Voice Over (14 page)

Because of the sunglasses she doesn't recognize Marion right away. But Marion recognizes her. The dark glasses lend her the air of a Hollywood star who has slipped into a market for a taste of local color. She wonders if those brown lenses are the ones through which Marion sees the world best. Marion calls the boy, who realizes his mistake. Without taking his eyes off her, he lets go of the trouser leg and moves away with little steps, his head screwing round as he goes. No trace of fear; only a kind of intrigued curiosity, as if he had just discovered a new species of animal, which he was surprised to have been able to approach without danger. On one side, there is the little boy and Marion, who is looking her up and down; on the other side, she stands there wondering what the best attitude to adopt would be. Between them, the flower seller, who has resumed cutting the tips off the stems. Do something, move, dispel the awkwardness, break the tension of this unexpected encounter. She could head back the way she came. Pretend not to have seen or recognized her old friend. She'd be swallowed up by the crowd. There'd be no one to hold it against her, no explanation to give. Before, she would have avoided the confrontation; she would have done it without hesitating. But just now, something stops her from turning away and propels her forward. She takes a step. Emotion and reproach alternate in Marion's eyes. She lowers her gaze and forces herself to smile at the child, who has shoved a thumb into his mouth and is sucking it with abandon. Either of them could or should have called the other, but the one who thinks she's the victim turns the other one into the culprit. At the court of broken friendships, she would be taken before
the judge in handcuffs, without the right to a lawyer. In her defence, your honor, she was powerless. No clemency. Sentence is handed down: to write ten thousand times “to be loved is a responsibility.” She wouldn't dare say that she hadn't known. She is now only a metre away from Marion. The child has lost interest in her, he's rubbing the soft petal of a flower between his fingers, the tranquillizing effect of touch. For a few seconds, she would like to be in his place. She imagines taking Marion's hand and being engulfed by a wave of serenity. But the situation is urgent, usual words must be found. Why not rewind the film, start again from scratch as if it were the first time? Don't even think about it. If they hadn't already known each other, they would never meet. Marion is asking the child not to play with the flowers. They don't belong to you. The child looks up at his mother to gauge the seriousness of the order then retracts his hand. She is about to say that the flowers don't mind but realizes that it is hardly an ideal way to begin under the present circumstances. She can feel Marion hesitate between acting spontaneously or taking refuge behind the resentments of the past. It then strikes her that every story is determined by its opening lines. Which is why such sentences are so hard to pronounce. He's pretty well-behaved usually. The signal. Marion is talking to her at one remove. The child is the intermediary in a hesitant attempt at communication. She has no choice but to follow the lead. He's cute. She already knows they won't get very far like that. If there were a dozen or more kids, that might keep them going a bit longer. She watches the child hopping from one foot to the other as he plots his next expedition. She finds it fascinating that Marion could have given birth to him. To have that strength, to have the determination to take on that
particular role. And for the rest of her life to protect, to worry, to manage to keep the threats at bay. To believe in the miracle, whether from ignorance or conviction. She looks for resemblances, traces of the mother's personality in the child. But the little boy's bearing seems quite distinct from Marion's. A little person in his own right. It is only over time that the mother will put her stamp on him. For now, the degree of kinship can be seen in the degree of obedience. She knows that it is customary to compliment parents on their children. She'd like to tell Marion how impressed she is and to sound sincere. For she is impressed, even if it seems that the existence of the child makes the rupture of their friendship even more final. She'd like to do the right thing, play by the rules for once. No missteps; to use the opportunity to show that she means well. Even if there can be no follow-up, she would like Marion to feel that she doesn't disown their past. Things turned out the way they turned out, that's it, like the wind, the pressure of actions and reactions. She can't explain, it's too tricky, she'd get tangled up and only make the situation worse. By going through the child, she can no doubt show Marion that she still cares. She softens her voice. Do you like the market? For a few seconds the child stares back at her without blinking then, very brusquely, buries his head in his silent mother's coat. Silly kid. She represses an urge to pull an extremely ugly face. Have you left Montpellier? Of course she's left Montpellier, you idiot, she's right there in front of you. Awkwardness makes you say the most ridiculous things. Marion moved two years ago, her husband works in Paris. She is about to say, you should have let me know, but she catches herself in time. She's not used to asking questions; it makes her feel like a private detective who's found her client's girlfriend and is
