Voice Over (7 page)

She crosses the carrefour de l'Odéon, then walks up one of the three streets leading to the Théâtre de l'Europe. She is surprised to find in this part of the city an erotic bookshop with no sign. In the window, books of photography featuring pictures of women in bras and G-strings on the front covers; novels and reference works. The thought of going in is tempting but makes her feel uneasy. In between the piles of books, she tries to catch a glimpse of what is happening inside. Two young men are leafing through magazines. Enthroned behind the cash register is a fairly stout woman in her fifties. The presence of the woman strengthens her resolve. She makes her silent entrance; neither
of the two men turns round; the woman, on the other hand, greets her arrival with an amused stare. She must look like a self-conscious child walking into a place it has been forbidden to enter. Not daring to touch a thing, she goes over to the shelves, tilts her head to start reading the titles and authors' names, which she immediately forgets. Except for one: Marie Nimier. The name rings a bell, as if it were the name of an old friend, or the pseudonym she could have chosen for herself if she had been a writer. She takes down the novel and reads the first page. The story begins with the overwhelming attraction one woman feels for a man. A passionate love which makes one want to worship everything about him, even the worst parts. What is the worst about him? For her, best or worst has no meaning. She doesn't think of him in those terms, apportioning him into two columns and adding up the sum of his good and bad qualities. In the novel the man wears a silver ring, which the woman sees as an integral part of his body. Whatever the object of her obsession owns is turned into a fetish. In fairy tales, a magician's power comes from a ring. Rings are exchanged at weddings; a ring is affixed to the leg of a carrier pigeon. For the first time she wonders what his penis might look like. But she has no way of telling; each is unique, a signature whose overlapping lines are hard to decipher even when the person is known. All she can do is to refer back to the ones she has seen and remembers. That game of adolescent girls: trying to find out whether the length and thickness of the male organ corresponds to the size or thickness of any visible part of the anatomy. The feet . . . the nose . . . the ears . . . the hips . . . the big toe . . . the wrists. It turned out there was always an exception to every rule.

Place de l'Odéon is deserted, except for a man filming the façade of the theater. With one eye pressed to the viewfinder and the other closed, he doesn't notice her. On she goes.

The Jardin du Luxembourg and its hodge-podge of tourists. Rings of chairs arranged as if for the conversations of invisible characters. It's up to anyone out for a walk to imagine, according to the layout of these metal remains, what went on here before his arrival. Grey-haired men and women sit alone, gazing into space, or hunched over a newspaper, the articles and photographs depicting the world's latest carnages. And then, suddenly, heads look up. The sun's rays pierce through the dome of clouds; the contrast in the landscape sharpens. A paradoxical light that lessens the threat of a storm and yet still makes it seem likely, a light which has the coldness of metal and the sharpness of a blade, a light on which nothing feasts but which everything reflects, which strikes only at strategic points. Apocalypse. From a distance, the trees look like a long row of stone blocks miraculously suspended in midair. She enters the shaded path; the complex filigree of the branches appears overhead, the sky starts rustling, the mineral turns vegetal. She emerges on the other side of the park. Two thick lines of spindle trees frame a strip of sky.

Place Saint-Sulpice. Projectors are being set up for a photo shoot. Kids on rollerblades orbit the fountain like multicolored electrons around a nucleus of glistening water. Up the steps to the church, push through the heavy door that leads into the sanctuary. A young woman with blonde hair enters at the same time she does. Hurried steps, dip of the thin fingers into the holy water, sign of the cross. A man with torn trousers has fallen asleep at a prayer stool; his head lolls back at an angle. Walls,
floor, roof, columns, statues, everywhere the same granite hue. She tries to keep her shoes from clattering over the flagstones: excessive noise could bring down the entire building. She doesn't believe in God, has never felt the need to, has never read a religious book. But churches are something else. Their tranquillity, their dark cool air, their solemnity are a respite for her.

Rue de l'Université. An old woman with gnarled shaking hands is talking to herself, then addresses her as she walks by. The woman in the blue cape! The poor thing isn't all there, she's lost her marbles, and continues to repeat, the woman in the blue cape, her liquid gaze directed at the end of the street. So as not to hurt the old lady's feelings, she turns round: there really is a woman in a blue cape, making her way quickly across the street. The mocking tone comes through the yellowed teeth: that one there was a nun and went to bed with a man; now she's got nothing. The old woman shakes her head, all but adding, serves her right. At the age of twelve, after a guided tour of a convent somewhere in the middle of the countryside, she considered taking holy orders. No one said a word about the vow of chastity, not even the guide. What appealed to her was the silence of the stonework, the calm of the inner courtyards. Shutting yourself away for ever was like hurling yourself into space. She longed for the challenge of absolute silence. She wanted to know what thoughts she would have after a few months, after a few years without uttering a single word.

