Celine Curiol - Voice Over

She wakes up and understands that she has slept. Early afternoon, the sun is no longer shining directly into the windows of her apartment. She feels rested, but her respiratory passages are still blocked, her muscles ache. To her horror she realizes that she has forgotten to call the office. She dials the number; at the other end of the line, the phone on her boss’ desk starts to ring. She remembers the title sequence of a film in which the viewer is taken inside a telephone wire, transformed into an electronic signal and launched at great speed towards a target he can no longer avoid: the ear of the person whose number has been dialled. An authoritative male voice asks who is speaking. Mr. Merlinter. Her boss has recognized her voice and starts saying quickly that she has to understand that just because an employee is given permission to leave early is no reason for said employee to assume the right to take every kind of liberty, he is well aware that she is not the sort to cause problems, but he trusts that she’ll be able to provide him with an adequate explanation for her absence this morning. Thrown into a panic by this demand, she answers, my apartment was burgled, they took everything, I had to wait for the police. Too bad for him; if he had been nicer, she would have told him the truth. For a few seconds she hears nothing, then Mr. Merlinter continues in a much calmer voice. Well, considering the circumstances, he understands. She hangs up, then dials a second number. A woman’s voice answers mechanically, Doctor Hotaronian’s office, and gives her an appointment for five o’clock that afternoon.

Three hours later, she is sitting in a wicker armchair, in a room with beige wallpaper, in front of a low table flooded with women’s magazines. Hanging on one of the walls is a small notice sheathed in plastic with a list of the charges for weekday or weekend appointments for office visits and house calls. Classical music is playing softly through a tiny speaker. For the past twenty minutes she has been waiting her turn, like the four other people who were already there when she arrived and whom she greeted with a muffled hello, which was not met with much enthusiasm. First she had taken a look at the photographs in several magazines, not being able to read the articles because the lines kept blurring; she quickly grew tired of that. At present, she is fighting against her only real urge: to stretch out on the grey carpet at the other patients’ feet and take a nap. To pass the time, she listens to an elegant woman with red puffy eyes on the sofa to her left blow her nose. In between two drainages, the woman massages her temples and sighs. Sitting on the floor between the woman’s feet, a little girl is shaking and combing a doll with frizzy, over-blond hair. From time to time, a stout woman squeezed into a woollen coat and wedged into a wicker seat asks another stout woman squeezed into a woollen coat and wedged into a wicker seat, is everything all right, Miss? The glassy-eyed mother doesn’t stir. And then, out of the blue, a voice shouts, I’ve been waiting for an hour, for God’s sake. It’s the woman from the sofa, not addressing anyone in particular but hoping to arouse everyone’s compassion. She arches her eyebrows by way of approval; the two other women pretend not to have heard. I’m sick of being here, the little girl declares loudly in her turn while her mother murmurs that it won’t be long now. For a moment, nothing can be heard but the sound of traffic pierced by the shrill notes of a violin. Suddenly, the door to the room is opened by a finely decked-out brunette dressed in black, who announces a name. The younger of the two stout women climbs to her feet and helps the other to extract herself from her chair. They go out; the door shuts. No organization, the lady on the sofa pronounces after an ample sniff. Now that they’re a little more alone, she considers asking the lady whether she’d mind if she stretched out on the floor. But the door has just opened. A haggard adolescent boy walks in and takes possession of one of the two wicker chairs. She thinks that he looks like a leek. Out of politeness, she tries to resist the fascination exerted by his severe acne. The woman has started blowing her nose again, and the young man has taken a comic book out of his backpack. The little girl begins to study her. And because she doesn’t look away, the child gets up and comes over, brandishing the woman-shaped piece of plastic under her nose. My Barbie has a pain. She senses the mother’s watchful eyes on her but doesn’t know what the appropriate response would be. She’s not well? Yes, she has a pain right there. And the child’s finger presses the tiny chest. She could tell her that it’s lucky they’re at the doctor’s, but the little girl seems to be expecting a slightly more intelligent response from her. Heartburn, that happens sometimes, but it will pass. The little girl smiles. So it will pass for Mommy too? The mother has suddenly stopped blowing her nose. Come here and leave the lady alone. The door opens, mother and daughter go out after hearing their names. She is alone with the placid young leek, who is hunched over his album of brightly colored pictures. If she lay down on the soft carpet, he probably wouldn’t notice, but she doesn’t dare. He must be getting ready to leave his office. They could be together right now if she weren’t here, waiting for an appointment that isn’t going to reveal anything other than the fact that she’s come down with a good old dose of flu. She tries to convince herself that he was right to cancel their date. It’s true that she wouldn’t have been on top form. Even so, she can’t help imagining the possibility that he might unexpectedly come to her place later to see how she is. She picks up a Paris-Match with a torn front cover which now shows only the chins and chests of a man and woman side by side. The words Paradis- Depp appear in large letters. She leafs through several pages before putting down the magazine, unable to concentrate. The door opens, an elderly couple walks in, taking small, hesitant steps. The woman in black motions to her, shakes her hand before asking her to come this way.

