No and Me

by Delphine de Vigan

  ‘Course I did. They don’t want me to go. They think I’m too young.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  Oh yeah. He doesn’t even care. He’s got his life. Everyone has. In the end, No’s right. You mustn’t mix things up. He’s seventeen. He’s not afraid of people looking at him, of looking ridiculous; he’s not scared of speaking to people, or of girls. He’s not afraid of dancing or of fading into the background. He knows how handsome and tall and strong he is. And that gets on my nerves.

  We walk on in silence. I don’t want to speak to him any more. But we still have to go to his place because of No. When we get there, she’s ready to go to work. I suggest going with her, and wave goodbye to Lucas. We go down the stairs because the lift makes her feel sick. In any case you can tell that she feels sick in general. Her heart’s been damaged.

  When we’re in the street she takes a cardboard box out of her bag. She hands it to me.

  ‘Here, these are for you.’

  I open it and discover a pair of red Converse, the ones I’ve been dreaming about. Sometimes not bursting into tears is really complicated. If I could find something to count right away that would be convenient. But nothing comes, apart from the tears in my eyes. She’s bought me a pair of Converse that cost at least fifty-six euros. The red ones I wanted.

  ‘Oh, thank you. You shouldn’t have. You should keep your money for yourself, for your trip . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  I’m walking beside her. I’m digging in my pocket for a Kleenex, even an old one, but I can’t find one.

  ‘Does Lucas want you to leave?’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘He hasn’t said anything?’

  ‘No, no, it’s all fine. Don’t fret. It’ll be fine. OK, I’ve got to go now. You go home. I’ll go on alone.’

  I look up and see the billboard we’ve stopped under. It’s a perfume ad – a woman is walking along the street, looking decisive and dynamic. She’s got a big leather bag over her shoulder, her hair’s flying, she’s got a fur coat on and behind her you can make out a city at dusk – the front of a big hotel, sparkling lights. And there’s a man too, turning to her, captivated, enthralled.

  How did this difference between posters and reality start? Did life stop being like posters, or did posters part company from life? When did it start? What went wrong?

  I let No go, carrying her plastic bag. She turns the corner. Nothing’s shining around her. Everything’s grey and dark.

  .

  Chapter 45

  When I get home, I chuck my things down on the floor. I like making it clear that I’m annoyed. That way my mother has to make an effort to talk to me. It never fails. She’s dressed and wearing make-up. If you don’t look too closely she looks like a regular mother who’s come home from work. She follows me into the kitchen. I haven’t even said ‘hi’ or ‘good evening’. I open the cupboard and close it again. I’m not hungry. She follows me to my room and I slam the door in her face. I hear her shouting on the other side. That really surprises me. It’s been about three billion years since she last shouted at me. She’s complaining that I never tidy anything up, that I leave stuff lying around, scissors, glue, string, she’s sick of my conceptual experiments and my resistance tests, sick, sick, sick. The apartment is such a mess. No one can say a word to me. What’s the matter?

  That’s indeed the question: what is the matter? A general question, one that everyone asks without being able to give an answer. What’s up with the world? I don’t open my door. I stay on the other side and don’t answer.

  There’s the fact that I’m also sick, sick, sick of being alone, sick of her talking to me like I’m the caretaker’s daughter, sick of words and experiments, sick of everything. And the fact that I’d like her to look at me the way other mothers look at their children, that I’d like her to sit by my bed at night and talk to me before she turns off the light, without giving the impression that she’s following the marks on the floor and that she’s learned the dialogue by heart.

  ‘Lou, open this door!’

  I don’t say anything. I blow my nose as loud as I can, just to make her feel a bit guilty.

  ‘Lou, why won’t you talk to me?’

  I don’t want to talk to her because she doesn’t listen, because she always seems to be thinking of something else, always looks lost in her own world or as though she’s swallowed a pill the wrong way. I don’t want to talk to her because she doesn’t know who I am any more, because she always seems to be puzzling over what the link between the two of us is, how we’re related.

  I hear a key in the lock. My father’s back from work. He calls to us. I hear his footsteps and him talking to my mother in a low voice. I can’t make out what they’re saying. She goes off.

  ‘Hey, Rebel Smurf, you going to let me in?’

  I open the door. My father hugs me.

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  I look at my crumpled Kleenex in my hand. I feel really sad.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Mum doesn’t love me.’

  ‘Why are you saying that? You know it’s not true.’

  ‘Yes, it is, and you know it. She hasn’t loved me since Chloe died.’

  Then my father goes really pale, as if something has drained him, and I regret saying it, even if I think it, because my father’s spent vast amounts of energy for years hiding the truth.

  Several minutes go by before he replies, and I sense how hard it is for him to find the right words, the words to create the illusion, the reassurance.

  ‘Lou, you’re wrong. Mum does love you. She loves you with all her heart. She doesn’t know the best way to show it, it’s a bit like she’s got out of the habit, like she’s waking up after a long sleep, but in her dreams she was thinking about you, lots, and it’s because of you that she’s woken up. You know, Lou, Mum was really ill . . . She’s doing better, much better, but you need to give her time.’

  I said ‘OK’ to show that I understood. I even smiled. But at the same time I thought about the salesmen outside the Galeries Lafayette, perched on their little stands, the ones who do demonstrations with those incredible machines that cut vegetables into cubes and slices and circles and strips and roses, that grate and press and crush and mix. In fact, do absolutely everything and last a lifetime.

  Even though I wasn’t born yesterday.

  .

  Chapter 46

  No’s turned on the TV and is sitting beside me, having fetched the bottle of vodka she had hidden under her bed. We’re watching the final of Pop Idol, nestled in the sofa. She’s pretending to be interested in the jury’s comments, but I can see deep down that she doesn’t care at all. She doesn’t care about anything.

  My parents are at the theatre. They’ve allowed me to stay at Lucas’s and are coming to get me after the play. I’ve brought a quiche lorraine that my mother made and stopped off on the way to buy some lychees and mangoes, which No loves. She’s not working tonight. It’s her day off.

  We’re waiting for Lucas. He has his guitar lesson on a Thursday. The teacher told his mother that he misses half his lessons, and since then he’s been going to avoid trouble. He isn’t back yet. As it gets later I think to myself that it can’t be his lesson that’s making him so late. As it gets later I think of Léa’s party which I didn’t go to. Maybe they’ve arranged to meet up for a drink, maybe she’s wearing her black V-neck pullover, the lowcut one, and her really tight jeans. Maybe he’s sick of it all too.

  For Océane, you press 1, and for Thomas, 2. No prefers Océane and I’d vote for Thomas because he looks like Lucas, but thinner and with smaller eyes, because Lucas’s eyes are big and black.

  On TV, everyone has white teeth. I asked No why she reckoned that was. Was it dow
n to a lighting effect or special toothpaste that only stars used or even a product they put on before the broadcast, like a varnish that makes their teeth shine.

  ‘I don’t know what it’s down to, Lou. You ask too many questions. You’ll end up blowing a fuse up there.’

  She’s in a bad mood. She’s curled up on the sofa. I’m watching her secretly. She’s as thin as the day I first met her. She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. Her eyes are shining as if she’s got a fever. As soon as you look at the world around you, you ask questions. I look around, that’s all. At this rate she’ll never be strong enough to go to Ireland. I can see her hands are trembling and she can’t stay standing. I see there isn’t much vodka left. Alcohol protects her, she told me, but in spite of that she doesn’t want me to drink – not a drop. I’d like to be protected by something too, I’d like someone to tell me everything will work out, that none of it’s too serious.

  During the ads, I try to distract her.

  ‘You know, in Ireland they’ve got manors, castles, hills, amazing cliffs, even lakes.’

  ‘Have they? So are you coming with me?’

