Billie

  Silence

  More silence.

  Still silence.

  FRANCK: It’s not the Académie Française, it’s the Comédie Française . . .

  BILLIE (still upset that she had to wrack her brain to say so poorly what was so important to say): Who gives a fuck?

  Silence

  FRANCK: Billie, do you know why you absolutely have to play Camille?

  BILLIE: No.

  FRANCK (turning toward her in amazement): Because at one point, Perdican can’t help himself and turns toward her to say, amazed: “You’re so beautiful, Camille, when your eyes light up!”

  The conversation stopped there. First, because we had arrived in front of his doorway and second, because whereas Camille had rejected Perdican straightaway, reminding him that she had no freaking use for compliments, I, on the other hand, since this was the first compliment I had received in my entire life, I . . . I didn’t know how to take it. Really. I didn’t know. So I acted, like, totally deaf so as not to spoil anything.

  Then he indicated his house with his chin and said:

  “Of course, I could invite you in for a min—”

  I was already in the middle of answering “oh, . . . no, no,” when he cut me off:

  “—but I won’t because they don’t deserve you.”

  And that, of course, was something completely different from Perdican’s claptrap . . .

  That was the blood the Indians exchanged with each other when they cut a vein.

  It meant: You know, little crude and illiterate Billie, I understood you, your explanation earlier, and my team it’s you.

  And that’s that.

  La, la, li li . . . la la . . . 1

  1 Franck had barely crossed the threshold of his doorway when his father cornered him and inquired, with a hungry look and a knowing glance, about this young lady with whom he was strolling in the street.

  And neither the son’s evasive answer nor his obvious irritation accounted for the father’s good mood. And for that night only and for the duration of the eight o’clock news, he shouted a bit less than usual.

  In this way, the frail silhouette of a timid and trampy girl—more or less living on what remained of the family social service benefit and who was at that moment walking two miles as night was falling and as Franck served himself another helping of gratin dauphinois— had, for one evening at least, stood up to the Grand Conspiracy that was being hatched since the end of the Cold War (Jean-Bernard Muller knew all about it because he was keeping his files very up-to-date) between the freemasons, the Jews, and the homosexuals of the whole world.

  So Billie showed up and Western Christianity was saved. (Author’s note)

  And Franck was right, little star, it had to be that way, and do you know why?

  First, because he was a good actor and I wasn’t. It was no use listening to his advice: I was utterly incapable of performing like he did, of moving my arms and hands, of speaking ostentatiously and pronouncing the words with feeling. And because, at the end of the day, that joystick I had up my derrière allowed me to play the perfect Camille since she was like that too.

  She was just as stressed, suspicious, and stuffed into that potato sack dress that Claudine had made me as I was.

  And because he was a magnificent Perdican—and when I say “magnificent” you can believe me because it’s only the second time I’ve used that word since the start of my story, the first time being when I spoke about you and your sisters—yes, magnificent . . . a Perdican simultaneously sweet, gentle, cruel, sad, funny, mean, a show-off, sure of himself, fragile, and unstable, despite being sheathed as he was in his great-grandfather’s village-policeman jacket, the body of which Claudine had retailored for him before shining the fox-head buttons as if they were pieces of gold. And also because of my two-flavored Malabar.

  Let me explain. In the final tirade, the one everyone is waiting for and which Franck had spoken to me about the first day, the famous scene of the scoundrels and the sluts, at one point Perdican says to Camille, clenching his jaw to prevent all his anger from exploding and crushing her: “All men are liars; fickle, deceitful, garrulous, hypocritical; arrogant or cowardly; contemptible and lascivious buggers; all women are treacherous, vain, mendacious, indiscreet, and depraved; and the whole world is nothing but a bottomless pit where the most shapeless seals slither and twist on mountains of muck, and so on.”

  When we were rehearsing then, we had already been meeting with each other every day for two weeks and through our chats, whether in our roles as Camille and Perdican, or as Franck and Billie, of course, we knew everything about each other and had become friends for life.

  So he didn’t need to hide from me that something was bothering him as I had already guessed.

  Uh, yeah . . . I’m not delusional . . . obviously my performance was totally dragging him down . . .

  I wormed it out of him so we could have it out once and for all and then stop talking about it.

  “Go on. Spit it out. I’m listening.”

  He rolled up his book as though it were a little billy club. Then he took a breath, looked at me, frowning, and finally muttered:

  “It’s one of the most beautiful sections of the play . . . maybe the most beautiful . . . and since I’m the one who has to perform it, it’s going to be ruined.”

  “Uh . . . why do you say that?”

  “Because . . . ” he said looking elsewhere, “because when I say the word ‘bugger’ Franck Mumu will take the place of Perdican and everyone will snicker . . .”

  I was so not expecting this reply (Franck never shows any weakness and even now, you see, if he passed out, it was to hide that he was suffering), that I didn’t respond immediately.

