When she starts to walk, she understands that she is drunk. His hand guides her around the vibrant bodies planted in the studio, out over the paved courtyard, now cold and deserted. Very few people in the street: it must be late. At the edge of the pavement they stop to wait for a taxi. Above all, she mustn’t allow this pause to give too much room for thought; be bold, don’t retreat. An image of him asleep against Ange’s silken shoulder appears in her mind for a few seconds before dissolving into the gelatinous mass of her brain. They are rolling forwards. She has no memory of getting into the taxi now gliding along between the façades of unlit windows. Waves of orangey light from the streetlamps crawl up the windshield and are whisked off overhead. The rear-view mirror holds the driver’s alert gaze; other vehicles are passing them. She has opened the window a crack, the fresh air helps her to sober up slightly. Renée is talking and waving his hands, turning his head in her direction from time to time. All of a sudden he no longer strikes her as mysterious or attractive, instead just terribly alien. She doesn’t give a damn about what he is saying and lets the words fade without holding on to a single one. She knows now that it is not a question of her listening, only of her following. A great deal of air lies between them, and their two joined hands can do nothing about it. They are both realizing that they don’t have the slightest need of each other. How to describe her presence in this taxi, alongside a seasoned female impersonator, on her way to an unknown destination? Misplaced? Pointless? She thinks about how she could give him the slip. Tell the driver to pull over, mumble an excuse, and ignore Renée’s vexed stare. But she does nothing of the sort. The ambition that has possessed her all evening is holding her back: to pursue what she has started to the very end.
She is sitting on a navy blue sofa. The windows are shrouded by thick curtains. On a shelf stands the framed photograph of a man in his forties. Sleep is beginning to exert its gentle hold. Renée has served her a drink; some kind of liqueur, she doesn’t catch the last word. It’ll make her feel better, he announces as he comes over. He is without his glasses now and avoids meeting her eye. Tiny beads of sweat pearl his forehead. He straightens the magazines that are strewn across the low table, adjusts the flowers in the vase; all this in a series of automatic, measured, and precise gestures. Then, without warning, he takes a firm hold of the top of his long mane and tugs. The black wig stays in his fist. A down of fine hair covers his skull. A lot less sexy, no? He finds that hilarious. The mouth, nose, and eyes are still there, but the top of his head has now shrunk. His most certain feminine attribute, his luxuriant head of hair, is an inert mass on his knees. Without it, his shaved skull resembles a convict’s. She senses that with his face freed of its surrounding curls, he is revealing to her an intimate part of his body, without the slightest embarrassment. There are certain situations in which a man and a woman end up looking the same. She can’t help noticing Renée’s last remaining signs of femininity: the make-up, the way he crosses his legs, holds his cigarette. She clings to these arbitrary distinctions, not wanting him to revert fully to being a man. He has his head down, he combs the hair of the wig with slender fingers, then his eyes stare off into the distance. She worries that it will all go wrong now, that he’ll realize the inappropriateness of their presence in that apartment. To rouse him from his torpor, she pipes up. I really liked the songs. Of course you liked them, how many singers like me have you heard? And he mimes flicking back a now-absent lock of hair. They exchange a look. He leans in to kiss her. The wig slips to the carpet. She has never kissed lips with lipstick before. She feels the hands undoing her clothes; wants to resist because she understands now that this is not what she came for. But the arousal in her lower body draws her to Renée. He stands to remove his own clothes. The torso is smooth. Her eyes fix on his groin to see what will appear once the boxer shorts are off. The thin legs flex; the piece of cloth drops to the ground. Before her is an erect penis. He says, I’ll be right back, before coming right back with a condom already on. He lies down on top of her. Briefly, the smell of rubber dominates then blends in with the smell of the room, of their secretions. She doesn’t move. She wants it yet doesn’t want it; or rather wants it with a woman who has a penis. A woman like the one she thought she had met. She wants it with the intuition, the sensitivity that she imagines such a creature would possess. But what penetrates her is a man, who comes with a single brief sigh. The thin body collapses onto the breasts he hasn’t touched. She may have come, but she isn’t sure. Gently, she caresses Renée’s back. For a minute they lie motionless. Then Renée gets up, removes the condom, picks up the wig. Come to bed, darling. Again the word stings. She does as she is told.
She is woken by the hushed modulations of a voice. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, she spots her clothes carefully folded on a chair. Her tongue is furred, her head aches; slowly she gets into her clothes. Spruce and already dressed, Renée is on the phone. A silent good morning, a gesture in the direction of the table, as the lips mouth help yourself. On the table are the tea, the orange juice, and the croissants. The perfect breakfast. All that’s missing is the husband, she muses. Sitting down, she pours the tea into a cup and blows on the steaming liquid. The black hairs of Renée’s wig dangle and shift against his back during the course of his telephone conversation. The long silences, punctuated by the word yes, prove that the person at the other end of the line is either very talkative or very upset. I’ll come, Renée keeps saying; yes, I’ll come, I promise. You promised me, she whispers to her unheeding cup, reproducing her indignation of the night before. Renée turns round, looking falsely annoyed at being stuck on the phone while his guest is up and about. She picks off a piece of croissant, chewing it diligently to reduce it to a saliva-soaked paste, which she doesn’t swallow but goes on chewing. Eventually, Renée hangs up; what remains of the croissant goes straight to her stomach. Is it good? I’m going to have to leave pretty soon. His words come out detached, devoid of purpose, leaving her with the unpleasant impression that it is her mother who is talking to her. She imagines him with an apron round his waist. Renée is already putting on a jacket and writing his number down on a scrap of paper. He asks her if she can get a move on. They’re outside his building; she doesn’t recognize the surroundings. I’ll call you, he says, kissing her cheek. He points out the way to the nearest métro station and strides off in the opposite direction. As she passes a dustbin, she throws away the slip of paper.