by Inès Bayard
She suddenly realizes she left her purse by the door when she took a basket. She runs over to the checkout counters, racing through the displays of vegetables, terrified she’s had everything stolen. “Excuse me, did you see a purse? I left it near the door by mistake. It’s red leather.” The security guard looks at her without a word, pivots slightly, and takes Marie’s purse from a plastic tray. She’s relieved. It would have been unbearable to lose her things, her appointment book and her cell just two days before going back to work. She heads slowly back through the shop with the strap of her purse safely over her shoulder.
As she stands in line at the first checkout, she catches the eye of the older lady who stopped to make a fuss over Thomas. The baby. She forgot the baby. Her eyes open wide, her stomach clenches, the floor beneath her feet distorts. She sets off, running, panicking, breathless, looking for the stroller and her child. Everyone watches her, curious. She reaches the health section, where she left Thomas. There’s no stroller. A huge wave of terror sweeps over her. She races up and down every aisle, jumps from one place to the next, spins in every direction, starts to scream. A member of staff notices her and asks what’s going on. “I lost my baby! I don’t know, I was gone a couple of seconds and the stroller’s not there. A gray stroller. Help me please!” The young girl, who seems to be just a trainee, sets off quickly toward the checkout counters.
Noticing Marie’s and the girl’s alarm, the customers standing in line start listening to find out what’s causing their agitation. The trainee grabs the mic in front of a helpless cashier. “Your attention please. A mother is looking for her baby who was in the store a few minutes ago. If you see a gray stroller, please come to the checkout counters immediately. Please, this is an emergency. I repeat, a mother’s looking for her baby…” Marie’s legs threaten to give way. If she doesn’t find Thomas, Laurent will never forgive her for being so negligent.
Once the announcement has been made the cashier goes back to scanning items. Life goes on. The store manager arrives. “I heard the announcement, we can call the police if you’d like us to…” Marie doesn’t know, is lost. Some employees take hold of her. She’s paralyzed, destroyed, in a state of shock, her arms dangling empty, her shoulders slumping down over her breasts. Maybe yes. Maybe no. She needs to decide, time is ticking by. They’ll send out a report of an abduction. Laurent’s bound to hear about it on TV. She’s about to follow the manager to his office when she hears someone cry: “He’s here! The baby’s here, I’m with him.” Marie turns around. A tall blond fifty-something woman has come to the checkout counters with the stroller. She waves her arms. Marie stays rooted to the spot for a few seconds before running over to her. She hugs the woman, thanks her with all her heart, babbles the same words two or three times in succession. After a few explanations of her sudden disappearance, Marie takes the stroller back. Only five minutes have passed. Every customer in the store is staring at her. Some whisper as she passes. People eye her with disgust, horror. Ashamed, she decides to leave, gives up on the shopping.
On the way home Thomas smiles at his mother. “I nearly lost you today…I nearly lost you.” She finds these words a strange sort of relief, they break the silence between her and her son. She doesn’t normally speak to him, preferring to establish enough distance so that they don’t run the risk of becoming attached to each other.
Laurent is still in his pajamas on the sofa, working on his laptop. He turns around to look at his wife, amazed. “Are you okay? Why didn’t you do the shopping?” Marie puts her things down in the hall to give herself time to think about her reply. “No, the Charonne supermarket was closed today. I’ll go to the one in Bastille this evening.” Laurent gets up to lift Thomas from the stroller. He kisses him and sniffs his diaper. “Aha, he needs changing.” Marie knows he does but she’s already on her way to the bedroom to look through the notes Hervé prepared for her. Monday is a big day. She’s going back to work at last, Thomas is going to the day nursery and Laurent is starting his defense on a new case. Everything will be just like before.
Marie likes dropping off her son at the day nursery. She has a pleasant feeling of being rid of him. The child-care workers instantly take charge of Thomas, exchange a few words with her, and let her leave for work with her hands free, relieved of the heavy burden that he represents for her. Unlike the other mothers who feel guilty and smother their babies with kisses before going, Marie leaves as promptly as she arrives. “I’m running late”: her favorite phrase in the morning. Little Thomas gets farther and farther from his mother’s arms, watching her as she walks off down the corridor. She’s gone.
