A Nail, a Rose

by Madeleine Bourdouxhe

  ‘You must understand,’ Anna said. ‘The woman over the way was completely flattened, just like that…’

  Who was she talking to? ‘You must try and understand,’ she cried out, ‘you must try and understand these thoughts I have…’

  Who was it in front of her that she was shaking like this with her outstretched hands, who was it that she was shaking so as to make him really understand her? It was probably Nicolas, who at this moment was repairing his wheel at the foot of the wooden staircase. Anna leaned over towards the window and looked out at the pavement. Nicolas was crouching down, his knees wide apart, slowly inspecting the tyre. He was furious with her, yet she loved him; she loved no other man. But being with Nicolas was just like being with the two tables, the sofa and the radio: she was imprisoned within her own body. Did Nicolas think that if she went out with Bobby it was to flirt or make love with him? None of that interested her. Love, it’s all the same in the end – it never offers anything new. And as for the real thing, well, she’d never come across it, either in herself or in other people. Poor Nicolas, thinking that the fact that she liked going out with Bobby had something to do with going to bed… She couldn’t explain to Nicolas why she liked going out with Bobby. The moment she began to explain it, it would sound daft.

  Bobby said, ‘OK, shall we dance? Lift up your train, princess.’ They danced, far apart from each other, arm upon arm, graciously. And Anna’s body slowly became transformed. She became so light that her body disintegrated and abandoned her; it was chased away, obliterated by the notes of music falling like rain and by the slow, gracious, distant movements of their arms. Bobby’s face was before her. It was a face without wrinkle or blemish, and it seemed transfixed, as though it was no more than two clear eyes beneath black curly hair, eyes that were clear and powerful like a guardian angel’s. And Anna, liberated from her body, was no more than a slippery, insinuating breath of air, a wide-eyed star, newly born and apprehending things and men and women and trees as if for the first time. For they were in the light now, not in the opacity of Anna’s body but in the real light of the breath that she had become.

  Bobby took her by the hand and led her between the tables and into the garden, then guided her to the room where the music came from. Standing next to each other, Bobby and Anna raised their glasses and gently clinked them. The vin rosé that they were drinking slipped down their throats, between breaths, all by itself, and the rain of music turned into hot, burning drops, burning to a cinder everything in her that was not breath. Anna was no more than dreams and vapours: she was vaporous, floating and reclining on a current of air. Gliding, buoyed up by the air, she could see things from higher up: she leaned over attentively, always waiting, always ready for the miracle that was going to be revealed, for the secret that was slowly to disclose itself, like a flower that half-opens to show the earth’s sense of time, and the purpose of blood, and the meaning of truth.

  One evening in Meudon woods she’d been with a man. Never mind whether he was called Bobby or something else: he had no name and Anna, a breath without a body, was no longer herself. She’d been lying on the ground with the man across her body, her arms stretched out and the man’s arms on hers, and their hands were clasped together. She felt no physical longing as she lay there; eyes wide open, she was staring at the leaves of the tree above them and, beyond the tree, at the sky, all lit up with stars. And lying there on her back, quite flat on the ground and the earth, her eyes on the sky, Anna was thinking – as if she were expressing herself in words, though she wasn’t – ‘I am lying with this man next to me. It is me lying here, and at the same time I am outside myself; it’s as if I am watching myself. I see a man and a woman lying down. They are silent, immobile, transfixed, and they will stay that way even when our hands disentangle themselves and our movements return to normal. They will stay like that now and for centuries to come, like marble or stone, touched with the miracle of grace. I can see them. And if someone is watching the earth from the highest star of all, this is how they will look: like marble or stone. And this is how they will be, a man and woman without names, eternally visible, superbly beautiful, like marble and stone. They will be the only people left on earth, and they will be of the earth.’

  ‘OK, shall we dance? Lift up your train, princess.’

