Celine Curiol - Voice Over

In the métro, a little girl of about ten is fluttering around a man who is undoubtedly her father. She hops about, straddles his knees, strokes his cheeks with dramatic ostentation, before jumping down and immediately starting all over again. Her eyes shine, a sprig of a woman unconsciously flirting with the prince of her dreams, who lets her romp as she pleases and does little more than hold her by the waist to prevent her from falling backwards. She observes this innocent seductive dance, hypnotized but also worried that at any moment it could descend into something sordid and unspeakable. She feels as if she’s watching two similar scenes taking place at once. The first tender, that of a little girl expressing her affection for her father, the second that of a father, turned into a man again, holding his prey down on his knees.

He has been gone for ten days now. She doesn’t have the courage to wait any longer. When she dials the number, her fingers tremble. Too bad if Ange answers, she’ll hang up. Hello? His voice, at last she has him on the other end of the line. Her heart starts pumping faster, reaching to the abnormal volume of blood that suddenly surges into her chest. Have you been back long? It takes a while for him to answer. I was going to call you, I wanted to think things over. His voice is heavy as if he has rehearsed the phrase dozens of times. Above all, no reproaches, she seems to remember reading somewhere that men don’t like that. Even so, make him understand that his long silence hasn’t left her unscathed. I’ve waited, you know. And as she says it, she reflects on how cruel it is to let someone wallow in the hope of a future life together when the subject is too fraught even to be discussed. I’ve been thinking about you. What exactly could he have been thinking? About the concentrated way she listens to him, about the rush of emotions his intense look provokes in her, about the overwhelming affection she’s unable to hide? Or has he never noticed these things which always seem so blatant to her? Ange has gone off to see a friend and she won’t be back until tomorrow, we can see each other at my brother’s place, he’s away on holiday. At the café, at his brother’s, she would meet him anywhere. The only thing that counts is that she should not have to wait any longer. His brother lives near the Place-Monge métro station. She hangs up, climbs to her feet and launches into an impromptu dance, waving her arms about, hopping from one foot to the other, following a rhythm she alone can hear, until, sweating and breathless, she collapses onto the sofa.

She has knocked, the door opens. He has a rather wobbly smile on his face and has yet to speak. She wonders if she is destined to spend her entire life knocking at apartment doors, waiting for a man to let her in, or if these are simply accidental repetitions. She is wearing her low-cut black dress, the one that earned her the compliment. She doesn’t feel very comfortable in it but wants to make an impression. They walk down a long hallway, so long that she can’t see the end of it, and reach the living room, which is a mess and has very little furniture, a couch, a lamp, a piano, as if the occupants were in the process of moving. Littering the floor are copies of Le Monde, a decorative carpet patterned with detailed accounts of the agonies and sufferings of distant peoples. My brother and his wife work long hours. The life of a modern couple chasing success: hurried mornings, exhausted evenings, the rest of the day apart. At bottom, not so much worse than her own. They’ve gone to the Balearic Islands. She doesn’t know where the Balearic Islands are, couldn’t care less. Why is he waiting to come over and kiss her? Why is she waiting to sit down or talk about her day or ask to use the bathroom to redo her make-up, in other words, to behave like any normal woman who shows up for a tryst with her lover? Too hesitant to touch each other, they go on standing there, mute, alone together for the first time.

