Viviane Page 5
Neglected by his wife, Jacques had precious little experience of love. You have tender memories of his chubby fingers probing the openings in your clothes, hardly daring to venture further. No, the doctor was not really at ease with women, aside from a few flings with patients at the end of their cure, when through sheer boredom doctor and patient had thrown themselves at each other just for something to do. He had observed that this technique significantly accelerated the resolution of transference. After three weeks they would be seeing each other less and less and after two months, not at all. But whenever you came up with some objection, armed with the convictions of your age and the principles inculcated by the university, he would wax ironic about the fanaticism of youth to disparage your arguments. And you, busy shedding your clothes on the chaise to foster a more direct approach to the subject, had come away rather disappointed. Disappointed and pregnant, which you now illustrate by pointing a finger at your belly jammed against the table on which your frankfurters and fries have just been placed, while your neighbor, sitting with her now cold steak and ratatouille, considers you with the stunned amazement of someone who has never before encountered the victim of a sensational incident.
You’re off and running now, you spare her nothing. You describe how the doctor took the news (up on his high horse, as if he’d never gotten anywhere near her), how he made fun of young Angèle Trognon (that’s your name), announcing point-blank that he wasn’t going to leave his wife for a student.
It’s a girl? asks Élisabeth suddenly.
It is a girl. How did you know that?
Just a thought.
You observe your neighbor, who still hasn’t touched her food. You could take an interest in her now, ask if she has children, inquire about her situation. You couldn’t care less about all that. And since you’ve finished the saga of your misadventures, you tackle your present experience, the relentless harassment that leaves you no time to bemoan your fate. The authorities are pressing you about your intentions, about questions of money and inheritance. Bank statements must be produced, expenses justified—you have no idea, you tell Élisabeth, what questions you get asked after a crime.
Well, replies Élisabeth, who is languidly picking the eggplant out of her ratatouille with the tip of her knife, I think I should be going.
You have worn out your audience. There she is putting on her gray coat, dropping a bill on the table without waiting for her change or saying good-bye. The coat sails across the room—sweeping the tables, destroying in its wake any forks and breadbaskets in precarious equilibrium at their tables’ edges—and out of the café, bound for its mysterious destination. You will learn nothing more about the woman who listened to you. Her face is already dwindling in your memory and you have even forgotten her name.
This woman is now walking back along Boulevard de Sébastopol toward the taxi stand at Châtelet. There she takes a Mercedes that reaches Rue des Écoles in eight minutes. Without bothering to whip up an explanation for the young reception clerk, she goes up to room 17 and walks in at 11:09 p.m.: it has been exactly a hundred and twenty minutes since she left the baby, who is just waking up. Viviane carries her away in the taxi still waiting downstairs.
10
Le Parisien announces the next day that the widow is being held by the police. There’s a photo with the article, showing her escorted by two uniformed officers at the entrance to police headquarters. She’s a woman of about fifty, slender, elegant; the doctor must have made a good living. I try to get a reading on her character but it’s a snapshot taken on the fly, printed on cheap newsprint. It reveals nothing except that the woman would no doubt prefer to be elsewhere, nibbling on a pastry in a tearoom or visiting art galleries with her girlfriends while their husbands work in their opulent offices. The article simply says that the police suspect her because she was leading a double life, Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, with that Silverio Da Silva, the man they recently arrested but released.
Then the following day brings a new twist. In connection with this affair they are now interrogating one Tony Boujon, twenty-three, a printing-plant worker. A patient of the doctor’s, but one with a police record. Toward the end of spring, armed with a knife, he’d attacked a girl outside the Lycée Paul-Valéry as she was leaving the school. Detectives had searched the room he still lived in at home with his parents, on Rue Montgallet in the 12th arrondissement, whereupon they’d discovered that this young man owned a lovely collection of knives.
