Celine Curiol - Voice Over

The article is by someone named Gaëtane Lonrice. She isn’t sure she has understood what the writer is trying to demonstrate. She swallows a gulp of red wine, looking at the wall opposite her. A large painting hangs there showing about thirty nude women sitting, kneeling, or lying on their sides, grouped into a swarm. They have been painted in such a way that their eyes converge on a single point — the viewer, who sees only their faces, their necks and shoulders, sections of their arms and legs. In the foreground, however, there is a woman whose breasts and pubic hair are visible. What the composition seems to suggest to her is that the intimate parts of the other models are not worth showing since they are the same as the first’s. Only their faces make them different.

No one has stirred. She tries to recognize the music that is playing. She looks around for the name of the bar and sees “The Three Tadpoles” printed at the top of a menu on the next table. Odd name for a bar. She is trying to imagine the anecdote that might have been responsible for it when she hears the door close. A man has come in. He raises a hand to the barman, casts a quick glance at the imperturbable young man, and then gives her a hard stare. She looks down at the few drops of wine left in her glass. She hears him order a beer. She knows what’s going through his head: a woman on her own, drinking alcohol, on a Monday night no less. Just then, it occurs to her that what she needs isn’t company but the company of the man she hadn’t been able to kiss — Ange is in his arms on the sofa, they are watching a film. But it is too late. The man has put down his beer against her glass of wine and is settling into the chair opposite her. His name is Ivan.

Ivan is a psychiatric intern. He lives in a small studio flat on the top floor. By standing on a chair, Ivan can catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower through the fanlight. Which is in fact the first thing he invites her to do after taking her back to his place. To climb up on a chair. Pretty, isn’t it, he says, standing right by her legs, encouraging her to look. Then he helps her back down and serves her a glass of red wine while asking her what she does for a living. She tells him that she is an SNCF announcer. By choice or necessity? he shoots back, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger. Both, she says, because she has never thought about it before. Next, Ivan points out five drawings in colored crayon pinned to the wallpaper. He strikes her as a bit young to have children; but she asks all the same. No, he doesn’t have children, the drawings were done by his patients. He seems annoyed at her for not having guessed. He explains to her how the shapes on the paper reveal certain aspects of the psychological disorders these people suffer from: suicidal tendencies, mythomania, anorexia. She considers telling him about the lead — he’s a doctor after all, he’ll know what remedy to prescribe — but he has gone back to commenting on the drawings, which are all very beautiful he finds. Has she heard of Antonin Artaud? She has to admit that she hasn’t. Ivan extracts a thick tome from a pile of books on the carpet. On the cover is a black-and-white photograph of a man with enormous eyes. That’s him, he says, and a few seconds later he puts the book away. She doesn’t dare ask for more details. For a long while he tells her about his taste in music, about the ardent passion felt for him by one of his female patients, about his wanting to convert to Buddhism. Eventually, he sits down next to her. He runs his fingers over her cheeks and tells her that she has an interesting face. His erudite chatter has left her rather dazed. She lets him kiss her, then caress her thighs, her breasts. She ends up with her sweater and bra dangling from her arms and her panties down round her ankles. At which point he says, just a second, and starts rummaging around in the closet. He brings out a length of climbing rope.

She hasn’t moved, even though she is starting to feel cold. Ivan’s hands fiddle dexterously with the yellow-and-purple cord, which he folds, coils, and tugs on hard to form two slipknots. She asks him what he’s doing. His lips curl into a smile; his eyes brim with tentacles. He is only going to tie her up. Without hurting you, of course. He hopes that she doesn’t mind. She scans the room in search of a clue that would explain his behavior. Until he got hold of the rope, Ivan hadn’t seemed to exhibit bad intentions; he had kissed her tenderly. She tries to reassure herself. Perhaps she is going to serve as guinea pig in a medical experiment, probably all perfectly harmless: reactions and behavior of the bound woman. After slipping the rope over her wrists, he’ll sit beside her with a notepad and run through a whole series of questions with her, like any other psychiatrist worthy of the name. But as Ivan approaches with a thrilled look on his face, all set to ensnare one of her wrists with his homemade lasso, she panics. She thrusts both hands down between her thighs and tells him, without animosity, that she’s not really in the mood for getting tied up. And as he seems puzzled by the sincerity of her declaration, she takes the opportunity to pull up her panties. With a theatrical sigh, Ivan sets the rope down on the couch, kneeling in front of her and rubbing her bare calves with his fingers. But why is she taking it like this? His voice is measured, his eyes attentive. Is she frightened? Does he look that mean to her? As he asks the question, he removes his glasses to show her the kindness in his eyes. A black eyelash has dropped onto his upper cheek, waiting for the wish he will never make. She shakes her head. It’s a bit odd; she’s not used to it. He starts getting up and, as if operated by some spring mechanism, his limbs straighten to their full extent. He starts waving his arms about, clapping his palms against his thighs. Lots of people use ropes; come on, lots do. Lots of people tie themselves up, she must know about that. Maybe so, but it’s never happened to her. She’s not sure why she’s still there, justifying herself, listening to a psychiatric intern trying to persuade her to do something she doesn’t want to do. Ivan has swept the rope onto the floor and returned to the sofa. OK then, no rope and he dives back on to her for a kiss. She forces herself to match the spasmodic, circular movements of his tongue. She is just starting to relax when a rough material brushes her fingers. Sitting back, she sees that Ivan has managed to slide on one of the slipknots. He proudly displays a wicked grin: that wasn’t so painful, was it? She looks down at the small, flexible tube wrapped around her wrist. She should rip it off in fury, screaming how she can do perfectly well without lunatics like him, thank you very much. Only she can’t muster the appropriate insolence, the combative energy that would allow her to impose her will on him. Instead, she feels ashamed. And so she takes the middle path, the only escape route open to her. Can’t we do it the normal way? She closes her eyes. The last words have stung Ivan to the quick. Normal way? What the hell does that mean? He thought she was a bit more open, a bit more adventurous. Again, always following conventions, does she at least know why she is refusing? Well then, he’ll tell her: it’s because she obviously has a real problem. Silence in the room while the city emits its nocturnal sounds outside. The lead has solidified inside her chest. Here he is shouting about a problem after just spending a few hours in her company. He’s a psychiatrist, he must know if she has a problem, but can she trust him? Like some corrosive agent, the rope-lover’s verbal assault has disconcerted her. Perhaps her opinion of herself has been atrociously wrong, wrong for a long time. She could have been mistaken about everything. Ivan’s jaw shifts back and forth, and she notes the tips of his upper jawbone under his skin. She wonders what kind of drawing Ivan would make. She removes the rope from her wrist. Ivan doesn’t protest. He rubs his forehead as if to remove the lines that have formed there without his having noticed. His eyes are empty of all desire. She can put her clothes on again.