Bye Bye Blondie

by Virginie Despentes

  “He’s a shit, isn’t he? Comes on like some captain of industry, I-rule-the-world. Typical left-wing bastard. When he’s talking to me, I feel like he’s a missionary who’ll explain how to pray to God, so my soul can go to heaven.”

  She’s groaning, but trying not to make too much noise, and follows Eric back to sit down in their living room, unable to concentrate on anything except her project. Either it’ll get made, any minute, or it will vanish without a trace. For her, that means a difference of several thousand euros. She forbids herself to get excited, while holding herself like a machine gun, full metal jacket, ready to blast the opposition to smithereens. Eric flips through a few foreign TV stations and stays in front of the set till four in the morning. His show is in a rut, he’d like to find a good idea to suggest for next year. He’s patient, casual even.

  “He’s supposed to be left wing, I thought you’d have some fellow feeling with him.”

  “Yeah, sure he’s left wing, the prick. He knows he’s no Einstein. He feels depressed that he’s not cool enough for the circles he runs in, so he wants to get down there with the proles, and he thinks that someone like me, being a poor scrounger, will be so thrilled he’s deigning to consider my case that I’m going to lick his boots forever and ever, amen. Well, he won’t be disappointed when we meet, pathetic, incompetent cocksucker.”

  “Can’t you just calm down for a couple of minutes?”

  “No, dammit, it’s war, and you ask me to calm down! Is he giving you bribes behind my back or something?”

  “You should be glad that you know you’ve written a good story and found someone to sell it to.”

  “Not my style. Don’t mistake me for some poor dumb hippie.”

  “No chance of that.”

  He pulls her to him, they lie down on the couch side by side and watch presenters of every nationality strutting their stuff on TV.

  And lo and behold, it’s easy, it’s magical again, just the two of them. They recover their good mood, find the right words, and their gestures are comforting. She makes a real effort to control herself regarding Amandine. Eric is once more considerate, attentive, and funny. It’s a kind of remission, the idyll is back, they want it to seem like convalescence. He advises her to use his lawyer, but they’d had lunch with him, and Gloria thought she’d pass out before they reached the coffee. Too unpleasant, too full of himself, and arrogant. Another guy who took three hours to express a simple idea. She’d rather be cheated than turn to someone like him.

  “YOU KNOW, MY dear Gloria, if this film doesn’t get made, I won’t be the one losing sleep over it. It’s not me that will wake up in despair tomorrow morning. It doesn’t matter to me. Think about it.”

  Once more, her instinct tells her that the right thing to do at this point is say, “No, me neither,” get up, take her bottle of beer, and exit.

  The little producer sighs, exasperated, then leaves his office. Gloria stays sitting there, looking at her contracts. Claire comes in after a while, drinking coffee from a plastic goblet. She looks drawn.

  “Is it true you don’t want to sign? We can’t start on anything without a contract you know.”

  “My lawyer screamed bloody murder when she saw these papers. She told me I shouldn’t sign. I don’t know what to do. The boss, he just went out and said if it wasn’t signed by tomorrow the whole deal’s off.”

  She’d like Claire to tell her he’d never dare do such a thing, but from her expression she realizes he absolutely would. Someone who takes weekends off from midday Thursday to Tuesday morning is surely capable of canceling plenty of things.

  Before she leaves, she picks up a big black felt pen and signs all the documents. Everybody has warned her this is just what not to do.

  She’s opened a kind of door inside herself. She’s got something to lose now, for the first time in many years. Having this screenplay, being dependent on that stupid little man, who says every week that he’s going to put it into production, so he’ll buy it, and enable her for the first time in her life to earn some serious money. She went into this as if she’d just carried out a stickup, tossing something off in a fortnight that would make her enough to buy a new car. But it’s not so simple. For weeks now, he’s been stringing her along, calling her in, making her wait outside his office, making her accept all kinds of unpalatable things, swallow covert insults. And yet she keeps going back. Because she wants this film to be made. She keeps her smile fixed in place, the first lesson in hypocrisy, never stop smiling at this stupid fucker. She doesn’t realize in fact how much it’s costing her.

