Voice Over (28 page)

 

 

She was still walking down Hereford Road when he came back for a greater length of time. He began walking next to her in silence. Although she didn't dare turn her head, she could sense that he wasn't very well either. At a red light, he spoke to her. My feet hurt, do you want to stop for a coffee? She clapped her hands to her ears. If she didn't listen to him, he would vanish. But even through her palms she could still make out his muffled words. Stop sulking, I've told you I've been looking for you, isn't that enough? She couldn't allow herself to react. I've looked almost everywhere, you know, I was waiting for you to get in touch. If she gave in, they would quarrel and she'd never be able to get rid of him. Now that I've found you, you're not going to behave like a little girl, are you? Like a little girl. It was easy for him to say that. Let me remind you that you're the one who came late. She gritted her teeth, trying to focus her attention on a man who was covered in white make-up and pretending to be a statue. Around him were a dozen onlookers all waiting for that moment when an eyelid, a corner of the mouth, a finger would twitch. If it's because of what happened with that man. She stopped. She felt people pushing their way past her, but she couldn't move. She'd made a mistake, she needed to look him straight in the eye to put an end to this ridiculous comedy. His pallor, his stubble, and the dark circles under his eyes made him look ill. There were smudges of dust on his suit, the top buttons of his shirt were open. She'd never seen him in such a state, she almost pitied him. If he had actually
been there, she couldn't have fought back the urge to take him in her arms and comfort him. Since you're not making the slightest effort, I'll come back when you're in a better mood. And, just as she was about to reply, he disappeared for good.

 

 

For several hours she followed the meanderings of the street, which seemed to go on for ever. Hunger had taken hold of her stomach, and because her legs were stiff from exhaustion, she was gradually slowing down. She had lost awareness of her surroundings, then of her own body, as if she were constantly sliding outside herself. At the last minute, the sight of a particular object, sometimes real, sometimes without shape or consistency, or a barely formulated thought, would pull her back. In that way, she managed not to fall down.

The red color had caught her eye. She didn't remember walking past other telephone boxes earlier, and it struck her that this particular one was meant for her. It was not an ordinary part of the urban landscape but a temptation, or rather a command to do what she hadn't dared contemplate until now: to call him at home. It went without saying that she would not ask a single question, she would simply listen to the voice at the other end of the line as if she were some kind of anonymous crank caller.

She went over to the empty phone box. After several tugs on the door, she managed to get it open. The enclosed space stank of beer and urine. She took a deep breath, went in, keeping her head down to avoid the stench, and let the door close behind her. A black can of Guinness and several cigarette butts lay strewn in the corners of the concrete floor. People had come here before her to shut themselves away in this confined space, to get angry, to get worried, to get happy at one end of a wire. She knew the
number by heart, like those childhood recitations that can never be erased from memory. She still had some change. She lifted the receiver, put it to her ear, fed in the coins, and began to dial. That was when she saw the photographs. There were about a dozen of them, all roughly the same size. Each one had a name and telephone number at the bottom, in colored letters. Most of the women were topless. Some of them also showed their naked buttocks in G-strings. All had struck enticing poses, a promising wink, a tempting pout, a display of admirable teeth. But what impressed her most was the look in the eyes, which revealed nothing more than what these women wanted to reveal. Their contortions were a stark contrast to what she was about to do. After looking carefully at each one, she put the receiver back on the hook, but she couldn't bring herself to leave the box straight away. When she felt up to it, she would go home.

 

 

There had only been two men in her life. And she had never understood what they wanted from her.

She remembered the back and forth movement and, underneath, intentions that had to be deciphered to the best of her ability. The hand ready to caress ended up striking, the tongue ready to kiss ended up licking, the organ ready to penetrate ended up loving. But the brain meanwhile chose its favorite thought and refused with a thousand defences to face up to its reality.

Her life had been a more or less happy or painful succession of things and people. Her mistake probably had been not to hold on to them. People had passed through her, over her, beside her, and then had left without her really knowing what she ought to have done to make them stay.

