Based on a True Story

by Delphine de Vigan

  L. was watching me carefully now, looking for confirmation that everything was back to normal. After a minute, we started to laugh, increasingly loudly. And then, for the first time, L. hugged me. Then I could feel her body shaking and knew she’d been as scared as me.

  Later, L. told me that she had a first-aid certificate but had never had occasion to use the Heimlich manoeuvre, a method of clearing obstructed airways invented in the 1970s by an American doctor, she explained, which was generally taught using dummies. She had greatly enjoyed the experience.

  33

  In the days that followed, I had several nightmares. One night, I was woken by my own scream, a scream like the ones that used to rip through the night when, as a teenager, I dreamt that someone was smothering me with a cushion or shooting me in the legs with a rifle.

  Since receiving that letter, my nights had been full of torn paper, burned books and ripped pages. Words of anger, indignation, rose up suddenly in my bedroom, an outraged murmur that brutally dragged me from sleep. I also remember a demented laugh of unutterable cruelty, which woke me one night and took several minutes to die away, even after my eyes were wide open.

  I would find myself sitting up in bed, sweating, convinced that it was all real. I had to switch on the light and find familiar objects in my room for the beating of my heart to slow down. I then got up without making a noise, my bare feet on the wooden floor and then the tiles, to splash water on my face or make some herbal tea. I sat in the kitchen for an hour or two, long enough for the images to dissipate, before I was able to go back to bed.

  I think it was around this time that I reread all the picture books that Louise and Paul had kept. We’d often talked about taking them down to the cellar, but none of us had been able to resolve to do it, and even now that they are twenty, the books are still in their bedrooms. In the middle of the night, I would carefully turn the pages, delightedly rediscovering the pictures that were part of their childhood and the stories I’d read to them a hundred times. The power of these books to bring back memories amazed me. Each of the stories reawakened the precious moment before sleep, the feeling of their little bodies against mine, the velvety softness of their pyjamas. I rediscovered the inflection I’d given to each sentence, the words they loved, which I used to have to repeat ten, twenty times. All of that came back to the surface, intact.

  Almost every night, between the hours of four and five, I reread the stories of bears, rabbits, dragons, the blue dog and the musical cow.

  I remember one night L. woke up and found me in the kitchen, absorbed in a picture book by Philippe Corentin that Louise loved: the story of a family of mice who live on top of a bookcase and eat the books. Louise was delighted by the thought that you could eat books, and especially the instruction the mother gives to the hero, her son, as he prepares to go off on an expedition with his cousin: ‘Bring me back two pages of Pinocchio. Your father loves that in a salad!’ Louise’s childish laughter came back to me. I knew those lines by heart. I may even have been muttering them, smiling, when L. appeared. She filled the kettle, rummaged in the cupboard for a herbal tea and then sat down. She leafed through the book with her fingertips, holding the object at a fair distance (though stylised and colourful, they were mice), and then asked: ‘What’s the allegory, in your opinion?’

  I didn’t see what she was getting at. She continued: ‘Mice that eat books, as though it were just paper. Isn’t that a way of signifying the death of fiction, or at the very least of its normal vocation?’

  ‘That’s really got nothing to do with it,’ I replied. ‘That’s not what the book’s about at all! If it does have a message, it’s nothing to do with that.’

  ‘Really? So what’s its message in your view?’

  L. had shattered a moment of nostalgia and I was having trouble concealing my irritation. Besides, I had no desire to debate the hidden meaning of Pipioli the Terror, a picture book for three- to six-year-olds, at three in the morning.

  I made to get up, but L. stopped me: ‘You’re refusing to see the context. It’s the same with everything, Delphine, you refuse to see things as a whole, you make do with focusing on a detail.’

  I felt attacked. I riposted in the meanest way possible, mortified with shame even as I asked the question: ‘Tell me, if we’re talking about context, how are you getting on with your search for an apartment?’

  Not only was this unworthy of our friendship, but also I had no desire for her to go.

  ‘If my presence is a burden, you only have to say the word and I’ll leave immediately.’

  She got up to put her cup in the dishwasher, the sugar in the cupboard. Her movements were brusque and betrayed her anger.

  I stayed in my seat, stunned I was capable of saying something so stupid. She was now standing by my chair and she leaned over me: ‘Look at me, Delphine. I won’t say this again. One word from you and I shall disappear. Even before it’s light. One word and that’s the last you’ll hear of me.’

  I almost burst into nervous laughter and asked if she’d been taking lessons from the Actors’ Studio, with Pacino or Brando. Her words contained a threat I couldn’t ignore. I tried to defuse the situation.

  ‘I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. That’s ridiculous. You know you can stay as long as you want.’

  L. sat down beside me. She took a deep breath.

  ‘I’ll start looking as soon as I’ve delivered the manuscript. Don’t worry.’

  We never spoke about this conversation again.

  A few days later, when L. had finished the actress’s book, we opened a bottle of pink champagne. L. had delivered on time, the publisher congratulated her on her work, and the actress was delighted.