checking her identity. And you, are you working? Marion motions her chin at the child, who is again sucking his thumb. I look after him; it's a full-time job. A smile flits over Marion's lips, and without looking at him she runs her hand through the child's hair. Suddenly, she feels, how to put it, inappropriate, extraterrestrial, entirely unsuited to her gender and species. One day, a man had confessed to her that he envied women solely for their ability to have children. She had called him a misogynist, he hadn't understood. She wants to ask Marion at what moment did it become impossible for her to hold back, but the question wouldn't sound right. At best, Marion would say, it comes, it gets to you in the end, it even becomes an obsession. She hears Marion calling to the child. Timothé. Immediately it reminds her of the jingle in the advert for Timothei shampoo. Timothé! The child puts back the large red apple he was about to make off with and returns, dragging his heels. A successful display of authority. And you, how are you doing? Marion must be saying to herself that things haven't changed, that the passage of time has been no help, that she's still on her own, struggling, husbandless, childless, haunted by bad luck. In addition, she doesn't have much to tell, she's bound to disappoint. And soon it will be that Montpellier look again, that sorry helpless stare which means, I understand, but which can't understand, and which, in its deliberate sympathy, chains her to the past. When she replies, fine, Marion thinks about it, and even if Marion didn't think about it, she'd think that she was thinking about it, which comes to the same thing. She can say whatever she wants, argue that time has gone by, but the changes Marion perceives in her will pass through the filter of the incident confessed to years earlier, and it still stands between
them, even after a marriage and a child, and perhaps for these two reasons even more so than before. She'd like to say to Marion, forget it. But she would still have to manage to answer the question, and her head is spinning and she has an increasing desire to throw up. She must have turned pale, for Marion has let down her guard somewhat, she addresses her by her first name. Soothing familiarity. She could talk about him; Marion would no doubt see it as a positive element in her life. But what to say? That there is a man who . . . who what? Kissed her by mistake at a party and hasn't laid a finger on her since. Who lives with an angel but spends his evenings bored stiff in front of the television, this last fact as yet unproven. Who refused to go to the theater with her but managed to speak to her on the telephone for almost five minutes, his words making her feel that her life has changed. She puts herself in Marion's shoes: at best, she'll find it amusing, at worst it will confirm what she already thought. Wait a second. Marion rushes after the child, who has trotted off in pursuit of some pigeons. She watches her go, sees her catch up to him just as he reaches the curb. She is left standing there alone, looking off in the direction of her vanished friend. The flower-seller asks her if she needs any help. She shakes her head but can't move from the spot. This is the moment, the longed-for opportunity. To escape. A few strides would be enough for her to disappear into the crowd of market-goers. And so bring an end to their pathetic and disturbing encounter. She turns her head. Marion is busy talking to the child, pulling him by the arm. She makes a run for it. Stifflimbed, intent, one step at a time, she reaches the central alley of market stalls. Marion has perhaps seen her by now, but her decision was made a long time ago; there's no turning back.
One more yard, and she is swallowed up by the crowd. She's safe. When she's sure that she is well hidden from view, she looks back. By standing on tiptoes, she can just make out Marion turning round and round, eyes on the lookout. If she waved to her now, if she walked back, it would be easy to invent an excuse. She'd pretend that she had never meant to leave. I went to have a look at something. But she doesn't have the strength for that. She watches Marion hoist the child into her arms and walk away from the market. How long did Marion spend looking for her? A minute at the very most. Is that how she should measure what she meant to her friend? She imagines Marion recounting the incident to her husband. I suppose it's too late to do anything. And Marion won't have any reason to hold her tongue, the rite of passage will come spilling out, beyond her control and without her permission. She feels her stomach tighten at the thought of it. By now, Marion and her son are two tiny specks in the distance.

