Voice Over (11 page)

For four days, the telephone has been silent. She has hardly spoken a word. The usual questions and comments to colleagues, reduced to an absolute minimum—How are you? Good weekend? Awful weather! Not a peep about her misadventures. She has no intention of stoking rumors with an account of the past twenty-four hours. She knows full well that whether she boasted about it or complained, it would do her no good. More than a year ago, she overheard a conversation in the women's toilet at her office. The voices of two women, each in her respective cubicle, who thought they were alone. She had come in; the women had carried on, no more able to see her than she was able to see them, each from behind her closed door, skirts pulled up, ass exposed, chatting away as calmly as though they were sitting over a cup of tea. They had tried out several adjectives on her—quiet, cold, withdrawn—until they finally settled on the vaguest and broadest of them all: strange.

She wonders if he is going to call. The question punctuates her days, crops up at any moment, at work, during meals, while she's asleep, and as soon as it starts to slip her mind, returns with even greater urgency. Each time, the question seems to overpower yet another portion of her brain. No longer is it just
one question, but ten, a hundred, a thousand identical questions, which wind up occupying nearly all the space available. Leaving her with just enough for what is strictly necessary. In the meantime, she functions. And so it goes, until Thursday evening.

On the news, she is watching images of an enormous blackout in New York. People are sleeping outdoors on pavements and in parks, unable to get home, the correspondent explains. She's not sure that one should feel sorry for them. Sleeping outdoors is a hundred times better than being locked in! Have millions been affected by the absence of electricity? asks the presenter, who already knows the answer. She has never been to New York; it's a city she views with some suspicion. Every accident, incident, attack seems to happen on a scale not comparable to events in Paris. As she is nevertheless trying to take an interest in the displaced New Yorkers, who have been plunged into darkness, the telephone rings. One hand pounces on the remote control as the other swoops down on the handset. No doubt about it, the call is from him. She doesn't feel ready for the verdict. Waiting at least had the benefit of prolonging the yes or the no. She picks up. He begins with his usual “how's it going?” as if they had seen each other the day before; as if, for the two of them, time passed at a different rate. She makes herself repeat OK with the same apparent detachment. Then, for several seconds, all that stirs on the line is the sound of their breathing. He says, about tomorrow, she feels her heart tighten, it won't be possible; she stops listening. The rest, the reason, the excuse, the pretext, whatever can be called what he is now setting forth to her in detail, no longer matters. Once again, it has to do with Ange. She is relieved and disappointed; something
between the two, shuttling from one to the other, so rapidly that the two merge. She attempts to console herself, at least she tried. Except now she is certain she would have preferred him to say yes; she won't dare ask him for anything again. Leaving aside the invitation to the theater, being alone with her is what he has wanted to avoid. She realizes that he is still speaking. She holds the receiver away from her ear, then hangs up.

She doesn't want him to reassure her about what he no doubt intended to refer to as their bonds of friendship. She detests these empty words, which people apply like so many sticking plasters wherever they detect emotional leakage. She doesn't want to witness the perverse transformation in him brought on by guilt. Had she stayed on the other end of the line, he would have levelled the highpoints of their story armed with his premeditated good intentions, would have opened up an area of common ground between them through which he could circulate without suffering any emotional shocks. He would have taken the opportunity to put his own house in order as well; he would have confidently declared what he doesn't really believe but would hope, by trying to convince her, he would hope to convince himself. And she would have been forced to take this pummelling without flinching. If he had given her a blunt no, the message would have been unambiguous, clear, precise, clinical. Bye, thanks, we'll forget it ever happened. The opportunity was there, we didn't take it, too bad. The story would come to an end; she would have battened down the hatches and would at last have been able to act as if this man didn't exist. But he spoke at length, more talkative than ever before, justifying his decision with all sorts of clauses and sub-clauses. He's thought about it, hesitated, and refused. She understands that his words
had only one aim: to make sure that he wasn't losing her despite his refusal.

She lets the phone ring. Five rings, and the answering machine picks up the call. Listen, I don't know why you're taking it like this. Then he stops talking. The miniature cassette records his silence. Her eyes are riveted on the phone. She is not taking it like this. It's not easy to explain, but he ought to be able to understand. A long beep marks the end of the call. He has hung up.

