Viviane Read online

  Viviane

  The New Press gratefully acknowledges the Florence Gould Foundation for supporting publication of this book.

  Copyright © 2012 by Les Éditions de Minuit, 7, rue Bernard-Palissy, 75006 Paris

  English translation copyright © 2014 by The New Press

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, without written permission from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to reproduce selections from this book should be mailed to: Permissions Department,

  The New Press, 120 Wall Street, 31st floor, New York, NY 10005.

  Originally published in France as Viviane Élisabeth Fauville by Les Éditions de Minuit, Paris, 2012

  Published in the United States by The New Press, New York, 2014

  Distributed by Perseus Distribution

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Deck, Julia.

  [Viviane Élisabeth Fauville. English]

  Viviane : a novel / By Julia Deck ; Translated by Linda Coverdale.

  pagescm

  Originally published in France as Viviane Élisabeth Fauville by

  Les Editions de Minuit, Paris, 2012.

  ISBN 978-1-59558-971-2 (e-book)

  1.Families—Fiction.I.Title.

  PQ2704.E248V58132012

  843'.92—dc23

  2013039843

  The New Press publishes books that promote and enrich public discussion and understanding of the issues vital to our democracy and to a more equitable world. These books are made possible by the enthusiasm of our readers; the support of a committed group of donors, large and small; the collaboration of our many partners in the independent media and the not-for-profit sector; booksellers, who often hand-sell New Press books; librarians; and above all by our authors.

  www.thenewpress.com

  Composition by dix!

  This book was set in Stempel Garamond

  24681097531

  I have been here, ever since I began to be, my appearances elsewhere having been put in by other parties.

  —Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable

  Viviane

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  1

  The child is twelve weeks old, and her breathing lulls you with the calm, even rhythm of a metronome. The two of you are sitting in a rocking chair in the middle of an essentially empty room. The boxes stacked up by the movers line the wall on the right. Three of them, at the top of the pile, have been opened to obtain the most urgently needed items: kitchen utensils, toiletries, some clothing, and the baby’s things, which outnumber yours. The window has no curtain. It seems tacked onto the wall like a sketch, a pure study in perspective, in which the railway tracks and overhead wires streaking away from the Gare de l’Est would provide the vanishing lines.

  You are not entirely sure, but it seems to you that four or five hours ago, you did something that you shouldn’t have. You try to recall what you did, to reconstruct the sequence of your actions, but whenever you remember something, instead of automatically calling the next action to mind, it stumbles into the hole your memory has become.

  Actually, you aren’t even certain that you returned a little while ago to that other apartment you’ve been visiting secretly for years. The contours, the masses, the colors and décor all meld in the distance. That man who received you there, did he even exist? And anyway, if you had done something wrong, you would not be sitting idly here. You would be going around in circles, chewing your nails to the quick, so guilt-ridden you couldn’t see anything straight. On the contrary, you’re perfectly calm: in spite of your hazy memory, you feel quite free and easy.

  Your hips stop moving, no longer rocking the chair. You carry the baby into the next room. This one is somewhat more furnished. Flanking the window are a cradle and a single bed, the coverlet smoothly taut, the top sheet folded over it. The child hardly fusses at all and falls asleep again when you lay her down on her back. You glance around, straighten the heaps of clothes partly concealing a wooden chest under the window, run your hand down the dress at the front of a rolling metal clothes rack holding all your winter coats and pants. The sweaters are stacked on the shelf above; the boots and shoes sit patiently in pairs between the casters.

  A hall links the two rooms and the kitchen. At the end is the bathroom, a tiny nook where, sitting on the toilet, you find your knees bumping the sink and your left foot wedged against the edge of the shower stall. Strips of paint are peeling slowly from the ceiling. The place should have been spruced up but you wanted to take possession as soon as possible and told the landlord you’d take care of that yourself after moving in, he need only forgive you a month’s rent. As for the kitchen, no complaints there. The latest built-in appliances beneath a countertop of faux granite, gleaming plumbing, and the sparkling tile floor are enough to justify the exorbitant rent.

  You take two eggs from the fridge and a bowl from the cupboard over the sink to whip up an omelet. Most people believe an omelet should be smooth in texture, and most people are mistaken. The artistry lies in just barely introducing the white to the yolk, then cooking them only until they seize up. You have often watched your mother beating eggs for an omelet. Her instructions are engraved in your memory, and this pretty much sums up your talents in the way of domestic accomplishments. You are well educated, have a fine professional career. Such activities leave little time for becoming the perfect housewife. Which you regret, for in your bleakest hours, you’ll listen to the first person who comes along, and there are still people who claim that perfect housewifery is the way to hold on to a husband.

  While you’re whisking the eggs with a fork, you try to remember what you did today. The baby woke you up at six o’clock: a faint whimper arises in the bedroom, still dark despite the absence of shutters. You open one eye, murmur a silly tune, one of those pop songs learned at fifteen, the only lullabies you know. Then you set the bottle to warm and slip into the shower in the meantime. The child winds up in your arms in the kitchen, she has her bottle, and both your minds go blank. Then you park her back in the cradle for a few minutes while you get her things together, brush your hair, apply some eyeliner. Together you go outside.