  SHE DOESN’T REGRET it right away, on the contrary. For several weeks she’s regularly congratulated, invited, made much of. They sign her first check, she’s sorry she’s not back in Nancy now, to be able to roll into the Royal yelling, arms in the air, fist clenched, “Here I am folks, let’s celebrate and drink to the producers.” Eric shares her excitement, genuinely. But the sum of money means nothing to him. Five thousand euros, that’s pretty much peanuts for him. She calls Michel but, as usual, it’s Vanessa who answers and you have to put up with her for ten minutes before she passes it over to her man. Yes, he’s glad for her. But Gloria doesn’t dare show as much enthusiasm as she’d like. They haven’t seen each other for months, he sounds washed-out, no doubt high on dope since this morning, doesn’t seem to be paying much attention, he’s probably reading his emails while he chats. In the end, Gloria tells him her story, pretending it makes a good anecdote. And Michel congratulates her, kindly, but without seeming that involved.

  When she arrives at the offices now, the secretary jokes with her, people offer her the odd joint or a glass of bubbly. She’s the coming thing, the surprise hit, she’s written the screenplay of the month, the thing the boss is currently keen on. He calls her in every five minutes, gives her some demo tapes to choose the good one, the best. He listens to her opinion, he finds her impressive, spot on. She isn’t fooled, she’s not going to amuse him for long.

  What she underestimates, dangerously, and what Eric can’t guess, is that by spending hours retyping a line of dialogue here, a description there, reediting the scene from the hospital or the location of a party, adding depth to one character or another, this screenplay, taken on as a lark in the first two weeks, has become transformed into something else. She’s becoming attached to her baby. But it’s just a mass of words printed on paper, nothing more. She goes back to it regularly, goes plunging back into those past days, looking for more material. It waltzes inside her flesh, she feels off-kilter. She’s feeding this screenplay with herself, she’s stripping herself bare in it. Without realizing, without knowing that it counts, she spends all her time absorbed in this and doesn’t protect herself from anything.

  One day the producer wants her to come and meet this director, “just to see.”

  “I don’t need to see,” Gloria tells him. “He’s a total zero, it’s common knowledge, there’s no need to go and have a meal with him. I’m not going to change my mind about his lousy films by watching him chew his lunch.”

  “You are going to go along, he loves your story, he wants to meet you, and I want him to make this film.”

  “So where do I come in?”

  “You have to finish writing the screenplay with him.”

  “But the screenplay is all finished. We’re NOT going to introduce aliens with big boobs, that wouldn’t fit with the story, I’m sorry. That clueless director with his tiny prick will just mess up my script. If he were any good at making movies, we’d all know about it. But no, a string of flops. Is he someone’s son or something?”

  “I really don’t see . . .”

  “He’s not even anyone’s son, and this is the third film he’s going to be allowed to ruin? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  “But I make the decisions around here.”

  “Yeah, but it’s my work.”

  “And it’s my money.”

  She pretends not to have heard. A little voice inside is te
lling her, See, you are an idiot, joke’s over. She pretends not to have heard, because of what she should reply. She carries on, calmly and brutally loquacious.

  “I turn up here, you tell me this kid’s read the screenplay, without anyone telling me—I think I should point out I’m not the cleaning lady, I’m the woman who wrote the fucking screenplay. So if this loser says he’d like to ‘cut out a couple of clichés,’ you’d be happy to pass that on to me. That’s either stupid or it’s mean, either way it’s not surprising if it really makes me mad.”

  “Listen, your story’s fine, but the public’s getting a bit blasé about reality shows now, you need to put it into the hands of a pro.”

  She simply swallows her wrath this time, while fixing him with a glare.

