People Like Them

by Samira Sedira

  Bakary and Sylvia welcomed us together. He was wearing a royal-blue suit that accentuated his physique perfectly. The jacket clung tightly to his shoulders, giving him an electrifying overall appearance of strength and good health. Sylvia had on a pure silk dress with a small slit on the side that revealed part of her legs. On her right ankle, a chain with thin links dangled to her white foot. Her feet were bare, which surprised me. Undoubtedly sensing that I was taken aback, she told me with a mischievous smile, I never wear shoes when I’m at home. I hope it doesn’t bother anyone.

  I assured her, blushing a little, that it wasn’t a big deal. Their two little girls were wearing turquoise dresses, simultaneously elegant and simple, and silvery ballet flats. The boy had on a white short-sleeved dress shirt and blue khakis.

  We were the first to arrive. The living room was bathed in a gentle, pleasant light. Music was coming from somewhere. In one corner, a meticulously decorated tree blinked and projected flashes of light onto the ceiling and the white walls. There were lots of small, prettily wrapped presents around the base of the tree, and we added our own to the pile. A fire was burning in the fireplace. It smelled of dry wood and pine resin.

  Bakary and Sylvia’s children led our daughters upstairs, and we didn’t see them again until the very end of the night. Sylvia had taken up cold dishes, drinks, and sweets to them.

  Two birds, one stone, she said to us. The children can enjoy the evening how they want, and we won’t be constantly bothered.

  Unlike Sylvia, I didn’t see any drawback to being bothered by my children. I actually kind of liked sensing them hovering nearby, like puppies clamoring to suckle. The incessant demands that children so often inundate us with, and the annoyance those demands generally provoke, add something chaotic and joyful—inseparable, in my mind, from the very definition of a party.

  You settled onto the big comfortable couch. From the way you let your body sink into the soft cushions, I immediately understood that you weren’t there as a guest, more like a regular. Which is exactly how Bakary treated you, asking you to come choose a bottle of wine from the cellar, to go with him to the woodshed to get a few logs, and even to change the music.

  Sylvia smiled almost constantly, making endless back-and-forth trips between the kitchen and living room. I offered her my help, but she refused each time, assuring me that there wasn’t much to do, which of course wasn’t true. She kept an assortment of canapés and appetizers flowing to the coffee table, and every time I met her eyes, she’d wink, as if to assure me that everything was fine and I didn’t need to worry about anything. Still, being forced to do nothing was hard for me to accept, especially since the amount of food left no doubt as to the time she must have already spent in the kitchen.

  Simon and Lucie arrived twenty minutes after us, closely followed by François. I welcomed Simon’s deep voice with a feeling of relief. I literally threw myself into his arms, to his amusement, and let out a liberating Ah, there you are!, which I later regretted saying in front of Sylvia as it clearly betrayed my discomfort.

  In their smart clothes, Lucie, Simon, and François seemed like new people. Even I, who had balked at the idea of dressing up for a simple evening with friends, had to admit that Bakary’s suggestion wasn’t as ridiculous as I had thought; it actually gave us a chance to see one another differently.

  Over dinner, Simon told us all kinds of hilarious stories about his neighbor, a new transplant from the city who had been growing rice in his garden for a few months.

  Just think about it, this guy was an engineer at the biggest electricity company in France, and his wife was working for a PR firm. They gave up everything to become farmers! The guy dug two big ponds in his garden to grow rice. Rice! Someone wanna tell me how much he’s gonna make with those damn ponds?! Once he harvests his little grains of rice, he won’t even have enough to make paella! And get this, his wife is raising “free-range” rabbits. The things are as big as baby pigs! She bought them from a Polish breeder. I’ve never seen them that size—mutants, basically. She built movable hutches with wire-mesh bottoms so that the rabbits can eat the grass. She moves them around all day long in their hutches—only fresh grass for those lucky bastards. The wife’s burly, like a Belarusian female wrestler, you know, big, big biceps. You get a smack from her and you go straight into the ICU.

