Voice Over (18 page)

 

 

On exiting the bar, she heads off at random, going wherever her footsteps take her. She turns corners, not with any destination in mind, but because certain streets are more deserted or darker
than others. It's no longer a question of lead or rubber, but of an electric current that's shaking her entire body. She'd like to keep walking until her legs start to hurt and wind up buckling under her weight. Then she would sit down at the edge of the pavement, her soles in the gutter, and try hard to keep as still as possible. She would manage to lose consciousness or, worse, would doze off until dawn, until a street-sweeper came to shoo her away from her stone curb. She would have lost her memory and would end up at the Salvation Army, with a bowl of disgusting soup for dinner. She would have forgotten who she was and from then on would be completely anonymous, with no other ambition than to maintain her bodily functions. Again that childish desire to disappear out of spite, to obliterate herself in order to have the effect on others she never had while alive, to feast on the reactions of the few people who would be informed of her death. Maxime would claim to be saddened, which wouldn't stop him from feeling disdain for that poor girl who wasn't very bright. Ange wouldn't understand how a person could let herself go like that, she would be scandalized, saddened, as she would be by the death of any small creature, such as a hamster or a cat. As for him, he would feel guilty, would regret his behavior, then eventually would think about her from time to time, as he would think about a friend who moved abroad, one of those people you like to hear from but don't go out of your way to stay in touch with.

She recognizes the Place des Halles. Her improvised walk has brought her back to within a few hundred yards of where she set out. She's smack in the middle of the place he had advised her to avoid at night because of that friend of his who got mugged. Too bad for him, just now she's going to cross the
square because she has no reason to listen to his warnings any more. Between the trees, she makes out human forms, in groups, hardly moving. The same groups that loaf around here during the day; their faces cloaked in darkness now, more menacing. She senses them watching her. She quickens her pace, eyes fixed on the tips of her shoes. As she nears them, she stares far into the distance ahead. Above all, she mustn't let them enter her field of vision. At her approach, one of the silhouettes starts to move and heads straight for her. Hey Miss, where're ya going? She can't help herself, she shoots him a furtive glance. Twenty at the most, head full of dreadlocks. Miss, I'll walk ya home. His mates look on. And then, she feels her body loosen up completely; the muscles along the back of her neck relax, her head swivels. She is talking, responding, no thanks, and even manages to add, in a light-hearted voice, have a good evening. The man stays where he is. She feels relieved and yet at the same time almost regrets not having accepted. She notices that she is still holding Maxime's cigarette.

