Pretty Things. Виржини Депант
When the tape was done, Duvon thought it wasn’t bad, just needed some modifications. Modifications made, there were still two, three things that he wanted to see changed. At this third stage he had shaken his head, very disappointed. “That’s not it, that’s not it at all . . .”
From that moment on, he became unreachable by telephone.
“Yet another thing going wrong,” Claudine commented soberly.
But the tape made the rounds, some kid ended up calling her back.
“Well, some kid, he was definitely at least thirty, but he was in Bermuda shorts . . .”
One year later, she and Nicolas were walking along the quays, the leaves were starting to turn green, the girls were showing off legs they had already tanned, and a lot of people were out walking their dogs.
“He said, ‘Come to my office,’ so I showed up. I couldn’t stop laughing, it was a totally disgusting closet with filthy junkies doing nothing but pressing buttons on the fax machine. And him, in Bermuda shorts. Pretty pleased with himself . . . I swear, it’s too bad you didn’t come, you’d have been cracking up. His label sucks, just shitty bands, his office is dirty, he dresses like a moron, but he’s so fucking pleased with himself. As if he’d accomplished something. If the point of the game was to be a fuckup, then there’d be something to be proud of . . . birds of a feather flock together, you’ll tell me, I’m sure.”
“You think he’ll make the record?”
“He says he will . . . he thought the lyrics were ‘so cool.’ I swear, I couldn’t keep it together, the lyrics—what an idiot. Then he said to me, ‘I’ll do the record,’ happy it won’t cost him a lot, and he doesn’t even know how to do promotion. Regardless, I signed the fucking dish towel he called a contract, we have nothing to lose, right?”
“You told your sister?”
“Yeah, yeah. She knows the guy’s company, she knows all those shitty labels. She said it was cool, for once she didn’t burst into tears. Maybe she’s going to commit suicide.”
“And she knows that you’re saying you’re the singer?”
“Yes, I told her. She’s so sweet, she said, ‘Go ahead, with all the talent you have, you have to appropriate wherever you can if you want anyone to pay attention to you.’”
“You’re right, she’s so generous.”
“It’d be nice to think she’s wrong . . .”
“Are you having a little bout of depression?”
“No, I don’t give a shit. I’ve told you there’s rarely a link between talent and success. I haven’t lost hope.”
“What if there’s a concert?”
“There won’t be. Maybe there’ll be naked photos of me all over the place, but there won’t be any concerts. For a start, if he manages to put out a CD, I’ll be blown away. Want to go sit outside?”
Someone’s playing the guitar downstairs. Deep chords stretched over a background of repetitive, sad sounds.
Claudine complains it’s giving her an earache, she washes down her painkillers with Anjou Rosé. She’s been drinking for a while. She walks around her apartment barefoot, soles black with dirt.
Sitting at a bit of a distance, magazine open on the table, Pauline watches her, disgusted. Noise from the window, she glances over. Meat truck, a dumpster filled with pink and white. Some ladies are talking next to it, unidentifiable language, they’re wearing elaborate dresses, summer colors, suddenly break into intense laughter that never ends.
Nicolas calls a friend, keeps flipping through the channels. On the screen, flashes of athletes dripping with sweat; zealous, pert, and abrasive female TV presenters; a prudent political man; a blond kid in a commercial.
Seated next to him, Claudine rips apart a cigarette. As soon as he hangs up, she asks, “So? Did he feed you a bunch of bullshit?”
“Less than usual. He seemed off. He was really disappointed you didn’t want to talk to him.”
“Absolutely nothing to say to him.”
“In any case, you’ve certainly got him hooked.”
“That’s all they want, all of them. To collect women, it’s the only thing that gets them off.”
“You thought he was so smooth two weeks ago.”
“I remember. But I must have some molecule, it’s ridiculous, some thing that turns people into total losers. You take the coolest guy in the entire city, seductive, funny, open-minded, you leave him with me for one night and the next day he’s dead weight. It’s inevitable.”
By now, he knows her little mean-girl schemes. Whether she sleeps with him or not, a man is still her worst enemy. The first time she lands a guy, she’s as nice as a babysitter, all smiles between two blow jobs. Until the day she disappears. She pulls that move almost every time, to make them realize how attached they are. When she comes back, it turns serious, and the guys pay. Until the day it’s no longer enough for Claudine: the gifts, the attention, the acts of love. Then, the final phase, she declares that not only is she seeing someone else, but she fucking loves it. Feigning sincere distress, she lets slip, “If you knew how hard he makes me come.”
Nicolas takes a drag of the joint, coughs a little, remarks, “I’m glad we don’t sleep together.”
Claudine grabs the remote and looks for a channel with music videos.
“That would never happen, I’m not your type.”
His type? He made a point of not fucking girls who think they’re beautiful. Just to piss them off, those girls who think they have the irresistible gift of seduction. He figured out long ago that he’s hot, that people really like him, without actually understanding why. He likes nothing more than getting a skank all heated up, until he can feel her really burning. Then not touching her. On the other hand, he has a weakness for homely physiques, the injustice of it gets to him, he really enjoys taking care of them, unearthing the good in them. At the very least he can be sure he’s not the umpteenth guy to make them meow with his pelvic thrusts.
Claudine turns toward her sister, hands her the spliff.
“You still don’t smoke?”
Pauline briefly signals no, her twin looks at the clock, adds, “It’s almost time . . .”
Her sister doesn’t even bother to respond. She continues reading, Nicolas turns his head toward her. It’s still difficult for him to admit that this boring nerd, hair as lackluster as her skin, dressed in a sack, her gaze black when she wants something, really looks like Claudine.
Who says, “You okay, sis, not freaking out too much?”
“What the fuck do you care?”
“Wow, you’re a real barrel of laughs.”
“We can’t all be a joke like you, Claudine.”
Solid mastery of contempt. Nicolas stifles a snicker, elbows Claudine, convinced it’ll make her laugh too, since she’s normally so easygoing. But Claudine doesn’t take the opportunity to laugh it off lightly. She usually makes fun of everything, or at least puts up a front, but she takes it badly this time, not even trying to hide it.
She swallows painfully, squints, spits out, “I guess we can’t all be human either.”
Her sister rolls her eyes, smirks slightly, snaps, “With how deranged you are, it’s hard to feel any sympathy.”
A few tears run down Claudine’s cheeks, she doesn’t even wipe them away, as if she doesn’t feel them. Nicolas racks his brain, how to intervene tactfully and stop things from escalating. At a loss, he turns to Pauline, hoping she’ll stop her bullshit. Pauline gets