  The trouble with those Polack rabbits is that two days ago they all kicked the bucket. Not a single survivor. She found them all the other morning, lying on their backs, completely blue. A hundred dead rabbits. I mean, come on, can you imagine? Fucking rabbits!

  Sylvia burst out laughing, both hands over her mouth. François, who hadn’t looked up from his plate once as he listened, silently chuckled and slowly chewed the scallops pan-fried with foie gras that Sylvia had prepared. Lucie smiled out of politeness, keeping her head perfectly straight, like a countess holding court or a mother making herself listen to her child without revealing her boredom. As for Bakary, he let out a slightly forced laugh. It was so unlike him that I wondered if something was spoiling his good mood—was he in pain?—forcing him to put on a happy front so that nothing would show. I also noticed that he was paying constant attention to Sylvia, lightly brushing his hand down her neck or over her hair, which she had arranged over her right shoulder and which was hanging down to the tip of her breast. She seemed to be ignoring her husband, as if his caresses were a mere effect of the wind.

  After dinner, Bakary, whose good mood seemed to have been restored, suggested we have coffee in the living room.

  Simon sprawled on the couch, dramatically patting his stomach: Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub, Mrs. Langlois!

  We all echoed the sentiment. Sylvia was inarguably a pro in the kitchen.

  Lucie snorted. Why are you calling her “Mrs. Langlois”?

  Simon pinched the tip of Lucie’s nose between his fingers and pulling it from one side to the other told her, C’mon, my pretty little love muffin—it’s a joke!

  Bakary added some wood to the fireplace, then, turning toward his wife, invited her to dance. She followed him without a word.

  She appeared tiny in his arms. He squeezed her against him, enveloping her so that she disappeared completely. All we could see were her bare feet. They danced with erotic insolence, paying us no mind at all. Because the orientation of the couch allowed no other viewpoint, we found ourselves forced to watch something we would have preferred not to. We were trapped. Simon attempted a joke, but we were done laughing.

  Yet even as we found ourselves sinking into a bottomless pit of awkwardness, you stared at them with a stony, somewhat terrifying neutrality, without ever looking away. Did they fascinate you? Unsettle you? I couldn’t figure out what the sight of their two interlaced bodies was stirring up inside of you. Their increasingly suggestive swaying finally made us all look away. You were the only one who didn’t. It was as though you were challenging them, standing your ground, alternating between desire and aversion, marvel and consternation. We could hear the children running up and down the hallway upstairs, and that tangible reminder that they were there, existing somewhere outside of us, made me feel like I was in exile.

  Finally the music stopped, forcing the couple to separate. Sylvia ran her hands through her hair, now a little undone, and Bakary, as if pulled from a long slumber, gave an endless sigh that seemed to express all the annoyance he felt at having to release his wife.

  All of a sudden, he clapped loudly and suggested we open the gifts. The relief was universal. Bakary put the music back on and Sylvia sat cross-legged near the tree, revealing a little more of her thighs. I caught François peeking, timidly lingering on her white skin. I looked away.

  Sylvia randomly assigned the gifts, and Bakary handed them out. There was an assortment of trinkets: scented candles, scented pens, bath pearls, key rings, soap, shaving cream, a bottle opener, toothpicks, sparkly lip gloss, novelty beer coasters, a lavend
er sachet, Irish beer, and so on. François ended up with the sparkly lip gloss and me the shaving cream. We all refused to exchange our gifts. François said we had to give fate a chance, and that if he got the lip gloss, it was because there was someone to offer it to. I added that I, not immune from a surge of hair growth, would carefully hold on to my shaving cream. That made François laugh, chasing away the sad shadows brought on by the reference to his loneliness. François had lost his wife six years earlier to leukemia. The time it had taken for him to recover from that terrible experience hadn’t diminished his thirst for life or our shared hope of seeing him remarry one day.