The blinds in the overheated office are drawn; the walls are hidden by shelves crammed with files. Each one contains a record of the worries, pathologies, and sufferings of a human being. Some are slim, others far thicker, a collection of ills arranged in alphabetical order. The doctor has sat down behind her desk. She is suntanned; her black eyes express nothing in particular beyond a certain weariness. She takes a new file from a drawer and asks her to spell out her first and last name, to give her date of birth and to describe the reason for her visit. She is not unhappy to be asked questions in this way; she experiences a sense of relief, as though she were submitting to a procedure that would allow her to square herself with the authorities. So she gives precise answers to the person in front of her, whom she imagines as a fantastical being, a kind of magician immunized against pain. Undress, I’m going to examine you. The doctor points at the examining table, which she covers with a sheet of white paper. She takes off her clothes and drapes them carefully over the back of a chair. Once naked, she tries hard to act as if she were still dressed. The doctor asks her to step onto the scales, then to sit on the table so she can listen to her heartbeat. She takes deeper breaths. The cool pressure of the stethoscope against her back makes her feel as if she is being rocked by something invisible and soothing. The doctor wraps a black band around her upper arm, which she inflates with a small pump. Next, she makes her open her mouth, shines a light on the back of her throat, has a good look inside, feels her neck, asks her to lie down, then slowly palpates her joints, armpits, breasts and belly. The pressure of these hands is so calming that she already feels half-cured. She appreciates that the doctor intently going about her job does not look her in the eyes and behaves as if she were dealing with an organism just like any other, merely checking to see if it’s in good working order. Finally the verdict is pronounced, you have the flu, I’m going to prescribe a light course of treatment. The doctor returns to her desk and starts writing something that she isn’t entitled to see. Have you already thought about having children? For several seconds, she isn’t sure if the doctor was talking to her. No one has ever asked her that question and, just then, she doesn’t have the slightest idea how to respond. It feels as if the other woman has turned into a judge, and she is standing naked before her. Even worse, she will be given the maximum sentence if her answer is no. I don’t know. Perhaps the doctor is full of good intentions: in the next room, she might be keeping a fine male specimen whom she orders to inseminate, free of charge, any female patient who so desires it. The doctor is still writing, as though she were now taking notes on her reactions. Time passes quickly, you know. The sentence rings out like a warning. She thinks back to the little girl in the waiting room and how clumsy she had felt while talking to her. To imagine the physical sensation of a body inside her own, the plump bulge on which she would proudly lay her hands. . yes, she remembers having already tried to, at the market, because of Marion’s child. But even with him, the thought of a child leaves her cold. Still, they say that once you find the man, having children comes naturally. She’s the exception that proves the rule. It all seems unnatural to her. Intrusion rather than fusion. She isn’t cut out for giving life, it’s as simple as that. Too noble and too abnormal for her. I know about the time factor, but I don’t think I’m cut out for it. The doctor has finally stopped writing and gives her an indulgent smile. I can assure you that you have everything you need. The situation is starting to get on her nerves. She came because of the flu, and now they want to sell her a baby. She might have everything that’s needed, like other women, but she knows that she doesn’t have the strength, the inner strength. She’d like to explain to her that it’s not her fault but she feels too shaky to talk. She realizes that she is still naked. To regain her composure, she decides to get dressed. Give it some careful thought. She has had enough. Still clutching her panties, she looks the doctor straight in the eye. And what about you, do you have children? Once again, she gives her that small, indulgent smile. No, and that’s precisely why I’m mentioning it to you. And she hands over the prescription.