Celine Curiol - Voice Over

On exiting the bar, she heads off at random, going wherever her footsteps take her. She turns corners, not with any destination in mind, but because certain streets are more deserted or darker than others. It’s no longer a question of lead or rubber, but of an electric current that’s shaking her entire body. She’d like to keep walking until her legs start to hurt and wind up buckling under her weight. Then she would sit down at the edge of the pavement, her soles in the gutter, and try hard to keep as still as possible. She would manage to lose consciousness or, worse, would doze off until dawn, until a street-sweeper came to shoo her away from her stone curb. She would have lost her memory and would end up at the Salvation Army, with a bowl of disgusting soup for dinner. She would have forgotten who she was and from then on would be completely anonymous, with no other ambition than to maintain her bodily functions. Again that childish desire to disappear out of spite, to obliterate herself in order to have the effect on others she never had while alive, to feast on the reactions of the few people who would be informed of her death. Maxime would claim to be saddened, which wouldn’t stop him from feeling disdain for that poor girl who wasn’t very bright. Ange wouldn’t understand how a person could let herself go like that, she would be scandalized, saddened, as she would be by the death of any small creature, such as a hamster or a cat. As for him, he would feel guilty, would regret his behavior, then eventually would think about her from time to time, as he would think about a friend who moved abroad, one of those people you like to hear from but don’t go out of your way to stay in touch with.

She recognizes the Place des Halles. Her improvised walk has brought her back to within a few hundred yards of where she set out. She’s smack in the middle of the place he had advised her to avoid at night because of that friend of his who got mugged. Too bad for him, just now she’s going to cross the square because she has no reason to listen to his warnings any more. Between the trees, she makes out human forms, in groups, hardly moving. The same groups that loaf around here during the day; their faces cloaked in darkness now, more menacing. She senses them watching her. She quickens her pace, eyes fixed on the tips of her shoes. As she nears them, she stares far into the distance ahead. Above all, she mustn’t let them enter her field of vision. At her approach, one of the silhouettes starts to move and heads straight for her. Hey Miss, where’re ya going? She can’t help herself, she shoots him a furtive glance. Twenty at the most, head full of dreadlocks. Miss, I’ll walk ya home. His mates look on. And then, she feels her body loosen up completely; the muscles along the back of her neck relax, her head swivels. She is talking, responding, no thanks, and even manages to add, in a light-hearted voice, have a good evening. The man stays where he is. She feels relieved and yet at the same time almost regrets not having accepted. She notices that she is still holding Maxime’s cigarette.

She eventually finds some matches in her bag. Her hands tremble slightly, the wind keeps blowing out the matches, and she has to make several attempts. The taste of the tobacco makes her feel sick, her head spins, and yet smoking seems the most sensible thing she can do. She walks around the giant head slumbering in the palm of a stone hand, the only sculpture in the city she has ever liked. She wonders if a woman posed for it or if the sculptor preferred to model a face that belonged to no one. Out of the corner of her eye, a tiny shadow has appeared, growing rapidly before she has time to identify it. The man is in front of her, blocking her way. Gimme your cigarette. She observes the hulking beanpole with the scarlet face, hunched over, talking hoarsely into his chest. The tiny incandescent stick in her hand has become her sole worldly possession, the one thing she is ready to fight for. No, she replies, knowing already that she should have said yes. Gimme your cigarette, bitch. She takes a step to the right, he moves with her; a step to the left, which the scary mime is quick to match. The dwindling cigarette is starting to burn her fingers, yet she refuses to let go of it. She sees the man brandish a bottle that no longer has a label on it. He is going to hit her over the head or else smash the bottle and come at her with the jagged glass. A few yards away three people are walking by, deep in conversation. Make the most of it. She moves sideways, tries to rush forward to catch up and mingle with the group, who in the meantime have begun to quicken their pace. The man appears before her again, the bottle held out in front of him like a knife. A wave of hot and cold washes over her. Fear. She sees them in the bar, still around the table, engaged in an animated conversation after having let her leave without going after her. What will he think when she’s found the next morning, sprawled out at the foot of the stone face, her mouth full of blood? Or maybe there would just be a slash across her cheek. She and the man are frozen in place, barely breathing. The hoarse voice again. You gonna hand that butt over? The bottle has come a few inches closer, a motorbike has stopped at the corner of the street. Two helmeted figures dismount and look up at the lit window of a nearby apartment building. They are so close; she has to get to them, it’s now or never. She makes a run for it, thinking that the distance must be enormous, but already, in full flight, she is crashing into their gigantic bodies. Taken aback, the four metal-encased eyes look her over. Her potential saviors could decide to take it out on her. She says, I’m sorry, trying hard to stifle the tremor in her voice. Soften them up, don’t let them sense her panic. She has only a few seconds to win them over and make them want to defend her. The man hasn’t dared to come any closer. He has stopped in a doorway nearby. She explains the situation to the two bikers, gesturing with her chin at the shadowy figure lying in wait for her. One of them takes off his helmet, he seems harmless; no doubt he thinks she’s exaggerating. They still haven’t said a word. She asks if she can stay with them a bit longer. They exchange a look then start watching the shadow in the doorway with her. It shrinks back but doesn’t leave. They must think she’s making a mountain out of a molehill. She isn’t even sure they believe her, and they hardly seem overjoyed to be acting as chaperones. Lucky for me you were here, she ends up saying, to add a little credibility to her story and encourage them in the task she has given them. The street is calm, nothing is happening, they’re not talking, he’s not going away, she doesn’t dare make any more suggestions. The ochre cigarette filter has remained between her fingers, crushed by her fear, almost weightless, insignificant now. After wanting to hold on to it at any cost, she lets it fall to the ground, getting rid of it since it serves no purpose any longer. The two bikers are getting impatient. Where does she live? Not far, just around the corner, it’s up the street. No answer. The shadow has straightened up and goes to lean against a streetlamp. She sees no sign of the bottle. The man without the helmet turns to her; he looks her over for a few seconds. She makes herself smile so he’ll think she’s cute. She must have passed the test because he says to the other guy, all right, you stay here, I’ll take her home. She wishes she could just leave them there, the two idiots. He puts his helmet back on and points to the back of the motorbike, telling her to watch out for the exhaust pipe. She doesn’t dare admit to him that she has never been on a motorbike. Clumsily lifting her leg, she slides onto the leather seat and straightens up. They set off at once. Her hands are in the way. She puts them flat on her thighs, but at the first curb she instinctively grabs hold of the leather jacket in front of her. They pass close by the man with the bottle, who doesn’t bat an eyelid, but gives her a look filled with hatred. What if I had said yes? The driver accelerates to avoid a red light. She feels good, rescued, out of harm’s way, on that powerful speedy machine. She wishes someone would take her on a tour of Paris like that; she wishes she could press her cheek against the back of the man just a few inches from her face and squeeze him so tightly in her arms that this stranger would experience the same fear she had. But she is already on familiar ground. Thanks, this is it. He tells her he is just going to park the bike; it would be a shame if something happened to her now. She gets off, holding on to his arm. Thank you, really, I’ll be fine. He has removed his helmet; the engine is still running. She wouldn’t want to be ungrateful. He looks at her, fireworks gleaming in his eyes. If he were a bit bolder, he would jump on top of her. Thanks again. She takes several steps, then turns. He adjusts his helmet and violently revs the engine. As soon as he has disappeared, she turns down a narrow side street. She doesn’t realize straight away that someone is outside the door of her apartment building.