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  She stops to ring a bell. She turns to the maidservant, who has just appeared rather sulkily, and asks her to bring us some tea, and this won’t be from Lapland or Hungary, she laughs, but very good orange-flavoured tea from Sri Lanka. She usually has at least six cups of it a day. She does hope I’d like to have some with her, now that I’m her appointed, paid reader (she’s the one to say appointed, without the least rolling sound, obviously, but with the elongated inflections she masters so adeptly). Because we shall understand each other well. She likes me. I really am exactly what she needs (although I haven’t actually opened my mouth, or hardly at all). It goes without saying, we’ll have to see whether I can read Marx properly. Because, Nouchka, she says, without Marx, the whole little history lesson I’ve just given you would have absolutely no reason to exist, considering that the impressive events that so completely reshaped my country wouldn’t even have been conceived. So, we’re going to have a trial run! She reaches across the blankets for a book that she seems to recognize by touch alone, and hands it to me, saying authoritatively and without the least hesitation, Page 125, read! It’s the Anti-Dühring, a passage I never tire of hearing… I take the book, open it at the appropriate page and ask whether it’s the passage indicated with a cross. Yes, she says, a cross, and there should be a note in the margin: Morals have always been class morals. That is the subject of this passage… magnificently handled… Go on, start reading! So I start:

  When we see that the three classes in modern society (the feudal aristocracy, the middle class and the proletariat) each have their own morals, we can only draw one conclusion from this fact, and that is that, consciously or unconsciously, people ultimately draw their ideas of morality from the material conditions that underpin their social class, from the economic conditions of their output and their exchanges…

  What a marvel! she exclaims. I’d rather you read it in German or in the Russian translation by Lunacharsky, because this version’s a bit halting, but obviously you can’t. It doesn’t matter. The important thing is the ideas and, as you can see, they’re so right… Ah, the three classes… the feudal aristocracy… I’m familiar with that, you know, I’m from there… I know the boyars… I know what I’m talking about, and I know what he’s talking about… I’ve more than dipped my big toe in all that, bathed in it, wallowed in it. You have no idea what it’s like when the rot sets in… when the rot sets in to social class… Morality… their morality was a beautiful thing…

  I’m all the more astonished, because I found the text lethally boring and couldn’t envisage reading on without a deep-seated feeling of apprehension. But she seems delighted. Overjoyed. She’s nestled between her cushions, whispering, I never tire of listening to it! Then she scoots abruptly down into her bed, gives me a wave of her hand and says: Perfect! The trial was conclusive. You have a beautiful, clear voice with good resonance, nicely in keeping. You will come and read Marx to me twice a week, for two hours each time, and you will be paid 200 francs a session. But for now you’ll have to excuse me, I need to sleep. And she promptly turns on to her side, pulls the blankets over her head and falls asleep.

  The maidservant comes in with the orange-flavoured tea. It looks as if I shall be drinking it on my own. Unless this woman, this pinched and starched tray-bearer, is going to partake of it with me. Which is what happens. We understand one thing at least: the fact that we are both servants, on the same footing. Have some, she tells me. I think you’re right for her, so now we can set the dates and times.

  I have some. Tepid coffee last week. Tea today. My profession’s becoming rather social. But my rates are beginning to look more established. I’ve got what I wanted.

  Perhaps the time has come for me to describe myself. I’m on the tall side, slim in my upper body, wider lower down. I have black hair with flashes of auburn, cut into a curved fringe over my forehead and drawn into a French pleat at the back. Green eyes. A pointy, slightly sharp face which was described as unattractive when I was a little girl. I remember crying for ages one day when a cousin referred to me as an ‘abominable parrot’. I was left with an acute awareness that some people might think I look like a bird. Even if I do have a slightly hooked nose, I actually have full, very cushiony lips, and I think my complexion is more like peaches than feathers.

