Based on a True Story

by Delphine de Vigan

I told her I was confident: I had my hands on ample raw material, raw but precious, and I knew what to do with it.

  I remember talking to her about the text, what it might turn into, now that I had the perspective to see its naiveté. My editor was glad to hear from me. It was good news; she was eager to have something to read.

  When I hung up, I thought about going down to the copy shop to get the manuscript copied and sending it to her at once, but quickly thought better of it. I’d rather my editor read the revised version.

  I had only just finished this conversation when the phone rang. Automatically, I looked out the window at the building opposite. (A few days earlier I’d become aware of this strange reflex, the first occurrence of which I cannot date: when I returned home, when I put on the light, at the slightest unusual noise, my eyes would turn to the stairwell of the building opposite to make sure no one was watching me.)

  I saw L.’s name appear on screen and took the call. As she often did, L. asked how my day had been, what I’d done, whether I’d gone out. Had I dragged myself round Monoprix again? It only took a few minutes of bland exchanges for L. to notice a change in my mood.

  ‘Is there something new? Have you started on something?’

  At first I kicked it into touch. It was too soon to talk about it. I tried to divert her, to shift the conversation onto other things, but L. wasn’t one to be fobbed off.

  ‘Tell me, Delphine. Something’s going on. I can tell from your voice.’

  I was amazed. I’d never met anyone who had such intuition about other people, a sort of sixth sense. Precise. Sharp. Honed.

  L. was right. Something uncertain and tiny had happened.

  I’d rediscovered the manuscript. I was launching once more into the possibility of writing. I had regained a sense of hope.

  Gently, L. coaxed me to talk about it. She was dying to hear more.

  I sat down. I wanted to weigh my words. Not deceive her. Not offend her. I wanted to take time to explain and suddenly I felt like a teenager about to announce to her parents that she’s leaving the path they’ve mapped out for her.

  Choosing my words carefully, I explained to L. that I’d found a manuscript, a novel, and had reread it. It struck me as interesting. There was a lot of work to do, but it could be a good starting point. I wanted to give it a go.

  Yes, it was fiction. ‘Pure’ fiction.

  On the other end of the line, L. let the silence last a long time. And then she said: ‘If you’re so sure of yourself, that’s good. You’re probably right. You’re the one who knows, anyway.’

  It was only after I hung up that I said to myself: her voice had changed. An inflection of distress had made that sentence almost inaudible which, rather than reassuring me, reminded me how lost I was. No, I didn’t know; I didn’t know anything.

  26

  I didn’t hear from L. for two days. I spent the time making notes on the manuscript, separating what seemed worth saving from what was best forgotten. Gradually I began to glimpse what this story could become once it was recast.

  One evening, L. rang to invite me to her birthday, which she was organising for the following day. She mentioned that there were unlikely to be more than five or six people, because she preferred intimate gatherings. I was definitely not to bring a gift or flowers (which she couldn’t bear); if I had to bring something, just a bottle of wine.

  I said yes without hesitation. I hadn’t seen anyone for two or three weeks. I was happy to get out for a bit and meet some of her friends. I suggested I arrived early to help her prepare and she readily accepted. We’d have time to talk a bit before the others got there.

  That Saturday, I arrived at around seven. Everything was ready.

  L. removed the apron from round her waist and offered me an aperitif. She was wearing a short, close-fitting leather skirt and opaque tights, a very simple black T-shirt made of slightly shimmery material. I realised that this was the first time I had seen her in such a sexy outfit.

  There was a gentle aroma of cinnamon and spices in the apartment. L. had just put a tagine with apricots in the oven, a recipe she’d already successfully tried out and which she was sure I’d like, since I liked sweet and savoury combinations.

  The counter that separated the kitchen from the living room was covered in various multicoloured foods, presented in a selection of little bowls. L. had made it all herself: aubergine dip, hummus, taramasalata, marinated peppers. Some desserts, apparently homemade, were arranged on the sideboard.

  No, she said, there was nothing I could do to help. It was all ready. She was pleased I’d come early.

  It occurred to me that L. must have spent two days in the kitchen making all this.

  I sat down in the living room. She’d lit perfumed candles and put half-a-dozen plates and sets of cutlery on a side table. That way, she explained from the kitchen as she checked the oven temperature, everyone can help themselves and sit where they like. I looked around. The room was lit by a set of identical little lamps, tastefully positioned. The low, glass-topped table was impeccably polished. Like the first time, I had the sensation of being in an artificial environment, created from scratch. L.’s living room – its lighting, the selection of materials and colours, the precise positioning of every object and its distance from the others – all seemed straight out of one of those reality TV shows in which the expert, over the course of a weekend, transforms your interior into a double-page advert for IKEA.

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve had trouble showing an interest in interior decor. As soon as there are people in my field of vision, the decor fades and disappears. If I go to a new place with François (such as a restaurant), afterwards I’m able to describe, with an accuracy that amazes him, the people who were around us, the type of relationships they had, their clothes and hair; the main thrust of their conversations rarely escapes me. François, on the other hand, can describe, without missing a single detail, the arrangement of the room, its atmosphere, the type of furniture and, when the situation arises, the ornaments and other little objects that were there. I will not have taken in any of this.

