Voice Over

by Celine Curiol

  Back home, 5 pm in Paris. Get herself a sponge and doggedly tackle the inside of the fridge or the top of the stove? Play some music and sweat to the rhythm as she goes about getting rid of those greasy rings? Switch on the television and watch some program? Listen to the radio and sort out the pile of bills on the living-room table? Make a phone call? To whom? She has done all these things before; she knows what sensations they produce. She’d like to come up with other, more distracting activities, but right now, nothing occurs to her. And so she stays on the sofa, unable to make up her mind. She rubs the tiny piece of skin next to her nail over her upper lip until the phone rings. She knows that it’s not him, not twice in one day, not after what happened this morning. She picks up. Hello, it’s Maxime. She doesn’t know the voice or anyone named Maxime. She’s about to say, you’ve dialled the wrong number, but Maxime goes on. We met last night at the dinner party, you gave me your number. I wanted to invite you for a drink.

  She regrets not buying the pink dress, which would have been an excellent costume for the role she is getting ready to play. In any case, she still needs to wear a dress—that feminine symbol, the inverted corolla. Only one passes muster, short, red, and simply cut. Quick check on the state of her calves: passable in soft light, not so great to the touch. Hair removal is no small business. Excluded are creams and those electrical devices supposed to extract the hair by its root; they leave a lot to be desired, she tried all of them a long time ago. She doesn’t have time for an appointment at the beauty salon. Besides, that never really worked for her, on account of the nagging feeling of being at the doctor’s: the long sheet of paper crumpling under you as you lie down, the harsh light revealing the skin’s imperfections. The shame is not appreciably different when she is lying on her stomach and senses the beautician appraising the appearance of her rump barely shielded by a pair of panties that are never up to standard. She is sure she presents a pitiful sight to those eyes accustomed to seeing so many fit and toned women, who look good even before their treatments have started. Her first weeks in the capital, she knew no one. After she got knocked down by that car, she had hobbled her way to the Emergency room of a hospital. Looking after herself was her responsibility, young woman of eighteen that she was, suddenly in charge of a life, her own. At the hospital, only curt instructions—no prizes for having taken care of herself and got that far safely. A nurse sat her on an examination table and rolled up her trouser legs. And that white witch’s first words: you might want to shave them now and then. These days, she couldn’t care less. But this evening, she has to be impeccably turned out: so a few strokes of a razor blade it is; too bad if in three days’ time hair density per square centimetre will have doubled. Powder for her eyelids, black eyeliner, some red lipstick—she redraws her face, taking care to accentuate her features.

  Lots of people in the métro. Lethargic and tyrannical young people. Couples of every kind picking a quarrel or wrapping their arms around one another. A few skittish old coots keeping out of harm’s way. An agitated young man is talking loudly, chopping the air with his arms in front of a pair of hippy types, male and female, who watch him expend his precious energy at a dizzying rate. I got me a gun, ya’see; I got a gun. His audience of two look on, impassive. I mean, I could blow y’all away, know what I’m sayin’? The future killer produces the onomatopoeic equivalent of three gunshots. But . . . I ain’ gonna. Is he bluffing? She wouldn’t bet on it. Elsewhere on the platform people are turning a blind eye. The kid is telling anyone who will listen that he’s done time, and on the word “time,” his eyes lock onto hers. She looks away, wisely directing her gaze clear of this lunatic. Hey you! The rumbling of the approaching train swallows the rest. She heads the other way and takes advantage of the jostling crowd to slip into one of the cars. As his face passes behind the window of the door, the ex-prisoner of the French Republic sticks his tongue out at her.