  To get back to my body, my neck rises tall above my shoulders, my arms are slim, my waist is slim and my breasts are nicely separated – a little too copious for my chest, granted, but I’ve found this to be a considerable asset in plenty of situations, having managed to view it as a disadvantage for a long time. In any event, standing naked in front of the mirror, I think I make a pretty favourable impression, at least down to my belt line. Below that, as I’ve already said, things are very different. I have pronounced hips and this gives me a wide stomach and full buttocks. That too can be an asset. But there was a time in my life when I wasn’t terribly willing to wear trousers and jeans, which went against the fashion. I wear them nowadays, even tight ones. Apparently they really suit me, according to those who know. I’ve forgotten a detail about my stomach, and it’s a real distinguishing feature (but my identity card doesn’t mention it): instead of being perfectly in the middle, like everyone else’s, my navel is slightly off-centre, up and to the left. Which leaves us with my legs. My thighs are a bit too full as well, but when it comes to my knees, calves and ankles, everything is perfect, again according to those who know.

  My body, I’d like to point out, is regularly maintained by sessions of gentle gymnastics taught to me by Françoise, and overall I feel in excellent shape, despite a few vague rumplings and crumplings that I thought I felt here and there the minute I hit thirty. Anyone looking at me gets an impression of good health and, because I’m cheerful, there’s something reassuring about my appearance – invigorating even, if we are to believe my husband, Philippe. Unfortunately, some people detect an inexplicable insolence in my chirpiness. I’m not insolent at all. I am as I am. A woman probably like any other, but a woman, yes.

  Do I have the necessary qualities to be a good reader? That’s clearly quite another problem. Perhaps, in order to look serious enough, I should wear glasses. Actually, I do wear glasses a lot, sunglasses. But I expect I’d need real ones, even if they had clear glass lenses. I’ll have to think about that.

  In fact, I decide to discuss the glasses idea with Roland Sora. On this particular day he has some time to himself and we have our chat in a cafeteria next to the faculty building. It’s still very warm, but autumn is definitely here: through the glass wall along the right-hand side of the cafeteria, I can see dead leaves accumulating on the lawn, and the grass is yellowing. Mind you, there are a few students sitting reading here and there, out in the fresh air, as if it were still summer.

  We’ve taken a coffee and a slice of tart each. Roland very sweetly says that glasses are bound to suit me well and would give me a little intellectual touch I may lack, therefore increasing my credibility (that’s his word, not mine) in my new occupation. Unfortunately, he can’t think of an optician I could ask for fake glasses without causing a degree of consternation. I tell him I couldn’t care less if I cause consternation. Or perhaps, he says dreamily, bringing his coffee cup up to his lips and gazing into the middle distance, or perhaps: bluish, tinted, you need to ask for non-corrective lenses but with a slight blue tint… I tell him the easiest thing would be just to go to a props supplier. He puts down his cup and seems to hesitate, as if not entirely sure of the spirit in which I said this. I can tell he’s slightly on the defensive; perhaps he thinks I’m making fun of him. Then he replies: Why not? You’re used to the stage, after all, Marie-Constance.

  He looks at his watch. I suddenly get the feeling that this conversation about glasses is going to come to an abrupt end or go around in circles. Better switch to something more concrete. Shall I show him the letter I received yesterday? The third letter I’ve had since my ad appeared. I haven’t mentioned it to anyone yet, not to Philippe or to Françoise.
It’s a different sort of letter this time, typed. And from a man. It feels important. It’s right here in my handbag. In a way, it makes my heart beat harder, because there’s an element of the unknown to it, but also because there’s something about it that is utterly serious and utterly official. And I rather like being taken seriously. I read it out loud, to impress Roland:

  Dear Madame,

  I noticed your advertisement in the local paper a few days ago. As Managing Director of a large company, I have a very busy life. In the very few free moments afforded by my schedule, I thought that the ‘reading’ sessions you are offering might help perfect my knowledge of cultural affairs, something which has become increasingly indispensible these days, particularly in my fields of activity and responsibility, and something I do not have the leisure to acquire by any other means. In other words, I should like to ‘keep abreast’ of things, to know what is being read, what is being said, what people are discussing. I will abide by your conditions.

  If this offer is acceptable to you, Mademoiselle, I would be grateful if you would kindly contact me, etc.