  And yet in L.’s apartment there was something that disturbed me without me being able to put my finger on what it was.

  L. poured me a glass of white wine while we waited for her friends. We talked about various things; L. had all sorts of anecdotes to relate about the more or less famous personalities she had worked for. That evening, L. was more forthcoming than usual about her work. She talked about the close bond that was forged over several months, meeting after meeting, but then lapsed into silence. She never saw any of the people she had ghosted for afterwards. That was just how it was, maybe because of the necessary, sudden intimacy, which later became awkward.

  Time passed and we remained in her living room, waiting for her friends.

  L. got up from time to time to check how her tagine was doing in the oven and I would take the opportunity to glance at my watch.

  At around eight thirty, we opened a bottle of Meursault and began sampling the little appetisers that L. had made.

  When, around nine, no one had arrived, L. went and turned off the oven, so that the meat wouldn’t dry up. She didn’t seem worried; in fact she seemed to be rather exaggerating her air of calm. She said that she hadn’t specified a time in her invitation, and people were always busy with all sorts of chores on Saturdays.

  A little later I asked L. if she’d checked her mobile was on, in case her friends had had some problem.

  Around nine forty-five L. got up to look at the time on the oven and declared that they wouldn’t be coming. Her voice was no longer so assured. I didn’t dare question her further and suggested we waited a little longer.

  At ten o’clock, as we opened a second bottle, I asked L. if her friends had said they’d all be coming together. She didn’t know. I suggested she call them, or at least some of them, to see what was up.

  L. replied that there was ‘no point’. It struck me that she’d go
ne to a lot of trouble for nothing if no one came. I asked L. if she’d spoken to them on the phone when she invited them.

  L. said no. She’d sent an email, as she did every year. And just like every year, they hadn’t come.

  At around ten fifteen I gave L. the cashmere scarf I’d bought her, in spite of her instructions. When she unwrapped the scarf and unfolded it, I saw she had a lump in her throat. Her cheeks flushed and she was holding back her tears. For a moment, I thought she might break down in front of me. So to comfort her, I put my arms around her. For a few seconds, I thought I could feel from her body the struggle that was going on between display and capitulation. When I freed her from my embrace, L. had regained her composure and smiled at me.

  ‘I said no presents! But thank you, it’s wonderful.’

  At around ten thirty, by which time L. seemed to have forgotten about it, I took the tagine out of the oven and we had two scalding platefuls.

  Later, perhaps because we’d almost finished the second bottle of wine, L. told me that since her husband’s death, her friends (the ten or so people that they used to see regularly when Jean was still around) no longer responded. Every year on this day, which was not only her birthday but also the anniversary of Jean’s death, she continued to invite them all the same. But they never came.

  I tried to find out more, but as soon as I started asking questions, L. clammed up.

  After a few minutes’ silence, L. told me she didn’t feel ready to talk about it. She could no longer face the risk of being judged.

  She promised she’d tell me some day. I let it drop.

  Later, L. spent a few minutes in the bathroom. While she was gone, I looked at the empty room, the pretty plates arranged in piles, the untouched food. I remember thinking about all that effort, and it seemed terribly sad.

  When she came back, we tried the various desserts and put on some music.

  I laughed, I can’t remember why.

  After midnight, when we were on to our third or fourth toast, L. got interested in the manuscript I’d rediscovered. Had I started work? Had I got anyone to read it? I told L. that it seemed too early; I wanted to make some progress first.

  In the hall, as I was about to leave, she looked sadly at me as I put on my coat and took my hand to thank me.

  ‘Good thing you came. You don’t know what that means to me.’

  And then, in the soft voice I was beginning to recognise, she asked me to let her read – her and only her – the rediscovered manuscript. Completely confidentially.

  I promised.

  When I got home, I closed the curtains before turning on the light.

  The hypothesis that L. could have conceived and executed this whole masquerade with the sole aim of cajoling or moving me came into my mind much later.

  I sat down on the sofa, looked around and experienced a strange sort of relief. And suddenly, by contrast, it struck me what disturbed me about L.’s apartment.

  Nothing in it was worn or faded or damaged. No object, or piece of furniture, or fabric hinted at any previous life. Everything was new. Everything seemed to have been bought the day before or a few weeks ago. The rooms had no soul; there was no mess.

  I hadn’t seen a single photo or postcard or trinket that could evoke any memory.

  As though yesterday had never existed. As though L. had reinvented herself.

