Pretty Things. Виржини Депант
emotions, the most reasonable. The one of the two of them that counted, the one at the center.
She possessed only the right to listen to him because he loved to talk for hours. It was her duty to listen to him even if his words destroyed her, implied she was worthless, even if his words suffocated her, never left her any space.
And her mother let it happen, made herself sick, like a woman, in silence. Her body eaten up in big chunks that never completely disappeared, vomiting, careful not to make any noise, at night her ruined sleep knotted up her throat. But above all she would never complain, because he suffered so much. Compared to his experiences, hers were garbage, just showing off her melancholy, who did she think she was . . .
One day, she started teaching, like him, in the same junior high school. And in one year, everything switched.
Her mother turned out to be a good teacher, in any event perfectly capable of keeping the kids in check for the duration of class.
He had always been pretty mediocre, neither loved nor feared, interesting to no one, especially not to his students, who mocked his drinking; rather than picking up on the desperate beauty of the gesture, they picked up on his breath and used it to fuck with him.
And so one day, her mother, correcting homework, was interrupted by her father who, leaning over her shoulder, shared his opinion on a comment she had just written. Without even raising her head, frowning, concentrated, she replied, “Excuse me, but I think I know what I’m doing.”
Her father’s wrath was terrible. At first he tried to make her apologize, but since she persisted he started breaking things and insulting her like he never had before . . . the idea that she could even think of opposing him was intolerable, that she could draw the strength from somewhere to believe in herself in spite of him.
The rage of powerlessness, like a child’s tantrum, took hold of him that night and for the first time he moved from threats to action, started breaking everything until she begged, fear in her eyes, until she was the first to give in.
Her mother quit teaching, shaken by having hurt him so considerably for a job that, in the end, didn’t interest her all that much.
But her father stayed angry. He had always pulled out when he felt himself coming and ejaculated on her stomach, because he was too young to have a kid and because he wasn’t sure—far from it—that he wanted to have one with her. From that day on, he started fucking her like he was nailing something into the ground, all the way inside so she would get a fat stomach and stay put.
But almost as soon as she was pregnant, her mother began to rise up and get comfortable with him. Supposedly she knew better than him about certain things regarding her condition. “Because I’m a woman,” she would reply, shrugging her shoulders. Her mother proposed that they call the twins Colette and Claudine. Her father was firmly against it; she didn’t concede.
“Then we’ll each choose one name.”
And so it was done, her stomach ripped in two.
THE VENUE IS filling up. Security regulates the flood of people, the bouncers glance in their bags, make them take off their jackets. It serves no purpose, to tell the truth, but it’s part of the ritual.
At the top of the stairs people meet and chat, share rumors and opinions about what’s going on. The stoner version of a social gathering, most of them are overly done-up: bleached pierced tattooed gap-toothed scarred high-heeled.
Nicolas moves through them, making himself look like he’s in a hurry because he doesn’t want to run into any old friends. It gets him so down, every time, makes him confront the reality of aging when he sees old faces again. Already a little wrecked, withered, fatigue settling in, and cynicism to top it all off, extinguishing what’s left of their gaze.
Pauline, sitting fully dressed on the toilet seat, smokes cigarette after cigarette. She regrets being there. She’s dreamed of this moment for a long time. But it was nothing like this. It was her own name, and Sébastien was there, backstage, proud of her as he heard her sing. And it wasn’t in front of these idiot kids who’ve come to have their souls sodomized, ready to swallow any subversive commodity as long as it makes them think that it adds something to their identity.
Mainly, she misses Sébastien.
Chest strained by his absence, she remembers and lists the best things about him, like a little internal song playing on loop.
The first time she saw him she didn’t really give a shit about him, he seemed like kind of an idiot.
Older than her, he had a car, drove her home.
Then there was that day: he brought her to her place and, sitting on the hood of his car, told her jokes. Claudine showed up, gave him her number. And when she walked away, Seb had remarked, “It’s funny to see the two of you together. Your sister is super pretty. But she doesn’t have what you have.”
He was neither flustered nor aroused; he was the first boy to resist her sister’s charms. To prefer her, Claudine’s sister. So, in his arms, she realized that he was her entire world. And since then, nothing had ever weakened the hold he had on her.
Until one night in March, she had been waiting for him, irritated that he was late. They were supposed to go see a movie and he wasn’t very excited, so she was getting annoyed looking at the time, convinced he was doing it on purpose. Then night fell and worry kicked in.
The telephone rings, the lawyer calling on his behalf. He was picked up that morning, in the papers they’re calling it a “big catch,” he’ll have his sentencing soon, he doesn’t know how much time Sébastien’s facing, he can’t answer any of her questions, it depends on who he does or doesn’t give up. The lawyer has tact, a distant politeness, but doesn’t care at all, just fulfilling an obligation: notifying the girlfriend of one of his clients.
Clean break, everything on hold.
FROM THE OTHER side of the door, some of the people working the bar are getting riled up talking among themselves.
“This crowd pisses me off, they’re always trying so hard to be fashionable.”
Another voice, from elsewhere. “When it’s the Americans doing it, everyone thinks it’s so cute, but when it’s the French it’s not funny anymore.”
Aggressive tone, between people who have already been drinking, trying to convince one another without seducing one another, sterile conversations that make up mosaics of meaning. Everyone is actually saying something different. An unhappy ex-child interjecting at every opportunity—sometimes while trying to affirm something, something else emerges—little pieces of poisoned cakes that we’d rather spit out.
Two girls loiter by the sink for a bit, she listens to them talk. They’re probably washing their hands, touching up their makeup, redoing their hair. One of them says, “Two-hundred-thousand-franc advance, that’s not nothing.”
“But is the money for them or for gear?”
“It’s for them, to get them to sign there instead of somewhere else. It’s an advance against what the label thinks they’ll sell.”
“Two hundred thousand! Just like that, your problems start melting away.”
“I’d certainly hope so . . .”
“For all the time you’ve spent slaving away, he must have no shame.”
“That’s definitely him: shameless. You’ll never guess what he told me. He’s going to give me two thousand a month—to pay the bills.”
“No way.”
“Oh yeah, he’s a kid, this guy, he doesn’t understand that he could pay the rent too. For him, money is pocket change, it’s for buying his toys. I have to say, maybe I did let him take advantage of me.”
“Still, with two hundred thousand, you’d have to be really stingy to only give away two.”
They leave.
Then