Every time she thinks about him, the pieces of lead shift, crushing her insides.
One evening after she has eaten her dinner, rinsed her plate and cutlery and wiped up the crumbs with a sponge, she finds it hard to sit still on the sofa. She switches on the television, but instead of soothing her, the programs accentuate her disquiet. The two-dimensional beings gesticulating on-screen look like sad puppets, as if life had been reduced to a limited number of pre-ordained movements. She switches off the set, stands up, and wanders around the apartment searching for something to do. But no sooner does she take hold of something than she loses all interest in it. Using it becomes an empty gesture, bringing neither distraction nor relief. She has only herself for company; the lead is starting to exert its grip once more. To go out, to meet someone, in the hope of feeling something other than her own physical limits.
The street is empty. She wonders what day it is and has to make an effort to remember. Monday. Rain has darkened the pavements, patches of damp stand out on the walls, the air smells of vegetation, as if man-made odors no longer existed. She walks along suspended above her regular footsteps, fascinated by the ease of her movements. And so it goes until the combined effects of the wind and the rain begin to wear off, until her surroundings become oppressive, as though everything around her were gradually drying up. Ill at ease once again, she goes into a bar. The only customer seated at a table is a young man on his own, writing. Three men laughing in chorus with the barman at the counter. Some music playing in the background lends the place a vague romantic charm. She has stepped into one of those realms where external events are transformed into words and stripped of their consequences. They let her sit down without paying attention to her. A few minutes later, the barman comes over with a dishcloth over his shoulder and the hint of an amused smile still playing on his lips, the last trace of the story told by the men at the counter. But he vanishes the moment he takes her order, leaving her alone, still craving company. For a few seconds, she turns her attention to the young man, who is contemplating the loose sheets of paper that have barely been touched by ink, but he doesn’t look her way once. A newspaper has been left on the seat next to her. L’Inédit. She has never seen any copies of it except in this place. She opens it at random and begins to read.
Religious communities, political communities, ethnic communities, minority communities, a place where we find others who resemble us. In all societies, a need to conform. Innovation is a risk machine, use it cautiously, it isn’t included in insurance contracts. You will not be covered for refusing to respect the prevailing way of life. Go out of your way to run yourself aground! What’s the point, death lurks in the wings. Without surprises, no bad surprises; stay perched on the branch where your predecessors made their nest. Be carefuclass="underline" any shifting around could lead to a fall. Do as you please, but stay within the norms; you are being watched. Enemies of the unusual are united, but there are no half-measures for the ones who have escaped conventional thinking. Every day, hundreds of people avoid one another. Because of modesty, of cowardice, of incomprehension, of laziness, of fear, of pride. There is no button to push that would slow them down, for what is left behind must be, in theory, found ahead. Waste, the evil wrongs of a consumer society in which infinite choice is permitted and, once attained, bears the misleading designation of freedom. We glance at others as though they were shop windows. Man adores ease. He battles on to prove, wrongly, that he is right, he revels in empty words, loyalty, integrity, trust. Trust vanished a long time ago. People want things to run well, but things have no legs, they exist or they don’t. People shut themselves away in ugly, rickety dwellings. At least they hold together, just don’t get too close to the edge. Never has the cult of the goddess Security had such a following. If the agreement of tenses is a basic rule of language, agreement among human beings is as rare as a solar eclipse. Don’t miss it. Assuming your senses have not been numbed. Most of the time, circumstances dictate everything else. There are no truths, only points of view. It is always the next note that reveals the accuracy of the one before it. You have to listen to a piece all the way to the end in order to appreciate its beauty. It’s true that boundaries shift, ways of thinking evolve, but power relations continue to impose their laws. Today, in the West, women who wear the veil are a symbol of the absence of choice. The innocent pupil raises his hand: Sir, is television a form of submission? You’ve got it all mixed up. Human-rights advocates will howclass="underline" you have the choice. In a word, explain the difference between choice and freedom. Subtlety is the enemy of power. Stir up the concepts in a single pot, fodder to be served to the masses to fatten them up and keep them quiet. Choicefreedom — capitalism’s hi-tech weapon. The mission of the savior of the globe is to spread democracy in order to stimulate markets. Money does not guarantee happiness, but it helps. Make a note of that, it will come in handy later on. In the year 3000, statues of the kings of petrol, father and son, will be erected at the entrance to the capital of the world. All advertising posters will read: Organize your capital, Plan ahead. This is the quest for the Holy Grail of our time. Man will never be cured of his mortality.
The article is by someone named Gaëtane Lonrice. She isn’t sure she has understood what the writer is trying to demonstrate. She swallows a gulp of red wine, looking at the wall opposite her. A large painting hangs there showing about thirty nude women sitting, kneeling, or lying on their sides, grouped into a swarm. They have been painted in such a way that their eyes converge on a single point — the viewer, who sees only their faces, their necks and shoulders, sections of their arms and legs. In the foreground, however, there is a woman whose breasts and pubic hair are visible. What the composition seems to suggest to her is that the intimate parts of the other models are not worth showing since they are the same as the first’s. Only their faces make them different.
No one has stirred. She tries to recognize the music that is playing. She looks around for the name of the bar and sees “The Three Tadpoles” printed at the top of a menu on the next table. Odd name for a bar. She is trying to imagine the anecdote that might have been responsible for it when she hears the door close. A man has come in. He raises a hand to the barman, casts a quick glance at the imperturbable young man, and then gives her a hard stare. She looks down at the few drops of wine left in her glass. She hears him order a beer. She knows what’s going through his head: a woman on her own, drinking alcohol, on a Monday night no less. Just then, it occurs to her that what she needs isn’t company but the company of the man she hadn’t been able to kiss — Ange is in his arms on the sofa, they are watching a film. But it is too late. The man has put down his beer against her glass of wine and is settling into the chair opposite her. His name is Ivan.