Philippe Djian - Betty Blue

When night started falling, I’d go have a drink at Bob’s. It was the long slide into sundown at day’s end that was the most abominable, for a guy who’d had his baby taken away from him and isn’t sure he still knows how to swim. I’d spend about an hour with them. Bob acted like nothing had ever happened, and Annie always found some excuse to show me her pussy-it got me through the evening. Once it was dark, I could handle going home. I’d turn on the lights. I did most of my writing at night. Sometimes I even felt good-it made me feel like she was still there with me. Betty was the one thing that made me realize I was alive. Writing was tantamount to the same thing.

One morning I took the car and drove all day, aimlessly, my arm flung over the door, my eyes squinting in the wind. Toward evening I stopped at the seaside. I had no idea where I was. All I’d seen for the whole trip were the faces of gas station attendants I bought a couple of sandwiches at a neighborhood bar and went to eat them on the beach.

It was deserted. The sun had gone down below the horizon. It was so beautiful that I dropped a pickle in the sand. The sound of the waves, the same for millions of years, relaxed me-encouraged me, reassured me, stunned me. My little blue planet, O my little blue planet. May God bless you, goddamn it.

I sat there for a while, getting to know solitude again, meditating on my pain. I rose. So did the moon. I took my shoes off and started walking along the shore, thinking of nothing. The sand was still warm-the perfect temperature for an apple pie.

Along my way I came across a big fish, washed up on the sand. All that was left of it was a decomposed carcass, yet enough remained to see what a magnificent fish it must have been once- nothing less than a silver lightning bolt with a pearl belly, a sort of moving diamond. All that was over now. Beauty had taken a hard kick in the teeth. There were scarcely any scales left to glimmer in the moonlight-two or three hopeless little scales. To find yourself rotting away like that, after having once been the equal of the stars-wasn’t this the worst thing that could happen to you? Wouldn’t you rather just swim away into the darkness with a final flick of your tail to the sun? If it were me, I wouldn’t have to think twice.

Since no one was around to see, I buried the fish. I dug the hole with my hands. I felt a little ridiculous, but if I hadn’t done it, I couldn’t have lived with myself, and now was not the moment for that.

So that’s how it came to me. I thought it over and over and over-I tossed and turned all night, trying to get the idea out of my head, but by dawn I knew it was the only thing to do. All right, fine, I told myself. It was a Sunday. There would be too many people on Sunday. I put it off till the next day. All day long I dragged my ass. It looked like it was going to storm. Impossible to write-no use kidding myself. Impossible to do anything. Days like that are shittier than anything.

I woke up rather late the next day, around noon. Without thinking, I’d made a huge mess of the house. I started putting things away. Before I knew it, I was in the middle of a full-scale cleanup. I don’t know what came over me, I even dusted the curtains. After that I showered, shaved, and ate. While I was doing the dishes I noticed a few flashes of lightning. The thunder started to rumble. The sky was as dry as powdered milk. Clouds gathered in the burning air.

I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in front of the TV, my legs stretched out on the couch, a pitcher of water in my hand. I relaxed. The house was so clean it was a pleasure to see; from time to time it does you good to know everything is in its place.

At around five o’clock, I put my makeup on, then charged out onto the street, disguised as Josephine. The storm that had been coming since the night before still hadn’t come-the sky was holding its breath. Through my glasses it all looked even darker, nearly apocalyptic. I walked fast. The wise thing to do would have been to take the car, but I turned a deaf ear to it, leaving it behind to sulk by itself. As a finishing touch I’d taken one of Betty’s purses. I held it close to me-it kept my boobs from slipping. I walked with my eyes riveted to the sidewalk, paying no attention to the catcalls that the bums throw at every single girl who passes by-I couldn’t waste my time. I tried not to think of anything.

When I got to the hospital, I hid behind a tree and exhaled two or three times, like wind howling through the branches. Then I walked toward the entrance with my purse under my arm-no hesitation, head high, with the poise of a gal who’s used to ruling an empire. I felt nothing at all as I went through the door-not the tiniest bit of uneasiness. For once I wasn’t carrying an electrified fence on my shoulders, no blood poisoning, no spontaneous combustion or lateral paralysis. I almost looked back to see what I was missing, but I was already on the stairway.

On the second floor, I ran into a group of orderlies. Though I’d just touched up my makeup, all they ogled were my breasts. They were too big, I knew it, and now every last one of them was undressing me with his eyes. To escape, I ducked into the first room I came to.

There was a guy in bed, a tube in his arm and a tube up his nose. He was not in great shape. He opened his eyes when I came in, waiting for the orderlies to pass by. We looked at each other-we obviously didn’t have a lot to talk about, but we looked at each other. For a fraction of a second, I wanted to unplug him. Though I didn’t make a move, the guy started shaking his head no. I gave up on the idea. I cracked the door open to make sure the coast was clear.

Betty. Room number seven. I slid in silently and closed the door behind me. It was dark. Clouds, or simply nightfall, it was hard to tell. There was a tiny light above her bed, so pallid it made my blood run cold. A nightlight when it’s not yet night is like a crippled child. I wedged the door closed with a chair. I ripped off my wig and took off my glasses. I sat down on the edge of the bed. She wasn’t sleeping.

“Want some gum?” I said.

It did no good to search my memory-I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard her voice. Or the last words we’d exchanged. Probably something like:

“Hey, who do you have to fuck to get some sugar around here?”

“Have you tried looking in the bottom drawer?”

I wrapped my tutti-frutti back up-it turned out I didn’t want any either. I grabbed the pitcher of water off the nightstand and downed half of it.

“Want some?” I asked.

They hadn’t tied her down. The straps hung on the floor, like chocolate bars left out in the sun. I acted like she wasn’t gone, like she was still there. I needed to talk.

“The hardest thing is going to be getting you dressed,” I said. “Especially if you don’t help…”

I took my glove off and ran my hand under her nightgown, caressing her breasts. An elephant’s memory is nothing compared to mine. I could remember every square millimeter of her skin. Give me her cells, all jumbled up, and I’ll put them back together for you in perfect order. I teased her belly, her arms, her legs. Finally, I closed my hand over her furry patch-nothing had changed. I felt real joy at that precise moment-a simple pleasure, almost animal. I put my glove back on. Of course the pleasure would have been a thousand times greater had she reacted. But then again, where could you ever find the kind of happiness that would have been-in commercials? At the bottom of Santa Claus’s sack? On the top floor of the Tower of Babel?

“All right, we’d better hurry. We have to go…”

I took her chin and put my lips to hers. She never unclenched her teeth. It was still wonderful. I managed to get a little of her saliva on my lower lip. Her mouth-I ate it ever so gently. I slid my hand behind her neck and pulled her to me, my nose grazing in her hair. If this goes on, it’s me who’ll go nuts, I thought, me who’ll come apart at the seams. I took out a Kleenex and wiped her lips-I’d gotten lipstick all over them.