Voice Over

by Celine Curiol

  She has spotted a box of raspberries. She slips her way between the bodies warily surveying the goods laid out before them. The stallholder calls her my pretty one and hands her the box wrapped up in brown paper. She plunges her hand inside the bag, eager for the soft, sweet fruit. She gobbles the raspberries down one after the other in rapid succession, leaving drops of pink juice on her fingers. She walks down several streets, scanning the façades for signs of human presence, before being sucked into the warm sickly breath of a métro entrance. Just as she is going through the turnstile, she feels a body insert itself against her back so as to pass through the two metal bars at the same time. She is instantly thrust to the other side and doesn’t get a chance to see the face of the man striding off down one of the long side tunnels. For a few seconds she is left stunned by this contact, as brief as it was powerful. She turns instinctively down a corridor lined with advertising posters, which she scans with a sideways glance without slowing her pace. Just then, a name on one of them catches her eye. She knows that name, knows it because it’s hers. She stops, rereads the first and last name buried in among a list of other names which mean nothing to her. Those are her names, all right. A group of travellers jostles past her, annoyed at finding a stationary body planted there. The poster is for a play that is opening the following week. The names of the lead actors are printed in thick white letters at the top of the bill. Also listed are the producers and the technicians who have worked on the show. Red lettering has been reserved for the box office phone number. She rummages in her bag. She takes out a lidless black ballpoint and uses it to scribble down the number on the raspberry-juice-stained brown paper.

  The platform seems rather empty. Maybe the group that overtook her in the corridor just now, which seemed to consist of many people at the time, have found unlikely hiding places along the narrow concrete strip which is only long enough for four minimalist benches. Or else they have gone on their way, as a dense frantic mob through secret passageways of the Parisian transport network. Her footsteps ring out under the tiled vault. Up ahead of her, a small crowd has gathered and is silently staring down at something on the ground. She moves closer. At first she thinks she’s looking at a large, bulging canvas sack. But the sack has shoes and hands pressed together under a creased, grimy face. For a moment, she does what the others are doing: she observes the man lying hunched on the ground. There is a barely dried bloodstain on his temple. She shoots an alarmed glance at the people around her, but for all their signs of agitation, they remain engrossed in their detailed scrutiny of the man. They seem fascinated, mesmerised by the spectacle of the totally lifeless body, which, deep down, they find repellent. The man’s immobility strikes her as more and more suspect. She reaches out a cautious hand in the direction of his shoulder. The travellers take several steps back, their eyes swivel by several degrees. The voice of one onlooker comes straight at her. Do you know him? Asked as if it were a warning, the question almost causes her to have doubts. Quick, mustn’t get distracted by the reproachful tone. (The film would be a Franco-American co-production. It would be the scene in which everything takes a sudden turn for the worse: the young heroine is discovered next to the body, which she has touched—it can’t be said enough, when you find a dead body, keep your mitts off. A passer-by raises the alarm, the police find out that she and the dead man had been lovers; to cut a long story short, the guilty party—there is always a guilty party—is her.) What difference does that make? She can’t see what difference that makes. And says so to the young nosey-parker, who proceeds to chew his lip, either because for him it does make a difference, obviously it does, someone you know and a complete stranger can hardly be the same thing, how can you say otherwise, or else because it doesn’t make any difference and it is he, who arrived on the scene before her, who should have reached out to touch the man’s shoulder, just as she is doing now. She brings her fingers down on the almost adhesive surface of the coat. Tentatively, as if the mocking head of a clown might suddenly rear up at her, frightening in its gargantuan laughter. She presses through the layers of clothing to touch him, a piece of skin, muscle, bone, so that he, in turn, can feel someone there by his side. After maintaining the pressure for a few seconds, she draws back her hand. The body is not moving. As if she has just performed an act of exemplary courage, the crowd around her begin talking again. (New script: the American side of the co-production is now in charge; no way can they leave the ending as it is. The heroine finds the body just in time for the emergency services to get to the scene and for the man—who through a series of clever flashbacks, we discover was her lover—to escape death.) Someone asks if he’s moving, someone asks what’s the matter with him, someone asks . . . A shiver passes in a wave up through her scalp. Pursing her lips and ignoring the questioning stares, she manages to get to her feet and pushes through the circle of onlookers. She strides back off the way she came. She meets no resistance; the corridors are empty. Passing by the poster, she is tempted to check if her name is still printed on its glossy surface. She goes all the way back up to the ticket windows, where there is no line. Inside two men in khaki-green outfits bearing the RATP logo are in plenary session. The window is transparent, as transparent as a clean window should be, but the men appear not to see her behind it. Bringing her mouth closer, she says in a loud voice that there is a man down there who is not well; they ought to send someone along. Her words smash into the glass partition, dribbling down it in long, invisible streaks. Inside the ticket office, the two human puppets continue to hold forth, voluble specimens of a species soon to be extinct. She is not in the métro but in a museum, where, as everyone knows, it would be ridiculous to talk to any of the stuffed creatures in the display cases. She gives three short raps; the two heads swivel. One head, wearing the expression of a cashier on a bad day, leans down to the opening at the base of the window. There’s a man on the platform in terrible shape; can someone go and help him? Between the time it takes for her to see that he has understood and for him to start talking, she’s gone. The RATP employee knows, he’ll do what’s necessary, she’s told him, he doesn’t need her now. And so she flees, because she finds it all very upsetting—not the man slowly expiring in his dirt and misery, but the living ones insensitive to the urgency of death.