  The little producer hates it when she throws a tantrum. He likes to humiliate her, make her wait around, make his shitty little observations. He likes the idea of putting her into a harness with this young director on her back, just for the fun of seeing her struggle and get beaten. But he doesn’t like her losing her temper in his office.

  Gloria looks out of the window as she listens to him. His dry little voice goes up a couple of notches when he’s crossed. He’s acting as if he knows how to keep his cool, but he’s getting antsy on his soft leather couch. What she’d really like to do is bite his ears off. His delicate shell-like ears. She’d like to grab his head, hold it in both hands, and bite the ears off. But she stays calm, says nothing. All she’s suppressing is festering away in the pit of her stomach, turning her whole life moldy. And it’s herself that she’s learning to hate the most.

  She goes to see Claire, who offers her a little pick-me-up and a good joint. And talks nonstop so that Gloria can’t get a word in to complain or ask for help. Claire’s embarrassed and annoyed. But quite used to this.

  EVERY NIGHT, SHE waits for Eric to come home. She’s stopped drinking. She’s full of energy. She’s given up drink, cocaine, and weed. She doesn’t want to have anything in common with the production people, directors, actors, screenwriters. Taking dope gives them all too easily the impression that they’re cool dudes, in their sulfurous lives. Whereas they’re a lot of cowards, with reduced neuronal circuits. As if they need to make themselves more stupid. Since they like their dope so much, she decides to leave them to it. No more familiarity. She’s noticed in their discussions that she’s gotten too relaxed. With the alcohol, the spliffs, the coke. She mustn’t let them colonize her, she must keep her distance. Now that it’s far too late, she finally thinks of protecting herself.

  Eric selects a disc by Funkadelic, she wanders around for a few minutes, makes a pot of tea. She wants to give him time to decompress, but she wants to tell him everything as well.

  “Today, what I did was I headbutted this director. You know the one I mean, the kid. We were in the Japanese restaurant. And before we left, I couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up, he must have thought I was going to kiss him. I was so furious, I took a deep breath and gave him the headbutt of my life. He fell over backward onto these two posh old women. Like in a film, in fact. Just like that.”

  “And the producer, after that?”

  “He’s stopped answering the phone. It’s been days now. I’m not in his good books anymore. Him, Claire, they’re not talking to me. I daren’t go back. Of course, I’ve thought about it.”

  “You didn’t tell me all this before.”

  “It was so predictable that this would happen. I’m a bit ashamed, I admit.”

  “And now you’re depressed.”

  “No, I’m going to pull out of the project. I’m going to see if it interests someone else, and if not, I’ll get, oh I don’t know, some friends to read it.”

  “Gloria, you can’t take your screenplay back just like that. You signed a contract, you got paid.”

  “Yes, I can, it’s my story, and just because of €5,000 I’m not . . .”

  As she says this, Gloria realizes it’s not true. There are some moments like that when everything teeters on a knife-edge, they stick in your memory, intact forever. The red double curtain in the apartment, blazing with color because of the setting sun, the sound of George Clinton, the croc-skin shoes Eric wears when he’s on TV, although you never see his feet. The sachet of Earl Grey tea, the green cups.

  It’s what she has never been willing to admit, but it’s been lying in wait for her, pulling faces, ready to fall on her at this very moment. She’s been fired, like a stupid little idiot. From her own story.

  She had thought they wouldn’t make the film at all, she was ready for that. What she hadn’t thought of was that they would make it, but without her. She didn’t have enough faith in her own screenplay for that. It was a strange feeling, and, above all, what she didn’t realize was how strongly you can get attached to something you’ve made, produced, brought out from inside yourself. It was the first time she’d felt she owned something. And now she was dispossessed. Let them give her back her story and leave it at that.

  The first night, she thought she’d be able to get over it. The first week, she made a real effort. Shrugging her shoulders, laughing that, anyway, she’s had her €5,000, so let’s wait for another check if they make the film, and don’t think about it anymore. Give up, move on. Just some words strung together, don’t go breaking your heart over that.

