Marie NDiaye - Ladivine

Her mother no longer fell into those trances, no longer felt that pointless, misplaced anticipation.

Rarely now did she raise her eyes to Clarisse Rivière’s delicate, almost unlined face, knowing she would find only the placid, remote, reserved benevolence that never appeared on her own clenched, tortured face.

She no longer asked for anything, hoped for anything.

Her turmoil itself was only a hold-over from times long gone by, when she still yearned to know of the life her daughter Malinka lived, despairing of ever finding out but not yet accepting that she never would.

Clarisse Rivière sensed that her mother had stopped wanting to know, that it was too late, that the equilibrium she had finally found in silence and uncertainty would have been upset with nothing much gained.

Because, unaware even of Richard’s existence, or Ladivine’s, what would she now get out of seeing their pictures, two adults, two strangers who knew nothing of her?

Would those smiling faces, those faces open to life, perfectly ignorant of Malinka’s mother’s existence, and happy in that un- awareness, would those faces not have seemed to her hostile, hurtful in their obvious contentment?

Her mother would pour the coffee, then say, “I’ll get dressed,” which meant she was going off to change from the jeans and sweatshirt she wore at home to the beige polyester slacks and checked or floral blouse she wore only to go out, transforming the young woman she still seemed to be, her limbs straight and slender beneath the tight, faded cotton, into a homely, modest, proletarian lady of middle age.

And the more the years went by, it seemed, the deeper the gulf between her youthful appearance at home, which never changed, and the outmoded, humble look she put on as she readied herself to go out, as if the truth of age and anxiety had to come out somewhere, if not, thought Clarisse Rivière, the most essential truth, the truth of her very life.

Then they set out on a walk through the streets of Sainte-Croix, their itinerary always the same.

On running into an acquaintance, Malinka’s mother would pause, slightly stiff, slightly solemn, like a very mildly put-upon queen, just long enough to swap a few inconsequential words with the other woman, who, though not unused to the sight, couldn’t help casting furtive, curious glances at the cold, still Clarisse Rivière, that neighbour or belote partner knowing this was the daughter though she had never been introduced, and by instinct obeying the unspoken rule against asking questions, and even against visibly noting that standing by the mother was an unspeaking woman with a white face.

Malinka’s mother thus led her daughter through the streets like the object of her dishonour, a dishonour too great even to be looked on, and Clarisse Rivière alone knew that, on the contrary, her mother had always taken an unstinting pride in her, and that it was she, Clarisse Rivière, who was walking arm-in-arm with the object of her shame.

They headed back to the little flat, already abandoned by the sunlight in mid-afternoon.

There Malinka’s mother set about making some complicated treat, a pie, a batch of petits fours, sweets, impossible to finish before Clarisse Rivière had to be off, as she knew perfectly well, pretending to think that her daughter would be delighted to take that dessert with her, pretending to believe her daughter would like nothing more than to take it home, where there lived, in all likelihood (and her, the mother, no doubt guessing at this, because she knew nothing, because she had no idea who and how many shared her daughter’s life), people who had no idea she existed, to whom her daughter would have to lie about the origin of the pastries and pretend to believe it.

Clarisse Rivière had long since stopped resisting.

She sat down in the velvet armchair and watched, quiet, indifferent, almost apathetic, as her mother fretfully bustled around her little kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets for dishes and ingredients.

And she, Clarisse Rivière, looked at her without seeing her, quiet, indifferent, sitting motionless in the velvet armchair as if she were the old woman here, and cold, impersonal thoughts fluttered through her untroubled mind.

She mused that she could easily bring home a cake made by her mother, for neither Richard nor Ladivine, not untrusting or curious by nature, would think anything of it.

But she never would, she thought.

She would sooner drop the cake into a bin at the station.

Malinka’s mother was not to insert herself into Clarisse Rivière’s life in any way, and she alone, Clarisse Rivière, was permitted to eat the food she prepared, the cake of tears, the anger-laced biscuits.

She alone, Clarisse Rivière, for the bitterness passed through her without swelling inside her.

And so she let her hard little thoughts wheel through her mind like shrieking birds, and her mother couldn’t hear them. She was busy, and could not hear a sound.

Her mother would chatter on, commenting on what she was doing, and as the minutes went by and the time neared for her daughter to be going, she would launch mechanically into an unvarying speech whose purpose, long ago, was to inspire her daughter Malinka’s pity for her lot, and the pity never came, but the words stayed the same, recited without passion or hope, as if out of fidelity to that long-ago woman, that Malinka’s mother who thought herself capable of moving her daughter, and whose memory had to be preserved and respected.

Oh, but the pity did come, thought Clarisse Rivière, and it was still there, still throbbing and hurting the instant she saw her mother again.

But there was nothing that pity could do, because her will was stronger.

She would leap to her feet, making her mother start in surprise.

She would snatch up her bag and rush out as always, scarcely embracing her, leaving her mother there with her hands covered in butter or flour, and nothing could stop Clarisse Rivière from leaving, but she thoughtfully acted as if a surge of affection might still stop her, as if she had to fight back that surge, when in fact once out of that suffocating room she felt only relief, she felt almost happy, brought back to life by a rough, impatient pleasure.

The next visit, a month away, seemed so distant as to be hypothetical, and, although in reality never seeing her mother again would have tormented her cruelly, it was a delectable dream, and it filled her with a savage, dizzying joy.

Because she could easily choose never to come back, she could unburden her life of her mother’s clandestine existence without anyone knowing or condemning her.

She fled down the street, half-running, giddy, she might almost have let out a whoop, and the blood pounded in her temples.

She felt as though she had eluded the threat, as though Clarisse Rivière had once again slipped free of Malinka’s mother before she could change her role and, exploiting a lapse in her daughter’s vigilance, turn into the mother of Clarisse Rivière.

But no, Malinka’s mother was still just what she was supposed to be, and all was well.

She could forget that old woman, the Sainte-Croix neighbourhood, the dim ground-floor flat, oh she could forget that crazy old woman.

Once, lost in that bliss, she had fainted at the end of the street, one of her shoes coming off and tumbling into the wet, filthy gutter.

Someone helped her up and accompanied her to the nearest pharmacy.

And there, as they sat her down in a chair, pressed a damp cloth to her forehead and asked various questions concerning her health, her identity, as a gentle hand slipped her shoe back onto her foot and a shudder of disgust ran through her at the feel of the damp grit on her bare skin, she vowed never to let this happen again, so close by her mother’s, strangers talking to Clarisse Rivière, trying to get something out of her, wanting to call someone to come and take her home, and her merely shaking her head in reply.