Voice Over (8 page)

In the main clubroom, wall lamps project long cones of orange light onto the brickwork. Wafting into the glow, cigarette smoke appears to solidify. The rest of the room is swathed in a suggestive penumbra. Electronic music. He has ordered two cocktails: a red sludge, its alcohol content nearly undetectable. She asks him where the toilets are. Four women are looking at themselves in a mirror that spans the entire wall above three washbasins. Low-cut flowing dresses, close-fitting trousers, gold jewellery, expensive-smelling perfumes. They are inspecting themselves: eyebrows, nostrils, corners of the mouth, spaces between their teeth, breast elevation, armpit odour. They could almost have stepped out from a fashion advert. Perhaps they'll take her for the bathroom attendant. All the cubicles are occupied, toilets are flushing at full blast, bladders are emptying, the clockwork expulsion of liquid steadily poured for them by their attentive escorts. Even princesses have to go to the bathroom. She waits to one side to avoid being made party to the conversations.
She listens in. I bought it today, very nice, on sale at Armani, I just love the smell of this soap, you have lovely hands. A tall, stunning blonde with a mane of pale curls and an aquiline nose is going on about herself. She's feeling totally depressed, she's found work, didn't dare refuse it, but actually it pisses her off; it's not like Bernard needs the money. Out she goes with a sigh, perfect and dignified. As the door swings shut, shoulders are shrugged. Apparently things between her and Bernard aren't all sweetness and light, which is why Lydia accepted the job, for the security. She goes into one of the cubicles. She hitches up her dress, tugs down her panties, and notices a dark, metallic-smelling stain on the black material. She has a brief vision of herself disturbing the super-bimbos gathered in their marble temple to ask for their help. Too awkward. She unrolls a length of toilet paper, folds it into several layers, and places it between her legs, then pulls up her panties to hold it all in place. Very sexy for her role as whore. She returns to the room, collects her bag under the diplomat's questioning stare. Do you need anything? She gestures no with her hand as the word Tampax flashes through her mind. She rejoins the line; in the cubicle she eventually finds several tampons at the bottom of her bag. The pink-and-white wrapping is a bit torn. In any case, it's not as if she has a choice.

A fresh round of alcoholic fruit juice has been put in front of them. She feels the limits of her body dissolving. Under the effects of the drink, she passes from a solid to a gaseous state, lighter but taking up more space. She is expanding into the atmosphere. Can Maxime see her condition from the outside, she wonders—that she's losing density and gaining volume? He said something. Pinned down by his words, she has to interrupt
her transformation, her mind has to organize the mad molecules that have begun to stray around the room. A girl like you, I'm surprised you haven't already found yourself a rich husband. She shrugs, imagining newspaper headlines: French financial markets see shortfall in wealthy husbands. I can see you with an older man, someone in his fifties would be perfect for you. His mouth increasingly resembles the mouth of a fish; he opens it slightly whenever he is pleased. An older man. She grips the edge of the table. Pink room, piano, spring mattress, pink, bed, room, springs, piano . . . He wasn't fifty at the time, more like forty. She asks Maxime if he likes older women. Not any more. His mouth makes a little moist sound. When I was eighteen I was, let's say, initiated by a woman twice my age. He'll let her in on a secret. At the time, she was sleeping with Villepin. He sits back on the couch, taking a drag from his cigarette. I had the same mistress as Villepin, aren't you impressed? He grabs her knee. His wife is not at home.

