All the Way by Marie Darrieussecq Page B

It’s like there’s a shifting meaning in what he’s saying: not so much the nickname, which is striking, as the inventiveness of the village kids, these hicks with such funny ways of behaving.
    She can see the carpet outlet next to Milord’s. She wants to be back there. Under the flashing light. No. Actually, no. She wants to be where she is. With the guy collapsed on this couch.
    Why Cheap Carpet?
    The boy lets out a groan which is in fact a concentrated laugh, the sort of laugh that would emerge if he became detached from his body (she imagines, surprised by her own thought process).
    Then she has the revolting thought that you can get it on the cheap with Lætitia. Cheap Læti. Or that the boys are using her as a doormat. As carpet. Lying on her, walking on her, crushing her, delousing themselves on her like monkeys.
    â€˜She’s got hairs on her breasts,’ says the boy. ‘Cheap Carpet does.’ His mouth open in silent laughter, as if he was holding up the nickname like a museum relic, a scalp or something.
    She pictures her own breasts. She had never thought about this problem—no, phew, she does not have hairy breasts. At least she’s avoided this defect. She laughs.
    He takes the joint back from her and their fingers touch.
    â€˜Where are you from?’
    Time is behaving strangely. It speeds up and then slows down. Lætitia and the guy have just left the room, but she (Solange) has had time (eternity or fixed time) to have more thoughts than during her whole life so far, time to think that she has thought more things.
    From the coast.
    â€˜That’s weird, I’ve never seen you there. What’s your name?’ He passes the joint back to her, moistened with his saliva.
    She is about to say Charlotte. Or Sandra. Or Jennifer.
    Solange. What’s yours?
    His name is Arnaud. He’s from the coast too.
    Time loops again. Or pauses. Or rewinds . Let’s Dance , that song again.
    â€˜I’m right into those freaky states where your mind is either really sharp, or completely spacey…’ says the boy. ‘I don’t know which I prefer,’ he continues, squashed up against her. ‘A sharp mind is cool because all your senses are on total alert. But it kills you, it’s so tiring. When you’re high, a bit sleepy, it’s good too, and you kind of experience things differently, I don’t know, that’s always when I’m able to really see things, problems, political problems, you totally understand them because you see the big picture, like from above, like the perspective aliens would have, you’re outside everything and totally calm, as if nothing affected you; like a meeting of the student council but you wouldn’t be at high school anymore, you would have passed your final year ages ago and you would understand everything, all the ins and outs. It diffuses everything, absolutely everything. It diffuses problems. And it’s more interesting than alcohol. And you feel a lot less alone.’
    I feel alone, too.
    â€˜At your age it’s normal. I used to be such an egomaniac, I was less mellow than I am now. Because you can only define yourself in relation to others. In the beginning you have no consciousness, so no defined character, nothing about you is determined. Sartre said that. When you think about it, it’s pretty amazing, totally amazing…’
    That means that when I was tormenting myself, worrying who I was (she begins, surprised to know that she was tormenting herself), and believing that I alone knew who I was, I mean alone in my head, in fact that was all stupid…
    â€˜You can only define yourself in relation to others. That’s the bottom line. Sartre said it. It’s a fundamentally political thing.’
    It’s natural. It’s the instinctive approach.
    â€˜I don’t believe in instinct at all. What do your parents do?’
    They died in an aeroplane