Based on a True Story

by Delphine de Vigan

  What I must now admit is that I was capable of lying to François and the people who are close to me. I sank into lies with a mixture of fear, disgust and perhaps also a hint of relish.

  Some mornings, when I felt anxiety swell in my throat like a ball of silver foil, I clung on to something L. had said to me one day: ‘True creative impulses are preceded by a sort of darkness.’

  In the evenings, when we were both at home, L. would return to the ritual, going over to my bookcase, running her hand along the spines and seemingly stopping at random.

  Had I read sack of bones, the little Arab girl, the dog’s evening, the dog’s night, the knickers, only love, the renunciation, the impossible book, I give up, dark Sunday, purge, the left behind, the unseated, the girls, birth of ghosts, maternity, the art of hunger, scintillation, a feeling of abandonment, no one, the falling man, accidents, the poet, ask the dust, the painted drum, the state of affairs, lone horseman, the summer he didn’t die, grace and truth, the life before her eyes, the counter life, the three lights, the falls, the echo chamber, our fictionalised lives, my best friend’s daughter, the past, on heroes and graves, everything is illuminated, death with interruptions, a ghost, paradise, the willow tree, the inn at the edge of the world, lighthousekeeping, Sukkwan Island, the isles, Elizabeth is missing, never forget.

  36

  When François got back, we spent a few days together in Courseilles. I left L. alone at my place. I didn’t bring any work with me (for good reason). I convinced François – who was surprised to see me so free with my time, so far from my construction site – that I was allowing myself a break. And when he asked me about my work, I repeated, as I did every time he’d expressed concern, that it was too soon to talk about it.

  When I got home, I found L. in Paul’s room, hard at work. She told me that I’d had an email from my publisher about an invitation from a school in Tours, which I’d agreed to months before and which – I forget why – had been postponed several times. The school librarian had called back: a new date had to be set up as soon as possible. One sixth-form and two Year 11 classes had studied several of my novels and were expecting me.

  I didn’t really feel up to it, but I had agreed. On the face of it, there was no reason why it should go wrong. I was used to this sort of event. L. and I looked at some dates we could suggest.

  L. told me about two or three other requests that she’d replied to in my absence. She thought I was looking the better for my few days in the country. She didn’t ask anything about my time there.

  That evening she expressed concern about whether it would be a problem for her to stay a while longer. I told her again to take her time.

  L. never questioned me about François as she permitted herself to do about my friends. She never asked me to tell her how we met, nor how long we’d been together. When I got back from his place or from Courseilles, she limited herself to asking how I was. She avoided details, anecdotes and any kind of narrative. François was a part of my life, she couldn’t ignore that. She considered him, implicitly, as part of the problem. She didn’t hide a degree of scepticism about this relationship and sometimes let slip a remark that was enough to convey how much it continued to strike her as against nature. I didn’t take offence. In L.’s eyes, François was a permanent feature of my existence with which I had to contend. A complicating factor rather than a positive one. Being in love with a man who spent his time meeting and praising other writers struck her as dangerous. Someone who crossed the Channel or the Atlantic to meet authors whom he judged more interesting than French ones – that was what she thought his endless trips indicated – couldn’t help me get my confidence back. One evening when she’d had a bit to drink, L. went so far as to compare me to a primary-school teacher who has chosen to live with a school inspector. That made me smile, so she went on: ‘In fact, like a guy who goes home every night and tells her about pilot schemes run by star teachers in outstanding schools, and meanwhile she can’t even keep control of her primary class . . .’

  I wasn’t sure I had grasped the meaning of the metaphor. Or, rather, all of its meanings. With L., the hidden meaning of a conversation sometimes struck me several days later.

  And so our life together continued. François’s return hadn’t altered much. The nights I slept at his, I’d come home early the next morning on the pretext of working. I would find L. in the kitchen, drinking tea.

  The only fairly direct question L. asked me about him concerned the possibility of our life together, now that my children had left home.

  When I turned the question round on her (did she plan to build a new life?), she laughed at such a naive way of putting it. Build a new life, what did that mean, was it simply a matter of building, unbuilding and rebuilding? As though we had only a single strand to knit. She laughed, then added: ‘As though we were unequivocal beings, built of a piece, from just one material. As though we had only one life.’

  37

  Two or three things come back to me that date, I think, from this period. But I have to say that I am no longer entirely sure of the order in which events took place, since the further I go in this story, the more hazy things become.

  First, L. bought a couple of pairs of jeans that were the same brand as mine. At the time, I didn’t pay all that much attention to it; these details came back to me much later, when our relationship had really begun to go off the rails. I, too, have sometimes tried to find an item of clothing like one I’ve seen a friend wear. I’ve tried them on and even bought them. But what seemed fluid and sensual on another body on me always seems too large, too tight or badly fitting.

  I noticed that L. had bought the same jeans as me because she never wore jeans before she met me – as least as far as I could tell from her wardrobe in the early days of our friendship.

