Pretty Things. Виржини Депант

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СКАЧАТЬ insists, “She passed right under my nose, I didn’t raise an eyebrow when I saw her. It wasn’t until all the passengers cleared out and we found ourselves alone, side by side, that I saw a vague resemblance between you and her.”

      “Maybe you’re kind of an idiot. Have to take that into account.”

      The waiter passes by their table, Nicolas signals for him to bring two more of the same. Then, rubbing his forehead with two fingers, looks into the distance as if he were contemplating the issue. When he’s had enough of not talking, he goes off again.

      “She’s nuts, your sister, totally insane.”

      “She’s just grunge. Compared to the freaks Paris churns out, I find her pretty calm.”

      “There’s no denying it. In the course of an afternoon, I heard her say exactly four words, and they were ‘You can fuck off.’ You call that calm?”

      “Put yourself in her shoes, she’s on the defensive.”

      “What bothers me is that you didn’t even warn me. You forgot to tell me lots of things, I’m sure.”

      She tenses, turns her head toward him, and he knows this face, when she loses her composure and becomes downright nasty.

      “Do you plan on being a pain in the ass all day? If it bothers you, then by all means, don’t force yourself. Go home, don’t worry about a thing. We’ll make do without you.”

      She doesn’t leave him time to respond, gets up and goes to the bathroom. The lock is all rusted and falling to pieces, yellow traces of cigarettes like scars on the toilet paper roll. Squat toilet, be careful not to spray your feet too much when you flush.

      Chest struck with a strange heaviness, she wants to be somewhere else. Rid of herself. That horrible anxiety is ingrained, it wakes up at the same time as her and doesn’t let up until she’s had a few beers.

      She sits back down next to Nicolas. A girl passes by in a combination of snakeskin and bizarre platform shoes. Farther off, a man yells, “Stop, thief!” Some people run and others get involved. Elsewhere, a honk, like a foghorn, as if an ocean liner were docking in the neighborhood.

      Claudine rummages in her bag, takes out her cash and spreads it on the table, announcing, “No tips for assholes, that guy pisses me off.”

      “The waiter? What’d he do to you?”

      “He doesn’t even try. He sucks.”

      She pockets the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, concludes dryly, “So will you go with her or not?”

      “I told you I’d do it, so I’ll do it.”

      “Great. Let’s go?”

      She has a slightly satisfied glimmer in her eye. She gets up and waits for him, then in a relieved tone, “I love it when it starts to get hot out, don’t you?”

      Nicolas and Claudine have known each other for a while now.

      The day she came to live in Paris. She remembers like it was yesterday. Decision made without any planning, she was talking to a girl on the phone, listed off their friends to bitch about them. She heard herself say, “Anyway, I’m taking off, I’m going to Paris, I don’t want this life anymore, where tomorrow never means anything.” And, hanging up, realized that she was really going to do it; they weren’t empty words.

      Filled a bag, this and that, whatever, the stuff people bring. Line at the ticket counter, first-class ticket even though she barely had a dime, for the symbolism; she wasn’t going to arrive there like a fucking piece of trash. A little girl wouldn’t leave her alone—“Por favor, madame, por favor”—Claudine looked at her, said no, but the little girl didn’t let up, followed her all the way to the escalator. “Por favor . . . s’il vous plaît.”

      Spent the train ride in a strange mood, a budding impatience that would never leave her again. For real life to begin, whatever that meant.

      Leaving the train station, she’s struck by it all. The streets are enormous and packed with cars, commotion everywhere, all the Parisians hurried and stressed. She walked for hours, big eyes gazing out at the world, bag heavy and cumbersome, cutting into her palm and shoulder. At each street corner a new spectacle, imposing monuments and a flood of passersby. The smell of money was everywhere, an almost tangible current. And in her head, on a loop, I will eat you, you giant city, I will swallow you whole.

      Night fell rapidly. Claudine all alone in a McDonald’s, a guy came and sat next to her. Classy shoes, nice watch, all-around wealthy appearance. He made his preliminary moves, testing the ground, judged her favorable.

      He was probably used to trying his luck with young women, brought her to eat at another place. A very chic restaurant, he must have deemed her worth the money.

      When she said she didn’t have anywhere to sleep, he felt he ought to warn her that he could only put her up for a night. Relieved all the same: it wouldn’t be money wasted, she wouldn’t take off at the last minute. Laughing, as if it were obvious, Claudine assured him, “I’m not going to move in!”

      But she already knew that if she liked the apartment, she would stay as long as she wanted. She knew guys like him: male nymphos with a compulsive and insatiable need to be reassured, so vulnerable. She possessed everything necessary to control that kind of guy.

      She played the girl who nearly cries because he made her come so good, then the girl who’s grateful to be satisfied so well, just as quickly followed by the girl who doesn’t get too attached, who isn’t too curious or too talkative, discreet signs of admiration with a zest of I’m used to people treating me like a princess so you better behave, to nurture within him a constant latent panic and the feeling that he’d nabbed a real prize.

      She must have done what she needed to because the next night the man insisted she move in. She resisted a little—“We hardly know each other, we’re not kids anymore, living with someone isn’t easy”—to make sure he didn’t have any reservations. But right away he responded positively—“When love presents itself, you have to take the risk”—nimbly convinced that it inspired the same in her: a powerful jolt of rare passion. She certainly didn’t deny it.

      Life at his place was pleasant, even though he wanted to have sex all the time.

      Disgust locked away, instinctively, that had always been her way, her exterior was all smiles, loving and serene. It stayed inside, her desire to vomit, and a certain astonishment each time: how incredible it was that people ever took anyone at face value.

      Thankfully, most of the time he went out to do things, and she was left alone at his place. Let the days go by.

      Paris was a more difficult city than she had imagined. Bursting with people just like her, set on carving out a good life for themselves. So she let time pass, worked out so that her body would be impeccable when the time came. Because the moment would come, she didn’t doubt that yet.

      A Sunday, winter sun, she went to the corner to buy some smokes. Long line of people at the only open tabac. A guy leaning against the bar was meticulously scratching his lottery ticket with a guitar pick. She watched him while she waited for her change. He was bland, sort of blond but not really, sort of tall but not really, blue eyes that could have been green, not poorly dressed but not well dressed either. Scraggly, СКАЧАТЬ