  The babysitter lives on Rue Chaudron. From your building, on the corner of Rue Cail and Rue Louis-Blanc, it’s straight ahead then left then right. The sitter provides the minimum of service. She keeps the place scrupulously clean, surrounds the child with impeccable care, and never bothers with useless courtesies. This suits you to a T. You’ll be going back to work in a month, and the little girl should get a tad used to doing without you.

  Until two in the afternoon, you’re busy with administrative formalities concerning the move to the new apartment, the divorce, and single-parent benefits. You also buy a few clothes and go to the hairdresser, where you agree to a manicure. Once upon a time, your friends who were already mothers liked to say that you were so lucky to have time to tend to yourself. You resolved, should your luck ever change, to spare your offspring any responsibility for tarnished maternal beauty.

  The omelet is now just right. You fold it into a half moon with the spatula and slide it onto a plastic plate, tapping the edge to hear the sound of this bizarre substance that mimics china so well. Yo
u bought it at the Monoprix department store in the Gare du Nord. Without paying close attention, as you were too busy studying another customer out of the corner of your eye. He was about your age, examining the same items. You would have liked to know if he, too, was in emergency mode, forced to leave behind the family dishes, but you didn’t dare ask.

  Over the center of the half moon, you pour the contents of a can of peas and carrots and put the whole thing into the microwave, a slight twist on the art of the omelet, while you return to what you did this morning. It does appear that you did in fact go to your husband’s apartment: you still have the key, and you’d wanted to pick up a few items.

  The apartment on Rue Louis-Braille hasn’t changed over the past month. Julien says he’s going to move out but it’s dragging on. In any case, he doesn’t seem to spend much time here. The sink and dish rack are empty, there’s no plastic bag in the garbage pail, and the TV magazine dates from before you left. You claim a square platter, a few bath towels, and the toaster. While you’re hunting in the closet of the second bedroom—the one intended for the baby—for a carryall to transport everything, you come across your wedding presents. Now, there is no reason why this man who loved you so little, whom you desired so much, and who disappointed you so deeply should keep a set of eight kitchen knives given by your mother on that special occasion. You carried off the knives in your purse, and it’s not too bad at all to have remembered that. You finish the last mouthful of omelet and go to bed.

  2

  The next morning, Tuesday, November 16, your memory has completely returned. The digital clock down by the foot of the bed says 5:03. There’s about an hour left before the child wakes up, one hour in which to find a solution, to clear away as much as possible of the debris strewn all around you.

  You are Viviane Élisabeth Fauville, wife of Julien Hermant. You are forty-two years old and on August 23 you gave birth to your first child, who will no doubt remain your only one. You are the public relations officer for the Biron Concrete Company. This business earns lots of money and is headquartered in an eight-story building on Rue de Ponthieu, two steps from the Champs-Élysées. In the reception area, willowy women entertain visitors with slightly racy small talk.

  Your husband, Julien Antoine Hermant, a civil engineer in the Highways Department, was born forty-three years ago in the small provincial town of Nevers. On September 30 he put an end to two years of conjugal misery. He said Viviane—coming home at some late hour from his so-called planning department—Viviane I’m leaving, it’s the only solution, anyway you know that I’m cheating on you and that it isn’t even from love but from despair.

  You absorbed this rib-crushing blow with perfect impassibility. Your shoulders barely shrugged, the rhythm of the rocking chair barely faltered, your fingers barely tightened on the armrests. Viviane he said again, listen to me, you have the child whereas I—I need some air. And I can’t give you what you want, maybe you expect too much from me. Viviane, I’m begging you, say something.

  You said no, I’m the one who’s leaving. Keep everything, I’m taking the child, we won’t need alimony. You moved out on October 15, found a babysitter, extended your maternal leave for health reasons, and on Monday, November 15—yesterday—you killed your psychoanalyst. You did not kill him symbolically, the way one sometimes ends up killing the father. You killed him with a Zwilling J.A. Henckels Twin Profection santoku knife. “The unique forging of the blade’s edge offers optimal stability and exceptional ease in cutting,” explained the brochure you were studying at Galeries Lafayette while your mother was getting out her checkbook.

  This knife, which belongs to a set of eight, you picked up at Julien’s apartment sometime that morning. You grabbed the case without a moment’s hesitation. It went straight to the bottom of your purse, the zipper of which you closed with a firm yank. Then something very strange happened. You were about to leave the apartment; your hand had already grasped the doorknob when a black veil fell over the room. Suddenly you were no longer leaving the apartment, it was the apartment that was swirling around you, rising on all sides, floor, walls, ceiling, as everything was suddenly overturned. Sweat pearled in the palms of your hands as thousands of insects thrummed inside your skull, a swarming army attacking the slightest bits of bare skin, blocking exits, closing off your eyes, nose, and mouth.

