Voice Over (2 page)

From the far end of the room someone has spotted how she has borrowed her neighbour's hand. When she pushes it away, the man still doesn't react. She remains seated on the edge of the sofa, drinking from someone else's plastic cup. Inside her, things begin to clash and shift, to become confused and, before long, unbearable. She can no longer fight back the need to cry. Preferring that no one find her in that state, she takes refuge in the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, talking to someone who is rinsing glasses at the sink. On seeing her come in, he says something that she doesn't catch. She sees his mouth articulate the words, but the buzzing in her ears blocks out the sound. Don't tell me you let the angel fly away? He looks baffled. She feels her eyes cloud over. Why did you let her go? The man by the sink leaves, clutching the wet glasses awkwardly between his fingers, saying, flying high, I'd say. Have you been crying? There's a dead man on your sofa, and I'm making no
impression on him. She wants to meet his gaze, but she can't quite bring his eyes into focus. Here. He holds out a glass of water, and she wets her lips. And it is then that she loses control and glues her mouth to his. For a brief moment, she feels their tongues collide. She barely has time to realize they are having their first kiss when she catches sight of the angel and has to back away.

 

 

There isn't a sound in the apartment. She is on the couch, the apathetic man has gone, it's early afternoon. Around her are littered empty glasses and gorged ashtrays. In the toilet, she finds a Heineken bottle standing in a corner. The mess is even worse in the kitchen: ripped-open bags of chips, knocked-over plastic cups, a nauseating stink of beer; stains of every kind on the grey, tiled floor. Her head in a fog, she surveys the remains of the party: it looks as if people had a good time here but rushed off before she got a chance to join in. Clearing up would be a good idea, no doubt he'd thank her for it. She gathers the empty, discarded items and puts them into a large plastic bag, which she seals as tightly as possible. Crouching over the tiled floor, sponge in hand, she scrubs away at the stains, attacking the smallest ones with excessive vigor. And while trying to restore the tiles to their original color, it comes back to her: the kiss. She giggles, like a child delighted at a piece of mischief that has gone unpunished. She closes her eyes. She wants to remember details—the texture, the temperature, the thickness of his lips—but all that remains is the sensation: that of something warm and nourishing, solid almost, passing from the depths of her throat down into her chest. She wishes she could tell him how good that kiss had felt. Behind the closed door to the bedroom
he is with Ange, asleep, his body wrapped around hers. Is the sensation of a kiss the same for Ange, the same for him with her? Whatever he makes of this impromptu coming together of lips, she had better not be there when the couple gets up. She breaks off her frantic scrubbing, puts on her coat and leaves.

The rue Charlot leads to the Boulevard du Temple. Music is floating down from a tinny portable radio set four or five yards above the pavement, on the edge of a construction scaffolding where three workmen—three Frenchmen of North African origin, as she has learnt to call them—are rhythmically striking the façade of a building with their tools. One of them spots her. He whistles, and she smiles. Hey, wait a second, he yells, during a pause in the song. She walks on, but her mind lags behind. She is waiting at the foot of the scaffolding, watching as the agile man lets himself down the metal poles. Straightening up before her, he pulls off his gloves, tells her his name. They go to a café or perhaps straight to a hotel. Make love like in that American film she had seen at the cinema, where the lead actress, throat bared, tugs down her singlet and murmurs, do me good. Her partner helps her off with her clothes, removes his own, positions himself behind her, penetrates her, and their two bodies start to pitch and toss violently. Several times they change position; she, moaning with pleasure, he, intent on his mission, not uttering the slightest sound, dignified male that he is. The film was called
Monster's Ball
, and not
Monster Balls
as she'd called it when buying the tickets. Balls, the ticket clerk had pointed out, means testicles in English. She had felt ridiculous.

