Jeannette Blot
Awful. Awful. Awful. I don’t even want to leave the dressing room to show myself to Marguerite. I can’t wear any fitted clothes. I have no more waist. My bust has expanded. I can’t display my cleavage. In the past, yes. Today, no. Marguerite’s not realistic, not at all. Besides, she herself wears only round necklines or, if not, a modest little scarf. My daughter and my sister-in-law have got it into their heads to dress me for I don’t know what psychological purposes. At my seventieth birthday celebration the other evening, Odile said to me, you don’t dress, Maman, you cover yourself with fabric. — So what? Who looks at me? Surely not Ernest. Your father doesn’t even remember that I have a body. The next day she called to tell me she’d been passing in front of Franck et Fils and she’d seen a little brown dress with orange edging. It would look fabulous on you, Maman, she said. It’s true that on the mannequin in the window, the dress has a certain elegance. Does it fit? Marguerite asks from the other side of the curtain. — No, no, not at all! — Show me. — No, no, it’s not worth the trouble! I try to take the dress off. The zipper’s stuck. I’m just about to tear the whole thing. I step out of the dressing room, a stifling burial chamber, and say, help me take this thing off, Marguerite! — Let me see you. You look great! What don’t you like? — I don’t like anything. It’s completely horrible. Can you make this zipper work? — What about the blouse? — I hate frills. — It doesn’t have any. — Yes it does. — Why are you so nervous, Jeannette? — Because the two of you, you and Odile, are forcing me to do things against my nature. This is torture, this shopping. — The zipper’s caught in your slip, stop wriggling around like that. I start to cry. It happens all of a sudden. Marguerite’s fussing around behind me. I don’t want her to notice my tears. It’s absurd. For years on end you swallow all your tears, and then you cry for no reason in a fitting room at Franck et Fils. You OK? says Marguerite. Nothing wrong with her ears. She irritates me, she notices everything. In the end, I’ve come to prefer people who notice nothing. You learn to be alone. You organize your life quite well. You don’t need to explain yourself. Marguerite says, don’t move, I’m almost there. In one of Gilbert Cesbron’s books, I believe, a woman asks her confessor, should one yield to chagrin, or struggle against it and contain it? Choking back tears doesn’t do any good, the confessor replies. Your chagrin remains lodged somewhere. There we are, Marguerite says triumphantly. I retreat behind the curtain to liberate myself. I put my own clothes back on, I try to freshen my face. The dress slides off the hanger and falls, I pick it up and leave it on the stool like a rag. Outside in the street, I urge Marguerite to drop this project of making me care about how I look anymore. My sister-in-law stops in front of every store window. Ready-to-wear shops, shoe shops, leather goods shops, even household linen shops. I must admit she lives in Rouen, poor thing. From time to time, she tries to remotivate me, but it’s clear she’s the one who wants to go in, touch a purse, try something on. I tell her, that would have looked really good on you, let’s go back in and see. She replies, oh no, no, I have too many things I never wear, I don’t know what to do with them anymore. I insist, I say, that’s a nice little jacket, it would go with anything. Marguerite shakes her head. I’m afraid she’s just being tactful. I find this depressing, two women walking past rows of fashionable little shops without wanting anything. I don’t dare ask Marguerite if she has a man in her life (that’s a stupid expression, what’s it supposed to mean, to have a man in your life? I’ve got one on paper and I still don’t have one). When you have a man in your life, you wonder about idiotic things, the condition of your lipstick, the shape of your bra, the color of your hair. That fills up the time. It’s fun. Maybe Marguerite has preoccupations of that sort. I could ask her, but I’m afraid of a revelation that will cause me pain. It’s been so many years since I aspired to any kind of transformation. When Ernest was at the height of his career, he’d inspect my appearance. It wasn’t that he was being attentive. We went out a lot. I was a decorative element. The other day I took my grandson Simon to the Louvre to see the Italian Renaissance paintings. That little boy is the light of my life. At the age of twelve, he’s interested in art. As I looked at the pictures, with their