  The rendezvous is at the Hotel Lutétia. Carpeting, golden lamps, geometrically patterned rugs, wax-polished furniture, staff that glide rather than walk. A man in a dinner jacket comes over to her, as welcoming as if they had spent their holiday together on the same beach. He motions solicitously in the direction of a second man who wears a multicolored striped shirt and black trousers, and who advances briskly towards them. Good evening, glad you could come. A tender flexing of the vocal chords, nothing like his irritation of the evening before. It hasn’t taken him long to change his mind. His eyes are bright, wide open in order to take her in more fully. He makes no comment about her appearance; no doubt fearing to seem vulgar. With an expert hand placed in the hollow of her back, he guides her to their reserved table. A bottle of champagne in a silver ice-bucket, a cigarette smoldering on the rim of the cut-crystal ashtray. He suggests they make themselves comfortable on a cream-colored divan. He hands her a drink, they touch glasses. To your presence here today. She puckers her lips. She must look a sight—she always finds compliments annoying, even false ones. He offers her a cigarette and retrieves his own. He has a small, tight mouth, the air of a hunter assured of victory. Around them, several men in dark suits reading newspapers, the rustle of turning pages barely interferes with the piece of classical music flowing into the room. A hushed atmosphere. She senses him observing her neck, then her chest. She brings her eyes back to meet his in order to block the offensive. I don’t even know what you do. He works at the ministry. The MFA . . . sorry, Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Did you graduate from that university . . . the ENA? Why is she asking that, of course he did. Where else would he have studied, it’s hardly complicated. No one’s perfect, he replies, and laughs to himself. Then, pronouncing his words very clearly: Do you follow international politics at all? She feels like biting him, she detests that kind of trick question. A no, and he’ll spend the rest of the evening looking down his nose at her; a yes, and she’ll have to give her informed opinion. She mentally rehearses the names she remembers, particularly those of Americans, since they’re the only ones that ever get mentioned. Bush, Powell, Rumsfeld. She often thinks that they would all make excellent names for pets. Bin Laden, and his life on video; Saddam, whom all journalists refer to by his first name, probably because they think they know him. She remembers two other names as well: Taylor and Mugabe, two African dictators. And then there’s the Brazilian president with his pretty nickname that goes well with his left-wing positions. Yes, she knows a bit about international politics. As for him, he’s working on Iraq. A major policy area, fascinating, France’s position precisely mirrors his personal convictions. What more could he ask for? I love my job. At least someone is happy with his lot. The Americans, we’ll wear them down eventually. He finishes off his drink. And the Iraqis? He smiles at her as if she were a naïve child. Oh, he hasn’t forgotten the Iraqis. You’re slightly naïve, but I suppose that’s normal since you see it all from the outside. He then proceeds to sing her the praises of French diplomacy taking the voice of the nation to the four corners of the world. She ought to appreciate the fact that her government is defending the interests of her country. And what did you tell your wife, that you had a meeting with the minister, a Saudi prince or a Russian spy? He has trouble exhaling the smoke of his cigarette without coughing. He should have known that with a profession like hers she’d be rather cynical at bottom, and he caresses her forearm with his index finger. She feels like coming out with two or three choice inventions, stuff her supposed clients would have done to her, that might dampen his ardour. But she holds back. You’re a friend of Ange’s? She nods. Yes indeed, Mr Diplomat, a very good friend, we share the same tastes. He must be wondering how Ange ever could have met such a girl.

  He offers to take her to a private club with its own terrace. An irresistible proposition, he must think, for any woman with a passion for billing and cooing outdoors in temperate climates, a deft nod to romanticism. Taxi. The driver lowers the window to ask if the ride will be long enough to be worth the trouble. Someone has left a business card on the back seat. Olivier Ch
edubarum, Photographer, 01 52 29 07 18. She slips the piece of cardboard into her bag. Sharp clack as the driver automatically locks the door. Through the rear window, she catches sight of a man in a hooded tracksuit moving along with a supple stride. His face is black. Don’t like seeing ’em round these parts. Stepping sharply on the accelerator, the driver sets off. Streams of red lights and yellow lights against the backdrop of a sleeping city. Walled off behind a surface of glass, with the help of the night-time calm, each remembers a past when things were different. Inside the car, silence from the bodies of three strangers who have nothing to say to one another. She sees a woman holding a poodle’s leash in one hand, clutching her jacket to her chest with the other. Further on, a man is letting out a stream of urine into the corner of two walls, his feet spread wide. At place de la Concorde, she hears the sound of a zip. Reluctantly she turns her eyes away from the large lightning bugs that have metamorphosed into streetlamps. Mr Diplomat has his fly open. She reads the words Calvin Klein on the wide elastic band of the boxer shorts stretched over his abdomen. He caresses the back of her neck. She knows what he is waiting for. His eyes pant; he feels sure that he is within his rights. She has no idea what the going rate for a blowjob could be. Her role is starting to get to her. I don’t do it in taxis. She leans into his ear and closes the zip. He looks irritated but doesn’t dare complain. He tells the driver to go faster.

  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 b
ody. 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.