Pretty Things. Виржини Депант
like garbage, she becomes rather dignified. Quiet metamorphosis, impressive to see. As though it were coming to her from afar, these things pouring out of her mouth, so self-assured.
Nicolas climbs onstage. “Is the feedback okay?” He cautiously wraps the microphone in fabric. Then moves away and asks her to sing again. “Can we try another song?” In passing he argues with a guy from the venue who wants to stop the sound check immediately because they’re running late.
He quickly adjusts one last thing, jacks tangled up everywhere, the hall empty, stands exactly where he needs to be to hear all the sounds, since he likes the sputtering from the walls, the knobs, the red lights, adjusting the mic stand, the guys hanging off the scaffolding to adjust a projector.
Like something you don’t even dream about anymore, to avoid the taste of bitter awakening.
The guy from the venue turns plain nasty. They need to open the doors so the concert can begin.
Nicolas meets Pauline at the edge of the stage, notices her hands trembling. “I’m going to buy some smokes, I’m all out. You want to come with me?”
She shakes her head no, immediately reverts back to her usual demeanor; it makes him want to slap her. In any case, he’s relieved when she refuses because he actually just wants to call Claudine from a quiet corner. Reassure her, tell her that everything’s going well. And then a sort of guilt, this pleasure he gets from handling the sound check, as if colluding with the enemy.
“You want anything?”
“To be far away from these idiots.”
Impossible to understand where her anger stems from. No one had spoken to her, no one had done anything to her. But it’s not faked, she seems completely put off.
“Wait for me in the dressing room?”
“No, I’m going to shut myself in the bathroom. That way no one will talk to me. Come get me when you’re back, I’ll be in the one that’s to the right when you come in.”
“Everything okay, Pauline? A little stage fright?”
She stares at him hard, glacial. “Don’t forget that we aren’t friends.”
That little surge of guilt he had felt from enjoying working with her disappears all at once. Crazy bitch.
THE THINGS IN her apartment are covered in a thin, viscous layer. Claudine washes her hands, the towel she uses to dry them seems greasy too. That happens, some days.
Sun, Xanax, enveloped in an almost absurd calm that makes her gently sweat, clammy torso and back. Her eyes close, are heavy underneath.
Nicolas just called: everything’s going well. Not a surprise. Pauline has always been like that: successful at anything she sets her mind to. She can play the girl with a nasty attitude who’s bored when she gets onstage. She knows her voice is good, she wants all the world to know. So she’ll put on a good show, even if it’s her very first.
Kitchen. Coffee rising, burbling up in spurts. The seal is busted, light brown bubbles leak out the sides. The coffee maker needs to be replaced, Claudine never thinks of it. Now that she has, she feels a slight pang in her heart because it no longer matters. Fear doesn’t have much of an effect on her, just a small trace of bitterness.
She spills some coffee over the side, wipes it up with the sponge, which is slightly black from being poorly rinsed. She doesn’t give a damn about household objects on principle: not to be like her mother.
Don’t go, I’m begging you, don’t go, there are things in life that you don’t do, don’t go . . .
Window open opposite, the street acts like a loud speaker, Claudine hears a song as if she were listening to it in her own apartment.
Sharp attacks tearing her apart, the same headaches of the last few days, but the banging is getting worse, less bearable.
Pink stain of the curtains, the sun setting. Irritated voices below. Reflexively, she leans out the window to see what’s going on.
A man, back to the window in the butcher shop, two men and a woman facing him. It’s the woman who’s speaking, she’s furious, hair covered, pink dress down to her ankles. The two men with her shake their heads to signal that they disapprove of what the third is doing. Impossible to know exactly what’s going on, they’re not speaking French. She can’t see them well from so far away, but the man with his back against the security gate doesn’t seem scared.
The flowers have started blooming in the last few days, hanging from other windows.
Her breath shortens, cuts off if she isn’t careful.
How much longer are things going to be like this?
Luck doesn’t change. It’s all bullshit.
On a table, a photo of her and Pauline. They’re nine years old, it’s the only photo where they’re together and dressed the same. It looks like a silly special effect, like a hidden mirror reflecting one face. Two queens on the same card.
She feels that terrible surge that passes through her from time to time. Anger, and she needs to retrace her steps to account for it.
Her father would repeat, “They certainly do look a bit alike, and yet they don’t look alike at all,” letting a knowing glance fall over Claudine. Supposedly he didn’t talk about that in front of her, to avoid hurting her, supposedly he took precautions, because she couldn’t do anything about it. She was the one who was not very clever, frankly, not very smart.
Sometimes her father invited friends to the house, called the two girls over. Secretive conversation, so they wouldn’t hear, as if they didn’t understand anything at all. Then he questioned them, to demonstrate to the audience how studious Pauline was: cunning, mischievous, and so sharp. And next to her, her sister, who never understood a thing. She did a bad job on her schoolwork, never connected anything with anything, couldn’t convey the desired information. Filled with shame in front of these strangers, she had to open her mouth, say something, if she didn’t say anything her father leaned in toward the other adults, said something mean, disparaging.
And her bitch of a mother, rather than defend her daughter, rather than put a stop to all of it, would bring her to bed immediately, infuriated at seeing her be so stupid. The next day, to console her, she would put her hand on Claudine’s forehead, “It’s not your fault, my angel. With twins there’s always one that picks up the defects . . . my poor angel, there’s nothing you can do.”
Her mother’s stomach wasn’t big yet. She had just learned that she would be having two.
Her father was enraged. Since the beginning of the year her mother had been working, like him, as a teacher at a junior high school.
Before that everything had been clear, easily summed up: he had married an idiot, oafish and dull.
Of course, there were those weeks right after they met when her father would lean toward her—“You are my happiness”—and kiss her nonstop, craft compliments sweet as candy, talk dirty, he couldn’t get enough of her.
And then slowly, as if he were opening his eyes, she became this meager thing. Inept. He didn’t leave her, didn’t cheat on her. He never got tired of watching her mess up every single thing she tried. Never got tired of watching her dress poorly, he who was so fond of elegance. Of hearing her speak poorly, he who so loved intellectual things. Every gesture she made was reproachable. Even her way of rinsing a sponge, of hanging up the telephone, of wearing a skirt.
He never got tired of watching her be so pathetic. And he pitied himself, to have fallen for such a woman. And without ever lifting a hand to her he went after her with all his violence, his entire being focused on demeaning her.
He wouldn’t leave her alone until she cried. And as soon as her eyes watered, his fury would begin: How dare she complain? And what did she know of pain, the burning he felt?
The same way he demanded