She eventually finds some matches in her bag. Her hands tremble slightly, the wind keeps blowing out the matches, and she has to make several attempts. The taste of the tobacco makes her feel sick, her head spins, and yet smoking seems the most sensible thing she can do. She walks around the giant head slumbering in the palm of a stone hand, the only sculpture in the city she has ever liked. She wonders if a woman posed for it or if the sculptor preferred to model a face that belonged to no one. Out of the corner of her eye, a tiny shadow has appeared, growing rapidly before she has time to identify it. The man is in front of her, blocking her way. Gimme your cigarette. She observes the hulking beanpole with the scarlet face, hunched
over, talking hoarsely into his chest. The tiny incandescent stick in her hand has become her sole worldly possession, the one thing she is ready to fight for. No, she replies, knowing already that she should have said yes. Gimme your cigarette, bitch. She takes a step to the right, he moves with her; a step to the left, which the scary mime is quick to match. The dwindling cigarette is starting to burn her fingers, yet she refuses to let go of it. She sees the man brandish a bottle that no longer has a label on it. He is going to hit her over the head or else smash the bottle and come at her with the jagged glass. A few yards away three people are walking by, deep in conversation. Make the most of it. She moves sideways, tries to rush forward to catch up and mingle with the group, who in the meantime have begun to quicken their pace. The man appears before her again, the bottle held out in front of him like a knife. A wave of hot and cold washes over her. Fear. She sees them in the bar, still around the table, engaged in an animated conversation after having let her leave without going after her. What will he think when she's found the next morning, sprawled out at the foot of the stone face, her mouth full of blood? Or maybe there would just be a slash across her cheek. She and the man are frozen in place, barely breathing. The hoarse voice again. You gonna hand that butt over? The bottle has come a few inches closer, a motorbike has stopped at the corner of the street. Two helmeted figures dismount and look up at the lit window of a nearby apartment building. They are so close; she has to get to them, it's now or never. She makes a run for it, thinking that the distance must be enormous, but already, in full flight, she is crashing into their gigantic bodies. Taken aback, the four metal-encased eyes look her over. Her potential saviors could decide to take it out on her.
She says, I'm sorry, trying hard to stifle the tremor in her voice. Soften them up, don't let them sense her panic. She has only a few seconds to win them over and make them want to defend her. The man hasn't dared to come any closer. He has stopped in a doorway nearby. She explains the situation to the two bikers, gesturing with her chin at the shadowy figure lying in wait for her. One of them takes off his helmet, he seems harmless; no doubt he thinks she's exaggerating. They still haven't said a word. She asks if she can stay with them a bit longer. They exchange a look then start watching the shadow in the doorway with her. It shrinks back but doesn't leave. They must think she's making a mountain out of a molehill. She isn't even sure they believe her, and they hardly seem overjoyed to be acting as chaperones. Lucky for me you were here, she ends up saying, to add a little credibility to her story and encourage them in the task she has given them. The street is calm, nothing is happening, they're not talking, he's not going away, she doesn't dare make any more suggestions. The ochre cigarette filter has remained between her fingers, crushed by her fear, almost weightless, insignificant now. After wanting to hold on to it at any cost, she lets it fall to the ground, getting rid of it since it serves no purpose any longer. The two bikers are getting impatient. Where does she live? Not far, just around the corner, it's up the street. No answer. The shadow has straightened up and goes to lean against a streetlamp. She sees no sign of the bottle. The man without the helmet turns to her; he looks her over for a few seconds. She makes herself smile so he'll think she's cute. She must have passed the test because he says to the other guy, all right, you stay here, I'll take her home. She wishes she could just leave them there, the two idiots. He puts his helmet back
on and points to the back of the motorbike, telling her to watch out for the exhaust pipe. She doesn't dare admit to him that she has never been on a motorbike. Clumsily lifting her leg, she slides onto the leather seat and straightens up. They set off at once. Her hands are in the way. She puts them flat on her thighs, but at the first curb she instinctively grabs hold of the leather jacket in front of her. They pass close by the man with the bottle, who doesn't bat an eyelid, but gives her a look filled with hatred. What if I had said yes? The driver accelerates to avoid a red light. She feels good, rescued, out of harm's way, on that powerful speedy machine. She wishes someone would take her on a tour of Paris like that; she wishes she could press her cheek against the back of the man just a few inches from her face and squeeze him so tightly in her arms that this stranger would experience the same fear she had. But she is already on familiar ground. Thanks, this is it. He tells her he is just going to park the bike; it would be a shame if something happened to her now. She gets off, holding on to his arm. Thank you, really, I'll be fine. He has removed his helmet; the engine is still running. She wouldn't want to be ungrateful. He looks at her, fireworks gleaming in his eyes. If he were a bit bolder, he would jump on top of her. Thanks again. She takes several steps, then turns. He adjusts his helmet and violently revs the engine. As soon as he has disappeared, she turns down a narrow side street. She doesn't realize straight away that someone is outside the door of her apartment building.

