Pretty Things. Виржини Депант

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      “You have one of her songs?”

      She rubbed the back of her neck like she did when something was bothering her.

      “I sent her your stuff, that we had worked on, you and me, for her to give me a couple ideas. But she made her suggestions too complicated for me to replicate on purpose. I already told you how much of a bitch she is.”

      “You could have had me listen, so we—”

      “No, she sings too well, it pisses me off. But I don’t have a choice now.”

      She had chosen between tact and ambition a long time ago.

      That was the fundamental difference between Claudine and the world. Like everyone else, she was calculated, egotistical, shit-talking, petty, jealous, a fraud, a liar. But unlike everyone else, she owned it—without cynicism, with a disarming nature that made her irreproachable. When someone criticized her, she would rub her neck. “Calm down, I’m not the Virgin Mary, I’m not a hero, I’m not a role model. I do what I can, at least that’s something.”

      She pressed play.

      After listening, he only asked, “Is it possible for her to change the lyrics?”

      “No way. Nothing’s possible with her, she’s absolutely determined to be a pain in the ass.”

      “But she’ll come here to finish production?”

      “No way. She despises Paris. Which is for the best, because I despise her.”

      “You really look that much alike?”

      “Don’t you remember? I showed you a photo.”

      “But even now you—”

      “We’re twins, we look alike. It’s not that complicated.”

      Nicolas admitted, “I really like her voice, we can make a lot of pretty things with it.”

      “Singing is the only thing she’s good for. Lucky for her she knows how.”

      After that, as is often the case, nothing happened as expected.

      “If you’re not the one singing, what will you do?” Nicolas asked.

      “I’ll do the music videos, the interviews, the photos. I’ll meet tons of people and then I’ll start acting in movies.”

      “And your sister won’t say anything?”

      “No, Pauline can’t stand anyone except for her boyfriend and two or three of her friends. I’d be shocked if she was angry about not being in the spotlight.”

      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.”

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