The apartment is vast. Room after room of polished parquet floors and white walls, a multitude of halogen lights to keep the night at bay. The tall windows framed by garnet-colored drapes. Not an object out of place, as if no one lived here. The props are backstage; they're rehearsing the scene before the other actors show up. He's in the kitchen, the plump sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle. She stands in the center of the living room, as if she were visiting an art gallery. Most of the paintings are abstract or schematic representations of female bodies. The lines dip and straighten, form a head of hair, then a breast, a buttock. Look long enough and there emerges a complete woman contained within her curves. He has put on some music. Loud. Annie Lennox. The walls of the room reverberate in time
to the modulations of the voice. The song reminds her of something, but exactly what she can't say, a moment of elation that only the carelessness of the young can produce. He is back from the kitchen. As if she had a choice to make, he holds a glass out in one hand, a slender wad of five 50-euro notes in the other. She notes the slight rise of his Adam's apple in the middle of his neck. Tomorrow, she's sure, he'll tell his closest colleague when they go for a drink after work that he got himself a nice little prostitute for the night. Briefly he stays there, both hands extended. She doesn't move. He goes to put the money and the wine down on the low table. She hears the clack of parquet tiles underfoot. The straps of her dress slip off her shoulders. Her breasts emerge; she feels an intense vulnerability. He has taken off his shirt, his body tanned by five weeks of holiday on the Mediterranean coast, his muscles toned by four hours a week in a large gym. She thinks of pigeons strutting about, circling each other, heads nodding. Yes, yes, yes, peck the air, peck the ground. Always behind the female so as not to see each other's pleasure, above all, as little noise as possible in order to remain civilized. She sways slightly. Tomorrow she'll remember the feel of the polished floor under the soles of her feet. The absence of smells in the bathroom reserved for important guests; all trace of them removed by a cleaning lady who comes in twice a week. He has taken hold of her breasts, is kneading them enthusiastically, biting the base of her neck. She imagines a fish's mouth suctioned to her skin. Her dress has slipped down to her feet. At the far end of her limp legs, the floor seems more distant than normal. He has taken off his clothes and is pressing his naked body against hers. His penis slips in between her thighs. She closes her eyes.

And then she remembers. I've got my period, she says. The rubbing of skin against hers stops. He moves back, he hasn't understood. You have what? My period. Four dry syllables, clearly articulated. I was wondering how long you would keep this up. The tone is not aggressive but almost indulgent. She doesn't follow. I was wondering why you wanted to pass yourself off as a prostitute. She bites her lip. She'd like to be the woman who served as the model in the painting opposite her. If he were a painter, they wouldn't talk; she would just stand there naked before him; he would ask her no questions; her story would be read on her body. There is a pause between tracks on the CD. Still she can't manage to utter a word. Maxime places one hand around his still erect penis. Really, you're not tempted? For the first time she glances down at it, finds it graceful, fairly in keeping with his face. If she hadn't been unmasked, she might still have gone through with it; ashamed of her pathetic ruse, though, she no longer feels up to the task. The silence thickens. Finally, he relents and laughs, but the laugh rings false. In that case, you'd better leave. He goes to fetch the money from the table and slips it into her palm. Financial transaction between a pair of fat naked worms. Just to show you I'm a good sport. He picks up her dress, which she slips back on while he phones for a taxi. This remains between us, of course.

Outside, it is raining. The windshield wipers clear the water in great sweeps. The car is double-parked. The white light of the taxi sign streaming in the downpour. The purring of the engine merges with the sound of the rain. The interior is overheated. Good evening, Madam. Speaking clearly, she gives her address to the driver's dark silhouette. Mist has started spreading across the windows. Revealed by the condensation, a three-pronged
star has shown itself at her side. The start of a drawing. The previous passenger had given in to the temptation of the fogged surface, but didn't have time to finish. She adds a fourth, longer line, and two tiny ovals at the bottom: a flower for the person who will take her place. She realizes that her fist is still clenched. She opens her hand. The banknotes are moist; they appear to have had a good sweat. A fifth of her salary for having her period. Not one to bear grudges, Maxime; diplomacy has its merits. Around the mouths of the streetlamps drops of rain materialize. Falling at the same speed, their trajectories parallel. On the façade of every building, two or three rectangles are giving off yellow light. Miniature homes, safe behind their panes of glass. If circumstances had been different, she would now be in Maxime's arms, all set to fall asleep in the comforting presence of another's body. The thought has nothing to do with the man, only with the weather, which brings out a yearning for the quiet contentment of domesticity. (She's the lone heroine in one of those old black-and-white movies. At some point, it's always raining. She's just escaped the base intentions of an amoral seducer. She hasn't come out of it too badly; the audience can feel reassured about her future. The words The End appear on the screen.) It occurs to her that she only sleeps at a man's house by accident, and on top of that it's never the same man. Are there many other women like her in this city, she wonders. The thought crosses her mind briefly, she might not be normal. Playing a prostitute has made her long for marriage and domestic happiness. The fragrance of chopped beef simmering in the frying pan, the affectionate peck on her cheek as she rinses vegetables in the sink, the sense of security. For an instant, she is convinced that she belongs to this prefabricated picture of
domestic bliss. The driver has put the windshield-wipers on at full speed. What a downpour! He spoke as if he were alone, and she was glad that he felt at ease with her, that he found a discreet company in her presence. She feels close to this man who doesn't ask questions, who looks after her without her needing to demand anything. She is in his car, in the rain, and there is nowhere else she could be. She has not really chosen it, but now she is here, and it is up to her to make the moment her own. She thinks of him. Ange is out of the picture. There's just the two of them. Somewhere. They're sitting side by side, gazing out in silence at an open landscape, together in a way that only they can be.