figures in dark clothing, the cruel malefactors of olden days, hugging the walls, walking stooped over, headed for who knows where, I said to myself, what becomes of those wicked souls? Have they disappeared from all the books, disappeared with full impunity? I thought about Ernest. Ernest Blot, my husband, is like those twilight shadows. Underhanded, deceitful, pitiless. I must be a little twisted myself for having wanted the love of such a man. Women are seduced by frightful men, because frightful men present themselves in masks, as at a costume ball. They arrive with mandolins and party outfits. I was pretty. Ernest was possessive, and I mistook jealousy for love. I let forty-eight years pass. We live in the illusion of repetition, like the rising and setting sun. We go to bed, we get up, we think we’re repeating the same action, but that’s not true. Marguerite doesn’t resemble her brother. She’s amiable, she has scruples. She says, Jeannette, do you still want to try driving? I say, you think I should? You don’t think it would be a crazy thing to do? We both start laughing. All of a sudden we’re excited. It’s been thirty years since I’ve touched a steering wheel. Marguerite says, we’re going to find a place in the Bois de Boulogne, a place where there isn’t any traffic. — All right. All right. We look for her car. Marguerite has forgotten where she parked it, and as for me, I’ve even forgotten what it looks like. I propose two or three to her before we happen upon the right one. She turns on the ignition and we’re off. I observe her movements. She asks, have you brought your driver’s license? — Yes. You think it’s still valid? This kind of license doesn’t exist anymore. Marguerite gives it a quick look and says, I have the same kind. — What kind of car is this? — A Peugeot 207. Automatic shift. — An automatic! I can’t drive an automatic! — It’s very easy. There’s nothing to do. — Oh, dear, an automatic! Marguerite says, you won’t tell Odile anything, you promise, right? I don’t want to get chewed out by your daughter. — I won’t tell her anything. She gets on my nerves, Odile, being so overprotective. I’m not made of glass. We drive around the Bois for a while, looking for an out-of-the-way spot with no traffic. Eventually we find a little lane blocked after some distance by a white gate about fifteen feet wide. Marguerite parks. She turns off the switch. We both get out so we can change sides. We laugh a little. I say, I don’t know anything about driving anymore, Marguerite. She says, you have two pedals. The brake and the accelerator. You use only your right foot to press on them. Your left foot has nothing to do. Start the car. I start the car. The engine purrs. I turn to Marguerite, enthused by having started the car so easily. Very good, says Marguerite in her professorial voice (she teaches Spanish). You were able to start the engine because the shift’s in P, which stands for Park. Put your seat belt on. — You think? — Yes, yes. Marguerite leans over and fastens the seat belt, which seems really tight. I say, I feel like a prisoner. — You’ll get used to it. Now move the gear shift to D as in Drive. Where’s your right foot? — Nowhere. — Put it on the brake. — Why? — Because once the car’s in Drive, when you take your foot off the brake we’ll start to move. — You think? — Yes. — My foot’s there. — Move the lever to D. I take a deep breath and move the lever to D. Nothing happens. Marguerite says, now slowly take your foot off the pedal. Go on, go on, release the pedal completely. I release the pedal completely. I’m extremely tense. The car starts moving. I say, it’s moving! — Now put your foot on the accelerator. — Where is it? — Right next to the brake, right next to it. I poke around with my foot, I feel a pedal, I press it. The car stops violently, throwing us forward. The seat belt slices into my chest. What’s happening? — You hit the brake again and killed the engine. We’ll start over. Shift into P, Park. Start the car. Bravo. Now, move the shift to N. — What’s N? — Neutral. No gear. Nothing. — Ah, nothing. Right, right. — Let’s try again. Right foot on the brake. Gear shift to D. Relax your left foot, it doesn’t have anything to do. — I can’t drive an automatic! — Yes you can. Look. Put the shift on D and take your foot off the brake. Bravo. Now move your foot slightly to the right, find the accelerator pedal, and press on it. I concentrate. The car’s rolling. I hold my breath. The gate’s still pretty far away, but I’m heading for it without any control over anything. I panic. How do I