  She walks aimlessly along, leaving the market behind her. She could cry if she wasn’t worried that sobbing would slow her down. Something is happening back there; she ought to have stayed on as a witness. She walks along, no longer seeing the pavement, the buildings, the cars, the passers-by, the mopeds. No matter the city, no matter the age, there are transitional moments when a person exists by default, by pure reflex. It ought then to be possible to fall asleep on the spot, to let that moment of floating pass, and to launch oneself into orbit around everyday life. The street runs into a small, three-sided public garden. She pushes through the metal gate. There are three marble benches. A fishbowl filled with water has been placed on the end of each one, a goldfish swims inside. No one around. The gravel crunches underfoot. The fish revolve at varying speeds, at times bouncing off a translucent obstacle and, in a fit of pique, shooting back the other way. From above, they seem very slender; from the side, bloated, almost obese. She looks around for who could have set the three fishbowls down in this unusual spot, but she seems to be the only person there. Tugging up her sleeve, she plunges her fingers into the large bubble of water. The fish wriggles away, working its fins to avoid the hand that has just burst in on its world. She feels like catching the delicate slippery body, hauling it out of the water and contemplating the mouth opening and closing in the suffocating air. Once, at the seaside, she’d observed a fish that had been thrown down on the shingle after being caught. A terrible, fascinating sight. Blood was trickling from its gills; now and then its body would wriggle. She’d crouched down and with her finger had given the animal’s scales a timid caress. She had asked if it couldn’t be put back in the water. The fisherman had laughed at her. It’s just a fish,
they’re made to be eaten.

  Someone is calling out to her. Just what does she think she’s doing? She pulls her fingers out of the fishbowl at once. A woman, who must have been lying in wait behind a bush, is striding towards her. Addressing her as though she were a prize idiot. It’s an in-sta-lla-tion, not a finger-bowl, looking is fine, but no touching, do you understand? Her hair in dreads, an orange band around her forehead, a ring in her nose, the woman is about to knock her down. Given a sword, she’d have pulled it out already in order to slice her into little pieces. Your installation is really great. The anger drops from the woman’s face. Artists live at the mercy of compliments, which is why she doesn’t understand them very well. Don’t worry, I’m going now. Actually, the artist would be happy for her to stay and share a few more favorable impressions of her work, maybe even ask her questions about where she gets her inspiration. She’d be happy now to give her permission to dip her fingers in, let her art become interactive. Accessible to ordinary folk like her, isn’t that the criterion all creators must live by? She has heard what the artist is saying but has no real opinion on the matter.

