by Laura D
'Have a good trip, my darling, take care.'
My father just waves at me and doesn't kiss me. We haven't kissed for years now.
Chapter 6
Shame
16 November 2006
I'M OUTSIDE THE STUDENT welfare offices hesitating to go in. I'm not so sure I want to go there now. I'm hanging back slightly, not quite opposite the door.
It's November and the weather's freezing. My weight loss has really accelerated in the last couple of months; it's as if I can feel the cold going right through me and it's never done that before. And that's even though I made a point of putting on lots of layers of clothes this morning. Since I've been this thin I'm cold the whole time. I shake all over, even in my insides: in lessons, at work, at home.
Winter is coming on in leaps and bounds and we still haven't put the heating on in the apartment. At least, I don't want to put it on. Manu sets it going the minute he gets in before installing himself on the sofa like the lord of the manor. I wait for him to go out and switch it off straight away. I've been doing this ever since I've been paying my share of the bills. Electricity, water and heating, it all it adds up to quite a lot. Manu couldn't care less because he's not the one who has to budget for these expenses. So he hikes up the heating while I secretly keep lowering it because I can't bring myself to ask him this favour.
At first I did my studying in normal clothes but I quickly realised that sitting still for several hours without moving made me feel so cold I might as well have been outside. So now, when I'm working, I put on quite an outfit: a huge scarf knitted by my mother, a sports fleece and thick socks that come up to my knees. Manu laughed the first time he saw me like that and I did too when I saw myself in the mirror. For a couple of seconds. Because there's nothing funny about the situation if you think about it. In the end I got used to this excess weight on my frail shoulders – the money saved helped. I'd rather look as if I'm off mountaineering than have to pay fifty euros on an avoidable bill.
I put as much money as I can aside and never buy anything non-essential. It goes without saying I gave up clothes shopping long ago. Mainly, because I don't have time and, anyway, what would be the point of drooling over something I'll never have? So I avoid temptation and I'm careful to avoid window shopping. I've finally got it into my head that I'll never wear the latest fashion. Of course sometimes I could just die for a pair of new-cut jeans, one of those belted jackets and a pair of astronomically priced shoes like my friends at uni wear. All I can do is look, until it becomes embarrassing and I have to sigh and get back to what I'm doing. I'd like to be strong enough to say that I hate any sort of consumer culture and find it repulsive, but let's be honest: is there anyone who never wishes for anything and doesn't give in to well-marketed temptations? I'm young and there's advertising everywhere – I'd be easy prey if I had any money.
I envy the girls around me in lectures. Looking fresh and rested, some of them have never had to work to survive financially. Their parents earn plenty of money to support them. Sometimes they must go shopping with their mothers and hint that they like something with a well-practised pout, to which their mothers reply by taking out a credit card. I can't resent them for it, I'd do the same without a second thought. I just envy them their peace of mind when I'm the one shaking each time I see a ticket inspector on the Métro, and constantly asking myself how I'm going to cope at the end of the month. I quake when Manu casually asks me for my share of the rent too. Am I the only one going through this? I'm so ashamed of the situation I can't talk to my fellow students about it. How could they understand? So I politely decline their invitations to join them for lunch and shut myself away with the only free thing left: studying.
None of this would really be a problem if I could get enough to eat. The state of my food cupboard is still just as pathetic, and the things my mother gave me didn't last long. Pasta, pasta and more pasta. When the time comes to make a meal, I look at it and feel it's sneering at me, pointing out that this evening – yet again – I can't do better than that. In the early days I had it with tins of tomato sauce, but indigestion problems during the night have turned me off that, and the very thought of pasta swimming in cheap sauce turns my stomach. A dab of butter's not so bad after all.
There's also a pot of Nutella, my little taste of happiness. I never eat more than a spoonful at a time, so I can keep it as long as possible. It's there to comfort me when I open the cupboard.