brake? How do I stop? — Put your foot on the brake. — I stay in … in … what’s it called? — Yes, you stay in Drive. And the moment the car stops, you shift back to N. N, not R! R means Reverse, for backing up. Don’t use your left foot! You’re pressing on both pedals at the same time, Jeannette! We come to a jolting halt, accompanied by a strange noise. I’m soaked. I say, I hope you have more patience with your students. — My students are quicker. — You’re the one who thought I should take up driving again. — You mope around in your apartment all day long, you need some independence. Start the engine again. Shift into P first. What’s your right foot doing? — I don’t know. — Put it on the accelerator, but don’t press down. There. Move the shift to D. And go. Accelerate slowly. My sister-in-law’s instructions hurry off to some remote part of my brain. I respond to them mechanically. The little ball of chagrin has returned to my throat. I try to get rid of it. We’re moving forward. Where are you going? Marguerite asks. — I don’t know. — You’re headed straight for the gate. — Yes. — You can turn off onto the grass. Make a circle around that tree there and go back the way we came. She points out a place I don’t see because I’m incapable of looking anywhere but straight ahead. Slow down, Marguerite says, slow down. She stresses me. I can’t remember how to slow down anymore. My arms are bolted to the steering wheel like two steel bars. Turn off, turn off, Jeannette! Marguerite cries. I don’t know where I am anymore. Marguerite has grabbed the steering wheel. The gate’s six feet away. — Let go of the wheel, Jeannette! Take your foot off the gas! She pulls the hand brake and moves the shift lever. The car rears, hits the white gate, scrapes along it, and then stops moving altogether. Marguerite doesn’t say a word. My tears have welled up all at once, and they’re blurring my vision. Marguerite gets out. She walks around the back of the car to check the damage. Then she opens my door. In a gentle voice (which is worse than everything else), she says, come, get out, I’m going to back the car up a bit. She helps me take off the seat belt. She sits in my seat and backs up a short way to separate the 207 from the gate. She gets out again. The left front is a little dented, the headlight’s broken, and the whole left fender is scratched. I murmur, I’m really sorry, forgive me. Marguerite says, you did a good job on it, no question about that. — I’m really sorry, Marguerite, I’ll pay for the repairs. She looks at me and says, Jeannette, you’re not going to cry over this, are you? Jeannette, dear, that’s ridiculous, who cares about a dented car? If you knew the number of things I’ve crashed into in my time. Not only that, I nearly ran over a seventh grader in front of the lycée one day. I say, forgive me, forgive me, I’ve spoiled the whole day. Come on, get back in, says Marguerite, let’s go get some ice cream at Bagatelle. I’ve been wanting to go back to Bagatelle for months. We take our original places in the car. She starts it at once and backs up onto the grass with a dexterity that grieves me. I understand people who like bad weather. Bad weather doesn’t give you ideas about going to visit a flower garden. Buck up, Jeannette, Marguerite says. There’s no denying that gate was holding out its arms to us. To tell you the truth, I knew from the start you were going to run into it. I smile in spite of myself. I say, you’ll never tell Ernest about this, right? Aha, I’ve got you now, Marguerite says, laughing. I adore Marguerite. I’d rather have married her than her brother. I hear my cell phone ringing in my purse. Odile installed an unusually piercing ring tone for me because she thinks I’m deaf. Apart from Odile, Ernest, and my son-in-law Robert, nobody calls me on that phone. — Hello? — Maman? — Yes? — Where are you? — In the Bois de Boulogne. — Good. Now don’t worry, but Papa was having lunch with his pals from the Third Circle and he blacked out. The restaurant called an ambulance. They took him to the Pitié. —He blacked out? — Are you still with Marguerite? — Yes … —Did you two find some nice things? I say, what do you mean, blacked out? And where are you, Odile? Odile’s voice is muffled and a bit sepulchral. — I’m at the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital. They’re going to perform a coronary angiogram to see if his bypasses are blocked. — To see what? They’re going to do what to him? — We’ll just wait for the results. Don’t worry. And tell me, did you try on that dress at Franck et Fils, Maman?