Celine Curiol - Voice Over

Her heart begins to beat; her lungs begin to breathe. She slows down, he comes towards her, they’re already face to face. She thinks of logical reasons that would explain why he is outside her building. Maxime had called the police, Sylvie had had a fit, Ange had sent him to bring her back and explain herself. I was getting a bit worried, he says, and gives her a wink. After Maxime’s confused explanation, he and Ange had gone home. He’d sat down in front of the TV; Ange had taken a shower before going to bed. When he had gone into the bedroom a quarter of an hour later, she was asleep. He had lingered on the threshold for a moment, then closed the door again, put on his shoes and coat, and left the apartment. He had taken a taxi to get here. She’s surprised that he’s telling her all this, as though he were expecting her to analyze his motives and give him instructions on what to do next. She just wants to say thank you but has lost the power of speech. There is only one way she can express herself now. And when her lips touch his, she feels that she has been set free at last.

On the terrace of the café, a lone man sits hunched over a notebook. Now and then, he brings the tip of a ballpoint pen close to the page, makes a few tiny circles just above the surface without ever touching it, then puts his hands together and slides them between his knees.

She arrives slightly out of breath. She came as quickly as she could, but she’s late. She feels hot. She takes off her jacket and sits down opposite him. Not bad, he says admiringly. She imagines that he’s referring to her dress. A black, low-cut dress, of a kind she has never worn before, bought in a shop that sells designer clothing at factory-outlet prices. She blushes, because it’s the first time he has ever said anything like that. He pushes his hand forwards. The waiter comes over to greet them and take their order. How are you, Christophe, he replies, as he always does, and she wonders, as she always does, if Christophe also knows Ange. He squeezes her fingers. The pressure sends an enormous charge of energy coursing through her body. Her cheeks are aflame, she could rise into the air like a helium balloon. He asks her if the espresso is good. She nods, all the while trying to maintain the most pleasant expression on her face. She’s afraid of doing anything that might upset him or uncover a reality other than the one she believes she is living. From time to time he glances at his watch, casts a quick eye over the customers, then retracts his hand and lifts his cup. She shifts her knees forward to touch his, not sure if he can tell the difference. This is nice, he says, and she lowers her eyes to hide the emotion his words create in her. An hour later, he asks for the bill and refuses to let her pay. Then he kisses her out on the pavement — proof, as she sees it, that he is not afraid to show his affection in public. The texture of his tongue and the paths it likes to take inside her mouth have become familiar to her. Each one of his kisses gives her a sensation of intense sweetness, something she has never known before. As he climbs into the taxi, he gives her a little wave. She responds with an enthusiastic wave of her own.

For two months they have been seeing each other like this, in the same place, in the late afternoon, once or twice a week, depending on when he is free. He calls her in the morning before she leaves the apartment and arranges to meet her after work, at a time that varies according to his schedule. Occasionally, she has to ask her office for permission to leave early. As she has always been punctual and is rarely absent, permission is granted, along with a knowing look that aims to get her to talk about the reasons for her early departure. But little more is given than a cordial thank you. At the café, they order two espressos and two glasses of water. They spend the time available to them searching each other out with their fingertips or knees, laughing at their timorous adolescent behavior. Sometimes they discuss the weather forecast, or the film on television they watched separately at home, or the places they have never been to, or the odd look of a passer-by. He tells her the stories of novels she has never read, describes the house he’d like to buy near the sea, somewhere between La Rochelle and Royan, makes fun of his bosses whom he can no longer stand, extols the beauty of his favorite sport, horse riding. She finds him wilful, admires his marked taste for very particular things. Never has a man told her so much about himself, and she has trouble taking it all in. But she likes listening to him talk; his confidences show that he wants to involve her in his life, even if he doesn’t ask her many questions. She actually prefers it that way: to unburden herself about the past or even the present would be a dangerous undertaking, and she feels she has no talent for it. Whenever she starts to wonder why he keeps coming back to see her, her only conclusion is that she doesn’t know what she expects of him either.

She has fallen into the habit of looking at the ground whenever she turns the corner of her street. She walks along staring at her shoes, trying hard not to think about him, and then, a few yards from the door to her building, she looks up imagining that he’s there, on the lookout, impatient for her return. But in spite of her efforts to stage this scene, he never appears at that moment.

Back home after their meetings, she feels that she has finally taken on the proper dimensions, that she fits into the mass of things around her. She has no desire to go out, for time passes more quickly inside the confined space of her office and her apartment. Simple, immediate household chores consume a certain chunk of it; talking into the microphone requires enough concentration to occupy her for long stretches. The unpredictable nature of a night-time outing, on the other hand, would be more likely to slow the passing of the hours. When she travels between her apartment and the station, she discovers that she has points in common with every person she sees. Everything, from the cellular organization of the body to the functioning of human beings, seems perfect to her. She tells herself that in others as well such a feeling must reflect their level of satisfaction. She concludes that her future will be a delicious, never-ending repetition of their meetings. As for her past, she hardly gives it a thought. When she does, the rite of passage strikes her as an anecdote from a part of her life that no longer needs to be remembered. She feels strong enough to accomplish whatever she wants. She is happy, and nothing can go against her any more.

After refusing at first, he now agrees to answer her when she asks for news of Ange. But his comments remain terse and never refer to Ange directly but rather to the state of their relationship. We had a row yesterday, she bought me a new shirt, she wants us to move, we had a pleasant evening. Afterwards, she never knows if she has the right to go on asking questions in order to find out more about a particular subject. She is curious to learn about the ups and downs that occur when a man and a woman live together, which is something she has never experienced. But the idea that she might be jealous of Ange never crosses her mind.

On the night she was almost mugged, he held her in his arms for a while and told her that he couldn’t stay because there was a chance Ange might wake up. He just wanted to make sure that she was all right. I almost got my face slashed for a cigarette. He had frowned, and she had told him the story. Why hadn’t she given him the cigarette? She could have, but she kept thinking that she really didn’t have a choice. And besides, it was impossible to predict how the man would have reacted if she had given him what he wanted. As she talked, she was searching for a valid excuse to keep him there. In the end, she had to resign herself to going back up to her apartment and exulting in her joy alone. When he returned to his place, Ange must have still been asleep. She pictured him sitting at the kitchen table under the ceiling light, half-listening to the nocturnal rumblings of the building. Coldly, staring into space, he must have tried to figure out the reasons for what he had just done. He was not unhappy with Ange, she was the woman he needed, that’s what he must have thought. So what was wrong with his life? Was he bored? Were there any minor problems in their relationship which they had failed to detect? Giving in to sleep, she worried that without any clear answers he might decide to distance himself from her in order to make his questions go away. Three days later, he called to see how she was doing and to ask if she wanted to meet him for a coffee.