  The music stopped again, but we didn’t notice. The fire was crackling; we stared at it, mesmerized. The wind caught in the doorsills was whistling.

  A discussion about our respective careers began. I hadn’t held a job since my children had been born, but for some time—no doubt because my daughters had reached reasonable ages, three and six—I’d surprised myself with a renewed desire to work, though in a completely different field from the one I’d been trained for. After spending a few months in the maternity ward, I had realized that childcare didn’t interest me as much as I had hoped. Once again, as with nursing school, I’d grown bored. It was a fairly low-paying job, and one that took up a lot of time. Sometimes, I also think that a career I had chosen because I loved children lost its appeal once I became a mother myself.

  Sylvia mentioned how hard it was for her to balance her career and her family life. She couldn’t manage, she told us.

  Actually, speaking of, if anyone knows someone willing to help me around the house, I’m all ears.

  You’re looking for someone to clean? asked Lucie.

  Yes, answered Bakary. The house is big, and we can’t find the time to take care of it.

  Sylvia furrowed her brows and mockingly said, What do you mean “we”?

  Bakary burst out laughing and admitted, a little abashed, to not carrying all his weight when it came to housework.

  Lucie said that Simon helped her a lot, and that in fact he was an excellent househusband. Simon winked at her and, planting a big kiss on her round cheek, said, as if he was talking to a baby being tucked in: You truly are my little love muffin.

  I don’t know how the idea came to me or why it came to me. It came to me is all. I said, without even thinking, I’m interested.

  You were sitting next to me, our knees and thighs touching. Bakary looked at me like he was waiting to see what would happen next. He remained silent, gave an inquisitive smile, then looked at his wife, who herself didn’t know exactly what was going on. Finally he said, You?

  I said, Yes, me, I’m interested.

  In that second, I felt you stiffen. You said nothing, you didn’t move, but your tense muscles on the verge of snapping seemed to say everything that refused to come out of your mouth. I repeated, Yes, I’m interested.

  Bakary smiled even wider and, turning his head toward you, not noticing the extreme tension in your body, said, Why not?

  True, added Sylvia, without giving you time to respond. It has its advantages. You live across from us. We know you. We trust you completely. Actually, it would be perfect!

  Simon listened, seeming uncomfortable. Lucie and François didn’t say anything.

  It would let me work without the constraints of a full-time job, I explained, and give me some autonomy.

  Bakary and Sylvia said that it was a great idea and that they didn’t know why they hadn’t thought of it earlier. On the spot, we picked a time to discuss the administrative formalities, then we drank to our health and to the wonderful idea!

  You were riled up the whole night. In the days that followed, you reproached me repeatedly for not talking to you about it beforehand, for acting like you didn’t exist, and for betraying you.

  You could have looked for a job somewhere else, you kept saying, sweeping your hand across your forehead as if you were checking for a fever. Why their house? Cleaning lady for the neighbors! Why their house?

  You seemed to have forgotten that it had been getting harder to make ends meet at the end of the month for some time, that you complained about it constantly, and that there was an urgent need for me to do something. Plus, I didn’t see anything degrading about cleaning houses, which you conceded.

  But (you repeated over and over) not for the neighbors, not the neighbors!

  For one week afterward you only talked to me in grunts, and when you finally starting using words again, it was to attack Bakary and rail about how insulting his idea was. You seemed to have forgotten that it was me who had suggested it first. Not him.

  After a brief discussion with Sylvia, we agreed that I would come to their house three times a week. Bakary suggested drawing up a formal job offer from their company, which meant that they’d be getting me for free. Officially, I was cleaning their offices.

  Sylvia had said that three hours per visit would largely suffice. I don’t know if that decision was based on personal experience or a rough estimate, but the fact remained that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the whole chalet done in three hours. I always finished dead tired and didn’t even have enough time to clean every room. In reality, I needed closer to five hours.