  Sitting on the edge of the sofa, her hands clasped between her knees, Anna could hear Bobby’s voice, and now she could hear the songs and the music, all hot and violent, so that, almost vaporous herself, she became heat and violence too. She got up and stood quite still, picturing herself enveloped by the folds of a much-loved dress. It was very long, this dress – it enveloped her completely – and was so full that it completely obliterated all the natural lines of her body. The material would hide her arms, and flowers would cover the fine blue lines of her breasts. But Anna didn’t really have a dress like this, so she would wear her light grey suit and her cherry-red blouse.

  She went to the hanging wardrobe, took out the grey skirt, brushed and ironed it. She washed her cherry-red blouse, hung it in the sun and ironed it when it was still damp. And while she was washing and ironing, she brushed and ironed a suit of Nicolas’s, and washed a pair of his socks. Then she peeled some potatoes.

  Anna went out to the forecourt two or three times to serve petrol. In the glass porch she laid the table, put on the grey suit and cherry-red blouse, and did her hair. Her hair was so fine that it never took to artificial waves but fell back naturally on to her forehead and face. Now she could hear the music inside her, now she was light and hot like a rain of music. When Nicolas came into the porch this was how he saw her, all dolled up and vaporous.

  ‘So, you’ve decided to go out after all?’

  ‘Yes, Nicolas… I’m going out…’

  He moved close to her, very firm on his feet, his enraged face raised to hers:

  ‘And what if I don’t like it, you going out like this?’

  All dolled up, and already vaporous, with a smile that was no longer hers, a smile that was immutable as a sigh, her head full of song, distant and invulnerable, Anna replied:

  ‘But I am going out, Nicolas… Because Bobby asked me to… because he’s expecting me…’

  She didn’t move, she stayed right there next to him, transfixed and smiling.

  ‘I’ll teach you to smile like that,’ Nicolas said. He raised his fist and hit her bang on the corner of her mouth. Anna’s smile disappeared in a star of blood.

  Nicolas left the room, slamming the door behind him. Leaning over the basin, Anna washed her mouth with a flannel. Her teeth hurt. In the mirror, she could see the cut on her lip and the blood dripping from her exposed flesh: it trickled down again as soon as she wiped it off. She went and sat on the sofa, the flannel pressed against her mouth.

  Anna stood up and went back to the mirror. She was no longer bleeding, but her lip was violet-coloured and swollen. In her head, in her heart, and all around her, there was a heavy void. She really was this body of hers, she really was this lip of hers; in fact she was no more than this lip of hers which, as soon as she moved it, began to ooze blood. She passed her tongue lightly over it.

  She went down the wooden staircase and on the forecourt met Lucien, the young man who sometimes helped Nicolas out.

  ‘I’ve come to stand in for Nicolas,’ he said. ‘He’s gone shopping.’

  ‘I see,’ Anna said.

  ‘What on earth have you been up to?’ Lucien asked. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’

  ‘Yes, just now,’ Anna replied. ‘I missed a step and smashed my teeth against a water jug I was carrying.’

  ‘You ought to put some arnica on it,’ Lucien said.

  Anna walked along the road; she walked for a long time, not knowing where she was going. Cars flew past in both directions. Turning off left into the narrower streets, she passed a café which had a little garden with two iron tables and some chairs. She turned back on herself, went into the little garden and sat down at a table. A cement w
all, running at an angle to the house, closed off one side of the garden. There was a woman standing there, splayed against the grey wall, arms spread out, her skinny body enveloped in a black apron, her red hair against the grey wall. Some straggling, unhealthy vine-shoots clung to the wall to the right of the red-haired woman; a little above her bowed head there clustered, more vivaciously, the half-opened blooms of three passion flowers. Immobile, full of heat, the woman sighed as she leaned against the wall.

