the sheet. ‘How far is the pharmacy?’
‘About ten minutes.’
He gestures towards her with his hand; he’s uncertain, thinks aloud: ‘Getting there, coming back, warming it up …’ He shrugs. ‘No. Bring me some warm water, kitchen salt, and an injecting tube.’
Marie goes into the bathroom then runs towards the kitchen.
Armand gets up from his chair and moves towards the bed. ‘Are things not going well?’
‘Yes, they’re fine!’ In other words: ‘Go back to your chair and get off my back.’
Armand had never understood much of Claudine’s character. Nine years ago, her youth came charging into his forty years: bedazzled by her nervous, dreamy, disconcerting nature, he’d indulged her every whim. When he saw her unhappy or suffering, he’d sit down with hands on knees and eyes full of fear, like a lost old man. A decent sort, Armand. Decent, but sad.
Scarcely five minutes later Marie came back into the bedroom with the things the doctor had asked for.
‘Put them on the table,’ he said. Looking at the injecting tube he asked: ‘Was it clean?’
‘Yes, I poured boiling water on it before filling it up with warm.’
Marie’s voice is calm, and her movements have a perfect precision. Her face is set, and her uncombed hair, with its curls lying crushed and flat around her brow, make her look harder than ever, cruel almost. She may be impassive; she is also pathetically pale.
The doctor prepared the solution. He said: ‘Squeeze the tube,’ as he removed the ebonite valve.
It took only a few seconds to fix a whole array of tubes and a needle. Now Claudine is exposed: her nightdress is rolled up to her groin, revealing her skinny legs and her kneecaps, which make two little angular protrusions. Her skin is still light brown, but changes colour slightly in the middle of her thighs, a souvenir of the shorts she wore in the holiday sun three months ago.
‘Let go of the tube,’ said the doctor, ‘and lift up the nozzle.’
Marie obeyed.
‘I should have asked you to bring a nail and a hammer …’
‘We’ll manage,’ she replied. ‘I’d waste too much time looking for them.’
They have both forgotten the presence of Armand.
‘Lift it higher … yes, that’s fine.’
The water flows through incredibly slowly; there is no noise in the bedroom, and Marie’s arm is going numb. The skin on Claudine’s thigh rises and swells, and around the needle, which is fixed like a little steel arrow, a lump develops and expands. Marie can hear the movement of her heart inside her own body; while the doctor feels Claudine’s pulse, she mechanically counts her own heartbeats.
Raising her left arm she carefully passes the receptacle from one hand to the other. Now that her right arm is free, she stretches it out along her body, shakes it a little, lifts it up again and places her hand beneath the bottom of the receptacle. Once more she looks at the broken ampoules on the table: there are four or five of them, flung back carelessly into a metal container. Because of their position it’s not possible to read their labels at a glance; from the little heap she can make out one letter here and another there. She pieces together the word ‘arsenic’. A deadly dose intended to save Claudine, to combat what she has taken. But what has she taken? And now these two litres of salt water. All that inside Claudine’s body.
Claudine wanted to kill herself; Claudine has deserted life. What has she taken? Why has she taken it? Did shewant to die because she knew that she was spoiling the life that had been given her, thinking she was unworthy of the gift? Marie’s mind has gone to work again, and this idea has seized her so strongly, like vertigo, that she staggers around in it for several seconds. She sees Claudine stretched out, cheeks very pale; Claudine dead, as if surrounded by a halo. ‘Look at me, Marie, and admire me, at last.’ There she is, undressed, smacked on the cheek, knocked about, her
‘About ten minutes.’
He gestures towards her with his hand; he’s uncertain, thinks aloud: ‘Getting there, coming back, warming it up …’ He shrugs. ‘No. Bring me some warm water, kitchen salt, and an injecting tube.’
Marie goes into the bathroom then runs towards the kitchen.
Armand gets up from his chair and moves towards the bed. ‘Are things not going well?’
‘Yes, they’re fine!’ In other words: ‘Go back to your chair and get off my back.’
Armand had never understood much of Claudine’s character. Nine years ago, her youth came charging into his forty years: bedazzled by her nervous, dreamy, disconcerting nature, he’d indulged her every whim. When he saw her unhappy or suffering, he’d sit down with hands on knees and eyes full of fear, like a lost old man. A decent sort, Armand. Decent, but sad.
Scarcely five minutes later Marie came back into the bedroom with the things the doctor had asked for.
‘Put them on the table,’ he said. Looking at the injecting tube he asked: ‘Was it clean?’
‘Yes, I poured boiling water on it before filling it up with warm.’
Marie’s voice is calm, and her movements have a perfect precision. Her face is set, and her uncombed hair, with its curls lying crushed and flat around her brow, make her look harder than ever, cruel almost. She may be impassive; she is also pathetically pale.
The doctor prepared the solution. He said: ‘Squeeze the tube,’ as he removed the ebonite valve.
It took only a few seconds to fix a whole array of tubes and a needle. Now Claudine is exposed: her nightdress is rolled up to her groin, revealing her skinny legs and her kneecaps, which make two little angular protrusions. Her skin is still light brown, but changes colour slightly in the middle of her thighs, a souvenir of the shorts she wore in the holiday sun three months ago.
‘Let go of the tube,’ said the doctor, ‘and lift up the nozzle.’
Marie obeyed.
‘I should have asked you to bring a nail and a hammer …’
‘We’ll manage,’ she replied. ‘I’d waste too much time looking for them.’
They have both forgotten the presence of Armand.
‘Lift it higher … yes, that’s fine.’
The water flows through incredibly slowly; there is no noise in the bedroom, and Marie’s arm is going numb. The skin on Claudine’s thigh rises and swells, and around the needle, which is fixed like a little steel arrow, a lump develops and expands. Marie can hear the movement of her heart inside her own body; while the doctor feels Claudine’s pulse, she mechanically counts her own heartbeats.
Raising her left arm she carefully passes the receptacle from one hand to the other. Now that her right arm is free, she stretches it out along her body, shakes it a little, lifts it up again and places her hand beneath the bottom of the receptacle. Once more she looks at the broken ampoules on the table: there are four or five of them, flung back carelessly into a metal container. Because of their position it’s not possible to read their labels at a glance; from the little heap she can make out one letter here and another there. She pieces together the word ‘arsenic’. A deadly dose intended to save Claudine, to combat what she has taken. But what has she taken? And now these two litres of salt water. All that inside Claudine’s body.
Claudine wanted to kill herself; Claudine has deserted life. What has she taken? Why has she taken it? Did shewant to die because she knew that she was spoiling the life that had been given her, thinking she was unworthy of the gift? Marie’s mind has gone to work again, and this idea has seized her so strongly, like vertigo, that she staggers around in it for several seconds. She sees Claudine stretched out, cheeks very pale; Claudine dead, as if surrounded by a halo. ‘Look at me, Marie, and admire me, at last.’ There she is, undressed, smacked on the cheek, knocked about, her
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