Voice Over (17 page)

No one has stirred. She tries to recognize the music that is playing. She looks around for the name of the bar and sees “The Three Tadpoles” printed at the top of a menu on the next table. Odd name for a bar. She is trying to imagine the anecdote that
might have been responsible for it when she hears the door close. A man has come in. He raises a hand to the barman, casts a quick glance at the imperturbable young man, and then gives her a hard stare. She looks down at the few drops of wine left in her glass. She hears him order a beer. She knows what's going through his head: a woman on her own, drinking alcohol, on a Monday night no less. Just then, it occurs to her that what she needs isn't company but the company of the man she hadn't been able to kiss—Ange is in his arms on the sofa, they are watching a film. But it is too late. The man has put down his beer against her glass of wine and is settling into the chair opposite her. His name is Ivan.

 

 

Ivan is a psychiatric intern. He lives in a small studio flat on the top floor. By standing on a chair, Ivan can catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower through the fanlight. Which is in fact the first thing he invites her to do after taking her back to his place. To climb up on a chair. Pretty, isn't it, he says, standing right by her legs, encouraging her to look. Then he helps her back down and serves her a glass of red wine while asking her what she does for a living. She tells him that she is an SNCF announcer. By choice or necessity? he shoots back, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger. Both, she says, because she has never thought about it before. Next, Ivan points out five drawings in colored crayon pinned to the wallpaper. He strikes her as a bit young to have children; but she asks all the same. No, he doesn't have children, the drawings were done by his patients. He seems annoyed at her for not having guessed. He explains to her how the shapes on the paper reveal certain aspects of the psychological disorders these people suffer from:
suicidal tendencies, mythomania, anorexia. She considers telling him about the lead—he's a doctor after all, he'll know what remedy to prescribe—but he has gone back to commenting on the drawings, which are all very beautiful he finds. Has she heard of Antonin Artaud? She has to admit that she hasn't. Ivan extracts a thick tome from a pile of books on the carpet. On the cover is a black-and-white photograph of a man with enormous eyes. That's him, he says, and a few seconds later he puts the book away. She doesn't dare ask for more details. For a long while he tells her about his taste in music, about the ardent passion felt for him by one of his female patients, about his wanting to convert to Buddhism. Eventually, he sits down next to her. He runs his fingers over her cheeks and tells her that she has an interesting face. His erudite chatter has left her rather dazed. She lets him kiss her, then caress her thighs, her breasts. She ends up with her sweater and bra dangling from her arms and her panties down round her ankles. At which point he says, just a second, and starts rummaging around in the closet. He brings out a length of climbing rope.

She hasn't moved, even though she is starting to feel cold. Ivan's hands fiddle dexterously with the yellow-and-purple cord, which he folds, coils, and tugs on hard to form two slipknots. She asks him what he's doing. His lips curl into a smile; his eyes brim with tentacles. He is only going to tie her up. Without hurting you, of course. He hopes that she doesn't mind. She scans the room in search of a clue that would explain his behavior. Until he got hold of the rope, Ivan hadn't seemed to exhibit bad intentions; he had kissed her tenderly. She tries to reassure herself. Perhaps she is going to serve as guinea pig in a medical experiment, probably all perfectly harmless: reactions and behavior of
the bound woman. After slipping the rope over her wrists, he'll sit beside her with a notepad and run through a whole series of questions with her, like any other psychiatrist worthy of the name. But as Ivan approaches with a thrilled look on his face, all set to ensnare one of her wrists with his homemade lasso, she panics. She thrusts both hands down between her thighs and tells him, without animosity, that she's not really in the mood for getting tied up. And as he seems puzzled by the sincerity of her declaration, she takes the opportunity to pull up her panties. With a theatrical sigh, Ivan sets the rope down on the couch, kneeling in front of her and rubbing her bare calves with his fingers. But why is she taking it like this? His voice is measured, his eyes attentive. Is she frightened? Does he look that mean to her? As he asks the question, he removes his glasses to show her the kindness in his eyes. A black eyelash has dropped onto his upper cheek, waiting for the wish he will never make. She shakes her head. It's a bit odd; she's not used to it. He starts getting up and, as if operated by some spring mechanism, his limbs straighten to their full extent. He starts waving his arms about, clapping his palms against his thighs. Lots of people use ropes; come on, lots do. Lots of people tie themselves up, she must know about that. Maybe so, but it's never happened to her. She's not sure why she's still there, justifying herself, listening to a psychiatric intern trying to persuade her to do something she doesn't want to do. Ivan has swept the rope onto the floor and returned to the sofa. OK then, no rope and he dives back on to her for a kiss. She forces herself to match the spasmodic, circular movements of his tongue. She is just starting to relax when a rough material brushes her fingers. Sitting back, she sees that Ivan has managed to slide on one of the slipknots. He proudly displays a wicked
grin: that wasn't so painful, was it? She looks down at the small, flexible tube wrapped around her wrist. She should rip it off in fury, screaming how she can do perfectly well without lunatics like him, thank you very much. Only she can't muster the appropriate insolence, the combative energy that would allow her to impose her will on him. Instead, she feels ashamed. And so she takes the middle path, the only escape route open to her. Can't we do it the normal way? She closes her eyes. The last words have stung Ivan to the quick. Normal way? What the hell does that mean? He thought she was a bit more open, a bit more adventurous. Again, always following conventions, does she at least know why she is refusing? Well then, he'll tell her: it's because she obviously has a real problem. Silence in the room while the city emits its nocturnal sounds outside. The lead has solidified inside her chest. Here he is shouting about a problem after just spending a few hours in her company. He's a psychiatrist, he must know if she has a problem, but can she trust him? Like some corrosive agent, the rope-lover's verbal assault has disconcerted her. Perhaps her opinion of herself has been atrociously wrong, wrong for a long time. She could have been mistaken about everything. Ivan's jaw shifts back and forth, and she notes the tips of his upper jawbone under his skin. She wonders what kind of drawing Ivan would make. She removes the rope from her wrist. Ivan doesn't protest. He rubs his forehead as if to remove the lines that have formed there without his having noticed. His eyes are empty of all desire. She can put her clothes on again.