  (That too was something I’d learned with him . . . This sly manner that doubts always have of wending their way into the most twisted and unexpected places and especially with people who are made of stronger stuff than you.)

  I said nothing.

  I waited a second . . . Then another . . . Then another and finally swung myself around to a place where he could see me.

  “I’ll bet you anything that you’re wrong.”

  And as he didn’t react, I put all I had into it:

  “Hello? Franck . . . Do you hear me? Look at me, please. I’ll bet you a two-flavored Malabar bubble gum that no one will snicker.”

  And damn, I won that bet hands down! Hands down! And I’m crying over it . . . I’m still crying . . .

  Sorry . . . sorry . . . It’s the cold, my hunger, my exhaustion . . . sorry . . .

  I’m crying about it because it wasn’t one Malabar he would have owed me but two pounds! A container! A boatload!

  Yes, he would have had to bury me under an avalanche of Malabars if he had been brave enough to trust me . . .

  * * *

  Due to the chronological order of the play, we were to perform last. Kind Madame Guillet granted us permission to slip out to the hall for five minutes to change, and when we returned to our classroom—I dressed only in gunnysack finery with my crucifix around my neck and he, his hips looking swell in his fine frock coat with golden buttons, wearing high equestrian boots—the tide already seemed to be turning in our favor.

  Yes, already the incessant chatter about us was clearly starting to diminish.

  It seemed that we had won over our audience, and then we simply repeated what we knew completely by heart having gone over it again and again in Claudine’s . . . funeralish? . . . funereal?—shit, wait, I’m going to put this in plain language, if not, I’m going to have too many problems—again and again in Claudine’s gloomy little dining room.

  Except that we repeated it a lot better.

  Me because I was as nervous as Camille and he because he was uninhibited . . .

  Not caring about the lottery, and who was sup
posed to act what, we performed all of scene 5 of the second act, which is much, much, much more than had been required of us.

  How often can an honest man love?

  If your parish priest blew on you and told me that you would love me all your life, should I believe him?

  Raise your head, Perdican! What man believes in nothing?

  You play your part as a young man and you smile when you hear about abandoned women . . .

  Is your love merely a coin that you pass from one hand to another until you die?

  No, it’s not even a coin; for the smallest gold coin is worth more than you and keeps its effigy no matter what hand it passes to.

  Okay. That’s it for me. That’s all I remember.

  And those snippets of worry, or that bit of Camille I have left in me, I repeat them at night and I repeat them for you, little star . . .

  How often can an honest man love?

  Raise your head, Perdican!

  Is your love merely a coin?

  It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

  And now that I’ve grown up and have always sworn eternal love and always forsaken it once and for all and have cried and have suffered and have made others suffer and have begun again and will begin again, I understand her better, that little sweetie . . .

  At the time, I had such a chip on my shoulder that I thought she was a bitch, but today, I know exactly what she was: an orphan.

  An orphan like me who, like me, was bursting with love . . .

  Yes, today, I would perform her character more tenderly.

  As for Franck, it was simple. He set fire to classroom 204, building C, of Jacques-Prévert Junior High in the second hour of the school day, that Thursday of April of I don’t remember what year.

  Affirmative, Fire Chief Clang-Clang: Fire!

  He danced around, he jumped, he teased me, he spun me around, he transformed the teacher’s desk into the edge of a well, he picked up his chair and then put it back down with a sharp blow, he leaned against the blackboard, he played with the chalk, he spoke to my shadow which took refuge between a cabinet of dictionaries and the emergency exit, he leaped toward the ass-kissers in the front row and spoke to them as if calling them as witnesses, he . . .

  He was this seducer, this kid, this aristocrat from the provinces who still bore the scent of the Parisian prostitutes, this oaf, this bastard, this brittle and delicate boy.

  And in love . . . proud . . . a con man . . . sure of himself . . . And wounded perhaps . . .

  Yes . . . fatally wounded . . .

  Now that I’ve grown up and have and so on and so forth, it’s a question I ask myself too . . .

  Like Franck, Perdican must have suffered more than he was able to show . . .

  In short, when the moment came to dream of my Malabar rather than my virginity, I mean by then, when those words that had caused him so much anguish the day before came gushing out of his heart, when he finally let it rip—that’s what we say about mopeds . . . If you want to go, like, four miles an hour faster and bust your ears even more, you say, “Let it rip!”—as I was saying, when it was my turn to listen with more attention than Camille had ever done back in her day, because I knew how much it cost him to say them, yes, the moment when he fired away at me like that (excuse me in advance for the mistakes, I knew it by heart for a long time, but I’ve surely forgotten two or three things over the years), looking me straight in the eyes and with his hand resting on the doorknob of our classroom, he said:

  “Adieu, Camille. Go back to your convent. And when they tell you hideous stories and have poisoned you, answer with this: All men are liars; fickle, deceitful, garrulous, hypocritical; arrogant or cowardly; contemptible and lascivious buggers; all women are treacherous, vain, mendacious, indiscreet, and depraved; and the whole world is nothing but a bottomless pit where the most shapeless seals slither and twist on mountains of muck; but there is in this world something holy and sublime, it’s the union of two beings so imperfect and so awful . . . We are often deceived by love, often wounded and often unhappy, but we love. And when we’re on the edge of death, we turn to look back and say to ourselves: I have often suffered; I was wrong sometimes, but I loved. I’m the one who has lived, and not a false being created by my pride and my boredom.”

