Guadalupe Nettel - The Body Where I Was Born

One night, while we were eating dinner with some hippie women and forty-year-olds at Lisa’s house, it got into my mother to condemn my behavior: she said that ever since I had been spending time with certain friends, I had started acting like a seductress, and that my body language, the intonation in my voice, and my linguistic expressions now responded to a stereotype — the cliché of a showgirl or little pin-up doll. It is enough to analyze how I felt in those days, just a little bit, to know that nothing could have been further from reality. But, Dr. Sazlavski, if it had been true, wouldn’t it have been more deserving of applause and encouragement? The ability to seduce another human being is one of the most powerful instruments a woman can acquire, better than mastering a foreign language or culinary skills. If I had actually started to practice that subtle discipline, wouldn’t it have been better to let it develop fully, rather than to inhibit my attempts? Of course her friends took her side — the most attractive women hypocritically — saying they would have to educate the next generation so that we wouldn’t fall into the mental prisons imposed by our consumerist society. Maybe deep down it was hard for my mother to accept a possible competitor and she preferred that I keep hunching my shoulders like a defensive little insect.

A few months later, I went to one of the first parties in my life. It was in the beach house of one of the girls from school, in the city of Martigues, twenty minutes from Aix. My mother had a few friends in Martigues and arranged to spend the evening with them so she could pick me up later. I took the trip there with Sophie, Blaise, and his mother. Behind the party house there was some kind of grotto, maybe a wine cellar at some point or an unused granary. It was decorated to look like an eighties nightclub with spinning colorful lights and dry ice. There was also a bar with enough beer and pastis to get you wasted. The music was typical of those years: Depeche Mode, Europa, Aha, George Michael, Prince, and Madonna, among others. Blaise, Sophie, and I took over a corner by the bar. I felt happy to be with them. If individually we were like insects on the verge of extinction, together we formed a pretty strong group. It was as if our strangest characteristics — my crossed eye, Blaise’s stature, and Sophie’s scar, to name a few — were actually markings we had chosen, like piercings or tattoos. At some point during the night, they played “Just Like Heaven” by The Cure, now our favorite band, and the three of us got up to dance. Our enthusiasm caught on and all of a sudden the dance floor was full of kids with dark aspirations. Sebastien was among them. He’d come to the party without his best friend Cello and his attitude seemed much less arrogant. When the song ended he came over and offered the three of us beers. He went from group to group a few times but he always came back to us. All the friendliness from him started to make me tense. I hadn’t forgotten what he and his friend had put me through just six months earlier, and I didn’t trust him. But at the same time, he was so attractive. His attitude that night was so different from the one he showed off around his Italian friend. How could I not want to believe him? I was thinking about it all while waiting in line for the bathroom, trying to spot him from a distance. Then I saw him dancing with Sophie to one of those romantic songs teenagers put on at parties so they can put their arms around each other. I don’t really remember what the song was about. All I know is that I couldn’t go into the bathroom or move anywhere. I stayed there glued to the wall like someone expecting a huge boot to stomp down on her body. Then they both disappeared. Blaise, who had remained unaware of my history with that boy, came up to me with a glass in his hand and delivered the fatal blow:

“Sophie went home with someone. I think we’ve lost her.”

And in a way I did lose her that night. Because even though I still talked to her and stoically accepted her silence on the topic of her adventure with Sebastien, our relationship was never the same. She never offered to explain, much less apologize. Nor did she date him, not publicly at least. She didn’t even mention his name. Her behavior was the same as before the night of the party, as if she had no idea what she had done. Little by little I distanced myself from her. It was almost summer break and I pretended to be studying for final exams, until one day I just stopped saying hi.

Colonie de Vacances . Together those three words evoke for many French children the best times of their lives. Basically, it’s summer camp organized for children of a certain age to experience community living and a little more independence than typically found at home. Many of the camps are focused on a particular interest, such as music, painting, kayaking, waterskiing, or some other outdoor activity. My brother and I had heard about these wonderful places from several of our classmates, so when Mom came to us with the idea, it didn’t occur to either one of us to say no. It has to be said that most of the girls at my school had been kissed for the first time in such circumstances, which was a point in favor of my mom’s plan. Even though the camps were organized by the city council, they didn’t cost as little as you might think. Signing us up was a considerable investment for my mother. She also had to pay for all the accessories we needed: a single sleeping mat, a sleeping bag, a backpack for the three nights we’d be sleeping under the stars, hiking boots, a flashlight, and I can’t remember how many other things. In exchange, my brother and I were promised two weeks of nonstop adventure and fun, and my mother was promised the chance to make progress on her thesis. However, I didn’t know that the city council made up the camp groups according to the zones we lived in. Rather than encouraging an exchange between social classes, they preferred to keep neighbors together — as if discord among neighbors wasn’t something universal, almost inherent in any given culture. That’s how, one morning, my brother and I found ourselves on a bus with all the kids from our neighborhood, the ones we had been trying to avoid on the streets and in the stairwells of our building for over three years. Not in my worst nightmare had I imagined this situation. I recognized some of my classmates, including Rachida and her sister — the two girls Nathalie and I had fought years earlier — who where there with excited smiles and enormous backpacks. The bus brought us to a spot I didn’t know, whose beauty I’d heard mentioned more than once, but whose name only increased my unease that morning: the Gorges of the Luberon. As the bus labored its way along the right lane of the highway, I imagined myself ambushed by several of those kids in dark caves like the throats of wolves. Luckily I wasn’t traveling alone; whatever happened, my brother would be by my side. As I was thinking all this over, I looked at him in the seat next to me, his expression hopeful and calm. The poor thing was still contemplating the possibility of a dream vacation.

I can’t say it was a peaceful ride. Everyone around us shouted and laughed at high decibels, including the eighteen-year-old counselor who was trying to keep them under control. Only a few kids stared out the window. I thought they must be memorizing the route, in case they’d soon have to make their escape. Nonetheless, at least on the bus, the kids didn’t mess with any of us. They seemed to be concentrating on acting rowdy and socializing with their friends. There were three long weeks ahead for them to get to know — and to bully — the new kids. During the entire ride I was praying for my bunkmate to be one of the prudent and quiet girls. But when we finally arrived at the campsite, it was announced that we would sleep in groups of twenty in teepees: impressively large tents that were already set up and waiting for us in the middle of nowhere.