 

 

Sometimes in the métro she has the impression that she is disintegrating. She's sitting in the company of other silent passengers, not thinking about anything in particular, swayed by the motion of the carriage progressing through the tunnels. She isn't asleep, but it is only at the final brake that she realizes the train has entered a station. It then takes her several long seconds before she knows if she has to get out at that stop or not. She has to review the preceding hours in her mind, follow the trail of cause and effect to work out why she is there at that precise moment, sitting in that métro, and decide to stay. The métro sets off again. And in the course of the journey to the next station, she again loses all notion of time and space. As the train comes to a halt once more, she has to perform the same mental calculation so that this time she can struggle to her feet and slip through the doors, which are about to close.

 

 

She retrieves a bottle of whisky from the disarray of a kitchen cupboard. Six inches of golden liquid. She swallows the first gulp with a slight wince. The taste gives her goose bumps. Alcohol dissolves most troubles, penetrates the mucous membranes,
slows the nerve impulses, relaxes obsessive thoughts—the fragile, drunk heroine is condemned to eternal sadness. A fairy tale in reverse. Total flop. No one cares any more about the ravages of passion; our age has stopped believing in them. And yet people cry out for drama more than ever, ready to pay a high price in exchange for it. There has to be action, upheaval, constant change. Thrills are required to distract and impress the customer. The abrupt halt of their telephone conversation appears to signify a rupture, but not one she can take seriously. Whisky number two. She feels as if they have set out to explore a region where the climate is harsher. Heavy showers, bundle up, bursts of sunlight early in the morning. She pictures the two of them in long oilskins by a stormy sea, hunched over to shield themselves from the gusting wind. How to talk in such conditions? The first thing to do is to seek shelter. She feels certain that each of them knows where to find the other. She knows the place where he has gone to hide. She actually should be congratulating herself: she's rescued them from one hell of a tight corner. Raising her glass, she toasts the empty room. For now, it's bound to be a bit painful. There are moments, she explains to her green plant, when radical measures are required if the worst is to be avoided. If their conversation had got out of hand, they would have ended up throwing their raw feelings in each other's faces. Full-blown carnage and no one to wipe up the mess afterwards. She now has to wait for calm to return. It will take time. She can't imagine what he might be doing now, still less what might be going through his mind. Chances are he is with Ange. In which case, he's having a beer in the living room or eating with her in the kitchen. If she were a fly, better still an ant, stationed on the
edge of the sink with antennae out, she would listen until Ange chased her away with a swipe of her sponge. What a revelation it would be! In her human form, she has never overheard even a snippet of private conversation between them. The odd words required for the smooth functioning of their life together—shall we go, can you take my bag, yes I'll have some—but nothing resembling a discussion or a row. She therefore lacks the material with which to reconstruct their conversations. Perhaps they are watching a film on TV, he very intent, Ange distracted, announcing the solution to the mystery in advance, he complaining, she apologizing. It's not my fault, it just slipped out; anyway, you guessed as much. Or else they are making love. The image of a dark room filled with sighs, then more sighs. Mustn't switch on the light: what his naked body is plotting against Ange's would appear in full view. She doesn't want to know, which is understandable. She finishes the bottle. Is he upset? Angry? Offended? Riddled with remorse? Or perhaps pleased? Glad to be rid of her? Can he see her, a blot of yellow oilskin in the midst of a damp fog, hidden in some far corner of his mind? She juggles the various options but can't manage to sort them out. She lacks key data. Even for herself, the storm had brought down a number of certainties she felt were solidly anchored. Such as there could never be any misunderstandings between them. How does one define a misunderstanding, though? The magazines on the shelf don't deign to reply. Between them there had previously been an understanding, which has mutated into a misunderstanding. What is the difference? She has had too much to drink; she is unsure about the next steps. Good and evil are both an arbitrary distinction and an infernal dichotomy. The main thing is to
understand each another. She doesn't have the strength to carry on talking to the furniture. She dozes off.

 

 

The ringing of the phone pulls her from the depths of sleep. She is stretched out on the sofa between two pairs of bronze arms and bronze legs. With much difficulty, she extends her hand to catch hold of the receiver and stop the noise in her ears. She doesn't say “hello,” doesn't have a single drop of saliva left in her mouth. How are you? For the first time, he has said it with feeling. No longer is it mere politeness or a verbal tic: he wants to know how she is. The expression is no longer a screen, it conveys genuine intent. For the first time, she doesn't parrot back like a fool, OK. She gives a real answer to his real question. I have a terrible headache. Even as it sinks in that he is there, at the other end of the line, that he has called her back. She is surprised, but she tells herself it couldn't have been any other way. The storm has passed, their bond has held. The forgiveness is tacit, the hard feelings have never been explicit or implicit, there never were any. It's the start of intimacy. Two people who know the same thing, without having to put it into words. The conversation that follows is the one they haven't had yet: What time is it? Seven o'clock. I'm going to be late. Did I wake you up? I'm glad you did, I didn't think I'd slept for so long. You needed it. And you, did you get some sleep? Not much. He must have faced facts. What has happened between them isn't trivial. He hurt her, and it has affected him more than he could have imagined. Despite all his past efforts, he can no longer delude himself about the essence of what exists between them. Ignoring it is now more awkward than acknowledging it. And he acknowledges it, as she just understood from their conversation. I'll call
you, he says. The words are the same, the intent has changed: she believes him. As she puts down the phone, her whole body is electrified. Tonight she will go to the theater alone, but that doesn't matter anymore.