  I decided to talk to Sylvia about it. Not surprisingly, she was against it at first. Increasing my paycheck, she said, would go over their projected budget. I argued that as things stood, I’d end up giving up the job. She finally agreed to extend my work hours, vaguely annoyed by what she perceived as my bad grace.

  Three nights a week I’d return home exhausted with the strange and unpleasant sensation of feeling cramped in my own house, as though spending five hours in an enormous, fancy chalet had suddenly revealed to me the extent of my mediocrity. After work, I still had dinner to prepare and the girls to take care of. At their age, they were always as full of energy as when they had just woken up. My days felt never-ending.

  I made sure that when you walked in, I didn’t look as tired as I was; I was afraid it would set you off. But at night I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, and it was plenty clear from your sour face the next morning that you weren’t fooled.

  You had distanced yourself from Bakary, routinely refusing his invitations to come over on Sundays. Seeing how disappointed he’d be, you would claim that you had to prepare for an important match, which, based on the way you’d always operated (you never prepared for anything), was fairly suspicious. And yet Bakary didn’t take offense. Although he could be pretty astute in any number of situations, there was something in his personality that made it hard for him to recognize conflict, or at least single out its cause, which left him as naive and vulnerable as a child. So he waited, confident and unfazed. He continued to invite you over every weekend, and it never occurred to him that the reason you weren’t accepting concerned him directly.

  But Sylvia wasn’t fooled. One morning, she met me in the doorway and before even saying hello asked whether you were okay. Veiling my discomfort, I replied that yes, you were fine. To cut the interrogation short, I claimed that you had lots of work, that it was always the same this time of year, and that soon everything would get back to normal. She smiled, not really believing me. Moving aside to let me enter the house, she looked me up and down with no attempt to hide her deep puzzlement.

  As she closed the front door, she offered me coffee before I got started. In the kitchen, she set two mugs on the table, sat down, and then, before I could even take off my coat, told me that she had forgotten the sugar. Quite naturally, I headed toward the cupboard, grabbed the sugar bowl, and placed it on the table. Sylvia didn’t thank me. Her silence implied that there was no need to say anything whatsoever. I worked for her, and the clock had started. With that, she placed our relationship in a new category. Simply noticing this disconcerted me so much that I remained standing up next to the table, which didn’t appear to bother Sylvia
. She listed the different tasks that I was to carry out but made no mention of what had been bugging her when I arrived, meaning the friction between you and Bakary; she seemed to have forgotten about it.

  * * *

  • • •

  In February, over the winter break, Sylvia and Bakary hosted a group of friends they hadn’t seen since they’d moved. The mood in the chalet was festive and I quickly found myself overloaded with work. Cleaning a house full of people was quite the feat, especially since they were constantly underfoot. They didn’t get up at the same time but occupied different rooms in turns, forcing me to wait for each one to empty before I could clean it.

  A horde of hyperactive children, whom none of the adults were inclined to lecture, came and went starting first thing in the morning, not caring whether the floor was dry or wet, or even noticing my presence. A massive droopy-faced dog was constantly sprawled on the couch. It growled every time I wanted to move it, shedding and contaminating the room with a smell of wet dog that didn’t seem to gross out anyone but me.

  At the end of the visit, before everyone headed home, Sylvia decided to organize a party. She asked if I would help her in the kitchen and with serving. I happily agreed to the first task, but I didn’t want to serve people. “Serving” went beyond my duties; I hadn’t been hired for that. Seeing my mood suddenly darken, she apologized immediately, and we didn’t discuss it again.

  I spent the day of the party at her side and left in the evening, after helping her set the table and before the rest of the guests. Sylvia waved goodbye, smiling less than usual, and wished me a good night.

  On my way home, I ran into Simon and Lucie. We kissed hello, then, with a simple head motion toward the Langlois house, Simon asked me what time I was planning to come back. I looked at him, not understanding what he meant. Then Lucie said, You’re invited to the Langloises’ tonight, right?