 

 

Here you are. Through the rain-streaked glass she recognizes her entranceway. Heavy double door, A768B. She folds the five banknotes in two and hands them to the driver. She scrambles out to pre-empt his reaction, feeling cold liquid on her scalp, as if the rain were passing through the roots of her hair into her very brain. Closing the door to her building, she hears the slam of the taxi door. A word is caught between the two sounds.

She goes to bed, unaware of what she is doing, and wakes up in a sweat. In the nightmare, her clitoris had been cut off with a razorblade. She saw nothing, felt nothing. She was lying on a white towel, which absorbed the fresh, red blood. People around her were watching the thick, shameful liquid flow from her genitals. She made no move to put a hand over the wound; like them, she was watching her groin, where the red drops kept forming, spreading across the fabric below. She felt terribly ashamed, had no idea how to explain to them that it had nothing to do with her. It wasn't in that precise spot that it hurt, but
all over, a sort of generalized gnawing pain. She no longer knew exactly where the blood was coming from. She had started to talk. She said, it's not my period, apologizing so that they wouldn't think there was anything natural about what they were seeing. I've been wounded. The towel needed changing, but she didn't dare ask. Any more than she dared ask them if she was going to receive treatment.

She slips her hand between her thighs. She's wet. She draws back the duvet. There are spots of dried blood on the sheet.

 

 

Mid-afternoon, and she is in front of a cup of coffee, leafing idly through a magazine. On the back page she comes across Nestor Karma's horoscope. A photograph of the astrologer's relaxed face appears in the top left-hand corner of the page, no doubt as proof of his credibility. She wonders if it is easy to earn a living by writing horoscopes. She is no longer quite sure what her sign is. She at once rules out those that don't seem to suit her, like Virgo, Scorpio, Aries, or Taurus. Pisces or Cancer might do. She eventually notices that the dates of birth corresponding to each sign are given: hers is Aquarius. This week coincides with a period of optimism and positive feelings. So long as you are prudent, that will be of use in numerous situations. Yet you must remain extremely vigilant. You have a tendency to see the whole rather than the parts, and a lack of rigour could spoil your plans. So pay great attention to details. Read all the words, even those printed in small letters. Make an effort to be meticulous and success will come knocking at your door. She isn't sure that she has paid much attention to detail in recent days. She closes the magazine. Glancing at the cover, she realizes that it is more than three weeks old. Water under the bridge.

She gets a sudden urge to call him. She'd like to mention her encounter with Maxime, not to go into exhaustive specifics, but to admit that she had seen him, in case he came to hear about it from someone else. But how to justify to Ange her calling on a Sunday? She has never called on a Sunday before, and, as a rule, never calls at all. Ask her if the sweater fits? Compliment her on the dinner party? In any case, Ange must be irritated with her if she's been told about the prostitute story. Angels never lie. And, she isn't at all sure she can manage to talk about her meeting with Mr Diplomat without him misinterpreting her story. For a while, she wanders around the apartment attending to minor chores: hanging up her black dress, rinsing the bath, washing her cup. All these objects used only by her, objects which she arranges and rearranges at whim, with no other choreographer to intervene in this ritual ballet. She is sole captain of the ship. On checking the contents of her bag, she finds the brown paper stained with the raspberry juice. She hesitates, then dials the number of the theater. Six rings; she is about to hang up when a breathless voice yaps “hello” into the receiver. It takes her by surprise—she was convinced that no one would answer on a Sunday. She is no longer sure why she is phoning. I saw my name on your poster and I just wanted to know . . . Impossible. Ill at ease, she takes the plunge. I wanted to book two seats for the play. Saturday, yes, that's fine. My name? She can't possibly give her own name, they'd assume she was the other one and wouldn't take her seriously. Ange Karma. Karma, K-A-R-M-A. In the center, yes, that would be fine. She'll need to collect the tickets half an hour before the start of the performance. She hangs up and realizes that she said two. What's the name for that again? A mental
slip? In any case, one seat or two, it doesn't make much difference. She wasn't paying attention, that's all. Just then she thinks back to the real Karma's predictions. Pay attention to details. Which leads her to one conclusion: she has to go there with someone, and that someone can only be him. All she has to do is find a way to ask. She could send him a letter, but it might not arrive in time. The best option would still be to call. She just needs a good excuse.