The last time Marie came to the bank was for the drink that her coworkers arranged in Thomas’s honor. No one’s waiting for her on the doorstep now. On her previous visit she already noticed some changes: coffee machines in the clients’ waiting area, large sofas instead of rigid plastic chairs, tall glass panels replacing the doors on all the offices, a large space that was previously enclosed adapted into an open-plan area for seeing student clients. In the space of a few months the bank has decided to modernize.
Hervé comes over to Marie to give her a coffee. “So, it’s the big day. Not too stressed?” Some way away two young women stand watching them and giggling. Marie turns to stare at them. “Ah yes, they’re new. We now have to work in pairs on some files…You see, there’s a policy of cooperation between the old guard and the young. Transferring skills.” She’s not old, only thirty-two, and she’s already being asked to play the part of someone overtaken by technology and ignorant of the codes used by “the young.” Anyway, her clients are old too. Old and rich with capital and shareholdings. The bank’s younger clients are usually broke, overdrawn by the end of every month, staying for years on end with their entry-level accounts that allow them only a debit card, and usually overseen by a lowly account adviser over the phone or on the Internet.
Marie knows that the early weeks will be difficult. When she goes into her office the glass door bothers her: she feels watched, maliciously spied on. Everyone else seems used to it. Her email in-box has a couple of reminders from human resources about her return to work, some administrative forms to fill out. Her finger rolls over the wheel on the mouse, scrolling through her messages. She stops. He’s dared to make contact again: “We all wish Marie a smooth first day back today!” The CEO’s email is copied to everyone in the whole branch. Her hands hover over the keyboard, and she fights to get a grip of herself. She immediately deletes the message.
A young woman barges into her office without knocking. She has a pile of multicolored files in her arms and sets them down on Marie’s desk. “Hi, I’m Mathilde, the new international business trainee? We’re working together on the real estate files. Here are the docs. If you like we could grab lunch sometime this week to check out some details and get to know each other?”
Marie finds her turn of phrase unsettling but doesn’t let it show. She’s disturbed by the girl’s affected Lolita vibe. Her pneumatic backside, firm breasts, and flawless white skin, and her smell of raspberries and peaches. Marie remembers the porn film her husband was watching when she saw him masturbating. This girl would perfectly match the selection criteria. She suddenly feels a twinge of jealousy. In a relaxed, natural tone of voice, Marie accepts Mathilde’s suggestion for lunch, then asks her to forgive her but she’s expecting her first meeting shortly.
She knows Monsieur Geignard very well; he’s an old client who’s retired and enjoys playing the stock market. Marie opens her client files program. An error message pops up. She tries again. Same thing. She gets up to ask Hervé what’s going on, but he’s already in a meeting.
“You okay? Is something wrong?” From Lolita. Although uncomfortable at the thought of being given advice by someone barely out of her teens, Marie eventually explains her problem. “Oh yes, they said you used H-five, but all the banks moved on to H-six some time ago now. That old stuff was super-slow. But it’s
no big deal, I’ll show you how it works.” How could the bank make this change so abruptly without keeping the old version in place and giving its employees time to adapt to the transition? Mathilde comes into her office with her. Marie feels handicapped, helped in everything she does, overtaken by the speed of technological change, with no training or experience, ready to be thrown in the trash. A little old lady of thirty-two steered by advice from a twenty-two-year-old.
Marie will spend the entire day relying on the help of her coworkers. After her long months of maternity leave she can’t even handle herself on her own.
