Celine Curiol - Voice Over

One night as she was leaving the station, she had run into Maxime by chance. He hadn’t recognized her straight off, and so she had had to remind him of the circumstances of their meeting, the famous dinner party where she had passed herself off as a prostitute. Maxime had admitted to her that he hadn’t believed her story. He had invited her for a coffee, as a reward for her effort in creating such a character. Once they had found themselves a table in a local bistro, Maxime had seemed troubled. She’d asked him if he was all right, and he had started telling her about the crisis his marriage was in. She’d listened, and he had ended up telling her that he was seeing another woman. He wanted to end the relationship but his mistress wouldn’t let him. She’d wished Maxime luck, and that was the last they’d seen of each other until they all met up in the bar, where she had asked him if he’d broken it off, which had led to his angry outburst. That’s it.

He goes on staring at her in silence, looking for an expression that might allow him to verify the truthfulness of her account. You see, she concludes, if there was someone else involved, Sylvie may have found out about it. Thanks to you! She frowns, she hadn’t seen things in that light. She very much doubts that she had the slightest role in this divorce. That he should point an accusing finger at her is completely unfair. She looks down. She could stand up, tell him she’s at the wrong table, and walk off without a second thought. And yet she remains glued to her chair, her mouth twitching oddly until she is able to add, I might turn out to be responsible for your splitting up with Ange, but I’m certainly not to blame for what’s happened to Maxime. Her words appear to take him by surprise, to force him to reflect on what they are doing, as if he were suddenly required to look to his left and his right at the same time. But the problem with eyes is that they both move in the same direction. Maxime and Sylvie, he and Ange, it’s not the same, she’d better get that straight. He raised his voice; she’s starting to despise this moment, this fit of anger pouring down on her even though she has nothing to do with it. She also has to understand that he and Maxime are different; Maxime has always had a soft spot for women, whereas he is the faithful sort. . usually. He forces himself to finish his sentence, adding the last word in order to regain his balance. Then he stops, betrayed by his own self-description. Usually, she repeats in a quiet voice. She wants to believe that he needs time to accept what is happening.

It’s night, and she is lying in bed. The city is playing softly in the background. The curtains are open, and light from her neighbors pours through the window into the room. She has always enjoyed that moment of calm when the body loosens its grip. Nothing more is asked of it. As a teenager it was at such moments, waiting for sleep to overcome her, that she would invent the perfect lover. She always met him on a beach, it was always a late afternoon in summer. She found him attractive. She never gave him any specific physical traits, but she would choose his gestures, always the same. The imaginary scene would reach its height at the moment he kissed her. She had never kissed a boy back then and she was curious to discover what kissing with her tongue would feel like. She could imagine nothing better than kissing the boy she called, for lack of originality, her Prince Charming. She moves her arm over the portion of empty sheet next to her. His body would be there; a mass of tender warmth would envelop her completely, the smell of another person distinct from her own but so familiar she would barely notice the difference. She would have the right to caress that body, to rub her skin against his, and to repeat the same ritual every evening. She would never tire of it. She has dreamed of this repetition with him, the assurance that he would be there the following night.

Years later, when she thinks about him again, she will recall one meeting in particular. They had met at the usual place. She had arrived, her heart thumping, impatient to be with him. Once inside the café, she had lost all notion of time. There was only a great bath of liquid, and she was floating in it, borne away by amnesia and euphoria. That day, after they had religiously drunk their espressos and swapped details about the minor events that had disturbed their routines since they last met, he had announced that he wanted to go somewhere with her. Right now? Right now. He had a little time that day. He had led her to the nearest métro station. On the train, they had sat next to each other on the pull-down seats; he had slipped his hand onto her back, under the layers of fabric that covered her body, touching her bare skin. They didn’t talk. They smiled whenever they turned their heads at the same time to look at each other. It was then that she had imagined a life together for the first time. They were on that métro because they were going home, as they did every evening. Home was a small apartment somewhere in Paris, on the top floor. From the living-room windows, there was a view of the grey rooftops and the chimneys with their pointed hats. They were going home, and that familiar journey was becoming the symbol of a shared life, a life that struck her as more ideal than she had imagined for herself up till then. She was on her way back to the apartment they had chosen together; she could not ask for more.

They had got out at the Luxembourg station. Behind the railings of the park, people on metal chairs were eating, reading, breathing in the sunshine, their eyes closed. They were relaxed and unthreatening; they could be addressed without fear of being stared at with alarm. The white statues struck her as a mistake, a superfluous sophistication. He had taken her hand. They had walked along the paths in silence, with the serene slowness of those who have nowhere to go. They no longer felt anything in particular, they felt everything. She remembered thinking that the moment should never end. That only the company of this man could make things bearable. The world seemed to be in place, in line with what she would have chosen if she had been given the choice. At the same time, nothing mattered any more. When they too sat down on the metal chairs, not far from the chess players, he had rested his head on her shoulder. In her memory, they had stayed in that position for ever.

During the night, it seems that someone has blocked up her ears with cotton wool. On waking up, she finds it hard to breathe; she takes a stab at blowing her nose, but it’s as dry as cement in there. Similarly, the back of her throat appears to have hardened, to be covered with a kind of varnish. Her forehead is hot, she has trouble moving her eyes in their sockets. The world around her, by contrast, has turned soft. The floor is made from a material that looks like wood and has the consistency of rubber. The corners of the walls are no longer perfectly straight but keep changing according to the shifts in temperature. When she reaches out to take hold of an object, the object is no longer perfectly still. Its contours vibrate, ready to change shape and elude her grasp. She tells herself that it will pass. She drinks a little tea, but the idea of a simple slice of bread and butter makes her sick to her stomach. Struggling to keep her balance, she gets dressed and gathers up her things. But once she starts walking down the stairs, she has to hold on to the banister: she finds it difficult to judge the irregular, shifting distance between the steps, as if she were inching along the pleats of a giant accordion. Outside, the light crashes down on her and sears her eyes. The ride to work on the metro feels utterly impossible. She is capable of doing just one thing now, lying down. She goes back up the stairs and flops onto the couch. Just then, the telephone rings. The handset is heavier than usual. She doesn’t have enough saliva to moisten her mouth. He asks her if she’s ill. I don’t know. At that moment she is someone else whom she suddenly sees standing next to her with the telephone in her hand; an older, more assured, more sensual woman, who leads an exciting life, that glimmers in the very timbre of the voice. You don’t know? Her head is spinning, she might have a fever, it’s probably not too serious. He wants to know if she’s eaten anything. Some tea. He exhales into the phone. I feel quite sick, I’m not sure I can go to the station. But she immediately regrets what she has said, realizing that he must have phoned to set up a meeting. She doesn’t have time to correct herself before he is already saying, in that case it would be better if she stayed at home, they can see each other another time. Something contracts inside her. She wishes she could go back, to be smart enough to lie and say that she feels perfectly well. It’s no good telling herself there will be next times; she has the impression that she’s being punished for no reason. She would like to ask him why; because you’re ill, he would answer. Little black flies are floating on the surface of the wall opposite her. She doesn’t have the strength to defend herself. It’s better for you; promise me you’ll go see a doctor some time this afternoon. She agrees, fearing that a refusal would encourage him to push back their next meeting still further. Look after yourself, he says, a big kiss, I’ll call you later. At that instant, she is overcome by an enormous desire to confess how terribly she misses him, but he has already hung up. She would like the sofa, the chair, the table, something in the room to start talking to her and put her mind at rest.