He has just remembered the piano. The parquet floor groans under his shoeless feet. He lifts the lid and presses one of the white, ivory keys with his finger. D. Without thinking, she has said the name of the note, he has looked up. Surprised, pleased. She is about to go over to him, but he stops her by raising his hand. His index finger shifts over, presses down on a different key. A. A nod of the head, an admiring look. The index finger hovers over the keyboard and strikes once more. E. The questioner wins. No, it’s the black one before E, you nearly got it. She stands a few steps away from him, stiff as an “I,” on the alert, abnormally attentive to his slightest gesture. You wouldn’t by any chance be a bit obsessive? She hasn’t a clue what prompted his remark. She is ready to defend herself, to charge back with unimpeachable arguments, when he brings a finger to his lips, commanding silence. Play something. Not now. The tune the fat little bloke was playing in the métro, remember that? It was pretty awful. Something else then. It’s been a long time, I’ve forgotten how. He takes hold of her hand and leads her over to the velvet stool. She puts up no resistance. Have a go. She knows she won’t be able to, and time has nothing to do with it. But it’s not yet possible to make him understand. She slides onto the rectangular stool and positions her hands, ten fingers out, ready to crease the ribbon of keys and make the chords of the instrument sing. Behind her, his breathing, his anticipation. She feels her arms seizing up. It’s the same with horseback-riding, he ought to know that. Anyone who doesn’t climb back into the saddle right after a fall will never jump over obstacles again. Because of intractable fear. I can’t. He has no reason to insist, but he probably thinks he has found a weak spot, the beginning of an answer, the key to her identity and the reason for his own attachment. Make an effort. He places his two hands over hers and pushes them down hard on the keyboard. The jumbled notes fill the room with an unholy dissonance. A symphony for the handicapped, our first composition. Their cheeks are practically touching. She shuts her eyes; her whole face is tense, as if in pain. She knows that he can see her out of the corner of his eye. You won’t be able to do it like that. He wraps his arms around her and rocks her until her eyes finally open again.

I didn’t go away on a trip. She stood up without a word, shutting the lid of the piano. That day Ange had called him just before he left the office. She had been crying, she felt he’d been distant towards her lately; she couldn’t stop thinking about it. He had tensed up in his chair, his stomach had cramped, but he had tried to reassure her. It was nothing, really; nothing at all, he had a lot of work at the moment, maybe he was a little distracted, but it was nothing to worry about. This was how he had got out of it. I told her as best as I could that I loved her, I’m not even sure that I was lying, you know. She is standing in front of the balcony window, her profile impassive, gazing out at the city. When he turned the corner into the street that led to the café where she was waiting, he was twenty minutes late. Even before he reached the entrance, he spotted her behind the window. Her eyes were glued to the door, she didn’t see him. Her head was resting on a hand with a small spoon in it. All he could see was her profile, her patient mouth, her watchful eye. He was about to cross those few yards between him and the glass door, he was going to walk in and sit down in front of her. I was going to tell you that it’s over, Ange is the one I love. But it did him no good to rehearse the scene in his mind, his feet refused to budge. Through the space between two curtains, she sees a woman sitting on a sofa, smoking pensively, a telephone positioned on her lap. She too is waiting for some poor disembodied voice to tell her that her turn has come; she too is hoping that this voice will give some illusory significance to all that has happened to her previously. On the other side of the café windows, he’d watched her slip her hands between her knees. It struck him he was observing a well-behaved child intent on pleasing an absent adult. Yes, he felt something for her, but was it enough? What was he doing there, unable to go either forwards or backwards? A man who could make decisions, that was how he had always thought of himself. But now, he never would have believed. . He has slid down beside her, avoiding contact. Out on the street, he had thought back to his conversation with Ange, who senses everything, who misses nothing, who probably knows him better than he thinks. On no account hurt that woman, that was the principle he had to follow. And so he’d turned back from the café and retraced his steps. She recalls the stock scene of the prison visit, where two characters separated by a glass panel can’t touch and press their hands to the same place, on either side of the glass barrier. I don’t know what I should do, you understand. She doesn’t want to listen to another word, she doesn’t care about explanations that brush against reality without managing to contain it. It’s complicated, I can’t leave Ange. She has never asked him to do anything of the sort. She’s not even sure that if she were in his place she would leave Ange for herself. It makes no difference, since she is already with him in her own way. She feels the delicious weight of his hand on her shoulder. I’m not comparing the two of you. Yes you are, and deep down you think that Ange can make you happier than I can. He isn’t sure he has ever thought of the problem in those terms. It’s more a matter of what already exists, of not having the energy to start all over again, with no guarantee of reaching a better result. Our past holds us together. She can’t help letting out a sigh. True, but what a sad platitude masquerading as an escape hatch. Despite all the books he’s read, he’s the one who’s hesitating as if he hasn’t learned a thing. She feels that she knows so much more about the nature of her feelings. You’re the only one, you understand, there won’t be anybody else. She has plunged her words straight into his heart. He tightens his fingers around her arm and pulls her towards him.