* * *
—
Tonight they’re watching a movie and going to bed early. “How did your first day at work go?” Marie lies, not wanting to lose credibility with her husband on the professional front. Line 9 of the Métro was down so she decided to take the bus for the first time in ages, but when it stopped to pick up some regulars she turned away and decided to walk. On the way home it came to her in a flash: she could drop everything. She would just leave an explanatory note for her husband and son, escape to the station or the airport in a taxi and leave with just a couple of suitcases. She knows she won’t manage to kill herself for now. Suicide needs a single moment of real courage. She’s not capable of it.
As she sits sweetly next to her husband, it suddenly strikes her she’s the perfect embodiment of what society most despises: a fat, weak, cowardly woman who doesn’t love her child, is contemplating leaving her family, and is sexually underactive, inefficient and incompetent at work, and already old. An ad for toilet paper comes on, carried along by the brisk lilt of a Wagner melody. A woman rubs her face with a piece of the pink paper to show viewers just how soft and nice it is. All at once an aura lights up her body and lifts it into a turquoise-blue sky scattered with big white clouds, then scrolls softly around a colorful bouquet of flowers. Marie sighs. Laurent opens the packet of potato chips on his knees. “Seriously, Wagner for a toilet paper ad? They could do better.”
The movie starts. She insisted on watching her favorite film, All about Eve, simply to witness for the hundredth time Bette Davis’s masterly performance. A woman she’s always aspired to resemble: beautiful, powerful, honest, passionate, loving, spirited, arrogant, hysterical, melancholy, and sensitive all at once. Margo Channing is the woman, a unique character who’ll never age. Marie is totally captivated by the movie. Laurent fills his face with potato chips dipped in a bowl of guacamole. He wanted to make his wife happy. It’s obvious you’re not a woman. That line pierces Marie’s heart. Her hands tense, tears spill down her cheeks. She feels as if the scene is being played out for her. “She really is kind of hysterical…Poor guy.” What men like Marie’s husband want most of all is peace and quiet. The poor man, the poor husband disoriented by his wife’s scenes when she’s trying to assert herself as she is and as she sees fit. With her mind, her body, and her voice. They like taking their wives in hand while still leaving them a small margin of freedom so they have access to modern amusements, such as work or “a drink with the girls.” The power that a husband has over his wife is hidden, even inverted. A woman who’s given her freedom suddenly finds it unjustified, delights in occasionally backpedaling into the sweet comfort of dependence.
The trap closes in. The movie is over. They head to bed without any commentary. There’s nothing they need to say.
He snores. She’s awake, staring at the bedroom door. It has a lock. She’s never thought of locking the doors in the apartment. Everything’s open like the glass offices at the bank. She’s always being disturbed and never has time to think. Even in bed there’s her husband grunting next to her. The baby’s been howling for the last ten minutes. Laurent’s only just stirring, clumsily pats his wife’s shoulder for her to get up. It’s her turn today. Oh, the agony of getting up! Thomas is almost naked in his cot, his sleepsuit thrown on the floor. Marie picks up his things to dress him, then feeds his little hands through the sleeves, holding his head to keep him still. He scratches her breast and kicks her in the chin. She immediately lets go of him, flinging him back against the cushioning. He cries again but his mother doesn’t regret her reaction. She just wants him to stop. She wraps him in the tartan blanket that Irene knitted for him last month and wanders up and down the corridor rocking him for a long time, shaking him. She hates being alone with her son. All the lights are out in the building opposite. It’s three a.m. The boulevard Voltaire is silent, with just a few scooters still passing under the yellow glow of the streetlights.
Marie wants to make the most of the quiet and goes over to the balcony. It was the one thing she insisted on when they were looking for an apartment. She wanted a terrace or balcony so she could have her coffee outside in the summer. She opens the French window and a cold draft whisks over her, startling Thomas. She walks forward with the baby in her arms. She peers down. The balconies are wide but deserted. She looks at her son and he smiles at her. The sky is black. The metal shutters are down on all the shops, life will begin again tomorrow. But what form will it take? The same as ever, inevitably. She loosens the blanket and throws it to the floor, slowly puts her foot on the first metal bar of the balustrade. Her body rises slightly. Thomas is quiet, fingering the buttons on his mother’s pajamas. She holds him standing up on the ledge. Fourth floor. He’ll crash to the ground without making too much noise. His little bones will snap in a split second and his flesh will break away instantly from the violence of the impact. He won’t suffer but his mother will just have to look away from her child’s corpse. Then Marie could go downstairs and run away with no risk of turning back. She wants it to be over with and to throw him out now. Half hanging over the void, she gives him a series of shy little nudges so that he slides slowly. Eventually she closes her eyes. She has her hands flat over his round stomach still full of warm milk.