Saturday. A week has gone by with no news. It's a bit odd, but she doesn't want to call him. That would cast a strange light on their slip of the lips. On the phone, she wouldn't know where to begin. There is nothing she wants to say in particular, except to ask him the question she asks herself. But do you ever examine the reasons for a kiss? Either you ignore it or you move on to the next stages; as a rule, you refrain from making any comments. All week she has worked evenings, from two o'clock to eleven. To get home from the gare du Nord she takes Line 4, towards Porte d'Orléans, then changes to Line 1 at Châtelet if it is too late. He had advised her not to get out at that station or to go up the rue de Rivoli on foot. According to him, it got dodgy at night. A friend of his had been mugged around there at about two in the morning while taking money out to buy cigarettes. A guy had jabbed the barrel of a gun into his back and had taken him off to a place somewhere in the suburbs. A forty-five-minute trip on the RER, with some nutcase sticking a revolver into his ribs. She was sure that afterwards no one asked the victim, whose life was nothing more than a soft minuscule ball that his aggressor could squeeze at will, what had gone through his mind in the course of those forty-five minutes. When he failed to return, his girlfriend had gone to the police, who found it hilarious: a young chick coming to them to report the disappearance of the guy who had just screwed her! They didn't believe in the evaporation of the party in question so much as that he had skipped out on purpose. Have you called his house, Miss? And how about his friends? He just went to get some cigarettes, she kept repeating. Privately, the cops went on thinking it all a big joke, and she was unable to convince them of the gravity of the situation. The boyfriend came back
at nine the next morning, deathly pale, frozen stiff, physically unhurt but emotionally a wreck. He had spent three hours in a vacant lot with a gun pointed at him, waiting for a bunch of other guys who never turned up. Eventually, his aggressor had told him to beat it, but not without first relieving him of his wallet and jacket. Now, when she walks down the rue de Rivoli, she often imagines the sensation of the cold barrel pressing into her clothes, the fear raging in the pit of her stomach, the thought of death penetrating her every pore: each second cancelling out the one before, presenting itself as the last. Nevertheless, she does her best to heed his warning; she watches out for silhouettes in the dark and avoids going that way alone at night.

 

 

Saturday night. A student she met the week before has invited her to a cabaret night in a dance studio near Bastille. Quite a few people are already there when she arrives. Armchairs and folding chairs ring a vacant space intended to serve as the stage. She threads her way to the bar at the back of the room and orders a vodka tonic, which she drinks in small sips, perched on a high stool. The mixture is too strong. People press up against the counter then leave again with several glasses, which they hand round to the others in their party. She is the only person seated at the bar; no sign of her host who has apparently failed to show up. The women, in skimpy low-cut tops, keep bursting into laughter as they drag on their cigarettes at regular intervals. The men make an effort to keep them laughing, even as they check out the new arrivals. A few glances flutter around her, but no one makes up his mind to come over and talk.

A figure in long black wig, dark glasses and fake fur coat has
just entered the studio and is advancing in her direction. With a languorous gait, the transvestite pushes his way through the crowd, making for the bar. He slips off his coat. A slim, androgynous body. Fascinated, she tries to distinguish what is male from what is female. She attempts to make out the eyes behind the dark glasses and locks of hair. Sensing her gaze, he turns his head. His voice is husky, his eyes still invisible; he has the smile of a woman, teasing, affectionate. He's a singer, he's appearing in the show. His name is Renée Risqué. This brief introduction over, he stops talking and from behind his tinted lenses appears to size her up. I have a proposition for you. He needs a woman to come on at the start of his act and hurl herself at him, screaming the words, You promised me. It will make for a great opening, he reckons, and lead him straight into his first song. She shakes her head emphatically, laughing. I'm too shy. He calls over the barman, has their drinks refilled. How about after that one? And he takes off his glasses. His eyes are very pale, made-up. He reminds her of someone, but of someone she has never met. You'll have to pretend to be incredibly jealous, almost hysterical, that's important, you understand? His will be the third act; she'll have to come on a few seconds after him, then do exactly as he has just explained. Is that a yes? Yes. Renée leaves her to go off and get ready.