I've spent so long feeling hungry I've stopped eating. That was how I realised that, after a while, hunger disappears and the human life cycle just carries on of its own accord. After a few days of this regime I don't really feel any pain. I've got into the habit of not having lunch and doing several consecutive days at uni with nothing in my stomach. Sometimes it makes strange noises during lectures, but I'm so used to them that I hardly hear them any more.
One girl in my class turned round and gave me a chocolate bar and joked kindly, 'Here, have something to eat, all we can hear round here's your stomach gurgling!'
I was very ashamed and whispered a thank you, trying to pretend I thought she was being very amusing, but I didn't find it funny at all. I savoured that chocolate bar, slowly and silently. If I'd been somewhere else I would have gobbled it down in a matter of seconds because I wanted it so badly. I controlled myself, with dignity, but I did make sure I got every last shard that fell on my notes, dabbing them with my finger. I could easily have eaten another one.
In the evening, if I've got the time or the energy to eat when I get home from uni or from work, I have a bowl of rice pudding. And if I need to lift my spirits, a spoonful of Nutella at the end of my 'meal'. It may seem pathetic but that chocolate has a calming effect. I lick the spoon clean to get the maximum amount of taste, right to the end. I feel as if I work better afterwards.
Then, towards the end of one morning, the thing that was bound to happen happened. I collapsed right in the middle of a lesson. I'd pushed my luck so far I didn't realise I'd gone beyond my own body's limits. People got into quite a state but I came to very quickly and got back to work. Some of them kept saying I should go and see the campus nurse, which I politely refused to do. No need for medics to tell me what's wrong with me: I'm suffering from a deficiency of money.
That was the day I decided to go to the welfare office to find a solution, some financial help. This lack of money is affecting my health and I'm not prepared to accept that state of affairs. I hate the fact I have to work so hard just to eat, and to eat so I can carry on working. But now that I'm outside the building I haven't got the strength to go in. I would never have guessed I could end up here for this. I know a lot of students come here to ask for help, but it's not in my nature. For me, coming here is tantamount to failure: I haven't managed to cope on my own. But I've got to face the facts. I can't do this by myself, I need a bit of help from somewhere. This permanent hunger can't go on any longer.
So I go inside and wait meekly at reception. A woman sees me half an hour later having dealt with a great crowd of students at breakneck speed. In her office I beat about the bush before admitting, 'OK, I've come to see you because I've got big financial problems and I wondered whether I could get any kind of help from your organisation.'
Then it all starts coming out, and I describe my life, the lack of money, Manu and the rent, the rushing to and from work, the gap getting bigger every day. While I'm talking I watch her reaction: she's listening attentively and seems concerned by what I'm telling her. She's young, in her thirties, she must remember her own time as an impoverished student.
After a good fifteen minutes of explanations I finally stop talking but, instead of answering, all she does to fill the silence is give a little cough.
'All I can offer at this moment in time,' she says eventually, 'are some vouchers so you can eat in the welfare office. They're good value, each meal is less than three euros!'
I do some quick mental arithmetic. I can't spend nearly fifteen euros a week on just one
meal a day. I came here in the hopes of being offered significant reductions so that I can eat lunch and supper.
'It's just . . . that would add up to so much by the end of the week. I wondered whether you had any other possibilities.'
'In your circumstances, I can think of only one way to avoid spending money on food: the local soup kitchen for the homeless.'
She says it slowly, very gently, conscious of the psychological impact her words will have on me. And they do. I open my eyes wide and stare at her. There, in one sentence, is my position on the social scale: at the very bottom. So far down I can't pay for my own meals, so low I'm being offered food meant for the homeless. I must be dreaming, I can't believe she's being serious. But she's still looking at me, her eyes wide with understanding.
I mumble a vague 'Thank you' and ask where I have to go to find the soup kitchen. She takes a piece of paper and jots down an address . . . in beautiful handwriting – perhaps she's making an effort to prove she's touched by my lowly situation. I say my goodbyes quickly, desperate to get this over with. She shakes my hand warmly in the corridor before shrieking, 'Next.'