There’s a sound behind her. Her husband calls. Marie opens her eyes. She snatches the child back into her arms and picks up the blanket to wrap it around him. Laurent is now on the far side of the living room. He freezes for a moment, watching his wife from a distance. “What the hell are you doing outside? Are you nuts? Thomas will catch cold, come inside!” He runs over to them and wants to take the baby, but Marie jerks away from him.
“Leave me alone! I just wanted some fresh air, I’m still allowed to breathe, aren’t I, or is that forbidden too?” Laurent doesn’t know what to do. Maybe since Thomas’s infection he’s been too domineering with Marie, making her feel guilty about anything and everything. She strides angrily back to Thomas’s bedroom to put the baby in his cot.
Laurent apologizes for being angry, he didn’t mean to upset her. “I know you’re a good mother, but I sometimes get the feeling something’s changed. We don’t really talk much anymore. I know you’ll tell me I’m very busy at work, but you know…” Marie has stopped listening. His words flit past her. She regrets her cowardice, never managing to stay the course. She can’t bear her own weakness, her inability to see things through, those tiny microseconds that would have been enough for her to push her child off the ledge, then climb over it herself or just go downstairs and run away. Instead she’s stuck back in this bed again. The same bed in which she took refuge after her rape.
Laurent touches her breast. He wants a reconciliation. He wants peace. He thinks sex is the only proof of true happiness. Marie lets him have his way. Yes, let him get on with it. Let him fuck her however he wants to, in every hole if need be, and afterward he’ll forget his suspicions about his wife. He’ll forget the lurking fear he felt at the thought of her throwing his son from the fourth floor. Because he knows deep down: there’s a problem. Something that he can’t quite pin down and that he refuses to see or acknowledge. The light is on. The husband likes to see his wife when he penetrates her. Keeps switching back on the light that his wife battles to turn off so she doesn’t have to witness her own humiliation. He puts his hands on her hips, strokes her stomach, spreads her le
gs, then goes down toward her vagina. His sexual desire disgusts her. She willfully tries to stay dry between her legs. She struggles desperately to sustain the tragedy of those few seconds when she wanted to kill her son, in order to suppress the sick sexual impulses deep inside her. She turns around and kisses him. Laurent is surprised. From murder to love, from semen to blood, from lust to death, it’s her flesh that dictates to her. Exhausted, penetrated, and in pain, aching from the physicality of Laurent’s body moving on top of hers, Marie pants like a good little bitch. What’s the point of peace when all it does is feed the hate. There’s no chance left for harmony or mollification between Laurent and Marie, no rest and precious little common sense. She pays. She gives. She sucks. And if there’s to be no truce she’d rather have the acknowledged violence of war than the weakness of a quiet life. In a final flash of consciousness before she falls asleep the word “wife” comes to her at last.
Marie doesn’t want to pick little Thomas up from the day nursery. She’s taken a day off work specifically to be alone and so she can enjoy the shops in the morning. She did some research on the Internet last night with a view to buying some sexy lingerie. In spite of her full hips and the fact that she loathes her body since her pregnancy, she finally feels able to make an effort for Laurent, and their last sexual interaction has encouraged her to be more passionate. She’d like to surprise him. When he comes home from work she’ll be waiting for him on the sofa in the living room dressed only in her matching underwear, a glass of champagne in her hand. She’ll saunter sensuously over to him to whisper a few dirty words. They’ll be happy again. They’ll forget.