In short, the widow is free, and I immediately take up my post on Rue du Roi-de-Sicile. I had no trouble obtaining the address. Shoved to the front of the stage, the protagonists of police-blotter dramas have not had time to get an unlisted number: they’re all in the phone book. And on the Internet it’s child’s play to locate their block on a city map, cruise over it, and even get an idea of their building’s façade. In the end I managed to pick out a nearby front porch where I could stand guard.
Just as I was ready to go about my business my daughter rose in revolt, and this time I didn’t hesitate to put her to sleep. I gave her a quarter of one of those tablets you are not supposed to administer to children under six. But I know these drugs: the best they can do is induce a vague drowsiness. Then I left the apartment after turning the radiators up full blast. I like my daughter to be cozy.
The cold is seeping between my ears. At times I must step aside to let someone pass and I use my cell phone to make myself less conspicuous. I pretend to text an important message but as usual, no one notices me. I’m a thing they walk by, an obstacle to be avoided, and I’ve no idea how long I’ll have to play the lookout here.
Thick flakes begin to fall. They win out against the asphalt, soon carpeting every aspect of the landscape: ledges, branches, cornices, flowerpots, windshield wipers at rest, recycling bins, transparent green plastic garbage bags, cardboard boxes, bulk trash. To pass the time and take my mind off the cold, I make mental note of the places infiltrated by the snow. I’m not properly shod for this climate; I didn’t bring my gloves or check the weather report, either. I’ve had so much to think about lately.
Shifting from one foot to the other, I consider calling off my vigil. The widow will probably not go out today. I put myself in her place. Wrung out by events, I’d stay well away from the windows, huddled in an armchair to chew my guilt down to the bone, and would now live exclusively off my fierce resentment. I would let myself go, wear threadbare clothes, stop tweezing and grow a unibrow above my nose.
Toward the middle of the afternoon, however, she ventures outside. I can tell right away that I don’t like her kind of woman. Haughty in her furs and her blond coiffure, she looks like a White Russian. Her heels tap lightly along the sidewalk as she moves delightedly through the snow. Trailing behind at a pace somewhat numbed by my wait, I follow her onto Rue de Turenne, where I must struggle not to lose ground. The flakes are falling ever faster, blurring contours, and I bump into passersby, twisting my ankles on stroller wheels. I’m not a bad walker, but the doctor’s wife seems borne along by the wind while I’m buffeted by its twists and turns.
She enters a café on the corner of Turenne and Bretagne, looking around for a man she finds at the far end of the room with his back to a mirror. I sit two tables away and concentrate on the voices of the woman, wearing a tight black dress, and the man, who is either really handsome or absolutely not.
The widow is very agitated, with lots of things to say all at once. Her companion must constantly interrupt her to clarify details essential to the whole story. But really the only thing he’s interested in is how it turns out. He wants to know where they stand with the cops. Anyone would want to know that, me first of all, and the doctor’s wife is doing her best to drive us crazy.
Calm down, she keeps saying without answering any of his questions, you’re not letting me talk, let me tell you or you can just go read it in the papers.
I’ve read the papers. It’s police custody one after the other, first Silverio and then you, and I
tell myself the police don’t hold people without having some kind of idea in the back of their heads. So explain to me what’s going on.
But you can see they’re just fishing, she says smiling. They try out one fish, they toss it back into the water. And they come up with such words, I swear, nobody talks like that. Flighty, passion, legacy—you’d think you were trapped in a provincial melodrama. Which reminds me, did you know that Angèle came from the Alps? Then she turns silently to the mirror to fine-tune the unstructured structure of her hairdo. That done, it’s a gift from heaven, she continues, his having this old mistress.
She’s half your age, points out the man.
Old: around for a long time, replies the widow airily. Old: old school, she free-associates. Poor Jacques. Sleeping with a student. I mean who sleeps with their students anymore?
Plenty of people, replies the man in irritation. Me, for example.