I confront the November cold back outside the building and, clutching the piece of paper, walk off quickly to keep warm. I won't go, no way. I can't make up my mind to go to a place like that; I tell myself I don't need it all that badly, when all's said and done. I would almost feel I was 'stealing' the food from those poor people who really don't have anything. But most of all I can't reconcile myself with them, the homeless. I've got a roof over my head, a job, my studies. No, that's it, my pasta suits me just fine, really, I'll make do with it. After all, I'm not the first . . . or the last.
Chapter 7
The End
9 December 2006
IN EVERY LIFE there comes a night when we grow up too quickly. Nothing will ever be the same again. Goodbye to innocence. One of those mournful nights when it hurts to take stock of the situation. As it happens, mine is financial. No money, bills vying for attention and rent to pay. Sitting in the dark, leaning back against the chair in front of Manu's computer, I'm barely in control of my finger as it frenetically manipulates the mouse in search of a solution. A site full of ads, then another. A small window catches my eye; it's almost hidden at the bottom of the page, trying to be discreet, and says 'For Adults Only'. There are two categories of listings: money-making or non-money-making. I'm immediately tempted to choose the second, as if trying to justify my actions to someone . . . but the room's empty, I'm on my own. Let's be honest, money's still very much my main reason for being on this site. Just out of curiosity, I tell myself, knowing full well I've already stepped over the limit. Without any vetting, I click on the window (adults only, yeah right!). In the 'key words' box, I put that I'm a student and give the name of the city.
An endless list of requests then appears and I scroll through it with my mouse. Is it really possible and so easy? I skim through the ads which, at a quick glance, are all alike. The same words keep cropping up: 'young girl', 'intimacy', 'meet up', 'seeking'. I'm seeking too: money, and quickly. The men here – stupidly categorised under the dubious alibi of 'massage' – are on average well into their fifties. Older than my own father. Daddy, if you only knew . . . The main difference is they've got cash, lots of it, and they seem prepared to spend it to feed a fantasy that I'm potentially in a position to satisfy. The rates, if they're mentioned at all, are in hundreds of euros per hour. Can that be right? All these figures soon aggravate my longing to have some money of my own. I can already see myself with all that loot in my battered purse – it would be spilling out in every direction! They also talk about several hours spent together. What does one afternoon matter in a lifetime! I would have thought that, if you really need the money, it wouldn't mean a lot. Perhaps this is my solution, the one I've been looking for. A bit of comfort, and soon.
Still, I've made do without comfort until now, and quite well actually. My parents' council flat until I was eighteen, the cheapest simplest clothes, roll-up cigarettes – that was plenty for me. Until now. Of course I was envious sometimes, like everyone else, but I'd never really been materialistic . . . Perhaps I couldn't afford to be. Never two coins to rub together, always dodging fares on public transport, a tolerable life. Occasionally awkward, often embarrassing when a bill came along, but you muddle through. I try to tell myself these 'massages' would mean I could easily afford to have choices. I don't realise that the exact opposite is happening: I'll never have a choice again.
There in the darkness – so often at the root of irrational actions – I become sharply alert until my senses seem to be boiling. First, my eyesight, so painful and constantly there: the sight of bills pilling up unopened, abandoned on the humble piece of furniture in the living room that I use as a bookcase; the sight of money offered by my few friends to pay for my coffee at the local bistro for the umpteenth time. A hypothesis begins to emerge, and one that may have been lying dormant all these years: with some cash I'd not only be able to study the whole time, but I'd actually like myself a bit more.
My mind's racing. My whole body's clamouring for all these possibilities, I can almost feel them with the tips of my fingers. All I have to do is click on the mouse, that's all, just a tiny bit of pressure. My hand refuses to be controlled, it's motivated by this dark longing – so taboo and, paradoxically, so dazzlingly exciting. My arms, my head, the whole of me knows that there, at the end of my arm, is an answer, however controversial it may be, a way to sort everything out, at least for now. Every part of me gangs up against the feeble voice of reason in my head, they just want to get it over with. Who cares about afterwards, we'll see about that later.
