Everyone heads meekly over to the table. Ange assigns places; someone points out that there are nine people present and it won’t be possible to seat men and women alternately. She hangs back and takes a quick look inside the kitchen. He has his hands in the water, his head tilted back as he blows locks of hair from in front of his eyes. After a few seconds, he senses that she is watching him. He gives her a wink and whispers, I’m coming. I’m coming: a promise that has the effect of an order. If only there were just the two of them, she wishes, in this archetypal early twenty-first-century kitchen. Because now she understands “I’m coming” to mean “leave me alone,” and not “I’ll be with you in a second.” She retreats. The outside world has suddenly shrunk, and the inside has become dense and enormous. She tells herself that she must look like the Michelin-tire man. But no one seems to mind. She proceeds robotically over to the table and, without thinking, flops down onto an empty chair. She didn’t realize straight away that she was the one Ange was speaking to. The tone of voice is impatient. No, not there, that’s my place. Ange points a commanding finger at another chair at the end of the table. She says nothing. She gets up and slips in between one of the husbands and the man with the stoop. There now remains just one empty seat, directly opposite hers, reserved for the chef, who at last makes his entrance. A thunderous chorus of “Ahhs” from the guests, the metal sound of cutlery. Each plate contains a small triangle of toast, a dollop of crème fraîche, and a slice of smoked salmon. She is going to have to force herself. Smoked salmon is served at one out of every two dinner parties she is invited to. She recalls the supermarket slogan: “Chic and cheap.” It feels as if she is chewing an oily piece of salted rubber. This show-dinner is starting to get on her nerves. As she sits there eating her slice of dead fish, searching for a way not to feel sick, the guests resume their conversation, now that their stomachs have been gratified. They are discussing one of the couples’ most recent trips. To Iran. The woman keeps going on about how she had to wear a veil over there. The others adopt sympathetic demeanors; as for her, she seems to have found it rather amusing. She even tells Ange and the other woman that if they ever decide to go, she’ll give them the address of the shop where she bought the cloth for the veil.
The plates are empty; Ange is clearing the table. After retreating to his laboratory under the watchful eye of his partner, he returns with a steaming casserole of boeuf bourguignon. Everyone holds out a plate to the chef, who serves the food himself. She takes advantage of the profusion of outstretched arms to give the porcelain a discreet wipe with her napkin and rid it of some of the salmon taste. Hardly has she done so than the man with the stoop grabs her plate and declares in a loud voice, Ladies first. Here then is the young man who has been reserved for her. Charming; perhaps he’d also like a round of applause? Someone says, it’s crazy how Le Pen. . General approbation, use is made of the words “alarming,” “worrying,” “sad.” They all seem to have given the problem quite some thought. She notes that they take pleasure in agreeing. That strikes her as a bit sterile. Timidly, she puts her question: out of interest, do you have many French people of North African extraction among your acquaintances? Looks fly in all directions. I mean, it’s a strange term, French of North African extraction. One of the husbands fixes her with an annoyed stare. I really don’t see the connection. Neither do the others apparently. She looks to the end of the table for support, but he is leaning over to Ange and not looking in her direction. The husband is back on the attack, his tone more aggressive. And you, Miss, do you know many? She can’t stand people who use the word Miss to remind you that you are less mature or more unmarried than they are. It’s not Miss, actually, she would like to shoot back. That would have put him in his place. Luckily, Ange, ever the perfect hostess, enquires if everyone is enjoying the delicious meal lovingly concocted by her boyfriend lover fiancé partner sweetheart, i.e. the guy she allows herself to be groped by. But since everyone is waiting to hear if the girl at the end of the table knows, might one go so far as to say frequents — what was it she called them? — French people of North African extraction, Ange’s question goes unanswered. Do you like it? asks Ange again. Everyone makes mmm sounds with their mouths; compliments are made to the chef and to his hostess. A moment of true harmony. But the husband has not lost the scent: from the look in his eyes, she sees that he regrets not being able to sink his teeth into that piece of woman whose discretion gives him the right to pick on her. The conversation resumes, but she is no longer following.
She thinks back to her dream of the night before. In a sunlit street, elegantly dressed young women are pushing strollers. There is a small crowd of them, all advancing at the same pace. They are filled with a quiet joy, which seems to suit them. At first, she can’t make out what they’re pushing in front of them. Finally she turns, her point of view shifts, and she sees what’s in the strollers: children, all too big still to be ferried around like that, their limbs gathered in, folded tightly in front of them to fit between the metal struts of the stroller; children dressed in military fatigues and all of them holding in one arm, leaning against the length of their bodies, a machine-gun practically as big as they are. She could perhaps tell them about that, but discussing dreams at dinner parties is not done. In one gulp, she finishes off her glass. She sees the hand of the man with the stoop reaching out for her plate, on which some tiny puddles of a rich, dark sauce remain. Or did you want to mop up with some bread? Without waiting for her to reply, he whisks her plate away. She wonders whether to pretend to laugh or reward him for his effort. No thank you, she replies politely. She notices the table is being cleared; he hasn’t looked at her since that wink in the kitchen. Ange gets up with the pile of plates, he follows her out. With the couple momentarily gone, the delicately-spun bonds among the guests start to fray. The two husbands lower their voices and turn to their wives; the two bachelors slowly light cigarettes; for a few moments, everyone abandons his or her social role, enjoys a well-deserved mid-performance break. For a brief instant, she fears giving in to the physical urge to rush out the door. That damn silence is starting to get to her. They’re acting in a seven-man locked room drama, and it feels as if she’s the last dead woman who has yet to grasp the rules of hell. She pours herself another glass of red wine, which she forces herself to sip for appearances’ sake. Someone decides to open another bottle to put everyone a bit more at ease. Since they all know each other already and she is acquainted only with the hosts, she senses there will be no escape: she is in for a full-blown interrogation. With everybody listening religiously as though her life were somehow thrilling. And sure enough, the guy with the stoop makes an exceptional effort and asks her what she does for a living. By chance, the question falls during a lull in the conversation, and the entire group feels invited to stick their noses in: the six others wait for the rather unassuming girl at the end of the table to speak up; damn it, it’s about time she contributed a bit more to the discussion. They are in such a hurry to find out what box to put her in. She imagines the husband must be rubbing his hands under the table, delighted at this perfect opportunity to go back on the offensive. All eyes are on her: a court waiting to hear the correct answer. She isn’t quite sure that she speaks their language any more. There is only one way to find out. I’m a prostitute.