it, sensitive. With that, Olivier Chedubarum disappears to the back of the studio. She hears water running from a tap. He returns holding a branch of tiny tomatoes pearled with droplets of water, which he sets down delicately on the table. He locks the front door and his wife’s door, then places black screens over the two studio windows. He screws a lens onto a camera body, which he screws onto a tripod. She doesn’t dare move. Olivier Chedubarum’s index finger straightens, indicating to her the stool in the middle o
f the set-up. She sits down without a word. He points at the curvature of her neck, that soft intimate hollow, receptacle of kisses, tears and sighs. I need to see all the skin in that spot. He goes to fetch his mounted camera, which he positions within a metre of her. She hesitates, takes hold of her T-shirt with both hands. Her two breasts, cupped in her bra, suddenly occupy the center of the room. There is no visible reaction from Olivier Chedubarum, who holds out a blanket to her without further instruction. He dips his head behind the camera, she then furtively slips off her bra and drapes herself in the rough material, which she holds in place with one hand. He brings over the bunch of tomatoes. Tilt your head. He deposits the fresh, light fruit on her neck. Now don’t move. She can no longer see anything but Olivier Chedubarum’s fingers dancing around the camera, which hides his face. A drop of water runs over her chest. The intense light from the lamps forces her to blink. There is no more studio around her; Olivier Chedubarum has been absorbed into the light. Only his shadow continues to shift on the ceiling. She feels as if she’s floating in space. She tightens her grip on the blanket. She hears the shutter clicking repeatedly in the absolute stillness of the room. The heat from the lamps slowly warms her up, she relaxes, alert but almost released from her consciousness.

  The lamps have been switched off. She doesn’t want to believe the session is over. Her neck is stiff from having remained in the same position for so long. Olivier Chedubarum has become one with his body again. He retrieves the tomatoes, which have magically stayed in place. You’re very patient. It was easy, even pleasant. He offers to make her tea. She then notices the way he walks: somewhat hesitantly, as if he were advancing down a too-narrow corridor and continually knocking into the walls. She uses the opportunity to get dressed, wondering what part of her he shot. She runs her fingers over the base of her neck: the skin is still damp, smooth. She would never have believed that piece of her could be of interest. Afraid of committing a blunder, she doesn’t dare move around very much, still less to put her hands on one of those enigmatic devices, which could go off at the merest provocation. Olivier Chedubarum returns with a tray bearing a pot of steaming tea and two cups. He sets it down at the foot of two chairs next to the windows, then removes the screens in front of them. She has no idea what time it is. He probably has called. And she realizes that for the first time in a week, she has been granted a respite: she hasn’t thought about him once.

  The doors are still locked, the woman hasn’t reappeared. All that can be seen through the window is sky. She feels assuaged by the simplicity of the moment and the solid presence of the photographer. She is no longer fully certain that she is in the world she left behind when she went up Madame Thingamajig’s staircase. A move into the fourth dimension, a detail has changed, but it takes a chance event for it to become apparent. That man you were waiting for, did you find him? Olivier Chedubarum is filling the cups. In his massive hands the teapot resembles a toy. I’m not sure I want to talk about it. The herbal scent of the tea reminds her of a medicine. She imagines that Olivier Chedubarum intends to cure her of an undiagnosed illness that only he has noticed. She sucks in a mouthful of hot liquid. In any case, she shouldn’t stay too long. He seems to mean a lot to you. He says it in a kind, responsive voice, the one used on children to get them to tell their secrets. You remind me of someone. Olivier Chedubarum sits up, flattered. Someone nice, I hope. No, not really, someone who stepped over the limits. Olivier Chedubarum sits back in his chair, smiling tenderly. You’re a strange girl. Yes, that’s what they usually say. They drink their tea in silence, as if it were a ritual that belonged to an old friendship. You’ll send me one of the photographs? Come and collect it. She sets her cup down on the tray and writes her number in the Clairefontaine notebook he holds out to her. It was nice. She gets to her feet. Olivier Chedubarum doesn’t take his eyes off her.

  In the métro, a little girl of about ten is fluttering around a man who is undoubtedly her father. She hops about, straddles his knees, strokes his cheeks with dramatic ostentation, before jumping down and immediately starting all over again. Her eyes shine, a sprig of a woman unconsciously flirting with the prince of her dreams, who lets her romp as she pleases and does little more than hold her by the waist to prevent her from falling backwards. She observes this innocent seductive dance, hypnotized but also worried that at any moment it could descend into something sordid and unspeakable. She feels as if she’s watching two similar scenes taking place at once. The first tender, that of a little girl expressing her affection for her father, the second that of a father, turned into a man again, holding his prey down on his knees.