 

 

Back home, 5 pm in Paris. Get herself a sponge and doggedly tackle the inside of the fridge or the top of the stove? Play some music and sweat to the rhythm as she goes about getting rid of those greasy rings? Switch on the television and watch some
program? Listen to the radio and sort out the pile of bills on the living-room table? Make a phone call? To whom? She has done all these things before; she knows what sensations they produce. She'd like to come up with other, more distracting activities, but right now, nothing occurs to her. And so she stays on the sofa, unable to make up her mind. She rubs the tiny piece of skin next to her nail over her upper lip until the phone rings. She knows that it's not him, not twice in one day, not after what happened this morning. She picks up. Hello, it's Maxime. She doesn't know the voice or anyone named Maxime. She's about to say, you've dialled the wrong number, but Maxime goes on. We met last night at the dinner party, you gave me your number. I wanted to invite you for a drink.

She regrets not buying the pink dress, which would have been an excellent costume for the role she is getting ready to play. In any case, she still needs to wear a dress—that feminine symbol, the inverted corolla. Only one passes muster, short, red, and simply cut. Quick check on the state of her calves: passable in soft light, not so great to the touch. Hair removal is no small business. Excluded are creams and those electrical devices supposed to extract the hair by its root; they leave a lot to be desired, she tried all of them a long time ago. She doesn't have time for an appointment at the beauty salon. Besides, that never really worked for her, on account of the nagging feeling of being at the doctor's: the long sheet of paper crumpling under you as you lie down, the harsh light revealing the skin's imperfections. The shame is not appreciably different when she is lying on her stomach and senses the beautician appraising the appearance of her rump barely shielded by a pair of panties that are never up to standard. She is sure she presents a pitiful sight to those eyes
accustomed to seeing so many fit and toned women, who look good even before their treatments have started. Her first weeks in the capital, she knew no one. After she got knocked down by that car, she had hobbled her way to the Emergency room of a hospital. Looking after herself was her responsibility, young woman of eighteen that she was, suddenly in charge of a life, her own. At the hospital, only curt instructions—no prizes for having taken care of herself and got that far safely. A nurse sat her on an examination table and rolled up her trouser legs. And that white witch's first words: you might want to shave them now and then. These days, she couldn't care less. But this evening, she has to be impeccably turned out: so a few strokes of a razor blade it is; too bad if in three days' time hair density per square centimetre will have doubled. Powder for her eyelids, black eyeliner, some red lipstick—she redraws her face, taking care to accentuate her features.

Lots of people in the métro. Lethargic and tyrannical young people. Couples of every kind picking a quarrel or wrapping their arms around one another. A few skittish old coots keeping out of harm's way. An agitated young man is talking loudly, chopping the air with his arms in front of a pair of hippy types, male and female, who watch him expend his precious energy at a dizzying rate. I got me a gun, ya'see; I got a gun. His audience of two look on, impassive. I mean, I could blow y'all away, know what I'm sayin'? The future killer produces the onomatopoeic equivalent of three gunshots. But . . . I ain' gonna. Is he bluffing? She wouldn't bet on it. Elsewhere on the platform people are turning a blind eye. The kid is telling anyone who will listen that he's done time, and on the word “time,” his eyes lock onto hers. She looks away, wisely directing her gaze clear
of this lunatic. Hey you! The rumbling of the approaching train swallows the rest. She heads the other way and takes advantage of the jostling crowd to slip into one of the cars. As his face passes behind the window of the door, the ex-prisoner of the French Republic sticks his tongue out at her.