  27

  ‘No, honestly, it won’t work. I’d rather be straight with you, even if it seems a bit harsh. It’s not a question of work; it’s something else. It’s a text without a pulse, written at some point in the past, in unknown circumstances. How could it possibly be linked today to your trajectory, your evolution, to what you need to write? Trust me. I’m not saying it’s rubbish or that no one will be interested. I’m saying that it’s no longer your thing. It no longer has anything to do with you, the author you’ve become. It would be an incomprehensible backward step. A disaster. I read it, of course, all the way through, obviously I did. You asked me to tell you what I thought and I’m allowing myself to tell you that it would be a mistake, a serious mistake, even completely revised and corrected; even improved, transformed and revisited. It’s not a question of maturity. I don’t want to discourage you. I don’t want you to think for one second that I don’t think you can do it. You know how much I believe in you. But not this. It’s a non-starter. If I were you, I’d stick it back in the bottom of the drawer where you found it. You’re scared. You’re panicking. You’re ready to pounce on the first bone you come across. But it always comes back to this, you see, it always comes back to the same point: you’re blocked because you refuse to write what you need to write. This isn’t a projection on my part. It’s something I sense within you. I sensed it from when we first met. I sensed you were afraid. You’re afraid to follow your nose. You’re wrong because it’s not up to you to choose the kind of writer you are. I’m sorry. It’s just not up to you. And while we’re on the subject, I sometimes wonder if you shouldn’t be suspicious of the comfort you live in, your little life that’s ultimately quite comfortable, with your children, your man, writing, all carefully gauged. I sometimes wonder – and this is just a thought – but I sometimes wonder if it’s not just a bit . . . numbing. Maybe you need that, that balance. I get that. I know what I’m talking about. I know what character flaw deepens the violence and that it can’t be repaired. You think you need it because you lack confidence, but be careful you don’t fall asleep. I understand you’re scared, but fear is no protection, fear doesn’t prevent the danger. You know that. And I know where the danger comes from. What your Achilles heel is. I know the kind of attack they’ll use to bring you down, so don’t let them, that’s all I want to say. They’re well aware of how to get at you and have no idea of what literature is, forgive me. You have to admit it. Who do I mean? You know. I’m just saying that you don’t have to give in on the pretext of preserving links that are long gone and no one but you believes in. Ask yourself who really loves you. Since that’s what we’re talking about. I’m not sure that you can do without solitude; I even think that it’s in your interest to prepare for it, because that’s the writer’s lot, to dig a ditch around herself – I don’t think there’s any other way. Writing doesn’t fix anything, at least that’s something we agree on. It digs, it furrows, it marks out ever-wider, ever-deeper trenches, it creates the emptiness around you. A necessary space. But, to come back to this text, yes, of course, if you send it to your publisher, they’re not going to say no. They’ll encourage you, they’ll tell you it’s a good idea. They’re not crazy – they need you to bring a bit of money into the coffers. But make no mistake, that’s all that interests them. Even if your next book is bad, they’ll manage to flog it to a few thousand readers. And since they are accountable to the people upstairs, they’ll not make problems, believe me. But just think a bit about what you need to do, about the score you’re playing from. You’re afraid of emptiness, but you mustn’t give in. Since we’re on the subject.’

  28

  The next day I put the manuscript back in the bottom of the trunk where I’d found it.

  I told my editor a few days later. She didn’t ask to see it and didn’t seem surprised. She advised me to take my time, as much time as I needed.

  I hadn’t talked to François about the manuscript and no longer had any reason to do so, as I’d given up on it so quickly. When he wasn’t travelling, François spent entire days reading books; it was the core of his job. In some respects, his job brought us closer. We could converse for hours about other people’s books; we liked sharing our discoveries, our enthusiasms, discussing our differences of opinion. But I wasn’t just a reader. I wrote books. Books on which he was likely to express his judgement. That’s probably why I refused to show him my prose and sometimes wouldn’t even talk about it. I was afraid of disappointing him. I was afraid he’d stop loving me. Two years before, when I finished the first version of my previous book, I’d refused to show it to him. He only saw the tex
t when the first proofs had been printed.

  Writing was my most intimate, isolated and protected place. The least shared. A free zone, which I only talked about on the surface, sparingly. Most of the time I talked to my editor before embarking on a book, then long months would go by before I sent a first draft of the complete text.

  That’s the way I’d always done it.

  What L. had very quickly grasped was: writing is a defended territory, off limits to visitors. But now that territory had been undermined, assailed by doubt and fear, and this solitude was becoming unbearable.

  I wanted to fight alone, but I needed an ally.

  A few days later I was trying to answer my mail when I realised it had become almost impossible for me to remain seated at the computer for more than five or ten minutes. In addition to the fear I felt when I turned on the machine (a violent tightening sensation in my chest), it was increasingly painful, physically, to face the screen, even for the short time it took to answer a few emails. Writing was becoming a battle. Not only writing a book (which to be honest was no longer an issue), but any writing at all: replying to friends, to requests passed on by my publisher, putting words together to construct sentences, however humdrum. I hesitated over expressions, doubted my grammar, tried unsuccessfully to find the right tone. Writing had become a trial of strength and I wasn’t up to it.

  And always in front of the screen there was this burning in my throat preventing me breathing.

  I hadn’t told L. that I’d refused to write a short story for a women’s magazine and postponed, for the third time, an opinion piece a weekly had asked me to write.

  I hadn’t told L. that I was six weeks overdue with the preface to a new edition of Maupassant’s last novel, which I’d agreed to write a year before.

  I hadn’t told L. that I couldn’t string three words together.

  My hands shook and a mute, confused panic throbbed in my veins.

  One evening I agreed to go with François to the opening of an exhibition organised by one of his friends. I hadn’t been out since L.’s birthday.