  You slumped down on the linoleum, your head on your knees to help blood reach the brain. Dug the bottle of mineral water out of your purse. Drank a few swallows, prayed to God knows whom, hoping that the terror would fade away. From beneath a low cabinet, the cat’s yellow eyes—all that was visible in the darkness—observed you cautiously.

  At last you remembered that you regularly consult a specialist. When your fingers stopped trembling so much, you grabbed your cell phone, scrolled through your address book, and selected Shrink.

  He answered in his usual offhand tone because he was with a patient and because that is his normal voice. The doctor doesn’t bother with formalities, they are against his code of ethics and detrimental to the cure, as he has told you many times. You’re already lucky that he has agreed to see you in this emergency, at six thirty tonight, a canceled appointment. In any case, he’s been nagging you for months to move up to three sessions a week.

  You went home to drop off the carryall with the toaster, then on to the sitter’s to ask her if, this once, she would keep the baby until that evening. But no, she does not find that convenient at all. You take your daughter home, nurse her, and spend the afternoon in the rocking chair searching for a solution.

  Actually, you have already found one, you’re simply trying to get used to the idea. Whenever the baby falls asleep, she’s out for three hours. This will leave plenty of time to dash off to the 5th arrondissement, a direct shot on the 7 line. You will shut off the gas, unplug the heating unit, and you will not lock the apartment door so that the firemen can get in easily if a fire breaks out in spite of all your precautions. Such arrangements clearly cast no luster on your maternal instincts. You’re not proud of this and will not be gaily recounting the scene to your eight- or nine-year-old daughter when she decides to start finding fault with you, having established by comparison with the classics of children’s literature that you are not the ideal mother glorified by family-values novels. So there it is, you won’t tell a soul, ever: you know how to keep your little secrets.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, you feed the child, put her to bed, then head up Rue de l’Aqueduc to the métro station. Censier-Daubenton is seventeen stops and a good half hour away. By the time you arrive, night has almost fallen. In two minutes you have crossed the square and reached Rue de la Clef, which is deserted. You do not meet anyone while going up to the fourth floor of No. 22A, either. You ring and, when the buzzer sounds, you enter the waiting room. Five minutes later there’s a murmured au revoir, followed by the closing of the landing door. You’re kept waiting while someone apparently makes a few phone calls, has a smoke at the window. You leaf idly through the only reading material within reach, a boring seventeenth-century play by Pierre Corneille. The fan of pages is coming loose from the binding. No real effort seems to have been made to alleviate the stage fright of those waiting for the curtain to go up, and now you think, in hindsight, that if there’d been a Paris Match or any other magazine available, something even vaguely intended to relieve your distress instead of reinforce it, you might not have wound up where you are.

  The doctor receives you after a long fifteen minutes, wearing a small satisfied smile. Stepping back to let you pass, he even seems to bow slightly.

  So, he begins, with false good humor, as if he were about to tell you a good story. But this is a trick, an infallible way to make the patient fall into the trap. You’ve been aware of this trick for a long time yet cannot resist the doctor’s mysterious power.

  It reappeared this morning, you begin. It had gone away while I was pregnant, now it’s back. I wound up on the floor in my place, well really in my h
usband’s place, in what used to be my apartment. Something needs to be done, I can’t take it anymore, I have to look after my daughter.

  The doctor says yes.

  Yes what? you reply. I’m telling you something must be done, no yes or no about it. I haven’t come here to go all the way back to the Flood, I’m tired, I need help now.

  But you know perfectly well, Madame Fauville, excuse me, Hermant, you know that the symptoms are only symptoms. That one must go back to their source, isn’t that so, Madame Hermant?

  My dear doctor, I tell you I couldn’t care less about their source. For three years now you’ve been running me around in circles, three years of the same old same old. If you can’t do anything for me, just say so, I’ll go somewhere else.

  Yes?

  Doctor, you’re not listening to me. I don’t want to play anymore, I give up. Some other method is required or there’s no point in my coming here again.

  Really now, blackmail.

  This has nothing to do with blackmail, you announce, raising your voice just a little. On the contrary. I would like to stay, I would like this to work, but I can’t go on endlessly with no results. I haven’t the means.

  The means?

  Yes, the means, right, the means, and now you’re yelling. The time, the money, the necessary resources. There are the bills, the rent, the babysitter, it’s not my husband who’s going to help me out here, must I remind you, my husband who left me for some fresh young idiot or other, so I’m on my own, as the saying goes, on my own with my daughter, we’re two on-our-owns and we need to get out of this mess.

  Why have you made this choice?

  You clench your fists, squash your spine against the back of the armchair and close your eyes. A tiny rain of rage escapes from the corners of your eyelids. You see yourself again, a month and a half earlier, hunched deep in the rocking chair in the Rue Louis-Braille apartment, facing your husband as he dismisses you, trying to keep calm by deciding on the spot to move out because it was your last chance to take him by surprise.