Celine Curiol - Voice Over

He is standing by the table with Ange on his arm. She ought to say something, but everything inside her has merged into a single organ and already that is making breathing difficult. In front of her, Momo, frowning, annoyed at the unexpected interruption; above her, Ange’s mouth, which she fears is about to open. Everywhere else, his eyes. A fluid passes into her veins and at once stimulates and petrifies her. Making the most of a Sunday afternoon, are we? Unstoppable Ange, all the more menacing because she sees nothing but the obvious. In a series of rapid glances, similar to the way people look at a meal they’re not certain they will like, he sizes up Momo, who for his part doesn’t take his eyes off her, trying to figure out who are these people disturbing him at such an inopportune time. Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend? Ange can’t bear to be left out. She says all three of their first names. Ange leans enthusiastically down to Momo, imparts two kisses on his cheeks, and then kisses her. He extends a hand to Momo. She gets a wink, an exact copy of the one he gave her in the kitchen and whose meaning she has yet to grasp fully. Ange falls prey to an irresistible urge for coffee, she’ll also take the opportunity to nip to the ladies’ room, and given that they haven’t quite finished, she thinks it would be nice to join them. Momo pulls up a chair for Ange, no doubt thinking that the presence of another couple can only contribute to the success of his seductive tactics. What could be better than an example right in front of you? He sits down next to her: How are you? OK. The waiter comes to take their order. Four espressos. Silence descends once more. She ought never to have left her apartment. Momo takes out a cigarette. If you feel like smoking a joint afterwards, I don’t live far from here. Ange returns, looking as fresh as someone who’s just stepped out of a shower. She hopes they weren’t interrupting anything. I was just explaining to mademoiselle here the importance of letting a guy know that you need him. She wishes she could vanish under the table. Ange thinks Momo is right, and to prove it she strokes her own man’s thigh. The cups are set down on the table. The tinkling of spoons on porcelain and bitter liquid imbibed in small sips. Three coffees in fifteen minutes, she’s not sure it’s the best way to stay zen. Momo is of the opinion that Ange looks happy, and it’s a pleasure to see. It feels to her as though she’s fallen into a trap, this scene has been written with the sole aim of making her uncomfortable. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the three of them had got together to engineer this supposedly accidental meeting. Momo and Ange have found common ground; they’re chatting like old friends. Just then, she remembers Ange Karma, the play, the two tickets. She understands that this conversation, which theoretically should undermine her position, is actually the best opportunity she could have hoped for. She thinks of the word “courage” in order to give herself some. Her mouth has shrunk; inside it, her tongue weighs several tons. She counts to three then leans towards him to be sure Ange won’t hear. I’ve got two tickets for a play on Saturday night. There’s a pause, as he keeps his eyes on Ange; only his lower lip quivers slightly. OK, I’ll call you. She wants to leap up, to let her body move to express the joy she’s feeling. But she has to remain seated even as a frenzied dance begins inside her. This time, the world really has changed.

For a long while they say nothing. The conversation between Ange and Momo eventually dries up. Their eyes now roam between the empty cups and the passers-by. The despondency of a Sunday afternoon drawing to its close. Vague existential questions roil in minds assailed by the looming specter of a new week. Gearing up to return to the relentless cycle: five days of work, two days of rest. She forces herself to ignore the brazen glances coming from Momo, who can’t keep still any longer. Perhaps they ought to go and smoke that joint now, he says. It’s his birthday, after all. The information appears not to move the other two as much as it had moved her; they don’t even ask Momo how old he is. Ange is tired, they’re going to head home. She doesn’t feel much like going to Momo’s by herself. She makes an effort to seem sorry, she too has to work tomorrow. Momo looks vexed. That’s unemployment, you get the chance not to work Mondays. He still doesn’t seem altogether convinced of the benefits of his situation. She finds it touching, though — this forty-year-old man so in need of company, who struggles against his solitude. OK, but she won’t stay long. Two pecks on the cheek for Ange. Just as she presses her cheek to his he whispers, I’ll call you soon. To keep her agitation in check, she looks into his eyes for confirmation of what appears to be a promise. He has already turned away, with Ange on his arm. She no longer has the least desire to smoke anything at all, but Momo, who has perked up considerably, gestures to her: this way.

