Julia Deck: Viviane

The child is twelve weeks old, and her breathing lulls you with the calm, even rhythm of a metronome. The two of you are sitting in a rocking chair in the middle of an essentially empty room. The boxes stacked up by the movers line the wall on the right. Three of them, at the top of the pile, have been opened to obtain the most urgently needed items: kitchen utensils, toiletries, some clothing, and the baby’s things, which outnumber yours. The window has no curtain. It seems tacked onto the wall like a sketch, a pure study in perspective, in which the railway tracks and overhead wires streaking away from the Gare de l’Est would provide the vanishing lines.

You are not entirely sure, but it seems to you that four or five hours ago, you did something that you shouldn’t have. You try to recall what you did, to reconstruct the sequence of your actions, but whenever you remember something, instead of automatically calling the next action to mind, it stumbles into the hole your memory has become.

Actually, you aren’t even certain that you returned a little while ago to that other apartment you’ve been visiting secretly for years. The contours, the masses, the colors and décor all meld in the distance. That man who received you there, did he even exist? And anyway, if you had done something wrong, you would not be sitting idly here. You would be going around in circles, chewing your nails to the quick, so guilt-ridden you couldn’t see anything straight. On the contrary, you’re perfectly calm: in spite of your hazy memory, you feel quite free and easy.

Your hips stop moving, no longer rocking the chair. You carry the baby into the next room. This one is somewhat more furnished. Flanking the window are a cradle and a single bed, the coverlet smoothly taut, the top sheet folded over it. The child hardly fusses at all and falls asleep again when you lay her down on her back. You glance around, straighten the heaps of clothes partly concealing a wooden chest under the window, run your hand down the dress at the front of a rolling metal clothes rack holding all your winter coats and pants. The sweaters are stacked on the shelf above; the boots and shoes sit patiently in pairs between the casters.

A hall links the two rooms and the kitchen. At the end is the bathroom, a tiny nook where, sitting on the toilet, you find your knees bumping the sink and your left foot wedged against the edge of the shower stall. Strips of paint are peeling slowly from the ceiling. The place should have been spruced up but you wanted to take possession as soon as possible and told the landlord you’d take care of that yourself after moving in, he need only forgive you a month’s rent. As for the kitchen, no complaints there. The latest built-in appliances beneath a countertop of faux granite, gleaming plumbing, and the sparkling tile floor are enough to justify the exorbitant rent.

You take two eggs from the fridge and a bowl from the cupboard over the sink to whip up an omelet. Most people believe an omelet should be smooth in texture, and most people are mistaken. The artistry lies in just barely introducing the white to the yolk, then cooking them only until they seize up. You have often watched your mother beating eggs for an omelet. Her instructions are engraved in your memory, and this pretty much sums up your talents in the way of domestic accomplishments. You are well educated, have a fine professional career. Such activities leave little time for becoming the perfect housewife. Which you regret, for in your bleakest hours, you’ll listen to the first person who comes along, and there are still people who claim that perfect housewifery is the way to hold on to a husband.

While you’re whisking the eggs with a fork, you try to remember what you did today. The baby woke you up at six o’clock: a faint whimper arises in the bedroom, still dark despite the absence of shutters. You open one eye, murmur a silly tune, one of those pop songs learned at fifteen, the only lullabies you know. Then you set the bottle to warm and slip into the shower in the meantime. The child winds up in your arms in the kitchen, she has her bottle, and both your minds go blank. Then you park her back in the cradle for a few minutes while you get her things together, brush your hair, apply some eyeliner. Together you go outside.

The babysitter lives on Rue Chaudron. From your building, on the corner of Rue Cail and Rue Louis-Blanc, it’s straight ahead then left then right. The sitter provides the minimum of service. She keeps the place scrupulously clean, surrounds the child with impeccable care, and never bothers with useless courtesies. This suits you to a T. You’ll be going back to work in a month, and the little girl should get a tad used to doing without you.

Until two in the afternoon, you’re busy with administrative formalities concerning the move to the new apartment, the divorce, and single-parent benefits. You also buy a few clothes and go to the hairdresser, where you agree to a manicure. Once upon a time, your friends who were already mothers liked to say that you were so lucky to have time to tend to yourself. You resolved, should your luck ever change, to spare your offspring any responsibility for tarnished maternal beauty.

The omelet is now just right. You fold it into a half moon with the spatula and slide it onto a plastic plate, tapping the edge to hear the sound of this bizarre substance that mimics china so well. You bought it at the Monoprix department store in the Gare du Nord. Without paying close attention, as you were too busy studying another customer out of the corner of your eye. He was about your age, examining the same items. You would have liked to know if he, too, was in emergency mode, forced to leave behind the family dishes, but you didn’t dare ask.

Over the center of the half moon, you pour the contents of a can of peas and carrots and put the whole thing into the microwave, a slight twist on the art of the omelet, while you return to what you did this morning. It does appear that you did in fact go to your husband’s apartment: you still have the key, and you’d wanted to pick up a few items.

The apartment on Rue Louis-Braille hasn’t changed over the past month. Julien says he’s going to move out but it’s dragging on. In any case, he doesn’t seem to spend much time here. The sink and dish rack are empty, there’s no plastic bag in the garbage pail, and the TV magazine dates from before you left. You claim a square platter, a few bath towels, and the toaster. While you’re hunting in the closet of the second bedroom — the one intended for the baby — for a carryall to transport everything, you come across your wedding presents. Now, there is no reason why this man who loved you so little, whom you desired so much, and who disappointed you so deeply should keep a set of eight kitchen knives given by your mother on that special occasion. You carried off the knives in your purse, and it’s not too bad at all to have remembered that. You finish the last mouthful of omelet and go to bed.

The next morning, Tuesday, November 16, your memory has completely returned. The digital clock down by the foot of the bed says 5:03. There’s about an hour left before the child wakes up, one hour in which to find a solution, to clear away as much as possible of the debris strewn all around you.

You are Viviane Élisabeth Fauville, wife of Julien Hermant. You are forty-two years old and on August 23 you gave birth to your first child, who will no doubt remain your only one. You are the public relations officer for the Biron Concrete Company. This business earns lots of money and is headquartered in an eight-story building on Rue de Ponthieu, two steps from the Champs-Élysées. In the reception area, willowy women entertain visitors with slightly racy small talk.