 

 

There's a message on her answering machine. He wants to get together with her. Anywhere will do. She'll go. They'll see each other. Alone at last. They'll talk. She'll have to find a topic of conversation. She can tell him about Noémie. She'll ask him what he would do if Ange disappeared. No, let's see. She'll ask him what he would do if she disappeared. Too dramatic. She won't ask him anything. She'll just say, it's strange not knowing if someone is alive or dead. Too heavy as a starter. She'll talk to him about the weather. Too banal. She'll talk to him about the place where they are. They'll comment on the look of the people they see going by. She could teach him the staring game. No. He'll find it childish. Or else he'll kiss her and there won't be
any need for them to talk. No. He won't dare, not in public, not at the risk of running into by someone who might know him or might know Ange.

She presses the play button. A woman's voice. Panic. Ange has discovered everything and is challenging her to a duel. Marion has got hold of her number and wants an explanation because she doesn't understand why she treated her like that. But the voice says neither Ange nor Marion; it says her name. For a few seconds, she thinks that she has left herself a message but has forgotten all about it. She is suffering from a split personality. Schizophrenia is the medical term for it, if memory serves her right; so that could be the problem. But as she listens, she realizes that it's not her voice. I got your number from Maxime, I'm sorry to disturb you like this, I wanted to tell you . . . The voice stops. I wanted to tell you that I've left him, I wanted to say thank you. The actress then takes several seconds to hang up. The red light stops blinking. She could almost cry. Not from sadness or joy. Something else, but she doesn't know exactly what. It's not every day that someone says thank you to her. For the duration of the message, the roles were reversed. She became another person's guardian angel. And that despite the fact she never thought she could protect anyone from anything, least of all without knowing about it.

 

 

The next day, in the middle of the afternoon, she is outside the entrance to Parc Monceau. She spent all morning thinking about the actress, about Maxime, about their break, about the remark of hers that led to it. She feels as if she has rescued the actress, and since the previous day a sensation of lightness hasn't left her. Hence the desire for green open spaces. She has chosen Parc
Monceau because she has never been there before. Entering the park, she reflects how one person can change the life of another, without meaning to, by a sentence or a gesture. A gesture or a sentence that someone else could repeat dozens of times without having any effect. Without ever realizing it, a person can change another's life. Couples are lounging on the grass and children are rough-housing with their parents. Lone men and women are reading or getting bored on the benches. Whenever she is in a park, she is always faced with the same dilemma. All those orderly paths overwhelm her. A park should be explored instinctively, without markers. But the walkways impose their fixed itineraries and lead to artificial crossings, which force one to choose different sections of the park over others. The only way to get to know the place is to follow the layout of paths, to explore them all without exception. At each fork, however, one of the paths has to be abandoned and might never be found again.