There is no name on the door, which Momo opens with a single twist of the key. The television is so loud that it practically sucks the oxygen out of the apartment. Kamel, Momo calls out and as if by magic the host of the program shuts his trap. A narrow dark corridor leads to the main room, which barely manages to contain a sofa, a low table, a loft bed, and a gigantic television set. On the screen, an audience sitting in a studio is applauding, docile, open-mouthed. Behind small name cards, three august contestants are tasting their thirty minutes of fame. Kamel gives her a brief nod then flops back onto the padded sofa. On the glass-topped table is an open carton of orange juice, some cigarette papers, a clear plastic bag with some dark green herbs inside. Momo invites her to sit down and goes off to the kitchen to fetch two glasses. Kamel changes the channel and stares at a cute young thing in a short skirt who has just appeared on screen. Even without the sound, the young woman’s gesticulations manage to convey the drama of the situation. She casts a quick glance at Kamel, who ignores her completely. She can still see daylight outside through the gap in the drawn curtains. Momo hands her the glass he has just filled with orange juice and then asks Kamel if he isn’t bored with watching TV. Kamel shrugs, without taking his eyes off the young starlet now locked in a kiss with a stunning-looking man. Kamel puts the sound back on, and as Momo rolls the promised joint the three of them let the serial draw them in. To speak would seem superfluous, even misplaced. Momo takes two drags on the long slender cone of red-tipped paper then hands it to her. She inhales the smoke, easing herself further back on the couch. Then she offers the joint to Kamel, who reaches a hand out into space. It isn’t long before the bones in her skull seem to soften slightly; she feels herself lifted several inches above the level that gravity normally holds her to. Your friend’s cool. Momo has interrupted the heroine of the TV serial. She hasn’t the slightest desire to discuss Ange’s qualities with him. She prefers Kamel’s attitude and imitates his impassive shrug. Her mind has gone blank; she is floating somewhere between her body and the screen.

The television is off. That’s the first thing she notices on opening her eyes. Next to her, Kamel is asleep. The room is plunged into semi-darkness, night has fallen. She gets up and goes to inspect the tiny kitchen. By the sink, a yogurt container has tipped over under the weight of the spoon left inside it. Momo has vanished. Perfect: she’ll at last be able to slip away without having to invent an excuse. She grabs her bag, which is sitting by the couch, and heads for the door, only to find it locked. It takes several seconds for it to dawn on her: she is locked inside an apartment with a total stranger and doesn’t even know who lives there. She reflects on the chain of events that led her to this place, on the moments when she could have made a different choice and avoided being trapped. She could have gone on walking when Momo first approached her, she could have left him after the first coffee, she could have followed Ange’s example and gone home, she could have refused the joint, she could have smoked it but left straight afterwards, she could have stayed awake. But she did the opposite, never suspecting that the sum total of these tiny decisions would lead her to this spot. She hasn’t the slightest idea how to leave an apartment other than by the front door. She returns to the living room as quietly as she can so as not to wake Kamel. Slipping through the gap in the curtains, she carefully eases open the French doors that lead on to a small stone balcony with wrought-iron railings. She is surprised to discover that the apartment is on the top floor. Down below, two men are in motion, one of them trailing the flattened form of a dog. All she can hear is muffled music and the noise of a distant engine. Gusts of strong wind rattle the shutters attached to the wall by metal hooks. Tightening her grip on the guardrail, she imagines herself floating down, following the swirling currents of air, as light as a dead leaf, until she reaches the ground and regains her freedom. Given her current physical state, she can’t hope to pull off such an exploit: she is well and truly locked in. How long can she wait for Momo to return? More than that, she’s not even sure that he’s coming back. Call for help. She could phone him, at the risk of waking up Ange. Only she doesn’t know the address of the apartment; nor did she pay attention to the route Momo took to get here. And besides, he would probably want to contact the police. She would have to explain her reasons for being here, and the police would notice they had been smoking pot. They might even search the apartment and discover a quantity of cannabis far in excess of what three people would have on hand for their personal use. She would be charged with trafficking in illicit substances and wouldn’t have enough money to afford bail. Too risky. She is starting to feel cold on this strip of balcony suspended over a void. No way is she going to stay in this apartment; she wouldn’t last long. She remembers a film about the Second World War. In it, a Jewish man was hiding out in an apartment. Following the disappearance of his perverse caretaker, the place turned into his prison. It was the middle of winter. After eating every bit of food down to the last crumb, he took to his bed, where he stayed under the blankets, motionless. Watching the scene, she wondered what goes through the mind of a man who can no longer feed himself, who has nothing left to do except wait for an unexpected rescuer: how would his thoughts change as the hours ticked by and his body ate away at itself from inside? She thought about the stench of her own decomposing body, how it would alert the neighbors, and how, as usual, turnout at her funeral would be low. Stories every bit as sordid were heard the previous summer, when old people died in their own homes from heat exhaustion without anyone noticing. The government was held responsible, not the old people’s children. But she is not ancient enough for this particular situation to get the better of her. There is only one solution: to wake up Kamel and ask him for the keys. The guy seems a bit of a lump, but harmless enough. Encouraged by this idea, she decides to put her plan into action. But when she goes back inside the room, Kamel is no longer on the sofa. Stunned, she stares at the crumpled place where he had been sprawled out a short while earlier. She looks around the room. How could he have vanished? She hasn’t even heard the front door, which is still locked. She checks the kitchen. No sign of Momo or Kamel. All that remains for her to do now is to sit down on the couch and wait for someone to come and save her.