  In the days that followed, it struck me that L. had changed. I mean that L. was starting to look like me. I’m fully aware that that may seem bizarre (noticing a similarity to yourself in someone else) and probably rather narcissistic. But it’s what I felt. Not a true resemblance, of details and features, but a resemblance of contours, or look. I had already noticed that we had the same figure, the same hair colour (though L.’s was tame and well groomed), but there was now an additional aspect: in her gestures, her bearing, something about L. was reminiscent of me. At times, her silhouette stood out like a video projection of my own body on a softer, smoother surface. I also noticed that L. was wearing less make-up. For example, she’d stopped using tinted moisturiser, which she’d worn when I met her. Gradually, L. had adopted my gestures, attitudes and little habits. It was troubling, disturbing. But maybe it was only a figment of the imagination, of my imagination.

  (People often say that my daughter looks like me, probably mainly through a form of imitation that I can’t see. I can perhaps catch our resemblance in some photos of Louise, which remind me of pictures of me at the same age, but when Louise is in front of me, I cannot detect the similarity. I can see the ways that Paul looks like his father: there’s the way he sits, what he does with his mouth when he’s thinking, the way he uses his hands when he talks. But I don’t think his father sees Paul’s imitation of him.)

  In reality, the imitation of me that L. had developed was not of the same kind. It wasn’t natural and unconscious. It was deliberate. That’s probably why I picked up on it.

  But at that time, I wasn’t sure of anything. I think I came to the conclusion I was imagining things.

  Very early one morning, after I got back from François’s place, I found L. sitting in the kitchen, not yet dressed, her hair not done and her eyes red. She’d just heard that Gérard Depardieu’s autobiography, which she had been contacted about a few weeks earlier, had been offered to Lionel Duroy. It wasn’t the first time she’d been in competition with this writer. He had clinched it by having dinner with the actor. They hit it off. She understood Depardieu’s decision. She knew both men and the decision made sense. But she was disappointed. Anyway, sh
e rarely agreed to write for actors. But Depardieu was different. She would have been able to do it.

  Later, seeing her so dejected, I suggested going out for lunch, to take her out of herself. I hadn’t had the energy to prepare a meal and the fridge was empty.

  She shut herself in the bathroom for half an hour.

  When she emerged, I couldn’t hold back an exclamation of admiration; the least you could say was that she knew what she was doing. Apart from her slightly puffy eyes, the transformation was dramatic; her cheeks were pink and she looked refreshed and ready to go.

  We headed for a local brasserie with a good reputation for its dish of the day where we’d been once or twice before. As we were about to go in, I heard someone call my name. I turned round and saw Nathan, a friend of Louise’s she’d known since crèche. They were also in the same class at nursery and primary school, and even later, when their paths diverged, they never lost touch. Over the years, Nathan’s mother and I had become friends. A few years back, we went on a trip to the US together with the children.

  For a few seconds, with Nathan standing in front of me, the image of him as a little boy (blond hair, round cheeks and the adorable hand-knitted yellow pullover he wore for the nursery photograph) superimposed itself on the tall, handsome young man with dreadlocks before me. I hadn’t seen him since Louise went to Lyons; we kissed in greeting and began catching up.

  If I’d run into one of my friends, I’m sure L. would have stayed. But she didn’t feel suspicious, so she motioned that she was going inside to keep warm. ‘So I hear that you’ve shut yourself away for months to work,’ Nathan said, teasing me. ‘Mum told me you sent an email to all your friends begging them not to contact you!’

  I didn’t understand immediately. I didn’t want to. I think I told myself he was exaggerating; it was just the way young people put things. On the spur of the moment, I may even have nodded. Nathan told me what he was up to and asked about Louise and Paul. We parted after talking about getting together for dinner, with him and Corinne, one weekend when the twins were home.

  I thought how nice it was to see other people’s children growing up when you’d known them since they were little. The ones you’ve known in class photos and holiday snaps, that you’ve comforted, fed, tucked in, told off, sometimes held in your arms. I thought of all those boys and girls who had grown so tall, so different from each other; I thought I’d like to write about the enormously tender bond that links me to my children’s friends and my friends’ children.

  I went into the café and spotted L., sitting at a large table. I sat down. While she was looking at the menu, the waiter came over.

  ‘Are you waiting for the other person before you order?’

  L. looked up with a disappointed smile.

  ‘I think we’ll start without her. She can catch up with us along the way.’

  38

  We had set a date for my visit to Tours in May. And May had come.

  As this trip got closer, my anxiety gradually mounted. I tried not to think about it. Late on the day before, I had a panic attack. I suddenly felt completely unable to face four or five secondary-school classes. What I found paralysing was the thought of having to put on a brave face, put on a show, answer questions about my current work when I felt so depleted and at a loss. It’s all a matter of being able to visualise it. And I couldn’t picture myself in front of eighty teenagers, pretending that I was working hard on my writing. I couldn’t see myself answering the inevitable: ‘What can you write after that?’

  These secondary-school students had read several of my books, had prepared questions, some had done supplementary work (collages, short films), which they planned to show me. I couldn’t decently pull out. But I was incapable of going.

  That evening, seeing me in such a state, L. suggested she could pretend to be me. As though it were the most natural thing in the world; there, it was a solution like any other, the students wouldn’t be let down. It would avoid having to postpone the trip again, change train tickets, face the same fear once more.

