PRETTY THINGS (EXCERPT)

Abstract

1 2 9 R P R E T T Y T H I N G S ( E X C E R P T ) V I R G I N I E D E S P E N T E S Translated by Emma Ramadan Pauline is sitting at the kitchen table. She’d opened the shoe closet, nothing flat. At twenty-five years old, she has never thought to put on high heels, and she finds herself grotesque in a red dress, like she’s in drag, trying to walk in the living room with the lowest heels in the entire collection. Absurd attempt at a dignified walk that’s even remotely passable. Ankle, in jeopardy, jerks to the side, knee knocks against the other knee. So she has to walk carefully, think: Which do I put down first, the sole or the heel? Think: Where do I put the weight of my body so that I don’t slouch? Hold myself upright, move the leg. But it doesn’t work; she looks like a drunk crab, nothing like a woman. She looks at her feet, destroyed. Her heel is red from the abuse. Her toes are stunted, sensation of ground-up bones, because the toe of the shoe contracts and compresses with no regard to the form of a foot. It will never work. Her rage turns black. Claudine, poor idiot, where did you get the idea of wearing such things, who were you trying to make happy, to look like what, stupid pathetic slut? 1 3 0 D E S P E N T E S Y The telephone is ringing o√ the hook, ten times worse than yesterday. ‘‘Claudie? Claudie pick up I know you’re there, I called five minutes ago and the line was busy. Come on, my dear, scamper over and pick up. Claudie, I have good news for you, come pick up . . . You’re not there? Listen, I don’t get it, call me back, it’s Pierre.’’ She takes o√ the impossible shoes, immediate relief. In less than an hour she’s gotten herself some magnificent blisters, transparent skin bubbling up from the rest. Takes a bath, a little later. The vials, the bottles, the tubes, she puts everything in the bathwater, childhood memory of playing games with the toys floating around. Eye pads, lotion, soft foaming cleanser, pulverizing exfoliator, mask of fruit acids and vitamin C or ceramide, things of every color, creams for nourishing this or that, silky skin, shiny hair, radiant complexion – relentless battle against yourself; whatever you do, don’t be what you are. Getting out of the water, she sni√s her arms, a mess of scents, all the things she had tried, an irritating odor, annoying because it’s meant to be calming. Like how when we really badly want to fall asleep, fearing insomnia, we end up tossing and turning in the sheets fifty times, in a rage. A frenzy of serenity. Red dress, her whole chest exposed, like a cow showing o√ her udders; the top of her ass, which no one should see, is visible. She spins around suspiciously in front of the mirror. A pang in her heart – she already doesn’t look like herself. Leafed through the pile of magazines that Claudine had been reading. Sheer panic. In a tone of amused complicity, a cornucopia of little tips for being a trendy slut. And getting into every single detail, making sure everything is in its right place: how you should orgasm and how you should break up and how you should shave and how you should dye your hair down to your pussy and how you should be, inside and out. A deceptively charming tone, idiotic propaganda dictating what we should be. After centuries of having to completely cover themselves, women are now commanded to bare everything, to prove that everything about them conforms to society’s expectations, to show they have recalibrated themselves: look at my endless legs, clean-shaven P R E T T Y T H I N G S 1 3 1 R and tanned; my ass with just the right amount of muscle; my...