  That’s not a casual question. Not just a question for the sake of it. She’s waiting for an answer. Maybe life in Ireland is like the posters on the metro. Maybe the grass is really green and the sky so huge you can see infinity. Maybe life in Ireland is easier. Maybe if I went with her, she’d be saved. It’s late and Lucas isn’t back.

  ‘I dunno. Maybe . . .’

  Laurent works in a pub in Wexford and lives in a big house in the country with dogs and cats. It’s got loads of rooms and a huge kitchen. He often has friends round and they make chicken kebabs and have bonfires in his garden, sing old songs, play music and spend the night outside, rolled up in blankets. He makes a lot of money and doesn’t notice what he spends. He wanted a house for her. He sent her photos. She saw how big the trees were, the amazing light and the bed where they would sleep. Laurent has fine long hands, curly hair, he wears rings with skulls on them, a long black coat, according to No. She wrote to him to tell him that she’s coming soon, when she’s got the money.

  Ocean’s won. There are tears rolling down her cheeks. She’s got a big smile. She’s beautiful. No’s fallen asleep. She’s finished the vodka. I look at the time again. I’d love to know how much money there is in the envelope. I’d like to lie down beside her, close my eyes and wait for something that sounded like music, something that would enfold us.

  I didn’t hear Lucas. He’s standing in front of me. I’d like to yell what time do you call this to come back at in a stern voice, ask where he’s been, stand in his way until I get an explanation. I’d like to be twenty centimetres taller and know how to get angry.

  My father calls. They’re leaving the theatre and will be there in twenty minutes. The phone must have woken No. She opens her eyes and asks me who won. She’s pale. She mutters, ‘I’m going to be sick.’ Lucas reacts and grabs her under the arms to take her to the toilet. She steadies herself on the basin and leans forward. He supports her for as long as it lasts. Money is sticking out of her jeans pocket – fifty-euro notes. There are quite a few of them. Behind her back I grab Lucas’s arm and silently point to them. Then Lucas goes crazy. He pins her against the wall and starts yelling. He’s beside himself. I’ve never seen him like this. He shouts, ‘What are you doing, No? What are you doing?’ He gives her a powerful shake. ‘Answer me, No. What is it that you’re doing?’ No grits her teeth. Her dry eyes look at him without replying. She gives him that challenging look and I know what it means. He’s got her by the shoulders and I’m shouting, ‘Stop, stop!’ and trying to restrain him. She looks at him as if to say: ‘What do you think? How do you think you can get out of this? Get out of this shit?’ It couldn’t be clearer if she’d shouted it. That’s all I can hear. When he eventually lets go, she falls to the floor and splits her lip on the edge of the basin. He slams the door and leaves her there, reeling.

  I sit down beside her and stroke her hair. I get blood on my hands and I say, ‘It’s OK,’ and I repeat it several times, but deep down I know it’s not OK, deep down I know that I am too small, and that he’s right: we’re not strong enough.

  .

  Chapter 47

  Before I met No I thought that violence meant shouting and hitting and war and blood. Now I know that there can also be violence in silence and that it’s sometimes invisible to the naked eye. There’s violence in the time that conceals wounds, the relentless succession of days, the impossibility of turning back the clock. Violence is what escapes us. It’s silent and hidden. Violence is what remains inexplicable, what stays forever opaque.

  They’d been waiting for me for twenty minutes just outside of the building. I opened the car door and got into the back seat. My mother’s perfume floated in the car, her smooth hair covering her shoulders. They called me three times from downstairs before I came down. They were getting impatient. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t feel like asking them if they’d enjoyed the play or had a nice evening. The image of No was seared on my retina. No sitting on the floor with blood in her mouth. And Lucas superimposed, hitting the wall with his fist. My father put the car in the garage and we went up in the lift. It was after midnight. He wanted to talk to me. I followed him into the living room. My mother went to the bathroom.

  ‘What’s going on, Lou?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Yes, there is. Something’s going on. If you could see your face, you wouldn’t say nothing.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Why are you always hidden away at Lucas’s? Why don’t you ever invite your friends home? Why don’t you want me to come up and get you? Why did you make us wait twenty minutes although I rang you to tell you we were on our way? What’s going on, Lou? We used to get on pretty well, the two of us. We told each other things. We talked. What’s gone wrong?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Is No at Lucas’s?’

  I couldn’t stop myself looking up at that. Shit. My father’s too good at this. Even though we were forearmed.

  ‘Tell me, Lou. Is No staying at Lucas’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did his parents take her in?’

  ‘Yes . . . well . . . no. His parents aren’t there.’

  ‘His parents aren’t there?’

  There’s silence for a few seconds while my father takes this information in. All the times I’ve been round to Lucas’s, all the times we’ve been left on our own, in that big apartment, without the merest hint of a parent, all those times I’ve been economical with the truth. All that time they’ve been busy elsewhere. He hesitates between reproach and hurricane. He takes a deep breath.

  ‘Where are his parents?’

  ‘His father’s gone off to live in Brazil and his mother lives in Neuilly. She sometimes comes back at the weekend.’

  ‘And No’s been living there since she left here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us anything?’

  ‘Because I was afraid you’d have her sent to a centre.’

  My father is furious. Furious and tired.

  He listens to me and I try to explain. She doesn’t want to go to a centre because they’re dirty, because they throw you out at eight in the morning, because you have to sleep with one eye open if you don’t want your stuff to disappear, because she needs to leave her things somewhere, to have a place to put herself. She doesn’t want to look after herself because there’ll be no one to wait for her when she gets out, no one to take care of her, because she doesn’t believe in anything any more, because she’s all alone. I’m crying and I go on speaking. I’m saying whatever comes into my head – ‘Anyway, you don’t care – about No or about me. You threw in the towel, you gave up, tried just to maintain appearances, to paper over the cracks. But I didn’t – I didn’t give
up. I’m still fighting.’ My father looks at me with all those tears on my face and the snot coming out of my nose. He’s looking at me as if I’ve gone mad, but I keep on going, I can’t stop now. ‘You don’t care because you’re inside in the warm, because it disturbs you to have someone who steals in the house, someone who’s not doing well, because it messes up the cosy picture, because you’d rather look at the Ikea catalogue.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense, Lou. That’s not true and you know it. Go to bed.’

  My mother comes out of the bathroom. She must have heard me shouting. She comes into the living room in her silk dressing gown. She’s brushed her hair. My father gives her the gist in a few words. I must say he demonstrates a great ability to summarise, which Mrs Rivery wouldn’t fail to emphasise. My mother says nothing.

  I’d like her to hug me, to stroke my forehead, my hair. To hold me till I stop sobbing like she used to. I’d like her to say, ‘Don’t get upset’ or ‘I’m here now.’ I’d like her to kiss my wet eyes.

  My mother stands there at the living-room door with her arms by her sides.

  And I think that there’s violence in that too – in her inability to reach out to me, to make the gesture which is impossible and so forever suspended.

  .

  Chapter 48

  I recognised her voice on the phone at once. It was ten o’clock in the morning and she was begging me to come. She repeated ‘please’ several times. She had to leave. Lucas’s mother knew something, she was coming round to check. I had to come – now. She couldn’t manage by herself. She repeated that several times: ‘I can’t manage by myself.’

  The moment we’d dreaded so much had come. The moment when No would have to pack up her things yet again. It was ten o’clock and something had snapped, the breaking point had come. It was ten o’clock and I was leaving, leaving with No. I looked in the cupboard for the sports bag I use on holiday. I opened it on the bed. I put in a few clothes, grabbed my toothbrush and toothpaste and slipped them into my sponge bag with a few pink cotton wool balls and a body lotion that my mother bought me. I was finding it hard to breathe.