  I glance up to gauge the letter’s effect. Roland doesn’t look terribly pleased. More on the sullen side even. He finishes his last scrap of tart with a waggle of his head and an extremely suspicious expression on his face. I was almost sure he would feel like this, but I’ve played the card anyway. If I were you, he says, I’d be cautious. Oh, why? Because he says Mademoiselle at the end having said Madame at the beginning, unless that was your mistake… No, it’s not my mistake. He definitely did write Madame at the beginning of the letter and Mademoiselle as he signed off, that’s a fact. A significant fact, says Roland, not an innocent slip-up at all. Right, so? So nothing, caution, that’s all. But Roland’s very swiftly changed his tone now, the first shock must have passed: A managing director, he says, no less! I pick up on this, saying it’s an unhoped-for opportunity, a completely unexpected turn of events. That ad in the paper was definitely a very good idea, despite what various people might have thought, and here was the evidence to prove it. I’m really on the way to having a proper clientele.

  But wait, be cautious! Roland Sora reiterates. It may be a trap. This man may have ideas in the back of his mind. You’re not completely stupid, are you? You do see what I mean? I pretend to think about this. Yes, I see, I do see… I turn the letter over and over in my hand. He must think I’m joking, putting on a performance for him, but I really am pleased, completely gratified by this proposal. It’s not something I’ve invented. It’s right here, in my hand, nice and clear, nice and distinct, nicely typed out, probably by some impeccably trained secretary.

  Roland is actually now glancing slightly askance at the envelope and trying to read the letterhead. I come to his rescue. The company’s called Nickeloid, I tell him. I have to admit that when I saw that it didn’t occur to me to think… I thought it was for Philippe, or a bill, or I don’t know quite what… Nickeloid? What can that be? What do you think? I ask. He’s taken the envelope from me and is looking at it suspiciously. I don’t know, but I hope it’s a real company… and a real managing director… a managing director who wants to reinvent himself, buying himself an instant cultural education to do better in his business transactions… Business, there you are, that’s the word… It’s all about business… and it only remains for me to hope that this particular business transaction is fruitful for you, dear Marie-Constance. I hope that with all my heart, but I’ll say it again: Caution! Keep your eyes open! With men, you never know… I act as if I don’t fully understand: With men?… Yes, he says, irritated, with men, the male of the species!

  I thank him for his fatherly advice. But he slips in one last suspicion. How come, he says, this letter’s arrived so late, so long after the advertisement was printed, because, correct me if I’m wrong, it’s now a good three weeks since it was published, isn’t it? He counts on his fingers: the week with the little handicapped boy, the week with La Générale, the hospital week, or perhaps it was the other way around, I’ve forgotten the exact order of events… You’re already an old hand in this profession, nearly a month… How come this fellow only makes his presence known after a month?

  He finishes his coffee. His brow is really furrowed. It’s because, I tell him, it’s in the terms of the contract for the ad to appear every three weeks. It’s actually just been reprinted. Then, having thought for a while: But maybe it’s also because people are starting to talk about me and I’m now known. Maybe I’m gaining a reputation in this little town.

  I call Françoise. I think it will be useful to discuss the letter from this man with her. She can tell me how she reacts to it as a woman. After all, this whole idea was hers in the first place. She dragged me into this adventure so she needs to take some responsibility. She needs to know where I’ve got to. And to give me her advice.

  We meet at the Black Radish, a vegetarian restaurant she loves. She’s ordered her usual, creamed barley with radishes (the house speciality), which she apparently finds irresistible. I’ve chosen a cold tomato soup. I tell her everything. She seems stunned by Eric’s story, but is enthusiastic about the rest. She feels it all sounds very good, very promising. She thinks her idea was brilliant, that I’m on the road to success and will soon be earning my living. On condition, she says, changing tack slightly between two spoonfuls of her creamed barley, that I avoid more careless mistakes. The one I made with Eric was major. As far as the ‘gentleman’ is concerned, she does wonder, she’s not too sure, we’ll have to see… I tell her that we definitely will see, but I can’t just let something like this, such an opportunity, pass me by. Yes, she says, of course, but it’s important to find out what sort of man he is… A managing director, fine, but… I can see where he’s coming from, this man of yours. I ask her whether, in my shoes, she would go to see him. Yes, she’d go. Either way, she says, you’re grown up enough to judge…