  I was stunned. In my place? How could she imagine that people wouldn’t realise? But L. was utterly certain it would work. These people had only ever seen me in a photo. Now, I had to admit that generally speaking most photos were deceptive and bore little relation to reality. In addition, she maintained that the photos of me on the internet didn’t look like me. They didn’t add up to a coherent portrait; quite the reverse – they contributed to creating a fluctuating, hard-to-read image. The points of reference were blurred. Sometimes I had curly hair, sometimes straight; in some shots I looked like I had just got back from Club Med, and in other as though I’d just come out of prison. I could be thirty-five or fifty-five; middle-class respectable or tousled and grungy. In short, it all left genuine room for manoeuvre to, as she put it, ‘reinvent’ me. A few well-chosen details would make it possible to pull it off. She was sure it could work. The risk wasn’t all that great. What’s more, she’d read all my press interviews (right from the very first, she added); she’d heard me several times on the radio; she felt entirely capable of answering the traditional questions about the origins of my books or writing in my stead. And the rest she could improvise.

  I can absolutely see that this must seem completely mad, but I agreed.

  At dawn the next morning, L. put on my clothes (we selected what I was wearing on the most visible online photos, starting from the assumption that they’d have left some subconscious trace with my hosts), then I spent half an hour curling her hair using tongs that Louise had left in her room. L.’s hair was the same length as mine and just a shade lighter. The result made us laugh, especially when L. really started imitating my gestures and intonation, as though she’d practised this exercise dozens of times, alone in front of the mirror. She had real talent.

  At six o’clock, with my train ticket in her pocket, she took a taxi to Montparnasse station.

  She sent me a couple of texts from the TGV, and then I didn’t hear from her again for the rest of the day. We’d agreed she wouldn’t call unless she found herself in a police station for identity theft.

  Apart from looking at my phone every ten minutes, there was nothing I could do. I had allowed myself to imagine a few disaster scenarios: L. unmasked by the students, who would throw their books at her; L. coming out with nonsense in response to the questions she was asked; L. insulting a teacher who didn’t show her enough respect.

  L. hadn’t wanted me to pick her up from the station. She thought it better that I made the most of being alone. Around 10 p.m. – by which time I could hardly bear it any more – I heard her coming up the stairs.

  From her expression, I recognised the exhaustion I knew well. L. confirmed that everything had gone smoothly without a break: the train, lunch in the canteen, meeting the classes, signing books, tea in the staffroom, the train back. With no time to spare and without the smallest incident. There had only been a little moment of uncertainty at Tours station, when the librarian met her. She’d looked at L. several times before approaching her, and then, once they’d greeted each other, the librarian had continued casting sidelong glances. After a few moments’ perplexity, she had apologised for not having recognised her at once; she hadn’t imagined me quite like that. By contrast, the two literature teachers at the school had had no doubts. They were delighted to meet me; the students were waiting eagerly. During the session, a boy caused general hilarity by asking L. if she’d had plastic surgery: she looked younger than in her photos. The teacher gave him a lecture. The students asked lots of questions about the autobiographical aspect of my books, especially the most recent. L. was struck by the fact that most of their questions focused on this: Why did I consider my book a novel? Was it all true? What had happened to such and such a character? How had my family reacted to the book? All questions that I was familiar with and had had to answer many times.

  Standing before me, L. could not conceal her excitement or pride: she’d pretended to be me
and it had worked! Did I realise what that meant? We’d now become interchangeable, or at any rate she could stand in for me. There were probably ways to perfect the representation, because she could improve, she was sure of that, and that would free me from all sorts of obligations, if that was what I wanted.

  ‘You know, I can do it again, Delphine. Any time you need me to. And I’m sure it could work with people who know you. Booksellers, librarians, journalists. Absolutely certain. Believe me, people don’t know how to look properly. They’re too wrapped up in themselves. We can test it out whenever you like.’

  L. was as happy as if she’d just won a major drama award.

  Such was her joy that she didn’t notice my unease, even though I was having trouble hiding it. I banished the odd sensation that was making me feel slightly numb. This time, she had saved the day.

  I thanked her. I think I even added: I don’t know what I can do to thank you.

  The next day, L. told me we’d received a very grateful email from the teachers. They’d had excellent feedback, the students had loved the session, which they had found lively, exciting and relaxed.

  We had done well.

  39

  I’m a clumsy person. I collide with walls, trip over carpets, knock things over, spill water, wine, tea; I slip, stumble, get involved in uncontrolled mishaps, sometimes all in the same day. It’s not necessarily due to the unevenness of the ground or the presence of camouflaged objects. It’s more a matter of me being distracted, or a crafty form of misadaptation to the world around. To this may be added other factors: tiredness and being observed by other people. Even today, if I know I’m being watched, I will cross a room or go down a staircase entirely preoccupied with accomplishing it without falling. Even today, if I feel intimated, I can spend a whole meal only half-listening to the conversation, because I’m focusing on not choking or dropping something, and that requires my full attention.