He too had passed, without any intention of ever staying. She could no longer understand how she could have believed otherwise for a single second. She had looked for him, wanted him, desired him, waited for him. She had given herself, had opened herself up as never before. He hadn't been able to say no, for he had never been the object of such intense interest. However, he had remained anchored to his own life, crippled by fear and powerless to escape. He had been the only one and would always be the only one, but she had to use what was left of her strength to stop him from putting her through this endless torture. She needed to kill all hope, all desire, all longing for him. He had to be no more than a memory that she would drag around and which would eventually become so familiar that she could forget it from time to time.

 

 

It was late by the time she arrived at the hotel. She put all her things away in the cupboard including the umbrella. She kept only her money and her documents. In a few hours, she would take a taxi to the station. She would leave the way she came. The sole proof of her visit would be a handful of personal effects inside a red-and-white sports bag.

 

 

Getting off the train. A clock reads 8:30 am. She follows the other passengers heading towards the exit. She no longer knows if she has gone away, or if she has been travelling for several years. In the main hall of the gare du Nord, nothing has really changed. But her perception of things isn't quite the same: the proportions of the setting seem to have been modified, the extras have been replaced to look even more like one another. Most of all, she has the impression that she hears herself talking all around.

When she catches sight of him at the foot of the stairs, she has to grip the handrail to continue going down, her body reduced to a pair of eyes atop a swelling heart. She looks down at the steps and begins to count them. When there are none left to count, she looks up. He's there, in the flesh, his lips pursed, his eyes fixed on her.

Ange is pregnant.

She feels the slapped skin beneath her hand. She realizes that she has just hit him. Hard enough to knock his head back. He is speechless, he doesn't move. She sees the red marks left by her fingers. She likes the way it looks. She turns her back on him and starts to walk away like a robot, heading in the direction of her office.

 

 

She settles down at her desk. In front of her is the text of the day's first announcement. She leans in to the microphone and starts to talk.

Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to announce that all departures have been cancelled. No trains are running. There's no point in looking at the person next to you, he's not responsible. I'm the one who made this decision for personal reasons. The details would take far too long to explain. I therefore suggest two things that in my opinion would be in your best interest: either go home or stay here with me in this austere train station. Let me tell you; you will find nothing at the end of those tracks, I've been there, I've just come back, and believe me, I know what I'm talking about. You'll find nothing but yourselves, the same as here. So you might as well spare yourselves the trouble and stay. And, if I could offer a piece of advice: try to talk to one another. It won't make a big difference, but it might bring some relief.

She feels herself being pulled backwards. An enormous hand is gripping her arm. Mr. Merlinter is red in the face, and she becomes aware of the total silence in the room. You're completely nuts, get out. She looks him straight in the eye, and then all of a sudden, in front of her stunned co-workers, laughter takes hold of her, a real full-throated roar of laughter, rising up from her belly, irresistible, out of control. And as she is led outside, she is still laughing.

CÉLINE CURIOL is a journalist who has worked for various French media, including
Libération
, Radio France, and BBC Afrique. Her second novel and a travel book on Sierra Leone have recently been published in France. Originally from Lyon, Curiol lives in New York City, where she is at work on her third novel.

 

 

One of the titans of contemporary American Letters, novelist, memoirist, essayist, screenwriter, and film director PAUL AUSTER is the author of
City of Glass
(of the New York Trilogy novels),
The Brooklyn Follies
, and
Moon Palace
, among other works.

Copyright © 2005 by Céline Curiol

English translation © 2007 by Sam Richard
Foreword © 2008 by Paul Auster

 

Originally published in France by Actes Sud, 2005.

 

First English-language edition published in Canada by
McClelland & Stewart Ltd, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, 2007.

 

First U.S. edition published September 2008 by arrangement
with Actes Sud.

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including mechanical, electric, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

 

Seven Stories Press
140 Watts Street
New York, NY 10013
www.sevenstories.com

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Curiol, Céline
[Voix sans issue. English]
Voice over / Céline Curiol ; translated by Sam Richard.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-583-22979-8

I. Richard, Sam. II. Title.
PQ2703.U75V6513 2008
823--dc22

2008020028

 

 

This work, published as part of a program providing publication assistance, received financial support from the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Cultural Services of the French Embassy in the United States and FACE (French Amercian Cultural Exchange).