  That evening, L. revealed a little writer’s quirk that she always adhered to. At the end of every text that she ghosted, she wrote the words ‘The End’, followed by a star (a sort of asterisk that didn’t refer to anything). She insisted in her contract that this sign-off appeared at the end of the book. It was her fingerprint, her maker’s mark, a sort of imprint known only to her.

  Gently, I teased her. I thought that rather old-fashioned; it was rare to find the words ‘The End’ in books these days.

  ‘You can tell it’s the end,’ I said jokingly, ‘because there are no more pages!’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I think the reader likes to be told. It’s the words “The End” that allow him to emerge from the particular state in which he finds himself, which return him to his life.’

  We spent much of the night listening to old records. I showed L. how to dance to ska, because she claimed she’d forgotten.

  Sitting on the sofa, L. laughed at me jumping around my living room, then got up and copied me. She shouted over the music: ‘Who remembers that ska existed? Who remembers The Specials and The Selecter? What if we’re the only people?’

  Lots of people remembered. People of our age, or thereabouts. Wasn’t that, more than anything, what bound a generation together: shared memories of music videos, jingles, theme tunes? The impression of a poster for a film, an album or a book. But OK, if that was the way she wanted it, for one evening we could believe that we were the only ones who knew how to dance to ska, the only ones who knew the words to ‘Missing Words’ and ‘Too Much Pressure’, which we were now singing at the tops of our voices, waving our arms in the air. I caught sight of our reflections in the window and I hadn’t laughed so much in ages.

  34

  One day when L. was out, I got a call from a radio journalist from France Culture who wanted to interview me about one of my previous novels. She was preparing something on harassment at work and wanted to know how I’d written my book on this and how I’d researched it.

  I don’t know why I agreed. Perhaps to prove to myself that I could do something by myself. Without L. This time I didn’t need her to reply; this time, it was out of her control. I’d noticed that over time, or rather as I grew more distant from them in time, what I said about my books changed.
As though something in their fabric – a relief, a motif – was only visible from afar. I was curious to know what design might reveal itself in the pattern of this one and pleased that someone was still interested. And if, until further notice, I was unable to write, I was still capable of talking.

  Two days later, the journalist rang the buzzer. She’d told me on the phone that she generally visited people at home to record them in their own environment, with a minimum of equipment, meeting her guests in their world. After the interview, she would produce an edit that would feature in the programme.

  We’d just had lunch when the young woman arrived. L. was in a gloomy mood. She disapproved of me still talking about books that weren’t worth going back to.

  L. disappeared into her room even before I greeted the journalist. The woman decided to sit in the living room; she asked me to half open the window to provide a bit of background ambience and then told me how the interview would work. We had coffee and she turned on her machine. I explained how the idea for my book had come to me one morning when I was feeling exhausted on Line D of the RER, and how I had developed it. Then we spent about an hour talking about various things. The journalist was friendly. I think I remember us talking about my neighbourhood, as she had lived here a few years previously, a couple of films that were on in the cinemas about the connections between violence and workplace relationships, and then the conversation drifted off into inconsequential stuff. At one point, just after we both laughed, I thought I heard L.’s door open. I wondered if she wanted to find out what was going on.

  Later, as I went to the door with the young woman, she took out her diary to tell me when exactly the programme would go out. We shook hands, I closed the door and sensed L.’s presence close behind me. When I turned round, L. was blocking my way. For an instant, I thought I must have done something terrible and that access to my own apartment was now forbidden to me. But L. stepped aside to let me pass and followed me to the living room, like a disapproving shadow.

  ‘Made a new friend?’

  I laughed.

  ‘You think I didn’t hear you?’

  I looked for the smile that would confirm she was joking, but her face left no doubt as to the tone of her words. I didn’t get time to react.

  ‘If you think that’s how you’ll get out of this, you’re wrong. Yes, you heard, Delphine, and all this play-acting about where you’re up to, “And so are you going back to fiction?”’ – she made a gesture that put those words in inverted commas – ‘what business is that of hers? Do we ask her what kind of journalism she does? With her Nagra recorder that cost two thousand euros? And who she is to have a view on the subject, eh? Did anyone ask her?’

  The tiniest of her facial muscles seemed to express anger. L. was resentful because I had given the young woman so much time, had had a laugh with her, had allowed a pleasant afternoon to stretch on. She was accusing me of compromise and complacency. If a man had said these things to me, I would instantly have thought it was an access of jealousy and brought it to a halt without further discussion. As though she had read my thoughts, she softened slightly.

  ‘I’m sorry. It makes me angry to see you wasting time. I’m not getting at you. You know how much I’d love you to find your path with your writing again. To do that, you’re going to have to admit some day that you have no connection with the writer that people want you to be. It suits them, all of them, to stick a label on you and for you to conform to it. But I know you. I’m the only one who knows exactly who you are and what you can write.’

