Three Women in a Mirror (8 page)

 

Feeling somewhat reassured, Anny gave herself over to acting the convalescent. Her young body was recovering much more quickly than Dr. Sinead had anticipated, so much so that the clinic's physiotherapists were all trying to take credit for it.

Only Ethan the nurse was aware of the hours Anny spent drifting unhappily, her panicked gazes in the morning, her nocturnal fears, the flashes of anxiety that left her thundering against what seemed to be unbearable pain, and begging for an extra dose of morphine. He had noticed her tendency to dodge things, her gift at sidestepping investigation, the silences that drowned her answers, her talent for cultivating a constant haze; and he felt his concern growing whenever he saw the smile of release spread over Anny's lovely face, the moment she slipped into unconsciousness after an injection.

One evening he could not help but ask her, “How are you going to manage once you're out of the hospital?”

“Sorry?”

“How are you going to get your dose of morphine once I'm not there anymore?”

She gave him a hard look.

“There are doctors.”

“Some of them are honest.”

“I'll avoid those ones.”

“Hm.”

“Even a virtuous man can need money.”

Ethan shook his head.

“Why don't you use the opportunity while you're here to try and get better?”

She knew what ailment he was referring to and she lifted her chin, haughtily.

“Oh yeah? What do you mean? I thought you were making me better.”

“Yes, we can look after your injuries. Not your addiction.”

She gave a forced laugh.

“My addiction! Ethan, how naïve can you be? Don't tell me you swallow the garbage in the media? You actually read those rags?”

“I read the test results. When you were admitted, you had alcohol in your blood, the triglycerides of a drunk, as well as various traces of narcotics, fairly difficult to identify on top of it, they were so impure.”

Anny bit her lip and secretly cursed her dealer.
That bastard Buddy!
she thought.
I knew he was selling me garbage, diluting the goods. If I run into him again, I'll break his nose, the scumbag.

Ethan persevered, intensely: “You have to look after yourself, Anny. You're poisoning yourself just to keep going, to avoid your problems, to get from one day to the next. Back off. Be reasonable. Take a good look at yourself.”

“It's too much work. I'd rather throw myself out the window right now.”

“You're afraid to think. Thinking makes you panic.”

“Yeah, right. Treat me like an imbecile.”

“Anny, the minute you project yourself into the future you start screaming, and you get me to come and knock you out. You'd rather tank up on drugs than face your fears.”

“But—”

“You're running away from your inner life. Anything that involves examining, discriminating, or doubting makes you feel sick, and you want there to be a remedy for it.”

Surprised by how pertinent his diagnosis was, Anny stopped protesting.

Ethan leaned toward her and asked, tenderly, “Why?”

Anny would have liked to answer, but she didn't know how. She started crying and couldn't stop, all night long.

 

Two days later, Johanna, the terror of Hollywood, answered Anny's call to room 23, and came in carrying a basket of candied fruit she'd had sent from France.

“Here you go, big girl, your favorite candy, since you have the good fortune to be able to stuff yourself without putting on an ounce. I've already gained six pounds just looking at it.”

Anny did not beat around the bush: “Johanna, I have to look after myself.”

Johanna sat down and crossed her legs, expecting her to start listing her demands regarding cosmetics and hair styling.

“I'm all ears, darling.”

“I can't go on like this.”

“If you say so. So whose fault is it? Priscilla's? or John-John's?”

Anny's gaunt eyes grew wide at the name of her makeup artist and hair stylist.

“No, Johanna, I'm talking about myself.”

“So am I.”

“No. I mean me, inside.”

“Oh, I see!”

Johanna exhaled, relieved.

“You want a coach, is that it? Listen, it's a good thing you mentioned it: only yesterday someone was telling me about the guy who's looking after little Vilma. An Argentinian. Can you imagine? That tart, who had a supporting role on the Disney Channel, has just won a Golden Globe and gotten an Oscar nomination and no one in the business can figure out why. Well, I know: she had a coach. The Argentinian! You can be sure I got hold of his contact information. What's more, apparently he's built like a god. Carlos . . . no, Diego . . . Just a second, I must have it all in my phone.”

“Drop it. It's not a coach I'm talking about, it's my life.”

“What?”

“I'm not happy.”

Johanna sat there with her mouth open. In her opinion, there was nothing more indecent than this sort of talk: Anny had just voiced an obscenity.

“I have to make some changes to my life,” continued Anny.

Johanna shook her head to banish what she had just heard, then, filled with repulsion, she forced herself to go on with their petty argument.

“What?”

“This can't go on. I'm not happy.”

Johanna let out a sigh and lowered her eyelids. It was more than she could do to answer.

Anny was quiet for a long time.

“I act cheerful, yes, but I'm not happy. Other people may think I'm fun to be around, that I'm a partygoer with no hang-ups, but all this running around is hiding my real self. It's makeup. As a rule, a person who plasters her face with foundation is hiding ugly skin.”

Johanna swallowed. Why was Anny taking it out on her? Why was she being so mean? No one had ever dared to mention the thick layer of concealing cream with which she covered herself every morning. Consequently, to change the subject, she resumed their dialogue: “What's missing? A child?”

“It's too soon.”

“A husband?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I think my sadness has something to do with love. I need to love, to love more, to
really
love. I get the feeling that up to now I've never managed to.”

Johanna smiled. They were back on familiar terrain. She would regain her hold over Anny.

“It's odd you should say that . . . There happens to be a man who is in the same state as you. But in his case it's because of you.”

“Who?”

“David . . . ”

“David?”

“David Brown. One of your co-stars. The one you wanted to impress that evening playing Tarzan and Jane in the nightclub. Ever since you were admitted here, he's been calling every day to ask if he can come by to see you.”