  Hey . . .

  Even you fell for it, right?

  So, you agree . . . the word bugger, it slid right out like a fart on an ice floe . . .

  No one snickered. No one.

  And no one clapped either. No one.

  And do you know why?

  No? C’mon, of course, you do. You can guess, right?

  C’mon . . .

  Okay, they didn’t say anything because they were stunned, that bunch of little bastards!

  Ha! Ha! Ha!

  Excuse me, little star, excuse me . . . I’m embarrassed . . . It was to hear my laughter in the night . . . To give myself a little encouragement and to say bonjour to the owls . . .

  Excuse me.

  I’ll start again:

  No one clapped because they were so shocked that their idiot brains couldn’t find the clap button on the remote control.

  The worst was the teacher’s clap button. It had completely disintegrated into the remote . . .

  Seriously, it lasted for a long time, a long time . . . 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . you could have counted the seconds like a boxing referee. We didn’t move. We didn’t know if we were allowed to go back out to change our clothes or if we should go back to our places in our costumes and then there was a little explosion in the back and, of course, all the others followed.

  All of them. Insane. Unrelenting.

  As though an enormous firecracker had blown up in our faces.

  And . . . oh . . .

  How pretty it was . . .

  But the most beautiful part, for me, was now:

  When the bell rang and they all took off for recess, the teacher came up to us while we were packing up our props and asked us if we would agree to perform the scene again in front of other classes. And even for other teachers and the principal and all that.

  I didn’t say anything.

  I never said anything at school. I went there to rest.

  I didn’t say anything but I didn’t want to do it. Not because I had stage fright, but because life had taught me not to ask too much of it. What we had just experienced was a gift. Now, that’s it. We’d put it all out there, so enough. Leave us in peace. I didn’t want to risk ruining it or wrecking it. I had so few pretty things and I loved our performance so much I no longer wanted to show it to anyone.

  Madame Guillet made little Puss in Boots eyes at us, but instead of flattering me, it made me sad. Well, she was just like the others . . . she knew nothing. She saw nothing. She understood nothing. She had no idea about . . . how far we must have come, both of us, to be able to make them shut their fat mouths once and for all . . .

  And now? What did she think? That we were little circus animals? . . . well, no . . . before I arrived, I was in a crypt and he was in an isolation chamber. Today, we proved to you though that we were free, so great, it’s over, go home, but don’t count on us to come eat sugar out of your hand. Because for us it wasn’t a scene, you know . . .

  It wasn’t theater; they weren’t characters. For us, they were Camille and Perdican, two little rich kids who blathered on too much and were super egotistical, but who helped us out when we were in hell and who sent us on our way during your applause, so move on with your need for a show, move on. We’re no longer performing and will never perform again for the simple and good reason that it was never a performance in the first place.

  And if you haven’t already understood, you’ll never understand, so . . . no apologies . . .

  “You don’t want to?” she repeated, all disappointed.

  Franck looked at me
and I said no with a tiny shake of my head. A sign that only he could see. A code. A murmur. A sign between Indian brothers.

  So he turned toward her and said, in, like, a decisive and super-cool way:

  “No, thank you. Billie isn’t eager to do it, and I respect her wishes.”

  And that really hit me with full force.

  I still have the mark on my skin and I’ll never do anything to hide it.

  I’m too proud of it . . .

  Because his kindness, his patience, Claudine’s kindness, her grenadine that had been expired since 1984, her Pépito candies, her Banga soda, her warm hands on my neck when she was arranging my dress, the silence earlier, the applause to die for, the teacher who had never reckoned that she would do anything other than humiliate me or put zeros next to my name and who was now doing contortions in front of me so she could look good in front of the principal, all that was very nice, and though I wouldn’t argue, it was zilch compared to what he had just said . . .

  Zilch.

  “I respect her wishes.”

  He respected my wishes.

  And in front of a teacher, too!

  But . . . for me, certain evenings, it was a struggle just to have something to eat! There were mornings, I didn’t even know if my . . . no, nothing . . . the word “respect” was so devoid of meaning that I didn’t even understand why it was invented! I thought it was a dumb thing you concluded a letter with, like—“Respectfully yours, Mr. President”—with your signature underneath and all that . . . and this guy, this little Franck Mumu who must have weighed 110 pounds completely wet, what did he do? He made the teacher nervous in front of me and forced her to look at me in a pleading way.