And then there was the banality of waiting. Weeks going by, waiting for him, hating him for being gone, wondering if he loved us, missing him, believing he was better than everyone else because time with him was precious. That is how we lived, in a constant state of anticipation.
On mornings when Anouk slept in, I stood on our balcony and looked down at the street. The pavement was so far away that I could no longer see any cracks. I watched people trotting down our street without ever raising their heads. I imagined hundreds of men and women who shared their lives with two partners. There were so many of us, children of these double families who dreamed of the other side.
That night, like all the others since seeing Madame Lapierre, I awoke with the skin of my body chilled and wet, and a strong desire to tumble to the other side, to have the separate spheres of our lives collide. I lay paralyzed in bed with the desire to break free from this routine. I felt it pumping through me, wild and exciting.
4
I stood against a wall, a glass of warm champagne in my hand as I watched Anouk weave through the crowd to find her friends. The play hadn’t been very good, and the actors took a while to emerge from the dressing rooms. I was impatient to go home.
Anouk wanted me to accompany her to these parties. She thought I might enjoy them, meet people who could expand my horizons. She wanted me to be comfortable among strangers and learn how to socialize. She worried that I had only one friend, Juliette, and she thought it was unhealthy to spend the rest of my time alone. Don’t look so bored, she’d whisper angrily. I wasn’t bored. I was tired, and sometimes I had to pinch my leg to stay awake. All I could think about was getting home, wrapping myself between the sheets of my bed, away from the drone of voices. People rarely spoke to me and I didn’t encourage conversation, preferring to stay in a corner, out of sight. Older male actors sometimes flirted with me until they found out I was Anouk’s daughter, and then they sped away. I sipped on the champagne, enjoying the prickle of bubbles bursting along my tongue. The actors appeared through the swinging doors and there was a general movement in their direction; they were soon surrounded by loud exclamations, whistles, clapping.
I became aware of a presence beside me, a man also standing against the wall, observing the actors from afar. I glanced at him. He was tall with light brown hair, almost golden, long enough to be tucked behind his ears. I guessed he was in his forties, though I wasn’t a good judge of age. He wore jeans and a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms.
He noticed me staring at him. You were smart, he said, nodding at my glass of champagne. You got something to drink before the crowds descended. The table where they served drinks was now hidden by a mass of people.
The play made them thirsty, I said.
I studied him. His face was handsome, with a slightly crooked nose and pale blue eyes. His hands were hidden deep in his jean pockets. Perhaps he’d spoken to me out of pity, because I looked lonely.
He asked why I was here.
I’m accompanying my mother, I said, pointing at Anouk. She’s an actor.
A great one, too, he said. Anouk Louve.
So, he knew her. I waited for him to walk away or ask me for a favor.
Your mother was a rising star when I started my career as a journalist. He spoke as though this were no longer the case for her, and I felt a stab of hurt in my chest.
He introduced himself as David Perrin. I recognized his name instantly. He wrote long profiles on artists, and I knew Anouk would have loved to have him write a piece about her. I thought about encouraging him, asking whether he’d seen her recent performances, saying she had changed over the years, her work was more mature, perhaps it had less of the physical dazzle from when she was a dancer, but it was still good, better even. I held back, feeling drained from the thought of having to envelop her with praise. I didn’t want to talk about her.
David asked if I’d liked the play. I told him the truth, that I thought it was contrived and pretentious. I hadn’t liked the ironic distance the actors cultivated onstage, speaking and moving in such an affected way, their faces expressionless throughout most of the dialogue. I wanted emotion, to feel connected to their lives and be moved. I wanted to be rooted to my seat at the end, holding on to those last moments, unable to leave the theater. Instead I’d stood up as soon as our row started to clear.
It’s not authentic, I added, scouring my brain for something to impress him. I mentioned an exhibit on Dada at Beaubourg. It was trying to be Dada, a nonplay, I explained to David, but it had none of the energy, the political impetus, nor the invention of Dada.
He seemed amused by my comparison. I hadn’t thought about it that way, he said, but I can see what you mean. You want the characters to wrestle with their emotions.
Are you writing a review? I finally asked, feeling stupid.
I wasn’t going to, but maybe I will now. I’m intrigued by the parallel to Dada. I overheard one of the actors talk about automatic writing for this play, and anyway, I’ve been meaning to see the exhibit at Beaubourg.
It’s a remarkable collection, I said, choosing my words with care, wanting to sound intelligent.
You speak like an art student.
I blushed. Do I? I’m still in high school.
He examined my face. I thought you were older, he said, after a pause. I became uncomfortably aware of the crowd around us. Perhaps Anouk would see us, not that it mattered.
It’s my last year.
I didn’t know Anouk Louve had a daughter your age.
She doesn’t often talk about me.
There’s such a solitary quality to her work. It never occurred to me that she might be a parent.
How old did you think I was?
In your twenties.
It must be my height. I was tall like my mother, and people often made this error.
A soft smile formed on his lips. Some of your mother’s roles have been complete transformations, he said.
I was certain he was referring to Mère, about the woman who kills her children, the role that propelled Anouk’s career, making her name known beyond the Parisian circles of experimental theater. I knew it had been a demanding role because she had to be onstage the entire time, aside from a few minutes when she changed her costume.
She takes her work seriously, I said. Sometimes she continues to inhabit a role even when she’s at home. I can tell she’s trapped in the character’s mind.
What is that like?
I considered his question. It’s like being with a stranger, I said. It’s that same sensation of seeing, out of the corner of your eye, someone you don’t know walking around your house.
It must be unsettling.
Well, I’ve grown used to it.