  He has been gone for ten days now. She doesn’t have the courage to wait any longer. When she dials the number, her fingers tremble. Too bad if Ange answers, she’ll hang up. Hello? His voice, at last she has him on the other end of the line. Her heart starts pumping faster, reaching to the abnormal volume of blood that suddenly surges into her chest. Have you been back long? It takes a while for him to answer. I was going to call you, I wanted to think things over. His voice is heavy as if he has rehearsed the phrase dozens of times. Above all, no reproaches, she seems to remember reading somewhere that men don’t like that. Even so, make him understand that his long silence hasn’t left her unscathed. I’ve waited, you know. And as she says it, she reflects on how cruel it is to let someone wallow in the hope of a future life together when the subject is too fraught even to be discussed. I’ve been thinking about you. What exactly could he have been thinking? About the concentrated way she listens to him, about the rush of emotions his intense look provokes in her, about the overwhelming affection she’s unable to hide? Or has he never noticed these things which always seem so blatant to her? Ange has gone off to see a friend and she won’t be back until tomorrow, we can see each other at my brother’s place, he’s away on holiday. At the café, at his brother’s, she would meet him anywhere. The only thing that counts is that she should not have to wait any longer. His brother lives near the Place-Monge métro station. She hangs up, climbs to her feet and launches into an impromptu dance, waving her arms about, hopping from one foot to the other, following a rhythm she alone can hear, until, sweating and breathless, she collapses onto the sofa.

  She has knocked, the door opens. He has a rather wobbly smile on his face and has yet to speak. She wonders if she is destined to spend her entire life knocking at apartment doors, waiting for a man to let her in, or if these are simply accidental repetitions. She is wearing her low-cut black dress, the one that earned her the compliment. She doesn’t feel very comfortable in it but wants to make an impression. They walk down a long hallway, so long that she can’t see the end of it, and reach the living room, which is a mess and has very little furniture, a couch, a lamp, a piano, as if the occupants were in the process of moving. Littering the floor are copies of Le Monde, a decorative carpet patterned with detailed accounts of the agonies and sufferings of distant peoples. My brother and his wife work long hours. The life of a modern couple chasing success: hurried mornings, exhausted evenings, the rest of the day apart. At bottom, not so much worse than her own. They’ve gone to the Balearic Islands. She doesn’t know where the Balearic Islands are, couldn’t care less. Why is he waiting to come over and kiss her? Why is she waiting to sit down or talk about her day or ask to use the bathroom to redo her make-up, in other words, to behave like any normal woman who shows up for a tryst with her lover? Too hesitant to touch each other, they go on standing there, mute, alone together for the first time.

  He has just remembered the piano. The parquet floor groans under his shoeless feet. He lifts the lid and presses one of the white, ivory keys with his finger. D. Without thinking, she has said the name of the note, he has looked up. Surprised, pleased. She is about to go over to him, but he stops her by raising his hand. His index finger shifts over, presses down on a different key. A. A nod of the head, an admiring look. The index finger hovers over the keyboard and strikes once more. E. The questioner wins. No, it’s
the black one before E, you nearly got it. She stands a few steps away from him, stiff as an “I,” on the alert, abnormally attentive to his slightest gesture. You wouldn’t by any chance be a bit obsessive? She hasn’t a clue what prompted his remark. She is ready to defend herself, to charge back with unimpeachable arguments, when he brings a finger to his lips, commanding silence. Play something. Not now. The tune the fat little bloke was playing in the métro, remember that? It was pretty awful. Something else then. It’s been a long time, I’ve forgotten how. He takes hold of her hand and leads her over to the velvet stool. She puts up no resistance. Have a go. She knows she won’t be able to, and time has nothing to do with it. But it’s not yet possible to make him understand. She slides onto the rectangular stool and positions her hands, ten fingers out, ready to crease the ribbon of keys and make the chords of the instrument sing. Behind her, his breathing, his anticipation. She feels her arms seizing up. It’s the same with horseback-riding, he ought to know that. Anyone who doesn’t climb back into the saddle right after a fall will never jump over obstacles again. Because of intractable fear. I can’t. He has no reason to insist, but he probably thinks he has found a weak spot, the beginning of an answer, the key to her identity and the reason for his own attachment. Make an effort. He places his two hands over hers and pushes them down hard on the keyboard. The jumbled notes fill the room with an unholy dissonance. A symphony for the handicapped, our first composition. Their cheeks are practically touching. She shuts her eyes; her whole face is tense, as if in pain. She knows that he can see her out of the corner of his eye. You won’t be able to do it like that. He wraps his arms around her and rocks her until her eyes finally open again.