Right, she says in a determined tone, it’s time for you to go. Give Mama a kiss for me.
I’m certainly glad I came, he concludes, with a look that says otherwise. At least I’m used to it.
The widow watches him coldly while he puts on his jacket and vanishes into the snow, and I decide that there is in fact a certain similarity between the two of them. The same pale skin, the same silvery blond hair, the same bland features, but the configuration of these features is entirely different: in her case they form a harmonious composition, whereas in his they dash off in all directions to create a chaotic tangle. Then the widow moves into his empty place on the banquette and picks up an afternoon paper, one of those that doesn’t set much store by vulgar crime cases.
I must speak to her. She’s right there in front of me, as if nothing extraordinary had ever happened lately, the wife of the man to whom I confided everything. I rise and approach her, full of humility, saying excuse me, I’m sorry to disturb you, I’m a friend of Angèle’s.
The widow sizes me up with her gray eyes.
Yes? she says, dragging out the s, reluctant to grant me a hearing.
I keep going, on instinct: I’d like to speak to you—what I mean is, Angèle asked me to speak to you.
You followed me?
A little, I have to admit blushingly, but don’t worry, I didn’t hear any of your conversation.
Doesn’t matter, my brother’s an ass. So, you’re following me?
I can tell that she feels flattered in some obscure way, so I sit down. My name is Élisabeth I say, holding out my hand.
You may call me Gabrielle she sighs, without extending hers.
So I take a running start and leap into the void.
Here’s the thing: Angèle thought that it might be possible to come to an arrangement. She has nothing to do with this business—this terrible business, I add prudently—and she is convinced that you don’t, either. Your husband often spoke to her about you, and she admires you greatly. (Gabrielle strokes her satiny cheekbones with a dreamy expression.) Angèle, I continue, has no desire to start a lawsuit. She knows that she has no right to anything, but she’s young and there’s the child to bring up.
So that’s all any of you ever think about—the money? snaps Gabrielle in sudden irritation.
I don’t know, I reply humbly. Money, love—we take the one when we can’t have the other, don’t you think?
The widow considers this observation as if wondering what her due is, of money and love, and seems to come to a conclusion distinctly in her favor for she’s smiling again, the smile she uses with photographers.
And you, who are you? she asks, catching me off guard.
A friend. A friend from the Alps, I say quickly. And up there we’re rather informal, I add, hoping that this will somewhat excuse my behavior.
It is obvious that you aren’t from around here.
I swallow my pride, but the truth is I no longer have any. I am the plaything of circumstances and I’ve decided not to resist, to go whichever way the wind blows. I hear myself reply you’re right, my manners are dreadful, and we often thought, Angèle and I, that we’d like to be more like you.
Well, the unfortunate Jacques never mentioned Angèle to me at all, still less you, she says for her own amusement. I was aware of her existence, of course, but he was hardly going to boast about it. Would you like to hear my story? she adds, moved by a sudden inspiration.
Née Sherbatoff fifty-two years ago, Gabrielle had opted for medical school. Yet she had not met her husband there but in the waiting room of their famous mentor, who was always mixing up his appointments. So instead of enjoying privacy, his patients often found themselves waiting with three or four others. Gabrielle dropped medicine because Jacques already had his degree plus an active and prosperous practice.
Her husband thought that she would commit herself completely to the care and cultivation of his daily life, which he dedicated to his practice and research. Freed from all household responsibilities, he would be able to fully deploy the great breadth of his theories, exploring the shadowy zones of the psyche, and he would always have a kind word at the end of the day for his spouse, to thank her for her generous support and tireless devotion.
Mistake. Gabrielle would refuse energetically to don such an unenviable straitjacket, and the doctor would never rival his mentor: known for his stubborn and excessive adherence to the rules, Dr. Jacques Sergent would be called upon to settle administrative problems and deal with unpopular decisions, but his work would never inspire a symposium or a special edition of any journal. He was cited for courtesy’s sake in bibliographies.