  It was only early evening, but the heat was fierce, almost stormy. So hot was it that the tiny blooms of a Virginia creeper, which formed an arch above Anna’s table, exploded, and the seeds fell down in a fine rain, with a noise like fine rain, on to the table and into her hair. The seeds fell like rain, like green rain, hot, violent, impossible rain in the here and now where she could not be. She was inside her own body; she was nothing other than her own body; and yet it had no purpose. And this green rain was nothing either; it gave her nothing. It fell on her body, which was nothing other than her body, which was nothing either. Hot, violent, impossible rain; green rain which was not her rain. Rain, rain, green rain.

  ‘I’d like a lemonade, please,’ Anna said.

  The red-haired woman came towards her, leaving the grey wall suddenly empty. She brought a bottle and a glass and placed them on the table in front of Anna.

  ‘Forty sous,’ she said.

  The woman dragged herself, heavy with heat, to a table opposite Anna and sat down, her arms stretched out on the table, her hands playing with a key.

  In front of the house two children were talking and shrieking with delight. ‘Time to go in,’ the woman shouted to them. ‘You ought to be in bed.’ The children went in by the back door and Anna could hear them still talking and laughing inside the house. They came into the little garden, making for the road.

  ‘I told you it was time for bed,’ said the woman.

  Breaking into a run, the children carried on towards the road.

  Anna looked at the children, then at the woman, and smiled at her. It hurt her to smile, and she dabbed at her lip with her handkerchief.

  ‘They’re not mine, they’re my brother’s children,’ the woman said casually.

  A strange smell was coming from the house, a bit like burning leather. Looking tense, the woman got up and sniffed the air.

  She reappeared holding an odd-looking bunch of smoking rags.

  ‘Filthy kids,’ she said. ‘Filthy bloody kids. They found a nest of mice – wrapped them up in my scarf – put them in the corner of the stove, the place where it gets really hot.’

  She knelt down in the little garden, unfolded the smoking scarf and smothered it with her hands. The tiny little animals, pale pink and furless, crawled about on the ground letting out anguished squeaks. She took them by the tail and after bashing each one with a stone, stood up and kicked the whole lot into the hedge. Exhausted, she took up her place against the grey wall. The three passion flowers rediscovered their true purpose, their blooms posing and clustering around her as if to root her and make her universal, reaching into the heart of her and beyond.

  Anna stayed still, her eyes fixed on the red-headed woman. Green rain fell on to the table, into her glass, on to her hair.

  At last she got up, moved round the table and started to walk, heavy with heat. Back on the Maisons-Alfort road she retraced her steps: it was getting darker all the time but it was as hot as ever. She climbed the wooden staircase and sat on the sofa, her hands clasped between her knees.

  When Nicolas came back he saw her sitting there, as if she hadn’t moved.

  ‘You didn’t go out, then?’ he said. ‘You’re still here…?’

  He put his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Did I hurt you?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘I get violent, I know… but it’s just the way I am,’ he said. ‘Will you forgive me?’

  Anna didn’t speak or move so he said, ‘OK, are we going to eat?’

  She got up and went into the kitchen to heat some soup. Nicolas turned the radio on to listen to the news.

  After the meal, Anna didn’t say anything or clear away: she just sat there, as if numb. Nicolas drew the curtains across the glass partition, and said, ‘Come on then, get your clothes off, let’s get some sleep.’

  He went on talking as he sat on the sofa removing his shoes: ‘Hope there aren’t any customers tonight.’ He said ‘tonight’ from the bottom of his throat as if he were choking.

  Under the quilt Anna was lying on her back, her arms tight against her body. Nicolas switched off the light and then, after tossing about a bit in the bed, turned towards her.

  ‘You’re not cross with me, are you? Are you?’

  Nicolas was a big man: he shook the whole bed. He leaned heavily against her and his voice went soft. Whenever he spoke intimately he faltered and stammered: ‘M-my d-dear little p-pussy…’ Anna struggled: she was soaked in sweat and gasping, trying to keep her teeth clenched. She struggled against herself: Nicolas would overcome her body, and her body would overcome her. She was going to be transmuted, to turn into a piece of flesh, that would open like a flower. My God, she thought, I do not want that… transmuting, sliding, falling, my flesh opening like a flower… She was no more than a big rose-window, bulging and swollen: a rose-window from which she would eventually spring, re-formed, herself again.