I've suddenly been gripped by a sort of frenzy, it's already too late. All I need do is look back at those messages and I'm completely in their hands. Don't think, Laura, just type out these fucking messages and you'll get out of all the shit you're in – it's the only way out and you know it. I mustn't back away out of fear. I've been offered a chance, I need to jump at it. My go-getting attitude can no longer see the difference between good and bad, it wants a way out more than anything, whatever the cost. From that moment on a sort of schizophrenia takes over. I've become two different people since seeing the ads: there's the Laura who's perfectly aware she's playing with fire and the Laura desperate for money. A ridiculous sense of defiance comes into the mix: I can do this, I'll prove it to myself. So I type, I type away on my keyboard as if each letter pressed could eradicate the gaping hole inside me getting bigger every day. I believed I was in control of my faculties as I set out on the wrong path, now I feel invincible just at the thought of this money.
Manu's not here, make the most of it. Still, I glance at the time and at the front door, just in case. He's still with his friends at the moment, he won't be back straight away.
I type quickly, not stopping to think, to avoid imagining the world I'm straying into. I'm falling: yes, it only took five minutes for me to fall. An hour later my hands stop, satisfied. I've sent about forty replies in my manic enthusiasm. But what does forty mean? These people don't really exist yet. The hazy image of them conjured by their words doesn't mean anything to me. The feeling that it's all just a dream never actually went away. The whole time my fingers tinkered on the keyboard I was very careful not to think about what I was doing. To put a stop to my daydreaming, I snap the laptop shut and go out to get some air.
Nightfall was all it took. In the first hour of darkness, the idea of loneliness and longing for human company came to mind, like an echo of what I need myself. In a way we're the same, them and me; we all need something. Maybe I wasn't actually dreaming. My mailbox is already showing the consequences of my actions – actions that are even now out of my control, even in the safety of my own home. I answered . . . lost in a frenzy of need, desperate to find this fucking money, and now I'm face to face with my own stupidity. So the thought of a female student really does it for the older man, I've got proof of that now. It seems they've all
found what they were looking for; they want their fantasies to be made a reality, and I mine.
You always remember the first message. Mine is from Joe, an unusual name in France but the one he uses to sign off his emails to me. Joe, usually known as Joseph. It seemed obvious to him to use a pseudonym: on the one hand, it makes him seem younger and more in touch to his potential 'collaborators in pleasure', on the other, it avoids exposing his true identity. Does he too become two people as it gets dark at night and he feels the urge rising in him? I didn't try giving myself a pseudonym. Too inexperienced, too new, I didn't even think about it. I stupidly believe Laura will always be Laura, whatever happens.
Young 50-year-old man seeks occasional masseuse. Students welcome.
His message is oddly polite but, reading between the lines, you can feel him sweating with longing. He asks me whether I have any taboos . . . his words begging that I won't, implying the pay will be even better. He hasn't asked for a photo but has sent me one. He's fifty-seven. That gives you an idea of what he might look like. Reality hits me now, tough and uncompromising, forcing me to realise what I'm doing.
As I read his message I really feel like a little child for the first time in my life, and I'm someone who's always been old for her years. This is a mature man, three times my age. He's talking about well thought-out fantasies that have obviously been buried deep but never quashed. He's looking for a naive girl, probably picturing her in a pleated skirt with knee socks, sucking on a strawberry-flavoured lollipop. Then he switches off his computer because his wife's walked into the room and asked him to come and have supper with her and their daughter. And during the meal he acts as if nothing's happened because he's been hiding all this from them for years now.
He might have a quick look at his daughter – who's older than the girl in the short kilt – and think how pretty she is and how promising her future. When she asks him to pass her something he does it happily, with a smile. At night, on a good day, he makes love to his wife – politely, taking his time, controlling himself so she has time to enjoy it. Because he loves her. Because he loves both of them, from the bottom of his heart.
