Celine Curiol - Voice Over

She thinks back to her afternoon. She was walking towards Place Carrée when Momo approached her. She remembers that when she heard the voice call out, Miss, she was looking up at the top of a tree, where a strange bird, a cross between a pigeon and a sparrow, was perched. She didn’t have time to get close enough to examine it carefully. Again, she sees the subtle changes taking place in Momo’s eyes as she gradually relented. What gives the impression that the look in someone’s eyes is changing? She has the beginnings of answers but always comes back to the same vague conclusion: the shape. But the shape of what exactly? The skin around it? Of the pupil? The iris? She doesn’t know. She thinks back to the firm pressure of his hand on her shoulder, as if he had known she was about to get up and wanted to stop her. His eyes, which carefully avoided her, while wandering suspiciously over Momo. The phrase she had uttered in a single breath. She doesn’t remember the exact words she used, only the sense of relief she had experienced afterwards. Whether he replied yes or no by then hardly mattered: she had dared to take a step she never would have thought herself capable of. Then he said, I’ll call you, he didn’t say when. He didn’t say yes or no. Mentally she weighs the effect either word would have had on her. In fact, she’s not sure that she wants to go to the theater with him any more. She fears being alone with him, even though in the past she has invented numerous permutations of precisely that situation. It has taken her too long to make it happen, and she has grown used to drawing on that well of possibilities. It would be better if he refused so things between them can carry on the way she wants them to, in an imaginary realm where confrontation and disappointment can be avoided. Isn’t it more exciting to mold reality in one’s own private laboratory the way one chooses to? For if he accepts, the mechanisms of seduction will be set in motion. She will have to behave as she would in any other romantic adventure: resist her desire then give in to it. As always, the beginning would lead to the end. She will have to love him and suffer for it. She promises herself that she will do everything in her power not to wait for his phone call.

Her stomach rumbles with the sound of an emptying pipe. She realizes she hasn’t eaten a thing since morning. They have finished the carton of orange juice. The cupboards in the kitchen contain only a salt shaker and a bottle of oil. There are the filter papers and the small packet of weed on the table, but smoking would make her appetite keener. She lies down on the sofa. She has no idea how much time has passed since she realized Momo and Kamel had disappeared. Closing her eyes, she tries to empty her mind, but anxiety prevents her from falling asleep. Her heartbeat doesn’t slow; at a dizzying rate her brain continues to produce bits of ideas, pieces of thought, unrecognizable images, which she feels powerless to stop. Her chest tightens, she has just remembered that tomorrow is Monday. If she is not out of here by then, she’ll miss the start of her shift; disciplinary measures will be taken against her. The thought of being reprimanded, or even fired, by a boss she can’t stand adds to her distress. She wants to believe that between now and the early morning Kamel or Momo will be back. If they stay out all night they’ll still have to come home in the morning, even if only to grab a few hours’ sleep. Feeling cold, she covers herself as best she can with her jacket. He must be peacefully asleep, in a warm, comfortable bed, while here she is freezing. She pictures Ange snuggled up against him, sleeping the sleep of the righteous. She feels certain that woman never has nightmares. Ange is protected by her honesty and her directness, which undo the traps before she even reaches them. With her rectitude and her principles, Ange would never find herself locked in by two strangers in an apartment whose precise address she didn’t know. Any more than she would let herself be paid 250 euros for not having sex with a diplomat! She would. Ange knows how to be pleasant and cheerful with everyone, yet she never lets herself get caught out by unforeseen events. Anyway, there are no such things as unforeseen events in her life, just plans put into operation. Her power lies in her ability to strike up conversations with just about anyone, while at the same time maintaining a prudent distance so that nothing untoward can happen to her. For example, Momo said more to Ange than he did to her, despite her being the one he initially tried to pick up. Yet Momo made no attempt to seduce Ange, and it is not Ange who now finds herself shivering on a couch-shaped raft which no wind is coming to push. For her part, she would have been only too delighted to settle for a friendly, civilized chat with Momo, before calmly setting off for home. So what is it? Perhaps it’s because Ange gives the impression of being in control of whatever she does, whereas she acts without thinking. For Ange lives things the way she planned to live them and draws satisfaction and strength from having followed her plan to the letter. It probably has to do with willpower. Ange looks happy, Momo had said. What about her? What does she look like? No one ever tells her. She is not like Ange, it’s as simple as that. I will never be like Ange, get that through your thick skull. She admits her fate is not as enviable, but it is hers. What happens to her could never happen to Ange. Which could also mean that she will never live with him.

The rumbling of a motorbike in the street. She opens her eyes, she has slept. It takes her several seconds to get her bearings from the slit of bright light between the curtains. No one has come, and she is still on the same couch, no warmer, her stomach tense. She closes her eyes again. She has run out of patience, doesn’t want to stay inside this cage a moment longer. By banging loudly on the door she might manage to alert the neighbors. Except they are also likely to call the police. To escape the room’s sense of confinement, she takes refuge on the balcony. Beyond the rooftops and the pointed hats of the chimneys, the sky is starting to brighten. For the moment it is only an indistinct halo of pale light, the tips of the sun’s rays sliding the length of the planet, sweeping the night from their path. Several vehicles are gliding below. The city will soon be coming to life. She decides to call him as soon as the sun is up. To hell with it. Too bad about Ange, too bad about what she thinks, too bad if he blames her for letting herself be lured in like a little kid, too bad if he loses all respect for her. She will ask him not to call the police, and they’ll try to find another solution. He won’t refuse to help her. Perhaps his first thought will be that she is lying, the way she lied about being a prostitute, but she’ll know how to convince him. In any case, she won’t have a choice. So there is no point panicking. One way or another, she’ll get out of here. Besides, any minute now Momo and Kamel could turn up with a bag of warm croissants. Everything is possible, after all.

Despite the cold, she stays out on the balcony to watch the sunrise: the sky turning from a very pale blue to gold, the warming of the stone façades, the rubbish lorries trundling by, the birds singing, the steady rise of sounds and voices. Privileged moments. The day looks set to be fine. As the sun rises over the apartment buildings, she goes back inside. She spends a long while searching for the phone, at first all excited at the prospect of her imminent release, then more and more alarmed at not being able to locate it. Eventually she is forced to admit that there is no telephone in the apartment, and she is convinced that she has lost her final chance of escape. She sits back down on the couch. She is exhausted.