As for Gabrielle, although she paid scant attention to her domestic surroundings, she was fastidious about her person and in particular about her mind. Once she had settled the problem of her financial upkeep, she went from seminar to seminar, expanding her horizons, and even dared to publish two or three articles that were quite favorably received. This did not sit well with the doctor. Then he considered how he might turn this situation to his advantage. Having given up on advancing his career through his own efforts, he set up a little arrangement with his wife: he would continue to support her, while in return Gabrielle agreed to write up a few case studies under his name. Their relationship thus dwindled away without ever breaking off. They would meet every Sunday at the Rue du Pot-de-Fer apartment to discuss current projects and pay bills, after which they would part in excellent spirits, Gabrielle returning to Silverio Da Silva and Jacques to his own routine.
While I hide my trembling hands under the table, Gabrielle is now silent. Smiling, very proud of herself. I grab the metal center post of the table and squeeze it until my palms burn. I start pinching my knees and feel my nails through the cloth of my pant legs, then I attack my thighs, which does help me calm down. Gradually I relax and feel like myself again. I bring my hands out from under the table and pour the tea that has just arrived.
Quite a story I remark, to show my detachment.
Like it? replies the widow. In that case, you need simply pass it on to your friend Angèle. Or I can relay it myself, if you give me her phone number. But above all, about the money, not a chance.
I haven’t got my cell phone, it has all the numbers I say, looking at Gabrielle, and I take a sip of tea, which gives me time to think because I immediately remember that I placed my cell on the empty chair to my left. As I’m putting my cup down I see her looking away from the phone and back at my lying face. But I straighten up while pushing away the hand grabbing at my sleeve and I shove her back when she rises to detain me by force. Snatching up my phone I leave the café posthaste.
11
Viviane, think of your career.* You know that you’re not twenty anymore and that young women are lying in ambush, ready to take your place and wring your neck. Perhaps they’re already installed in your big office on Rue de Ponthieu, where they’ve let your ferns die, thrown out all your fountain pens, replaced your posters of the Florentine masters with photos of carnivorous flowers like sundew and bladderwort, and soon you will have ceased to exis
t.
You also know that you do not deserve your 4,500 euros net per month. You’ve hit your maximum, you’ve got nothing more to offer Biron Concrete. For years they’ve been keeping you purring in your office, with its wide selection of particleboard furniture in different shades of gray that watches you daydream as you pretend to think up presentations, sprinkle punctuation around brochures, set up websites.
Viviane, reclaim your position. At your age and with offspring you’re not going to start again at zero, climbing the steps of humiliation from the bottom of the ladder. There isn’t enough room for everybody. Well, you’ve got your job and you’re going to defend it. Your daughter will not witness her mother unemployed, besieging social agencies, counting small change tossed into a plastic cup while passengers wrinkle their noses at the aroma you leave behind in the métro car.
Héloïse is the person you hired to fill in for you during your maternity leave. Héloïse studied public relations in an excellent university, has a stellar portfolio, and she can spell. All you could pounce on during her two-week trial period at the beginning of the summer were a few ill-advised past participles here and there, but it was a pleasure to correct them with showy manifestations of indulgence. The two of you got along fairly well. Which was in your joint interest because Jean-Paul Biron was watching you both out of the corner of his eye, while you were watching right back. You had to make sure he wasn’t too taken with Héloïse’s fuselage, so that once you’d delivered this child pummeling your hips, you wouldn’t have too much trouble reclaiming your role as the reigning favorite.
Today is November 22, a Monday, and it’s high time to take stock. You’re wearing a belted raincoat over a blouse with a most flattering neckline and black pants just a tad roomy. Facing the mirror, you felt that the ensemble reasonably emphasized your return to form and recovered allure. Yes Viviane, you can still pull it off on Place de l’Étoile and pass for a high-class tart among misinformed tourists.