Philippe Djian - Betty Blue

Somehow I was able to imagine what she was going through each time one of those godforsaken rejection slips poured in-all that it implied-and the better I got to know her, the more I realized that she was actually taking it rather well. It isn’t easy to let them rip your arms and legs off one by one without saying a word, just gritting your teeth. Since I already had what I wanted, it didn’t matter much to me one way or the other-it was a little like getting news from Mars. I didn’t lose sleep over it. I didn’t really make the connection between what I had written and the book that found its way so regularly into people’s wastebaskets. I saw myself as the guy who tries to unload a shipment of bathing suits on a band of freezing Eskimos without speaking a word of their language.

My only real hope, in fact, was that Betty would get tired of the whole thing, forget the writer, and go back to the way she was before: gobbling down chili in the sun and glancing at the intensity of things from the veranda, her soul serene. Perhaps it could actually come to pass. Maybe her hope would end up wilting and fall away like a dead branch some morning-it wasn’t impossible. Then some poor asshole had to go set things off again. When I think about it, I tell myself that that little nobody never even got a tenth of what he had coming.

And so they turned down my book for the sixth time, and Betty slowly started smiling again after two days of depression. The house came back to life little by little-the parachute eventually opened, and we floated gently back down to earth. The first rays of sunlight dried up our grief. I was busy brewing a pot of killer coffee, when Betty showed up with the mail. There was a letter. For some time now my life had been trampled underfoot by these fucking letters. I looked with a sort of disgust at the one Betty held open in her hand.

“Coffee’s ready,” I said. “What’s new, honey?”

“Not much,” she said.

She approached without looking at me and stuffed it down the neck of my sweater. She tapped it a few times, then turned to the window and, without a word, pressed her forehead against the pane. The coffee started boiling. I turned it off. I took out the letter. It was written on stationery with some guy’s name and address on top. Here’s what it said:

Dear Sir,

I have been an editor at this publishing house for a good twenty years, and believe me, things both good and not so good have passed through my hands. I have never seen anything, however, that compares with what you have had the incredibly bad taste to send us.

I have often written to young authors to tell them of the admiration I hold for them and their work. I have never until now been tempted to do the opposite. But you, sir, have pushed me over the brink.

Your writing for me evokes the preliminary signs of leprosy. It is with deep disgust that I am sending back this nauseating flower that you mistakenly thought was a novel.

Nature sometimes gives birth to mutations. You will agree that it is the duty of an honest man to put an end to such anomalies. Understand that I intend to do some publicity for you. My only regret is that this thing can never be returned to the one place it never should have left-I am speaking of some murky swamplike zone in your brain.

It was followed by a sort of nervous signature that went all the way across the page. I folded the paper back up and tossed it under the sink, as if it were a publicity flier for take-out Chinese. I went back to making the coffee, watching Betty out of the corner of my eye. She hadn’t moved. She seemed to be interested in what was happening outside on the street.

“You know, it’s all just part of the game,” I said. “You’re always going to run into jerks, there’s just no way around that.”

She chased something through the air with a bothered gesture.

“All right, let’s not talk about it anymore. By the way, I forgot to tell you.”

“What?”

“I made an appointment with the gynecologist.”

“Oh yeah? Something wrong…?”

“I want to check my IUD. See if it hasn’t moved down.”

“Okay, yeah…”

“Want to come along? It would be a nice little trip…”

“Sure. I’ll wait for you. I love looking through month-old magazines. I find it comforting.”

I thought that this time we’d handled it all very well. It made me real happy. That idiot with his letter… It had scared me stiff for a minute.

“What time is the appointment?” I asked.

“I’ll just powder my nose and we’ll go.”

Outside it was cold, dry, and sunny. I took a long, deep breath. A little while later we found ourselves at the gynecologist’s. It surprised me that there was no sign on the door, but Betty was already ringing the bell and my brain was running in slow motion. A guy in a housecoat opened up for us. The housecoat looked like something straight out of A Thousand and One Nights -the cloth shimmering like a silver lake. Prince Charming had graying temples and a long ivory pipe between his teeth. He raised an eyebrow when he saw us. If this dude is a gynecologist, I thought, then I’m the darling of the literary set.

“Yes? Can I help you…?” he asked.

Betty stared at him without answering.

“My wife has an appointment,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

Just then Betty took the letter out of her pocket. She pushed it under the guy’s nose.

“You the one who wrote this?” she asked.

I didn’t recognize her voice. I thought of a volcano opening its eye. The man took the pipe out of his mouth and held it tight against his heart.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he asked.

I told myself not to worry-any second now I’d wake up. What was surprising was how real everything seemed-the wide, silent hallway, the carpet under my feet, the guy biting his lip, and the letter trembling at the end of Betty’s arm like an invulnerable will-o’-the-wisp. I stood there stupefied.

“I asked you a question.” Betty started again, in a shrill voice. “Are you the one who wrote this, yes or no?”

The guy made like he was looking closer at the letter, then he scratched his neck and glanced at us quickly.

“Well now… you see, I write letters all day long. It wouldn’t surprise me if…”

I saw he was trying to come up with something while he was talking to us-a child of three on a merry-go-round could see that. He backed up tentatively into the apartment, getting ready to make a run for the door. I wondered if he would make it-he didn’t seem particularly agile.

He made a sorry face before playing his last card, and honestly, it couldn’t have been worse, him trying desperately to get his engine to turn over. It gave Betty time to bump the door open calmly with her shoulder. Our hero stumbled backward into the entryway, holding one arm.

“What’s wrong with you? You’re crazy!”

There was a large blue vase sitting on a pedestal. Betty whipped her purse around and the thing came off in one fell swoop. I heard the sound of line china exploding. It woke me up. Under the impact, Betty’s purse had opened up, and everything you’d ever find in a girl’s purse had scattered on the floor among the pieces of broken vase.

“Wait, I’ll help you pick it up,” I said.

She was livid. She looked at me ferociously.

“SHIT, DON’T PAY ANY ATTENTION TO THAT!! TELL HIM WHAT YOU THINK OF HIS LETTER!!”

The guy was looking at us with wild eyes. I bent over to pick up the lipstick that was gleaming at my feet.

“I have nothing to say to him,” I said.

I continued picking things up with a thousand-pound weight on my shoulders.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked.