Celine Curiol - Voice Over

Rue de l’Université. An old woman with gnarled shaking hands is talking to herself, then addresses her as she walks by. The woman in the blue cape! The poor thing isn’t all there, she’s lost her marbles, and continues to repeat, the woman in the blue cape, her liquid gaze directed at the end of the street. So as not to hurt the old lady’s feelings, she turns round: there really is a woman in a blue cape, making her way quickly across the street. The mocking tone comes through the yellowed teeth: that one there was a nun and went to bed with a man; now she’s got nothing. The old woman shakes her head, all but adding, serves her right. At the age of twelve, after a guided tour of a convent somewhere in the middle of the countryside, she considered taking holy orders. No one said a word about the vow of chastity, not even the guide. What appealed to her was the silence of the stonework, the calm of the inner courtyards. Shutting yourself away for ever was like hurling yourself into space. She longed for the challenge of absolute silence. She wanted to know what thoughts she would have after a few months, after a few years without uttering a single word.

Back home, 5 pm in Paris. Get herself a sponge and doggedly tackle the inside of the fridge or the top of the stove? Play some music and sweat to the rhythm as she goes about getting rid of those greasy rings? Switch on the television and watch some program? Listen to the radio and sort out the pile of bills on the living-room table? Make a phone call? To whom? She has done all these things before; she knows what sensations they produce. She’d like to come up with other, more distracting activities, but right now, nothing occurs to her. And so she stays on the sofa, unable to make up her mind. She rubs the tiny piece of skin next to her nail over her upper lip until the phone rings. She knows that it’s not him, not twice in one day, not after what happened this morning. She picks up. Hello, it’s Maxime. She doesn’t know the voice or anyone named Maxime. She’s about to say, you’ve dialled the wrong number, but Maxime goes on. We met last night at the dinner party, you gave me your number. I wanted to invite you for a drink.

She regrets not buying the pink dress, which would have been an excellent costume for the role she is getting ready to play. In any case, she still needs to wear a dress — that feminine symbol, the inverted corolla. Only one passes muster, short, red, and simply cut. Quick check on the state of her calves: passable in soft light, not so great to the touch. Hair removal is no small business. Excluded are creams and those electrical devices supposed to extract the hair by its root; they leave a lot to be desired, she tried all of them a long time ago. She doesn’t have time for an appointment at the beauty salon. Besides, that never really worked for her, on account of the nagging feeling of being at the doctor’s: the long sheet of paper crumpling under you as you lie down, the harsh light revealing the skin’s imperfections. The shame is not appreciably different when she is lying on her stomach and senses the beautician appraising the appearance of her rump barely shielded by a pair of panties that are never up to standard. She is sure she presents a pitiful sight to those eyes accustomed to seeing so many fit and toned women, who look good even before their treatments have started. Her first weeks in the capital, she knew no one. After she got knocked down by that car, she had hobbled her way to the Emergency room of a hospital. Looking after herself was her responsibility, young woman of eighteen that she was, suddenly in charge of a life, her own. At the hospital, only curt instructions — no prizes for having taken care of herself and got that far safely. A nurse sat her on an examination table and rolled up her trouser legs. And that white witch’s first words: you might want to shave them now and then. These days, she couldn’t care less. But this evening, she has to be impeccably turned out: so a few strokes of a razor blade it is; too bad if in three days’ time hair density per square centimetre will have doubled. Powder for her eyelids, black eyeliner, some red lipstick — she redraws her face, taking care to accentuate her features.