 

 

She spends the following days in the same lethargic state as before the incident at The Three Tadpoles. And when it finally
rings, it takes her a while to locate the phone. It's Ange. She doesn't recognize the energetic voice that is forcefully trying to drag her out of her torpor. Who? Ange. A sightseeing boat floats by on the river under her feet. He wanted to know what she was thinking about; she'd been unable to tell him. She feels the lead liquefying again and flowing back into her limbs. Ange has never called her before. An acquaintance might have seen them sitting on the banks of the Seine. Yes, yes, I'm sure; it was two weeks ago, a Thursday, in the late afternoon. The scandal of their clandestine escapade, the confession of the guilty party. She has become the enemy to be eliminated. Hence the phone call, to arrange a time and place for the duel. Last resort: confess. Nothing happened, not even a kiss, just a squeeze of the hands to feel the warmth of the other person's body. In any case, Ange has already won. She'll tell her that she's giving up. She doesn't have much to lose any more. But Ange goes on. We're going out for a drink with some friends tomorrow; we wanted to invite you. Who is we? Is he included? She may have a problem, but she's not that naïve. After her stunning performance, she finds it hard to believe she could get the benefit of a second chance with him. She doesn't know what he could have told Ange, but if he has left out the essential part, Ange may have got it into her head to play the benefactor and generously arrange a reconciliation. Do you want to go? She is finding it harder and harder to think. She feels like going back to the sofa, switching off all the lights and not moving. When? Tomorrow. Ange asks her if everything is all right. She's a bit tired, on account of the lead. Silence on the line. She hears Ange sighing. You should come. I don't know, she replies, and jots down the address of the bar on a France Telecom envelope
lying next to the phone. Before hanging up, Ange advises her to get some rest.

 

 

She tells herself, yes. Then afterwards, no. But why not? No, she can't. And so the entire next day is spent making the same decision and then changing her mind. On leaving her office, she instinctively goes back home to change. Casual clothes to inform the people who see her that she attaches no importance to the evening. Just as she is in the doorway about to leave, France Telecom envelope in hand, she reflects that it is weak of her to have accepted, that she is putting herself at his mercy. But it is impossible for her to stay at home thinking that she could have gone.

 

 

A waiter appeared before her. He intones an over-articulated good evening. The place is filled with smoke. Bursts of conversation and splinters of music shower down onto the immunized, voluble crowd. She is coming out of hibernation and the excited hubbub leaves her rather stunned at first. It takes her a few moments to adjust. She hears the offended waiter repeat his good evening. She has just caught sight of Ange's profile at the back of the room, and she explains to the over-courteous waiter that she is meeting friends. She barely has time to count five people seated at the round table before she recognizes the back of his head. The line of hair across his neck forms a little point that deviates to the right. His shoulders are not quite symmetrical. She feels that her legs are ready to turn around. She has nothing to say to these people, they're from a different tribe than she is. In a few seconds, he is going to look at her and she is going to lose whatever social talent she has left. She wishes
she could call back to base, have herself de-materialized and be sent back immediately to her own planet. Hello. Ange has spotted her. It feels as if a thousand eyes are glued to her. She can no longer see a thing, she doesn't even know if he has turned towards her as well. It seems that they are expecting something extraordinary from her: to start dancing or to get down on all fours, to amuse them until she is admitted into the club. He stubbornly keeps his back turned. He can't find anything better to do than ignore her. The lead starts circulating at high speed through her veins. Ange shifts back her chair slightly and offers her a cheek. Finally, he turns his head, gives her a brief, neutral look, and says that he has to go for a pee. She could strangle him on the spot, and it would take three of them to subdue her. Have you met Maxime and Sylvie? It is indeed the same Maxime who is there, with his wife, the one with a penchant for Iranian headscarves. He gives her an official diplomatic smile, calibrated to dispel all suspicions. Ange introduces the man next to her, whose first name she forgets. The only seat available is between him and Maxime.

She sits down just as he is getting up; their chests nearly touch, they avoid looking at each other. Because she has to announce that she is not staying, she keeps her jacket on. Her voice is trapped inside her lungs, and she hasn't been able to dig it out yet to say what she wants to say. Pointing to Sylvie's cup, she orders an espresso from the waiter. You're not drinking? Ever alert, Ange misses nothing. She shakes her head as the others look on, eager for distraction. She pretends not to be aware of their tacit wishes. They don't insist. Maxime lights a cigarette, Sylvie stifles a yawn in the palm of her hand, and Ange goes into raptures over the elegance of the place. The fifth guest
is picking at his fingernails. The chair next to her is still empty. He is taking his time on purpose. Perhaps there's a line for the toilet. Or else his zip is stuck. The thought makes her smile, a smile which Ange is quick to spot. What are you laughing about? No aggression, just an irrepressible need to be everywhere at once. She tells herself that Ange would go inside people's heads if she could. She imagines a tiny little Ange traipsing down the labyrinthine corridors of her brain, criticising the poor state of her synapses in the same way she would criticize the installation of pipes in a factory. Just then, the chair on her right is pulled back. He has returned. He kisses Ange on the cheek, sits down and declares that the toilet flush is broken. At which point, Ange and Sylvie start discussing the recent exhibition of paintings they saw at the Grand Palais. She then dares to look at him, and the lead metamorphoses into a kind of viscous rubber. In profile, she finds him a touch more severe than usual, a touch more agitated. He is asking the man at the other end of the table about his search for a job. The man has just received a very tempting offer from Renault, but he's hesitant to accept because something better might still come his way. If only he would turn his head in her direction—just once—and take note of her presence, she could excuse herself and promise to leave him alone. But he is still questioning the future Twingomanufacturer, and she can see only a quarter of his face. She is convinced that he is doing it on purpose, and for the first time she is gripped by a terrible desire to hurt him. She turns to Maxime, who is taking out another cigarette from his packet, his eyes bleary with boredom or else from plotting anti-American maneuvers. I met a friend of yours. Maxime looks up, reluctantly obliged to recall the identity of the woman who has
spoken to him. A friend of his? He adopts the expression of someone preparing to hear a good joke. A friend of his, yes, she's an actress. Maxime thinks, sits up, checks to see that his wife is still enumerating to Ange the gifts of the young woman who does their cleaning, then adopts a courteous attitude. He offers her a cigarette, which she accepts. Really, she must be mistaken, he doesn't know any actresses. She glances to her right to check: he is still talking with the fifth guest. She raises her voice a little. Is he certain? Surely you wouldn't doubt the word of a diplomat? Maxime frowns, as if begging her to calm down. And what is the name of this actress? The same as mine. A pinched little smile plays on Maxime's lips. You're out of your mind. There is no need for her to continue, but she feels she can't stop herself. Once again, she sees the moist banknotes she shoved into the taxi driver's hand. She has immense power now, and the relief she feels at using it is both divine and unfamiliar. She could swear that she saw him backstage in the dressing rooms at the theater where this actress is performing, she can even remember the day if he likes. Maxime turns red. Do I ask what you're up to at the Hotel Lutétia? The words spurted from the diplomat's mouth. The others turn their heads; so does he. At last she meets his eyes and understands. That he has been struggling to ignore her and that he almost succeeded. Around her, no one quite knows how to react. Sylvie studies her husband's face, while Ange gives her a reproving stare. She stands up and leaves without a word.