The lights have been dimmed; a powerful projector illuminates the stage. A man has stepped up to the mike and announced the names of the artists about to perform. As the first sketch gets underway, she finds herself unable to follow. Her stomach churning, she plays with her glass, picturing herself on stage: taking her first steps into the spotlight to confront a drag artist, a practiced exhibitionist, now playing opposite a
poor girl paralysed with fear, who has to blurt out a line as trite as “you promised me” and sound convincing. Why on earth had she felt obliged to accept? In her own life she can't recall ever having said you promised me. If the staging were up to her, she would say the words in a tone that was flat, calm; saddened yet bitter too. But certainly not screaming. However, her fake anger would guarantee the comic effect; the audience would laugh not thanks to her, but as a result of the contrast between her screaming and Renée's calm composure. A man in drag and a woman having a lovers' quarrel—that was rather ludicrous to begin with. If her voice broke with stage fright, she would make do with gestures. Act number two. Two girls in pink tutus, their mouths gleaming red, hail each other in an elaborate series of acrobatic mini-routines. She tries to put “you promised me” out of her mind, along with all the various ways to say it . . . Renée. That's not his real name. And once she gets off stage, then what? Can you even envisage an affair that begins with the words “You promised me,” yelled out in front of a hundred-strong crowd, in a tango studio at the back of a shabby courtyard, to a man dressed in women's clothes? Her drink is too strong; the music, omnipresent. In such an atmosphere audacities of every kind seem permissible, even believing that you're in love. Applause. The two ballet dancers have finished their act. She gets down from the bar stool and walks mechanically towards the stage. No one in the assembled gathering guesses that she is the jealous, rash and pathetic woman who comes to have it out with the performer. She stations herself at the edge of the stage to await the arrival of Renée Risqué.

The words burst out, violent. Her field of vision shrinks, and for about twenty seconds all she sees is Renée's mouth, tensed,
his eyes wide in feigned surprise. Then she hears the laughter, the first chords from the guitar, the song starting up. A man pulls her back and makes her sit down in the front row. You can let go of me now, she tells him, her fists still clenched. Around her people are staring, intrigued. Impossible to remain among all these admiring and sorry looks. She feels emptied, as though she had lived what has just happened. She goes back to the bar and orders another vodka tonic. The voice of Renée, puppet without strings under the colored spotlights, is everywhere now. She imagines his body naked, from his made-up face down, his cock thrusting forward as though in painful negation of the black on the rims of his eyes. He is wooing the audience, male and female alike. Inventing for them a cavalier, sarcastic character, an all-round charmer, one able to look into the void without ever falling in. Enthralled, the audience begs for more, but the prince-tightrope walker reveals himself immune to flattery and makes a dignified exit. He comes back into the room just as the last act before the interval is beginning. Hands reach out to him as he goes by, he is congratulated, he responds with strained smiles. She forces herself not to look in his direction. They could just as well leave it at that, especially since he doesn't seem the sort to say thank you. But he comes over, just as she had hoped. After kissing her on the cheek, he orders two more drinks under the insistent stare of the barman whose excessive courtesy she fears he will find seductive. They clink glasses. Sitting up on her stool she casts a sidelong glance at Renée and catches him eyeing her breasts. Why me? He smiles. Because I wasn't expecting you, darling. The last word stings, and in spite of the perfunctory way it was said, she can't help reading it as a sign of affection. Do you want to go back with
me? With the mannerisms of an actor in a third-rate action film, he has pulled off his glasses. All she can see are his clear pale eyes, far more human than the rest of him; childlike, expectant, too gentle to remain exposed. Her silence becomes consent. Renée replaces his glasses, downs the contents of his drink, and takes her by the hand. She grabs her things, catching the barman's look of disappointment on her way out. Whether the hand in hers is that of a girlfriend or a potential lover, she is no longer sure. What they will do at his place, she has no idea; anyway, his place was not the term he had used.