  She starts gazing up at the ceiling, closing her eyes, dreaming. You’re grown up enough, Marie-Constance, and yet you’re still the wonderful girl you were at eighteen. A funny thing you are too. But wonderful and unforgettable. She keeps her eyes closed, as if lost in the depths of memory. Do you remember when we did Waiting for Godot? I can’t really remember if it was before or after the Conservatoire. I seem to think it was before. We played Pozzo and Lucky – I was Pozzo, you were Lucky. Four of us had decided to put the play on together with girls in every role: Clotilde played Vladimir and Laurence was Estragon. They already had a bit of experience… we were just beginners. We settled for the minor roles, that’s right. I was Pozzo and you were Lucky… I was holding you on a sort of halter, a rope that went round your neck, do you remember? You were very funny in that role, fantastic. A completely non-speaking part, since we had decided to cut Lucky’s monologue, which was a shame because your voice is so lovely, so warm, so captivating. But we didn’t really know about your voice back then, didn’t really appreciate it…

  And is it any better appreciated now? I can see myself as I was then, on the skinny side, even around the buttocks in those days, with that slip knot round my neck, wearing an old potato sack, barefoot, with Françoise tugging the end of the rope, me sticking my tongue out… I did very well with comedy material. Now I’m engaged with more serious stuff. Countesses, managing directors. I wonder what Françoise really thinks. If she were me (I ask again) would she give this letter a positive reply? Positive… positive… she ponders. I don’t know! But I’d go and have a look, for sure, at least to find out what the guy looks like… Beyond that, I’ve already told you what I think. I don’t have much experience, but I can tell you…

  She tells me something I’ve already heard a hundred times. When she first went to work for the lawyer, Maître Blanc, she was basically just a little typist who wanted a job, the quickest and easiest, something you could get with minimal qualifications. Then she gradually reached the point where she’d secured the lawyer’s trust and took direct responsibility for some of his work, until sh
e really was a director’s personal assistant, most likely because she was proactive, efficient and conscientious too, impeccably conscientious about her work, qualities for which she was recognized… Until the day (and here her face takes on a sort of glow of pathos)… until the day when Maître Blanc’s practice had achieved some status and he saw fit to take on an associate, Maître Bonnet… and disaster struck… Constant sexual harassment… Actually, what do I mean harassment? It was blackmail. Yes, blackmail. I thought everything was falling apart, going under… I thought I’d have to leave, my job had had it… Well, says Françoise, I stood my ground.

  She breaks off for a moment to order a low-fat yoghurt. She pins me with her huge tragic eyes, clutches my wrist. Yes, I stood my ground… I got things straight once and for all with Maître Bonnet. By being not aggressive, but firm. That’s how you have to handle things with men. Not only did I save my job, but I saved the Blanc–Bonnet practice. The most successful in town. And not only does Bonnet now respect me, but he recognizes that I’m his most reliable colleague. We’re friends, good friends. That’s men for you. It’s quite simple. Yes, quite simple, I say stupidly. And I order a low-fat yoghurt too.

  Another session with Eric. As usual there’s the inevitable fifteen-minute conversation with his mother before I start. She certainly does like aprons: she’s wearing a very pretty one today, small and mauve-coloured. Out of the blue and apparently for no particular reason, Eric starts talking about cats in front of her. He’s passionate about cats. He’d like to have one. His mother refuses point blank, saying that all the doctors who look after him have said he’s allergic to cat hair and if he touches it or inhales it he could have an asthma attack or a violent, spasmodic nervous reaction. You remember, don’t you? his mother says. You’ve seen him and we’re not going through that again for a cat! The boy doesn’t appear to see things in the same way at all. He says it isn’t true, it’s a fabrication, that they’re just trying to stop him having a cat. He puts on a performance, raging and crying, contorting himself in his chrome wheelchair. He suddenly looks like a toddler, a ridiculous toddler throwing a tantrum.