Philippe Djian - Betty Blue

She fell asleep after that, but I didn’t feel like sleeping. I lay there with my eyes wide open, alone in the darkness, I was dead, but my eyes wouldn’t close. I lay there a long time, thinking over what had happened. I decided that the old woman had gotten what was coming to her, and the rest didn’t matter. Betty was simply the kind of girl you shouldn’t hassle. Besides, Fridays were always deadly. I got up to piss. The minute I saw the commode I threw up. My God, I said, no wonder I couldn’t sleep. I washed my mouth out and went back to bed. I was in dreamland in no time. I dreamed I was in the jungle, lost in the middle of the jungle. It was raining like I’d never seen.

The next morning I woke up relatively early. I got out of bed quietly and let her sleep. I went downstairs. Lisa had already left for work, but Eddie was there, eating breakfast with his newspaper spread out in front of him. He was wearing a red kimono with a white bird on each side. It was very refreshing.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “There you are. How you doing?”

“Hi,” I said.

I sat down across from him and poured myself a cup of coffee. Bongo came over and put his head in my lap.

“So?” he asked. “What’s she doing? Sleeping?”

“Of course she’s sleeping. What do you think?”

He grabbed his paper, folded it in eight, and tossed it in the corner. He leaned over the table a little.

“Um, do you have any idea what was with her last night? You got any thoughts…?”

“Shit, didn’t you ever lose your temper? You read the papers-the world’s covered with blood and you’re making a big deal out of it because she roughed up some fucking crazy woman who I should have strangled myself before the whole thing even started!”

He put his hand over his face. He kept smiling, but it was obvious that something was on his mind. I calmly drank my coffee.

“Yeah, well, let’s just say she had me pretty freaked out,” he said.

“She was exhausted, for crying out loud! It’s not so hard to understand!”

“Yeah, well, I was watching her when she tipped over the table. I’m telling you, you should have seen her. It was scary.”

“Sure, she’s not the kind of girl who lets people walk all over her. You know how she is…”

“If you want my advice, you ought to take her on a vacation as soon as the money from your books comes in.”

“I don’t believe- Look, will you lay off that? I haven’t written books , I have written a book, one. It’s something I did once in my life and I’m not even sure I’ll ever be able to do it again. At this very moment there’s possibly some guy sitting in his office thumbing through my manuscript, but that doesn’t mean it’ll ever get published. So you see, I’m not exactly counting my money yet.”

“Shit… I thought…”

“Yeah, well, you were wrong. It happened that Betty came across it one day by accident, and ever since she’s got it into her head that I’m some kind of genius and she won’t get off it. Eddie, look at me. Ever since then I haven’t been able to write a single line, you hear me? This is where we are, Eddie. We’re here, sitting around waiting to hear. I know that’s all she thinks about from morning till night. The whole thing makes her edgy, you understand?”

“Well, why don’t you write in the afternoon? You have the time…”

“Don’t make me laugh. Time isn’t the problem.”

“Then what is it? You’re not comfortable here?”

“No, it isn’t that,” I said.

“Then what is it?”

“How the hell do I know? Maybe I have to wait for divine intervention, how am I supposed to know?”

It took a few days for the last vestiges of the episode to disappear completely. Every night I knocked out most of the work at the pizzeria-handling three-quarters of the customers, running around like a maniac. I made a beeline for every pain in the ass or troublemaker I saw walk in the door. I didn’t let Betty get near them. By closing time I was pale as a ghost. Betty would tell me, You’re crazy, you haven’t even had time to smoke a cigarette and I stand around twiddling my thumbs.

“I just feel like hustling a little, that’s all.”

“I think you’re just scared I’m going to bite another customer…”

“That’s nonsense, Betty. You don’t believe that.”

“Anyway, I’m not tired. Want to walk home?”

“Sure, good idea!”

We waved to Eddie in his posh sedan, and he took off slowly into the night. I felt like I’d fallen victim to an illusion. I felt like my legs had been sawed off, and it was a hefty little hike back to the house. I bucked myself up by thinking how much farther it would be to walk to Heaven. I shoved my hands in my pockets, turned up my collar, and off I went-the genius-brain empty and feet sore, but somehow I made it. It intrigued me how she thought that being a waiter was better than being a plumber. It didn’t keep me up nights, though. It seemed like with her you had to learn everything over again. Still, I had nothing better to do.

One morning when I woke up she wasn’t there. It was past noon and I’d slept like a log. I drank my coffee standing up, looking out the window onto the street. It was nice out-the sunlight very white-but I felt a cold draft coming through the pane. I went to take a look downstairs, but no one was there except Bongo, asleep by the door. I asked him how he was doing, then went back upstairs. The silence in the house confused me. I went to take a shower. It was only when I came out that I noticed the envelope on the table.

It had been opened. The return address was printed on it with curlicues-the name of a publisher. My name was on it too, typewritten much smaller in the lower right-hand corner. So here we are, I told myself, the first response. I grabbed the piece of paper folded inside.

The response said no. Sorry, no. “I like your ideas,” the guy explained. “But your style is unreadable. You deliberately place yourself outside the literary sphere.” I stood there for a moment trying to understand what he was saying-what ideas he was talking about-but I couldn’t figure it out. I put the letter back in the envelope and decided to shave.

I don’t know why, but when I saw myself in the mirror I thought of Betty. I started feeling low. It was obviously she who had opened the letter. I could see her there, ripping it open, her heart pounding, covered with hopeful goose-pimples-then the guy offering his regrets and the world coming down all around her.

“Shit! No…” I said.

I leaned on the sink and closed my eyes. Where had she gone this time?… Tell me, what could possibly be going through her head now? I could see her running through the streets. I had this image of her, stuck in my head like an ice pick-her bumping into people, cars screeching to a halt, her running blindly into the street, wilder and wilder, her face twisted and terrifying. It was my fault-me and my book, me and that ridiculous whatever-it-was that popped out of my brain. All those nights, forging and sharpening the blade, only to have it come back and stab me in the gut. How did it happen? Why are we always the source of our own misery?

I felt my blood turning to ink-felt myself going off the edge, hung over a roasting pit spitting flames, ten years older. Then she walked in, fresh, pert-a queen with a cold nose.

“Ooooh,” she said. “Damn, it’s cold out there. Hey, what’s the matter with you? What’s with the scowling?”

“Nothing… I just got up. I didn’t hear you come up the stairs.”