Lots of people in the métro. Lethargic and tyrannical young people. Couples of every kind picking a quarrel or wrapping their arms around one another. A few skittish old coots keeping out of harm’s way. An agitated young man is talking loudly, chopping the air with his arms in front of a pair of hippy types, male and female, who watch him expend his precious energy at a dizzying rate. I got me a gun, ya’see; I got a gun. His audience of two look on, impassive. I mean, I could blow y’all away, know what I’m sayin’? The future killer produces the onomatopoeic equivalent of three gunshots. But. . I ain’ gonna. Is he bluffing? She wouldn’t bet on it. Elsewhere on the platform people are turning a blind eye. The kid is telling anyone who will listen that he’s done time, and on the word “time,” his eyes lock onto hers. She looks away, wisely directing her gaze clear of this lunatic. Hey you! The rumbling of the approaching train swallows the rest. She heads the other way and takes advantage of the jostling crowd to slip into one of the cars. As his face passes behind the window of the door, the ex-prisoner of the French Republic sticks his tongue out at her.

The rendezvous is at the Hotel Lutétia. Carpeting, golden lamps, geometrically patterned rugs, wax-polished furniture, staff that glide rather than walk. A man in a dinner jacket comes over to her, as welcoming as if they had spent their holiday together on the same beach. He motions solicitously in the direction of a second man who wears a multicolored striped shirt and black trousers, and who advances briskly towards them. Good evening, glad you could come. A tender flexing of the vocal chords, nothing like his irritation of the evening before. It hasn’t taken him long to change his mind. His eyes are bright, wide open in order to take her in more fully. He makes no comment about her appearance; no doubt fearing to seem vulgar. With an expert hand placed in the hollow of her back, he guides her to their reserved table. A bottle of champagne in a silver ice-bucket, a cigarette smoldering on the rim of the cut-crystal ashtray. He suggests they make themselves comfortable on a cream-colored divan. He hands her a drink, they touch glasses. To your presence here today. She puckers her lips. She must look a sight — she always finds compliments annoying, even false ones. He offers her a cigarette and retrieves his own. He has a small, tight mouth, the air of a hunter assured of victory. Around them, several men in dark suits reading newspapers, the rustle of turning pages barely interferes with the piece of classical music flowing into the room. A hushed atmosphere. She senses him observing her neck, then her chest. She brings her eyes back to meet his in order to block the offensive. I don’t even know what you do. He works at the ministry. The MFA. . sorry, Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Did you graduate from that university. . the ENA? Why is she asking that, of course he did. Where else would he have studied, it’s hardly complicated. No one’s perfect, he replies, and laughs to himself. Then, pronouncing his words very clearly: Do you follow international politics at all? She feels like biting him, she detests that kind of trick question. A no, and he’ll spend the rest of the evening looking down his nose at her; a yes, and she’ll have to give her informed opinion. She mentally rehearses the names she remembers, particularly those of Americans, since they’re the only ones that ever get mentioned. Bush, Powell, Rumsfeld. She often thinks that they would all make excellent names for pets. Bin Laden, and his life on video; Saddam, whom all journalists refer to by his first name, probably because they think they know him. She remembers two other names as well: Taylor and Mugabe, two African dictators. And then there’s the Brazilian president with his pretty nickname that goes well with his left-wing positions. Yes, she knows a bit about international politics. As for him, he’s working on Iraq. A major policy area, fascinating, France’s position precisely mirrors his personal convictions. What more could he ask for? I love my job. At least someone is happy with his lot. The Americans, we’ll wear them down eventually. He finishes off his drink. And the Iraqis? He smiles at her as if she were a naïve child. Oh, he hasn’t forgotten the Iraqis. You’re slightly naïve, but I suppose that’s normal since you see it all from the outside. He then proceeds to sing her the praises of French diplomacy taking the voice of the nation to the four corners of the world. She ought to appreciate the fact that her government is defending the interests of her country. And what did you tell your wife, that you had a meeting with the minister, a Saudi prince or a Russian spy? He has trouble exhaling the smoke of his cigarette without coughing. He should have known that with a profession like hers she’d be rather cynical at bottom, and he caresses her forearm with his index finger. She feels like coming out with two or three choice inventions, stuff her supposed clients would have done to her, that might dampen his ardour. But she holds back. You’re a friend of Ange’s? She nods. Yes indeed, Mr Diplomat, a very good friend, we share the same tastes. He must be wondering how Ange ever could have met such a girl.