  Rue de Buci. Large signs up on all the shop fronts: Everything Must Go, Clearance Sale, Up to 50% Off. Enticing phrases to coax you inside. She pauses outside Vanilla Girls. Chocolate, strawberry and raspberry are also available. All the flavors you could wish for, gentlemen. To be consumed without moderation, but must be kept refrigerated. She goes inside. Five young women work their way along the hangers like automatic sorting machines, taking out an occasional garment to check for defects in the manufacture. Each displays remarkable powers of concentration: the fruit of years of practice begun in early adolescence. A female voice is singing in English. She catches the word love and the word . . . love. The sales assistant is wheeling packs of clothes from one side of the store to the other, taking them around for some fresh air. She spots a dress for 49 euros. Not really her style, but it could cheer her up to see herself looking different, not to recognize herself in the mirror. Can she try it on? she asks the assistant, who brushes by her at top speed and, without stopping, points to the rear of the shop. The garments in critical shape have to be moved urgently for fear they will suffer irreversible decay. In a corner of the shop, a curtain hangs from a semi-circular rail. The curtain is narrow. Through the space between the fabric and the wall, she can see large sections of the shop. People can see her. She ought not to give a damn, since everyone here is of the same sex. No need to be shy, you’re all built the same, her gym mistress would shout in the changing rooms at school. Except that she had breasts, whereas the others still had only the insignificant volcanic burgeonings of nipple. She undresses, keeping her movements to a minimum in order to stay hidden. She gets her head and arms in, but once the dress is on, she can’t do up the zip at the back. The makeshift fitting room doesn’t have a mirror. She steps out, with her back exposed and the dress gaping at the front, to get at least some idea of how she looks. A split second later the salesgirl is upon her, ramming up the zip with an iron hand. She barely has time to draw a breath: her chest will never be the same shape again, that’s certain. She senses that the other women in the shop are peering at her. The salesgirl is recuperating by the till. It’s very nice, don’t tell me you don’t like it. She doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t say so. She already knew that pink doesn’t suit her. Besides, it’s a color she detests. And the length is wrong. As for her breasts, squashed at the front, plumped up at the top, they resemble nothing so much as a fine pair of soufflés still in their baking tin. The ruse hasn’t paid off. Even dressed like that, she still looks the same, only worse. Forty-nine euros, it’s a bargain, the shop-girl calls out, before flying to the rescue of other endangered garments. Get back behind the curtain now that she’s gone. She flaps her elbows, trying to catch hold of the zip. No way is she going out there again. After twisting herself into four or five different positions, release. She hurriedly gets back into her clothes and abandons the dress. She throws a quick glance outside. The shop-girl is standing guard a few yards from the shop entrance. She makes a run for it, ducking at the first display stand she comes to and finds her way, hidden by a mound of heaped-up clothing, to the exit.