  Anna was weeping.

  ‘What’s the matter,’ Nicolas said, ‘are you crying? Your trouble is, you’ve been getting too much…’

  My God, he was going to say the word. Anna put her hand on his mouth.

  ‘I don’t like that word,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll have to watch it, then.’

  He turned over in the bed, settled himself, and went on:

  ‘Don’t understand tarts… you try to give them pleasure and all they do is snivel. They’re always crying – but they’re not the ones who have to make war and revolution…’

  ‘Maybe you’re lucky to have the opportunity to do those things,’ Anna said.

  ‘Some luck… that’s not what I call luck.’

  ‘It’s a challenge,’ Anna said.

  After a short silence she went on:

  ‘You might be able to feel that you were really doing something useful, you might be able to do something for…’

  She raised her hand, and to complete her thoughts traced a great circular shape in the darkness with an open and caressing movement.

  ‘What are you drawing?’ Nicolas asked.

  ‘I’m chasing a fly,’ Anna said.

  Nicolas fell asleep. Anna kept her eyes open in the darkness of the bedroom. The glow from the illuminated pumps shone through a slit in the curtains and played on the blankets at her feet. It was dark outside but she could see the forecourt tinged with a sunless daylight, as if the day was already beginning. She could see the woman whose hair was punctured by nails and the figure of the man with his little arm folded back, his hand open: ‘Greetings, greetings,’ said the jerking beggar again and again…

  Anna closed her eyes. It was springtime all over the earth. In a great green land, soldiers marched along a road past flowering orchards. The light smelled sweet, and immobile children looked into the soldiers’ friendly faces. A woman raised her hand: ‘Good day, soldiers.’ Two women raised their hands: ‘Will you be coming back this way?’ The soldiers were singing, the songs they sang all week and on Sundays too: regimental tunes, waltzes, romantic songs. Every single note rent the air, calling up all the words in the world and unveiling eternity to the hearts of the dying.

  Anna could see the men’s friendly faces and the flowering orchards. She was neither the child nor the woman who had greeted them: she was the song that the soldiers were singing.

  LOUISE

  WHEN MELTED SUGAR falls on to the steel surface of a stove it’s the very devil, it sticks like glue. To get it off you need steel wool and an emery cloth. Holding the cloth with both hands, Louise rubbed to
and fro with all her strength. Her hair fell over her eyes; she pushed it away with the back of her blackened hand. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath and looked at herself in one of the glass panes of the wardrobe: because of the curtain on the inside, the pane acted as a mirror. Louise was pleased by her reflection. She feigned a smile and opened her mouth a fraction, revealing a missing tooth, high up on the left: a shame, but fifty francs to replace. She went back to scrubbing the stove; again, her hair fell into her eyes. Louise: small, skinny, full of grace.

  She went to fetch a box of vegetables and began to peel some potatoes. The ground-floor doorbell rang; she opened the window and leaned out.

  ‘Odette, I’m throwing the key down.’

  She went out on to the landing and listened to Odette coming up the stairs.

  ‘Have you been good at school?’

  She smoothed Odette’s hair and straightened her headband.

  Louise went back to peeling potatoes. Odette picked up the peelings as they fell on to the table and cut them into minuscule pieces, then put them into tidy little heaps.

  ‘Are we going to have chips, Mama?’

  ‘We’ll have whatever Madame asks us to make.’

  ‘I’ll tell her I like them, then she’ll say yes.’

  ‘You will not, Odette, I forbid you to mention it.’

  Odette picked up a cup, crammed it full of peelings, took it to the sink and turned on the tap. Water squirted out, spattering the furniture, the table, everything within range.

  ‘Yes, I will say it. And I know she’ll tell you to do chips.’

  Louise turned round and quickly smacked her.