  I don’t know why – perhaps because I’d had a nice time and she’d just spoiled it – I exploded: ‘Can’t you see that I’ve no idea what sort of writer I am? Can’t you see I can’t do anything, that I’m utterly terrified? Can’t you see I’ve reached the end and after that there’s nothing? Absolutely nothing. You’re getting on my nerves going on about the phantom book. There’s no such thing. There is no hint of a hidden book, don’t you get that? There’s nothing up my sleeve, or behind the curtain, no taboo, no treasure, nothing forbidden! There is, however, a void. Take a good look at me. With a bit of luck, you’ll see right through me.’

  I took my coat and went out. I needed air.

  François had been gone too long. I was missing him. I wandered the streets aimlessly. Later, I think I went to the cinema, I’m not entirely sure. Or perhaps I ended up in a café.

  At about seven in the evening, I went home. The smell of vegetables cooking and chicken stock filled the apartment. I found L. in the kitchen, an apron around her waist. She was making soup. I sat down by her. I watched her for a few minutes without speaking. Her hair was pinned up with a grip; several strands seemed to have escaped from her bun, an unusual disorder in L.’s hair. She suddenly struck me as small, diminished, and then I noticed her bare feet and it occurred to me that this was the first time I’d seen her without heels. She smiled at me; we still hadn’t exchanged a word. I smiled back. The oven was on and through the door I could see a dish browning. L. had apparently spent a good deal of time in the kitchen. She’d bought a bottle of wine and opened it. Everything seemed back to normal. I felt better. The afternoon’s incident was just a strange, vague memory; I was no longer entirely convinced that the conversation had taken place. Smells mingled in the warmth of the room. I sat down. L. poured me a glass of wine.

  When the vegetables were done, I watched L. transfer them into the liquidiser jug. She added some stock and then tried to turn the machine on. Once, twice, without success. I watched her unplug it and plug it back in. With a sigh, she checked that the jug was properly attached to the base. She looked at the blade at the bottom, checked with her fingers that it turned. Then I saw her start again from the beginning: assembling the machine piece by piece, plugging it in, trying to get it to work.

  L. appeared calm. Worryingly so.

  I was about to offer to take a look when L. raised the blender above her head and smashed it down on the work surface. She did it again, with a fury I had never seen in her before, bringing the blender down again and again with all her strength, until it shattered in several pieces. The blade landed at my feet.

  L. suddenly stopped. She leaned on the table, out of breath, contemplating the broken parts of the machine scattered on the floor. I thought her rage had subsided, but in a final access of anger, she seized the rolling pin and, with two blows, smashed what remained of the machine.

  And then she looked up at me. I’d never seen such a glint of victory and savagery as flashed in her eyes that evening.

  35

  From that day on, there was no further question of her looking for an apartment. I didn’t ask about it; I didn’t show any sign of impatience. During this time, I don’t think L. made any pretence of looking for a new apartment. We no longer went near the subject, as though her long-term presence was a given.

  Apart from the blender episode (L. replaced it the next day), L. was calm and even-tempered.

  She was attentive, sensitive, didn’t leave a mess. She regularly did the shopping, replaced things we ran out of. Our cohabitation jogged along smoothly and we never had the smallest domestic difference.

  L. merged into the decor, as though she’d always been there. I cannot deny her presence provided a kind of reassurance. We were close. We were complicit. In all senses of the term. Beyond complicity, I’d made L. privy to a secret that no one else knew. She was the only person who knew that I could no longer write a line or even hold a pen. Not only did she know it, she also covered for me. She substituted for me so as not to arouse suspicions. L. responded to official and professional correspondence on my behalf.

  We turned down meetings and writing commissions.

  We refused to talk about subjects that authors are often invited to speak about.

  We were hard at work.

  Now I have to admit this: I’m aware that the people I supposedly replied to during this period will realise when they read this that it wasn’t me. These people will
perhaps find in their inbox or among their correspondence a letter or email, signed by me, not one word of which I wrote.

  I hope they’ll forgive me for this.

  It’s clear that living together enabled L. to cement her control and I don’t think I put up much resistance. I’d like to be able to write that I fought back, struggled, tried to escape. But all I can say is this: I relied on L. because it seemed as though she was the only person able to get me out of the pit.

  Sometimes the rather hackneyed image that comes to mind is of a spider that has patiently spun its web, or an octopus with many tentacles, holding me prisoner. But it wasn’t like that. L. was more like a jellyfish, light and translucent, who settled on part of my soul. That contact left a burn, but it wasn’t visible to the naked eye. Its imprint left me seemingly free in my movements. But it bound her to me much more than I could have imagined.

  To the few people I was in touch with (the children, François, my editor), I gave the impression that I was back at work. I’d got started on something. I was right at the beginning, but I was progressing.

  I didn’t call any of my friends to tell them about the impasse I was in. I was afraid they would, rightly, consider it the whim of a spoilt child. I had no excuse and it seemed impossible to justify my idleness.

  I didn’t say anything to François either. I was afraid he’d stop loving me. Not only did I not tell him anything, but when he came back, I arranged things so that he never met L. Because I knew that the instant he saw her, he’d understand it all: the lies, the subterfuge, the illicit duo we now formed.