  She crosses the carrefour de l’Odéon, then walks up one of the three streets leading to the Théâtre de l’Europe. She is surprised to find in this part of the city an erotic bookshop with no sign. In the window, books of photography featuring pictures of women in bras and G-strings on the front covers; novels and reference works. The thought of going in is tempting but makes her feel uneasy. In between the piles of books, she tries to catch a glimpse of what is happening inside. Two young men are leafing through magazines. Enthroned behind the cash register is a fairly stout woman in her fifties. The presence of the woman strengthens her resolve. She makes her silent entrance; neither of the two men turns round; the woman, on the other hand, greets her arrival with an amused stare. She must look like a self-conscious child walking into a place it has been forbidden to enter. Not daring to touch a thing, she goes over to the shelves, tilts her head to start reading the titles and authors’ names, which she immediately forgets. Except for one: Marie Nimier. The name rings a bell, as if it were the name of an old friend, or the pseudonym she could have chosen for herself if she had been a writer. She takes down the novel and reads the first page. The story begins with the overwhelming attraction one woman feels for a man. A passionate love which makes one want to worship everything about him, even the worst parts. What is the worst about him? For her, best or worst has no meaning. She doesn’t think of him in those terms, apportioning him into two columns and adding up the sum of his good and bad qualities. In the novel the man wears a silver ring, which the woman sees as an integral part of his body. Whatever the object of her obsession owns is turned into a fetish. In fairy tales, a magician’s power comes from a ring. Rings are exchanged at weddings; a ring is affixed to the leg of a carrier pigeon. For the first time she wonders what his penis might look like. But she has no way of telling; each is unique, a signature whose overlapping lines are hard to decipher even when the person is known. All she can do is to refer back to the ones she has seen and remembers. That game of adolescent girls: trying to find out whether the length and thickness of the male organ corresponds to the size or thickness of any visible part of the anatomy. The feet . . . the nose . . . the ears . . . the hips . . . the big toe . . . the wrists. It turned out there was always an exception to every rule.

  Place de l’Odéon is deserted, except for a man filming the façade of the theater. With one eye pressed to the viewfinder and the other closed, he doesn’t notice her. On she goes.

  The Jardin du Luxembourg and its hodge-podge of tourists. Rings of chairs arranged as if for the conversations of invisible characters. It’s up to anyone out for a walk to imagine, according to the layout of these metal remains, what went on here before his arrival. Grey-haired men and women sit alone, gazing into space, or hunched over a newspaper, the articles and photographs depicting the world’s latest carnages. And then, suddenly, heads look up. The sun’s rays pierce through the dome of clouds; the contrast in the landscape sharpens. A paradoxical light that lessens the threat of a storm and yet still makes it seem likely, a light which has the coldness of metal and the sharpness of a blade, a light on which nothing feasts but which everything reflects, which strikes only at strategic points. Apocalypse. From a distance, the trees look like a long row of stone blocks miraculously suspended in midair. She enters the shaded path; the complex filigree of the branches appears overhead, the sky starts rustling, the mineral turns vegetal. She emerges on the other side of the park. Two thick lines of spindle trees frame a strip of sky.

  Place Saint-Sulpice. Projectors are being set up for a photo shoot. Kids on rollerblades orbit the fountain like multicolored electrons around a nucleus of glistening water. Up the steps to the church, push through the heavy door that leads into the sanctuary. A young woman with blonde hair enters at the same ti
me she does. Hurried steps, dip of the thin fingers into the holy water, sign of the cross. A man with torn trousers has fallen asleep at a prayer stool; his head lolls back at an angle. Walls, floor, roof, columns, statues, everywhere the same granite hue. She tries to keep her shoes from clattering over the flagstones: excessive noise could bring down the entire building. She doesn’t believe in God, has never felt the need to, has never read a religious book. But churches are something else. Their tranquillity, their dark cool air, their solemnity are a respite for her.

  Rue de l’Université. An old woman with gnarled shaking hands is talking to herself, then addresses her as she walks by. The woman in the blue cape! The poor thing isn’t all there, she’s lost her marbles, and continues to repeat, the woman in the blue cape, her liquid gaze directed at the end of the street. So as not to hurt the old lady’s feelings, she turns round: there really is a woman in a blue cape, making her way quickly across the street. The mocking tone comes through the yellowed teeth: that one there was a nun and went to bed with a man; now she’s got nothing. The old woman shakes her head, all but adding, serves her right. At the age of twelve, after a guided tour of a convent somewhere in the middle of the countryside, she considered taking holy orders. No one said a word about the vow of chastity, not even the guide. What appealed to her was the silence of the stonework, the calm of the inner courtyards. Shutting yourself away for ever was like hurling yourself into space. She longed for the challenge of absolute silence. She wanted to know what thoughts she would have after a few months, after a few years without uttering a single word.