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She walks aimlessly along, leaving the market behind her. She could cry if she wasn’t worried that sobbing would slow her down. Something is happening back there; she ought to have stayed on as a witness. She walks along, no longer seeing the pavement, the buildings, the cars, the passers-by, the mopeds. No matter the city, no matter the age, there are transitional moments when a person exists by default, by pure reflex. It ought then to be possible to fall asleep on the spot, to let that moment of floating pass, and to launch oneself into orbit around everyday life. The street runs into a small, three-sided public garden. She pushes through the metal gate. There are three marble benches. A fishbowl filled with water has been placed on the end of each one, a goldfish swims inside. No one around. The gravel crunches underfoot. The fish revolve at varying speeds, at times bouncing off a translucent obstacle and, in a fit of pique, shooting back the other way. From above, they seem very slender; from the side, bloated, almost obese. She looks around for who could have set the three fishbowls down in this unusual spot, but she seems to be the only person there. Tugging up her sleeve, she plunges her fingers into the large bubble of water. The fish wriggles away, working its fins to avoid the hand that has just burst in on its world. She feels like catching the delicate slippery body, hauling it out of the water and contemplating the mouth opening and closing in the suffocating air. Once, at the seaside, she’d observed a fish that had been thrown down on the shingle after being caught. A terrible, fascinating sight. Blood was trickling from its gills; now and then its body would wriggle. She’d crouched down and with her finger had given the animal’s scales a timid caress. She had asked if it couldn’t be put back in the water. The fisherman had laughed at her. It’s just a fish, they’re made to be eaten.

Someone is calling out to her. Just what does she think she’s doing? She pulls her fingers out of the fishbowl at once. A woman, who must have been lying in wait behind a bush, is striding towards her. Addressing her as though she were a prize idiot. It’s an in-sta-lla-tion, not a finger-bowl, looking is fine, but no touching, do you understand? Her hair in dreads, an orange band around her forehead, a ring in her nose, the woman is about to knock her down. Given a sword, she’d have pulled it out already in order to slice her into little pieces. Your installation is really great. The anger drops from the woman’s face. Artists live at the mercy of compliments, which is why she doesn’t understand them very well. Don’t worry, I’m going now. Actually, the artist would be happy for her to stay and share a few more favorable impressions of her work, maybe even ask her questions about where she gets her inspiration. She’d be happy now to give her permission to dip her fingers in, let her art become interactive. Accessible to ordinary folk like her, isn’t that the criterion all creators must live by? She has heard what the artist is saying but has no real opinion on the matter.

Rue de Buci. Large signs up on all the shop fronts: Everything Must Go, Clearance Sale, Up to 50 % Off. Enticing phrases to coax you inside. She pauses outside Vanilla Girls. Chocolate, strawberry and raspberry are also available. All the flavors you could wish for, gentlemen. To be consumed without moderation, but must be kept refrigerated. She goes inside. Five young women work their way along the hangers like automatic sorting machines, taking out an occasional garment to check for defects in the manufacture. Each displays remarkable powers of concentration: the fruit of years of practice begun in early adolescence. A female voice is singing in English. She catches the word love and the word. . love. The sales assistant is wheeling packs of clothes from one side of the store to the other, taking them around for some fresh air. She spots a dress for 49 euros. Not really her style, but it could cheer her up to see herself looking different, not to recognize herself in the mirror. Can she try it on? she asks the assistant, who brushes by her at top speed and, without stopping, points to the rear of the shop. The garments in critical shape have to be moved urgently for fear they will suffer irreversible decay. In a corner of the shop, a curtain hangs from a semi-circular rail. The curtain is narrow. Through the space between the fabric and the wall, she can see large sections of the shop. People can see her. She ought not to give a damn, since everyone here is of the same sex. No need to be shy, you’re all built the same, her gym mistress would shout in the changing rooms at school. Except that she had breasts, whereas the others still had only the insignificant volcanic burgeonings of nipple. She undresses, keeping her movements to a minimum in order to stay hidden. She gets her head and arms in, but once the dress is on, she can’t do up the zip at the back. The makeshift fitting room doesn’t have a mirror. She steps out, with her back exposed and the dress gaping at the front, to get at least some idea of how she looks. A split second later the salesgirl is upon her, ramming up the zip with an iron hand. She barely has time to draw a breath: her chest will never be the same shape again, that’s certain. She senses that the other women in the shop are peering at her. The salesgirl is recuperating by the till. It’s very nice, don’t tell me you don’t like it. She doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t say so. She already knew that pink doesn’t suit her. Besides, it’s a color she detests. And the length is wrong. As for her breasts, squashed at the front, plumped up at the top, they resemble nothing so much as a fine pair of soufflés still in their baking tin. The ruse hasn’t paid off. Even dressed like that, she still looks the same, only worse. Forty-nine euros, it’s a bargain, the shop-girl calls out, before flying to the rescue of other endangered garments. Get back behind the curtain now that she’s gone. She flaps her elbows, trying to catch hold of the zip. No way is she going out there again. After twisting herself into four or five different positions, release. She hurriedly gets back into her clothes and abandons the dress. She throws a quick glance outside. The shop-girl is standing guard a few yards from the shop entrance. She makes a run for it, ducking at the first display stand she comes to and finds her way, hidden by a mound of heaped-up clothing, to the exit.