  To console her that night, Eric says things she thought she’d never hear. Silly, loving things that strike to her soul, breathe softly on the pain, and make it go away. She promises to rediscover her sense of humor and devil-may-care attitude and not throw a tantrum. When he says these sweet things, the pain melts, it’s beaten. All that’s left is this fantastic love that Eric wraps around her. The way he kisses her collarbone, the hollows of her elbows, under her navel. Gloria delights in it, lying on her back, and she sings in a low voice the words of old songs she thought she’d forgotten.

  ONE DAY, LYING in the bath, reading a magazine, she turns a page and comes across a photo shoot of the company making the film. It feels like being punched in the jaw, takes her breath away. She’d like to be able not to react, to feel less pathetic. She gasps for air. She has the feeling of having awakened old ghosts, presences around her, amplified. Two arms are feeling for her in the dark—two skinny, outstretched arms—wanting to grip her, draw her in.

  With every outburst of rage, she calls the little producer on his phone. She insults him, screams at him, invents words to call him everything under the sun. He doesn’t change his number. He threatens to complain to the police.

  She doesn’t exist. In his mental universe, she simply doesn’t exist and has no right to anything. He’s paid her. He’s surprised that she got back in touch, exactly as he would be if the two little Chinese girls who sewed his slippers were to ring his doorbell and ask to see how well they fit. A string of people wiped out from his consciousness, appropriation with violence, and the refusal to see that there’s someone else at the other end.

  He’s perfectly at ease in his impunity, genuinely astonished that anyone could question it. His conscience is clear, he’s come to an agreement with it, so that he doesn’t need to understand. Understand or see.

  He sometimes picks up when she phones. He takes a mournful tone to remind her that there are worse things in this world, much worse things, than having her story stolen. She screams in return, screams into his voice mail too: “Liar, filthy liar, I’ll never stop bothering you . . .” She’s obsessed. Ever since she was a child, guys like him have been comfortably lounging around on other people’s backs, jerking off while they bust someone else’s guts. She’s obsessed—he’ll pay for this, the little she can do to try and ruin his stupid life, whatever it takes, she’ll do it. Return to sender, she wants him to feel something of what he’s done to her. The terrible contempt for what she is. Return to sender.

  WHEN SHE LOSES control in front of him, which happens more and more often, Eric avoids face-to-face confrontations as long as possible. Then, when it breaks out, he tak
es it. After every outburst he’s there to cheer her up. She’s like a boxer on the ropes and he’s pouring combative advice in her ears.

  “Don’t have a nervous breakdown just because this guy behaved like a shit. I feel bad now about having ever taken you to his place. But just don’t let it get to you! You’re not going to let yourself collapse and stay down over a little setback like that. Come on, where’s your pride, your strength, otherwise you’ll spend all your life crawling on your knees . . . I don’t know what to say . . .”

  “It’s eating me up. It’s like voodoo. I’m trying to get over it—give up my rights and not lose my head—because I can’t do a thing about it. But I can’t help it. It’s driving me mad.”

  “Do you think you’re going to have to kill him?”

  “Are you sick or what? No way. I don’t want to have to remember him every day of my life, rotting away in prison for twenty years. No, I’m going to forget him, digest him, eat him, spit him out, shit him on the ground, I’m going to forget this guy. Completely. Utterly.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  “Could be a lifetime.”

  She laughs. Herself, she finds it hard to believe how this has choked her. And then she calms down. Till the next time.

  Furious, full of venom. But at the same time caught up by a giant hand looming over her, blocking out the light. One day that hand will grab her.

  It’s become a ritual, she locks herself in the bathroom, squealing with rage, stifling cries so as not to be overheard. She looks once more like the madwoman in the attic. She stares at herself in the mirror, red-faced, deformed, eyes bright with tears. The calm interval was short, and when it all comes back, it’s a hundred times worse than before. She scratches her face, her chest, her stomach, hits herself. Her body has become a map of bruises. She bangs her head, then takes a shower and covers up the wounds.