Free Voice Over by Celine Curiol Page A

the window of the door, the ex-prisoner of the French Republic sticks his tongue out at her.
    The rendezvous is at the Hotel Lutétia. Carpeting, golden lamps, geometrically patterned rugs, wax-polished furniture, staff that glide rather than walk. A man in a dinner jacket comes over to her, as welcoming as if they had spent their holiday together on the same beach. He motions solicitously in the direction of a second man who wears a multicolored striped shirt and black trousers, and who advances briskly towards them. Good evening, glad you could come. A tender flexing of the vocal chords, nothing like his irritation of the evening before. It hasn’t taken him long to change his mind. His eyes are bright, wide open in order to take her in more fully. He makes no comment about her appearance; no doubt fearing to seem vulgar. With an expert hand placed in the hollow of her back, he guides her to their reserved table. A bottle of champagne in a silver ice-bucket, a cigarette smoldering on the rim of the cut-crystal ashtray. He suggests they make themselves comfortable on a cream-colored divan. He hands her a drink, they touch glasses. To your presence here today. She puckers her lips. She must look a sight—she always finds compliments annoying, even false ones. He offers her a cigarette and retrieves his own. He has a small, tight mouth, the air of a hunter assured of victory. Around them, several men in dark suits reading newspapers, the rustle of turning pages barely interferes with the piece of classical music flowing into the room. A hushed atmosphere. She senses him observing her neck, then her chest.
She brings her eyes back to meet his in order to block the offensive. I don’t even know what you do. He works at the ministry. The MFA . . . sorry, Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Did you graduate from that university . . . the ENA? Why is she asking that, of course he did. Where else would he have studied, it’s hardly complicated. No one’s perfect, he replies, and laughs to himself. Then, pronouncing his words very clearly: Do you follow international politics at all? She feels like biting him, she detests that kind of trick question. A no, and he’ll spend the rest of the evening looking down his nose at her; a yes, and she’ll have to give her informed opinion. She mentally rehearses the names she remembers, particularly those of Americans, since they’re the only ones that ever get mentioned. Bush, Powell, Rumsfeld. She often thinks that they would all make excellent names for pets. Bin Laden, and his life on video; Saddam, whom all journalists refer to by his first name, probably because they think they know him. She remembers two other names as well: Taylor and Mugabe, two African dictators. And then there’s the Brazilian president with his pretty nickname that goes well with his left-wing positions. Yes, she knows a bit about international politics. As for him, he’s working on Iraq. A major policy area, fascinating, France’s position precisely mirrors his personal convictions. What more could he ask for? I love my job. At least someone is happy with his lot. The Americans, we’ll wear them down eventually. He finishes off his drink. And the Iraqis? He smiles at her as if she were a naïve child. Oh, he hasn’t forgotten the Iraqis. You’re slightly naïve, but I suppose that’s normal since you see it all from the outside. He then proceeds to sing her the praises of French diplomacy taking the voice of the nation to the four corners of the world. She ought to appreciate
the fact that her government is defending the interests of her country. And what did you tell your wife, that you had a meeting with the minister, a Saudi prince or a Russian spy? He has trouble exhaling the smoke of his cigarette without coughing. He should have known that with a profession like hers she’d be rather cynical at bottom, and he caresses her forearm with his index