The rendezvous is at the Hotel Lutétia. Carpeting, golden lamps, geometrically patterned rugs, wax-polished furniture, staff that glide rather than walk. A man in a dinner jacket comes over to her, as welcoming as if they had spent their holiday together on the same beach. He motions solicitously in the direction of a second man who wears a multicolored striped shirt and black trousers, and who advances briskly towards them. Good evening, glad you could come. A tender flexing of the vocal chords, nothing like his irritation of the evening before. It hasn't taken him long to change his mind. His eyes are bright, wide open in order to take her in more fully. He makes no comment about her appearance; no doubt fearing to seem vulgar. With an expert hand placed in the hollow of her back, he guides her to their reserved table. A bottle of champagne in a silver ice-bucket, a cigarette smoldering on the rim of the cut-crystal ashtray. He suggests they make themselves comfortable on a cream-colored divan. He hands her a drink, they touch glasses. To your presence here today. She puckers her lips. She must look a sight—she always finds compliments annoying, even false ones. He offers her a cigarette and retrieves his own. He has a small, tight mouth, the air of a hunter assured of victory. Around them, several men in dark suits reading newspapers, the rustle of turning pages barely interferes with the piece of classical music flowing into the room. A hushed atmosphere. She senses him observing her neck, then her chest.
She brings her eyes back to meet his in order to block the offensive. I don't even know what you do. He works at the ministry. The MFA . . . sorry, Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Did you graduate from that university . . . the ENA? Why is she asking that, of course he did. Where else would he have studied, it's hardly complicated. No one's perfect, he replies, and laughs to himself. Then, pronouncing his words very clearly: Do you follow international politics at all? She feels like biting him, she detests that kind of trick question. A no, and he'll spend the rest of the evening looking down his nose at her; a yes, and she'll have to give her informed opinion. She mentally rehearses the names she remembers, particularly those of Americans, since they're the only ones that ever get mentioned. Bush, Powell, Rumsfeld. She often thinks that they would all make excellent names for pets. Bin Laden, and his life on video; Saddam, whom all journalists refer to by his first name, probably because they think they know him. She remembers two other names as well: Taylor and Mugabe, two African dictators. And then there's the Brazilian president with his pretty nickname that goes well with his left-wing positions. Yes, she knows a bit about international politics. As for him, he's working on Iraq. A major policy area, fascinating, France's position precisely mirrors his personal convictions. What more could he ask for? I love my job. At least someone is happy with his lot. The Americans, we'll wear them down eventually. He finishes off his drink. And the Iraqis? He smiles at her as if she were a naïve child. Oh, he hasn't forgotten the Iraqis. You're slightly naïve, but I suppose that's normal since you see it all from the outside. He then proceeds to sing her the praises of French diplomacy taking the voice of the nation to the four corners of the world. She ought to appreciate
the fact that her government is defending the interests of her country. And what did you tell your wife, that you had a meeting with the minister, a Saudi prince or a Russian spy? He has trouble exhaling the smoke of his cigarette without coughing. He should have known that with a profession like hers she'd be rather cynical at bottom, and he caresses her forearm with his index finger. She feels like coming out with two or three choice inventions, stuff her supposed clients would have done to her, that might dampen his ardour. But she holds back. You're a friend of Ange's? She nods. Yes indeed, Mr Diplomat, a very good friend, we share the same tastes. He must be wondering how Ange ever could have met such a girl.

He offers to take her to a private club with its own terrace. An irresistible proposition, he must think, for any woman with a passion for billing and cooing outdoors in temperate climates, a deft nod to romanticism. Taxi. The driver lowers the window to ask if the ride will be long enough to be worth the trouble. Someone has left a business card on the back seat. Olivier Chedubarum, Photographer, 01 52 29 07 18. She slips the piece of cardboard into her bag. Sharp clack as the driver automatically locks the door. Through the rear window, she catches sight of a man in a hooded tracksuit moving along with a supple stride. His face is black. Don't like seeing 'em round these parts. Stepping sharply on the accelerator, the driver sets off. Streams of red lights and yellow lights against the backdrop of a sleeping city. Walled off behind a surface of glass, with the help of the night-time calm, each remembers a past when things were different. Inside the car, silence from the bodies of three strangers who have nothing to say to one another. She sees a woman holding a poodle's leash in one hand, clutching her
jacket to her chest with the other. Further on, a man is letting out a stream of urine into the corner of two walls, his feet spread wide. At place de la Concorde, she hears the sound of a zip. Reluctantly she turns her eyes away from the large lightning bugs that have metamorphosed into streetlamps. Mr Diplomat has his fly open. She reads the words Calvin Klein on the wide elastic band of the boxer shorts stretched over his abdomen. He caresses the back of her neck. She knows what he is waiting for. His eyes pant; he feels sure that he is within his rights. She has no idea what the going rate for a blowjob could be. Her role is starting to get to her. I don't do it in taxis. She leans into his ear and closes the zip. He looks irritated but doesn't dare complain. He tells the driver to go faster.