Near the pond, she notices a man sitting with his back against the trunk of a willow tree. His legs are stretched out in front of him and he uses them to support the notebook he is writing in. Through sheer concentration, he keeps the world at a distance. Further along, she sits down by the water's edge but continues to spy on him. He doesn't look up; he is galloping forward without moving a muscle. She imagines herself doing the same thing: emptying her head onto one page after another. But what would she write about? Her days at the offices of the SNCF! The man has lifted his head and is looking out at the surface of the water. She has never met a writer before. Do you write? For a moment she thinks she is hearing her own thoughts. But then she spots a pair of black feet in sandals just
beside her. He is there every day, a man's voice announces from on high. The new arrival has settled onto the grass twelve inches away from her. She tells herself that maybe she knows him, but no, she has never seen his face before. No doubt, she is not the sort of woman who needs to be asked permission. She should perhaps stand up, tell him that she's taken, married, but she can't bring herself to lie. The man has turned his attention to the surface of the water, perhaps looking for inspiration as well. Do you write? She shrugs her shoulders. At least he's someone who tries to be funny. She can pass herself off as a prostitute, but not as a writer, an authoress, she isn't sure what term she should use. You could be. Well, he must take her for an idiot, unless it's the best compliment he can come up with. Actually no, she couldn't be. And so what does she do, apart from spying on poets? The question takes her by surprise. She doesn't spy on poets. She doesn't know any. In fact, he's the first one . . . she's seen . . . in her life probably . . . she's never come here before. He was joking. She at once wishes she could take back her dumb reply. It must be some deep-rooted need of hers to justify herself to strangers. Especially since he doesn't even seem to be trying to pick her up. His name is Atoki, and he insists on knowing what she does for a living. She hasn't the faintest idea why he's so curious. She thinks of a whole list of professions: accordion player, tiger tamer, Sunday-school teacher, champion jockey, chimney sweep, striptease artist, lunar astronaut. She has no end of choices to become something she is not for him. Tell me the truth. This Atoki person is really starting to get on her nerves. She's an SNCF train announcer, there, that's all. Happy now? Atoki stares at her as if he hasn't understood. He wants to know what SNCF stands for. She may
be naïve, but either this guy is pulling her leg or he was born on another planet. SNCF, the railway company. Atoki seems impressed: he has never met anyone with that profession before. It sounds like a good job to him. You're not from around here? Atoki is a refugee, he was born in the Democratic Republic of Congo. His words sound like the opening lines of an advert for an NGO or an adoption agency. She doesn't know where the Democratic Republic of Congo is in Africa; she prefers not to ask. Which is just as well because Atoki seems none too keen to talk about his native country. He wants to ask questions. He tells her that it must be quite something to talk into a microphone and address hundreds of people at the same time. Actually, once you get used to it . . . He wants to know if she ever feels like saying the first thing that comes into her head. Changing a departure time or the number of a platform, for example. If you want to get fired, that's a good way of going about it. Of course the idea has some appeal, but she has never thought about it. Over time, certain prohibitions have the power to merge into what is normal and violating them becomes inconceivable. It's hardly in her interest, in any case, to defy the unwritten rules of what is pompously referred to as professional behavior. Atoki's full attention is on her; she tries to understand the reasons for this blatant interest. A foreigner, slightly disoriented, tries to fit in, to form ties, to understand through its inhabitants the place where he has been assigned to live. Because he will probably spend the rest of his days there. The distance this man has travelled to end up sitting next to her in Parc Monceau in Paris must be the equivalent of five years of métro rides for her. She has never been to another country, not even Switzerland or Belgium. She has never been a refugee
or a foreigner. And yet she thinks she can guess: no points of reference, a permanent sense of incomprehension, of rejection, of being stigmatized. And so foreigners of all sorts find themselves in parks because all parks are similar. Parks don't reflect the tastes of a society as much as buildings do; in a park an immigrant can feel a little at home. Atoki is still not satisfied. He now wants to know what aspect of her work has astonished her the most. She makes a face. Atoki waits, as if unaware of the incongruity of his question. It feels as if she is taking part in a television quiz. What kind of thing? Anything. She is about to say, nothing, that her work is monotonous, that she sits down behind a microphone every day to read out stoically whatever she is asked to read, that the words are always the same, that the trains are rarely ever late, that everything is timed down to the last minute, that unforeseen events are kept to a minimum, that she produces nothing, invents nothing, that the only people she has contact with are her colleagues, who avoid her and whom she avoids, that many travellers are convinced that what they are hearing is a synthetic voice and not a real person. If she were born in the Democratic Republic of Congo, then yes, there would be astonishing things to relate, but in her case, honestly. Poor refugee. To have travelled all those miles and to stumble across her, who can't even come up with a single original anecdote to tell him. Oh but actually, there is something. Atoki waits with baited breath. Recently she met a strange man in a café who was pretending to be a tramp. Although she had never seen him before, the tramp knew her. The tramp had never taken a train but he slept in the station and heard her announcing the departures and arrivals. And it was from her voice that he recognized her.