Celine Curiol - Voice Over

She pushes the directory to one side and goes back to staring at the phone. Ange is too perceptive. She’ll recognize her voice or else start asking all sorts of questions, finding it suspicious that a woman she has never heard of is calling them at home. If he were back, he would have been in touch, there’s no question about it. Which means that he’s still out of town, in a place where the telephone hasn’t been invented. His trip has been extended, he is up to his eyes in work, he lost his address book with her number in it, it’s been stolen along with the rest of his papers. Wait, have confidence, convince herself that nothing is gained by worrying about nothing, remember that life has a nasty habit of eluding whatever predictions you try to impose on it. Wait, but what to do while waiting? She has to find someone to talk to in order to stop brooding. She goes to fetch the two business cards from her bag.

Olivier Chedubarum remembers her at once. I’m delighted that you haven’t forgotten. The session will be fun, he tells her. She doubts that she is very photogenic. Photogenic is a word invented by bad photographers as an excuse to justify their bad pictures. He invites her to stop by his place in the afternoon. She writes down the address on the back of one of his business cards. It’s easy to find, you’ll see.

The stairway is dim. She couldn’t find the timer-switch. A faint white light drips down from a window on the first floor, emphasizing the horizontal edges of the stone steps. The silence here is clean and cold. She slides her hand up the polished-wood banister to find her way. The building once belonged to Madame de Staël. The deep voice resonates down the stairwell. Looking up, she catches sight of Olivier Chedubarum’s head trapped in the perspective of the spiralling stairs. She doesn’t know who Madame de Staël is, even though the name sounds familiar. She leans on the banister to say that she didn’t know, but Olivier Chedubarum’s head has disappeared. She begins climbing again. This building would be a perfect place for Alice Tournelle; he’s probably trying to call her right now; she’s forgotten to put on make-up, which isn’t going to help the photo. The door is ajar. She knocks gently and, an instant later, Olivier Chedubarum materializes before her, cigarette balanced on his lower lip, his hair a mess, his eyes alert beneath his rather swollen eyelids. How are you, come on in, this is my studio.

Olivier Chedubarum has headed over to a table strewn with unpacked boxes of film, rolls, negatives, papers, magnifying glasses, pencils, screwdrivers, lenses, cameras, which he starts to move about efficiently but in an order that seems arbitrary to her. Hanging on one of the studio walls are twelve color photographs arranged in two rows, one above the other. It takes her a few seconds to comprehend what she’s looking at. Kiwis and breasts, kiwi hearts and nipples. The cross-sections of six kiwis and the nipples of six women have been photographed close-up. Inlaid into the emerald flesh, the black seeds ring the pale green core, its outline always different, unique, similar to the outline of the nipple encircled by its brown aureole, whose diameter and coloring always vary. Do you like them? She says yes, in the same way she could have said no, for she isn’t sure what effect these photos have on her, other than that of looking at familiar things she has never paid much attention to. When she turns around, Olivier Chedubarum is busy positioning two large floor lamps that are directed at a stool, behind which hangs a large sheet of black cloth.

Someone is watching her. On the threshold of what until then had been a closed door, there is a long woman in a dressing gown. Only expanses of white space are visible between the doorframe and the contours of her body, as if the room behind her contained no furniture, no limits. Who is she? the woman asks. Olivier Chedubarum straightens up, surprised by the sudden apparition as well. He says to her “my darling.” The woman hardly reacts. My darling. The woman’s eyes are still trained on her, as if to push her back. She says her name, but it sounds false, it doesn’t belong to her any more. The woman hears it, ponders it for a moment, shoots an outraged glance at the photographer, and closes the door again. Don’t worry, she’s a bit jealous, she’s, how shall I put it, sensitive. With that, Olivier Chedubarum disappears to the back of the studio. She hears water running from a tap. He returns holding a branch of tiny tomatoes pearled with droplets of water, which he sets down delicately on the table. He locks the front door and his wife’s door, then places black screens over the two studio windows. He screws a lens onto a camera body, which he screws onto a tripod. She doesn’t dare move. Olivier Chedubarum’s index finger straightens, indicating to her the stool in the middle of the set-up. She sits down without a word. He points at the curvature of her neck, that soft intimate hollow, receptacle of kisses, tears and sighs. I need to see all the skin in that spot. He goes to fetch his mounted camera, which he positions within a metre of her. She hesitates, takes hold of her T-shirt with both hands. Her two breasts, cupped in her bra, suddenly occupy the center of the room. There is no visible reaction from Olivier Chedubarum, who holds out a blanket to her without further instruction. He dips his head behind the camera, she then furtively slips off her bra and drapes herself in the rough material, which she holds in place with one hand. He brings over the bunch of tomatoes. Tilt your head. He deposits the fresh, light fruit on her neck. Now don’t move. She can no longer see anything but Olivier Chedubarum’s fingers dancing around the camera, which hides his face. A drop of water runs over her chest. The intense light from the lamps forces her to blink. There is no more studio around her; Olivier Chedubarum has been absorbed into the light. Only his shadow continues to shift on the ceiling. She feels as if she’s floating in space. She tightens her grip on the blanket. She hears the shutter clicking repeatedly in the absolute stillness of the room. The heat from the lamps slowly warms her up, she relaxes, alert but almost released from her consciousness.

The lamps have been switched off. She doesn’t want to believe the session is over. Her neck is stiff from having remained in the same position for so long. Olivier Chedubarum has become one with his body again. He retrieves the tomatoes, which have magically stayed in place. You’re very patient. It was easy, even pleasant. He offers to make her tea. She then notices the way he walks: somewhat hesitantly, as if he were advancing down a too-narrow corridor and continually knocking into the walls. She uses the opportunity to get dressed, wondering what part of her he shot. She runs her fingers over the base of her neck: the skin is still damp, smooth. She would never have believed that piece of her could be of interest. Afraid of committing a blunder, she doesn’t dare move around very much, still less to put her hands on one of those enigmatic devices, which could go off at the merest provocation. Olivier Chedubarum returns with a tray bearing a pot of steaming tea and two cups. He sets it down at the foot of two chairs next to the windows, then removes the screens in front of them. She has no idea what time it is. He probably has called. And she realizes that for the first time in a week, she has been granted a respite: she hasn’t thought about him once.

The doors are still locked, the woman hasn’t reappeared. All that can be seen through the window is sky. She feels assuaged by the simplicity of the moment and the solid presence of the photographer. She is no longer fully certain that she is in the world she left behind when she went up Madame Thingamajig’s staircase. A move into the fourth dimension, a detail has changed, but it takes a chance event for it to become apparent. That man you were waiting for, did you find him? Olivier Chedubarum is filling the cups. In his massive hands the teapot resembles a toy. I’m not sure I want to talk about it. The herbal scent of the tea reminds her of a medicine. She imagines that Olivier Chedubarum intends to cure her of an undiagnosed illness that only he has noticed. She sucks in a mouthful of hot liquid. In any case, she shouldn’t stay too long. He seems to mean a lot to you. He says it in a kind, responsive voice, the one used on children to get them to tell their secrets. You remind me of someone. Olivier Chedubarum sits up, flattered. Someone nice, I hope. No, not really, someone who stepped over the limits. Olivier Chedubarum sits back in his chair, smiling tenderly. You’re a strange girl. Yes, that’s what they usually say. They drink their tea in silence, as if it were a ritual that belonged to an old friendship. You’ll send me one of the photographs? Come and collect it. She sets her cup down on the tray and writes her number in the Clairefontaine notebook he holds out to her. It was nice. She gets to her feet. Olivier Chedubarum doesn’t take his eyes off her.