Anny was touched. Johanna moved her pawn: “Naturally, I refused. First of all because I wasn't sure you would really like the idea.”

“But I do . . . or at least I'm glad to hear it.”

Anny remembered the discussion she had had with Ethan. The nurse had been surprised that none of her friends or lovers had come to visit; at the time she had come up with some explanation, but as soon as she was alone she had cursed all her so-called friends and lapsed into self-pity. Now she knew why: Johanna and her office had mounted the guard, letting no one into her room. Even those who kept trying . . . what a satisfying feeling!

“David . . . ” she murmured, savoring his name on her parted lips.

“Yes, David. Second of all, because he is not the one I dream of for you, my darling.”

Her words had the effect of an electric shock. Anny sat up in bed, indignant.

“Excuse me?”

“No,” said Johanna emphatically. “If you are about to embark on a big romance, the kind that goes all the way to the altar, I'd rather you found someone at your level. Well, anyway, an actor who is at least your equal, career-wise. There is no reason why one should dominate the other in marriage. We need two stars. We're talking Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, that type of alliance . . . David Brown, however attractive he may be—magnetic, talented and well-mannered—even if women really like him, he doesn't make my list. Not even my top five. Or my top ten. Far from it.”

“Do you know how outrageous you sound?”

Anny had raised her voice. Her eyes were flashing with anger. She launched into a long diatribe in which she accused her agent of meddling; she demanded the right to choose her own boyfriend, and she sang David's praises, describing him as a victim of the Hollywood steamroller; in short, she got so worked up in his defense that from one minute to the next her exasperation began to look like passion for the young actor.

Beneath her mask of anger, Johanna was lapping it up, like a cat who's cornered a mouse. An expert manipulator, she had knowingly railed against David to get a rise out of Anny. Her maneuver proved more successful than she'd even anticipated. After half an hour of stormy conversation, a stubborn Anny had convinced herself that she adored David and that he would bring her the solution to her present crisis.

On leaving, feigning reluctance, Johanna promised to allow the young man to stop by the clinic.

 

Anny went through that night and the days that followed in a state of exaltation. She informed Ethan that her lover was coming to see her soon; and she complacently boasted of his qualities: his beauty, intelligence, genius, extrapolating their mutual infatuation. Her imagination running wild, in a tempestuous mood, she managed to convince herself that her life was about to change, that it would acquire meaning thanks to David.

At around three o'clock that Thursday, the physiotherapists came for her reeducation and for the first time she managed to walk without falling or needing to hold onto anything. While they were pleased with their work, she attributed her progress to love.

At five o'clock she was back in bed, exhausted by the effort. As she slipped under the sheets she wondered whether she ought to play the sob story to obtain some morphine.

Just then an intruder in a jacket came into her room. She cried out.

Alerted by her cries, Ethan burst in after the visitor.

“What's going on, Anny?”

She pointed fearfully to the interloper.

“Get him out of here.”

“But, I thought—”

“Get him out! Help!”

The man came closer, waving the bouquet he had hidden behind his back, and knelt down beside her.

“Anny, you can't be serious . . . ”

That was when she realized it was David Brown.

Not only had she not recognized him, she had forgotten his very features.

The man in black used his dagger to cut through the ropes that bound Anne. The forest around them, freed from Ida and Philippe's intrusion, no longer held its breath; it began again to buzz with its own life—sparrows flew into the air, the doves cooed, and the undergrowth forgot the violence it had witnessed.

Once the giant had helped her to her feet, Anne saw his nose, long as a billhook underneath his loose hood. With a shiver she murmured, “I recognize you.”

Concentrated on his efforts to free the young woman without hurting her, the giant did not move.

But she continued, trying in vain to catch his eye: “Yes, I saw you in one of my dreams. You were bringing me a piece of bread.”

“Well then, you weren't dreaming. Every night I brought food for you.”

Like a stone sinking into the water, his deep, steady voice rippled peacefully into the trees.

Anne's fear vanished.

Throwing the last coil to one side, he sat in the mossy hollow of the oak tree while she rubbed her wrists and ankles to stimulate her joints. Then after a long silence he said, “Aren't you going to ask me why?”

Anne raised her eyebrows. No, she didn't feel like asking him. If he had fed her, it was because he wanted to. What was so surprising about the fact he had come to her rescue? He must simply be a generous person. Do you ask the sun why it shares its warmth? The question “of why” did not really belong in Anne's world, and still less now that she had come to stay in this place where she was absorbed by the growth of plants or the nuances of light, where she had become contemplative, aware of everything, but absent from herself.

When she understood that he was waiting for her to react, she cried out, “What have you to do with the stag?”

“What stag?”

“The stag that was watching me, waiting for me. And on three occasions I could hear him thinking, so hard that he gave me goose bumps.”

“Perhaps I was the stag?”

She nodded: there could be no doubt of it. She added, “And the tree?”

She pointed to the leafy host sheltering them.

“Does it speak to you?”

He frowned, considered, and concluded, “Yes.”

She smiled, enchanted.

“It's interesting, isn't it?”

“Very interesting. It is for this tree and others like it that I so often linger in the forest.”

Anne and the Stranger immediately felt close; to enjoy this closeness, they sat for a long time in silence.

The river was flowing with a limpid, lively murmur, growing fainter at the edge of silence. In this early afternoon, frozen by the golden light, sounds no longer had any origin but drifted limply on the hot air.

Anne was delighted, not by the fact that the Stranger had saved her life but that his voice was the voice the tree would have had if it could speak.

The Stranger took some bread and a pot of honey from his bag and they had a bite to eat. When they had finished their bread they lay down on the moss, and the Stranger persuaded Anne to confide in him.

She told him about her childhood, described her family, her engagement, and her flight; she expressed herself easily, as if abstaining from speaking these last few days had made her elocution more fluid.