 

 

She is at the microphone. She reads out: The TER 47433 service, bound for Beauvais, departing at 11:22 am, will leave from platform number 7. The TGV 7040 from Lille will arrive at platform J. Attention please, attention please, please note the change of platform. This regional service will be stopping at Amiens, Lamotte-Brebière, Daours, Corbie, Heilly, and Méricourt-Ribemont. Her voice fills the entire station, soaring over the platforms, the halls, sailing into corners, crashing into glass walls. She is present everywhere, and yet no one recognizes her. There is a little trick she does to avoid stumbling over her words: she focuses on what she is saying without focusing on the fact that she is saying it. Never fails. The travellers soak up the information she sends them through the invisible loudspeakers. She is perfectly anonymous, talking to everyone and yet addressing no one. Occasionally she dreams that one of them won't head straight for the taxi rank, won't rush down the stairs into the métro, won't revert quite so quickly to his habitual self the moment he steps off the train, and that instead he'll stop and tell her about what he saw during the course of his trip. All she knows about the towns and villages to which they travel are their names and positions on the map. That is all she has to picture them. Her own journey goes only so far as announcing destinations, navigating between syllables of names, pronouncing numbers and letters correctly. On the rare occasions when she has taken a train, she experienced the same sense
of misgiving that a doctor would who has to undergo medical treatment. And then, in order to get away, you need to know where to go; you need a destination. A motive is what tears through the protective layer of the everyday. Departure is an upheaval, which can only be calmed by the pleasure of experiencing the desired place. She would have liked to travel everywhere; in other words, nowhere. But while she may never have had a valid reason to leave, she now has a good excuse to stay.

 

 

After walking out of the station, she stops in at a café. She wants to celebrate their reunion. The waiter is surly, but in her current state she could put up with insults and still be smiling. Hot chocolate, its sweet taste, comfort, a childhood treat. To prolong the pleasure, she drinks it with a small spoon. Everything has yet to start; all is held in suspense. Full of promise. In bud. The horizon is clear, the best can be imagined. He has just offered her the place she has been trying to occupy for a long time, by her own crude and ineffectual means, without ever daring to demand it. She knows that everything will be more complicated later. But for now, what happens next is nothing compared to the present, which overwhelms all else, encompassing both past and future. A happy anticipation of what she now has no more reason to fear. Behind the window, pedestrians are walking by in waves. She passes the time following several of them with her eyes, testing the force of her gaze. The challenge: to pierce through the layers of thoughts and preoccupations that cut them off from the world around them. The rules: to use only your eyes. The purpose of the experiment: to determine the time it takes for them to turn their heads in her
direction. The findings: first of all, there are those who are impossible to reach, who forge ahead without noticing anything. Wasted effort, they're the sort who will never respond. Then there are those who react at once and yet seem to be the most absent. Their heads jerk round suddenly, as if their skulls were attached to a wire on which she'd given a sharp tug. They gaze straight at her, forcing her to withdraw into herself as if she'd been bitten. Lastly, there are the ones she has to make an effort with and who make her feel as if she's fishing. At the last minute, just as they're about to disappear from sight, they turn their heads, slowly, as though thinking someone had called their name. They don't always see her, but they look in the right direction. They are her favorites because they belong to the same category she does. Now that she had finished warming up, she turns her attention to the people inside the café. Easier because no one is moving, more risky because she is in the same room. Around her, the tables are empty. The customers are crowded up at the bar, cigarette in mouth, glass in hand, words on lips. The waiter, resting one elbow on the zinc counter, is searching for wondrous worlds in the cracks of the ceiling. She starts with the hunched backs. No luck. A woman did move her head, even almost saw her, but midway let herself get distracted by something out in the street. And then, all of a sudden, a bite. She had barely begun to stare at him when the man spotted her.