 

 

Her heart begins to beat; her lungs begin to breathe. She slows down, he comes towards her, they're already face to face. She thinks of logical reasons that would explain why he is outside
her building. Maxime had called the police, Sylvie had had a fit, Ange had sent him to bring her back and explain herself. I was getting a bit worried, he says, and gives her a wink. After Maxime's confused explanation, he and Ange had gone home. He'd sat down in front of the TV; Ange had taken a shower before going to bed. When he had gone into the bedroom a quarter of an hour later, she was asleep. He had lingered on the threshold for a moment, then closed the door again, put on his shoes and coat, and left the apartment. He had taken a taxi to get here. She's surprised that he's telling her all this, as though he were expecting her to analyze his motives and give him instructions on what to do next. She just wants to say thank you but has lost the power of speech. There is only one way she can express herself now. And when her lips touch his, she feels that she has been set free at last.

O
n the terrace of the café, a lone man sits hunched over a notebook. Now and then, he brings the tip of a ballpoint pen close to the page, makes a few tiny circles just above the surface without ever touching it, then puts his hands together and slides them between his knees.

She arrives slightly out of breath. She came as quickly as she could, but she's late. She feels hot. She takes off her jacket and sits down opposite him. Not bad, he says admiringly. She imagines that he's referring to her dress. A black, low-cut dress, of a kind she has never worn before, bought in a shop that sells designer clothing at factory-outlet prices. She blushes, because it's the first time he has ever said anything like that. He pushes his hand forwards. The waiter comes over to greet them and take their order. How are you, Christophe, he replies, as he always does, and she wonders, as she always does, if Christophe also knows Ange. He squeezes her fingers. The pressure sends an enormous charge of energy coursing through her body. Her cheeks are aflame, she could rise into the air like a helium balloon. He asks her if the espresso is good. She nods, all the while trying to maintain the most pleasant expression on her face. She's afraid of doing anything that might upset him or uncover a reality other than the one she believes she is living. From time to time he glances at his watch, casts a quick eye over the customers, then retracts his hand and lifts his cup. She shifts her knees forward to touch his, not sure if he can tell the difference. This is nice, he says, and she lowers her eyes to hide the emotion
his words create in her. An hour later, he asks for the bill and refuses to let her pay. Then he kisses her out on the pavement—proof, as she sees it, that he is not afraid to show his affection in public. The texture of his tongue and the paths it likes to take inside her mouth have become familiar to her. Each one of his kisses gives her a sensation of intense sweetness, something she has never known before. As he climbs into the taxi, he gives her a little wave. She responds with an enthusiastic wave of her own.

 

 

For two months they have been seeing each other like this, in the same place, in the late afternoon, once or twice a week, depending on when he is free. He calls her in the morning before she leaves the apartment and arranges to meet her after work, at a time that varies according to his schedule. Occasionally, she has to ask her office for permission to leave early. As she has always been punctual and is rarely absent, permission is granted, along with a knowing look that aims to get her to talk about the reasons for her early departure. But little more is given than a cordial thank you. At the café, they order two espressos and two glasses of water. They spend the time available to them searching each other out with their fingertips or knees, laughing at their timorous adolescent behavior. Sometimes they discuss the weather forecast, or the film on television they watched separately at home, or the places they have never been to, or the odd look of a passer-by. He tells her the stories of novels she has never read, describes the house he'd like to buy near the sea, somewhere between La Rochelle and Royan, makes fun of his bosses whom he can no longer stand, extols the beauty of his favorite sport, horse riding. She finds him wilful,
admires his marked taste for very particular things. Never has a man told her so much about himself, and she has trouble taking it all in. But she likes listening to him talk; his confidences show that he wants to involve her in his life, even if he doesn't ask her many questions. She actually prefers it that way: to unburden herself about the past or even the present would be a dangerous undertaking, and she feels she has no talent for it. Whenever she starts to wonder why he keeps coming back to see her, her only conclusion is that she doesn't know what she expects of him either.

 

 

She has fallen into the habit of looking at the ground whenever she turns the corner of her street. She walks along staring at her shoes, trying hard not to think about him, and then, a few yards from the door to her building, she looks up imagining that he's there, on the lookout, impatient for her return. But in spite of her efforts to stage this scene, he never appears at that moment.