Mon amie américaine (11 page)

I roll my eyes. “Sure, Molly, OK, but you don't have their brain, either.”

Sadly, you gaze off into the distance. “You know, if you have to live in a wheelchair all day, it's better to be mindless and think of nothing. I'm practicing, see, I live with the television on all day, that'll make my gray matter go to pot, don't you think?”

No, I don't think so, but your sadness breaks my heart.

You point toward Dinah with your chin. “You know, I like the two of us alone together more, but I think it would entertain her having company, too. I'm so shitty to live with that I really owe her that.”

I tell myself that I'm going to have a hard time resisting your gloominess and that a change in mood is vital. I suggest improvising a lunch on your terrace.

Your face lights up and comes to life immediately. “We can go to the Italian supermarket, they've got some delicious products. I've been dreaming of your mozzarella and tomatoes. Remember you made some for me in Paris? Dinah will go with us because I've totally lost my sense of direction.”

I help Dinah move you to another wheelchair, one that can be folded, less comfortable but better adapted to the size of the elevator. It takes us a good five minutes, and already you've gone pale and are winded. I go to get you a glass of water. You drink it in one gulp. You close your eyes. There. You're breathing better.

Now we've got to get your coat on, your scarf. The idea of coming out of your cocoon has you flushed and sweating. Dinah, who is obviously used to it, is caressing your hand. She begins listing things you'd better buy. Then you decide that the list should be written down, because you are afraid we'll forget something. I look for a piece of paper, a pen. Your anxiety is at such a level that Dinah has to open her purse twice to show you that she really has remembered the keys and the wallet. You send her to get another shopping basket, because you think the one she is carrying won't be enough. All of this takes about twenty minutes.

When the elevator arrives, I see immediately that it's too small for the three of us, but before I have the time to offer to go down on foot, Dinah is ahead of me. “Could you go down and tell Dennis to help us? The downstairs door is so heavy.” As I rush down the stairs, I tell myself that I have judged Dinah a little too quickly. Yes, she's intrusive, but she knows what she's doing; and I see what a delicate operation it is to take care of you the right way.

The air on Columbus Avenue is mild. Dinah pushes the wheelchair and I make conversation. But I can tell that you're distracted, anxious. You tensed up as soon as we had to cross the street. And then, everything frightens you. A dog barking, a child crying, a car horn, a police siren. When I point out to you how pleasant the sun on your face is, and ask Dinah to stop for a moment so that you can enjoy it a little, enjoy that sun that you so worshipped before, you shut your eyes and start breathing in tiny little gasps, as if you had to take precautions with everything, even with harmless things that are supposed to do you good, like taking advantage of a moment of nice weather.

It's impossible not to be aware of the nationality of the products being sold in the small market we've just entered. As we go in, there are blinking neon lights in the colors of the Italian flag. From the loudspeakers come Neapolitan arias. The manager behind the cash register looks like a Soprano from the suburbs.

“Wait'll you see,” you tell me, suddenly excited, “their
burrata
is out of this world!”

Dinah gets her two cents in immediately. “But it's much too expensive! The price of the mozzarella is so much more reasonable. Especially since it's just to put a few little pieces in a tomato salad.”

Gently but firmly, I explain to Dinah that today it's my treat, because I'm the one who's going to prepare the food. You move on by asking her in a conciliatory tone if she wouldn't mind taking care of the rest of the list, because she'll do it a lot more quickly than will I, who doesn't know how the food is arranged, and while she does, you and I can go and pick out the lunch food. We agree to meet at the checkout. Dinah is sullen about it, but can only comply.

I use the situation to take everything back in hand: you, your wheelchair, and the spirit of doing the errands. I have you smell cheeses that you aren't familiar with, sample several kinds of sausages, discover the sesame crackers I adore and the
grissini
dipped in chocolate that Clara and Benoît are crazy about. I choose a good wine and pick a bouquet of basil. To my great satisfaction, you're smiling again and your color has come back. Just before we get to the checkout, you stretch out your right arm toward a shelf. “Did
you see, they have the best pasta, the blue box. Dinah never wants to buy it, she thinks it costs too much, but why not get just one pack and say you're the one who had the idea? If not, she'll be furious.” I'm distracted by the line in front of the cash register and listening to you with one ear. I don't quite understand what you're saying, and I don't see what the problem is with this pasta, which truly is supposed to be the best. In any case, it's your money Dinah's spending and you should get what you want. Suddenly, this gets on my nerves, and I take two packs of it, with two cans of a sauce that seems appetizing.

At the cash register, Dinah is watching me put down what I'm buying. She goes straight for the blue packets as soon as they appear on the moving belt and promptly removes them. “Oh no, Molly! We said that was too expensive.” Contrite, you lower your eyes without daring to respond.

Outraged, I keep control of myself to remain polite. “Leave it, Dinah. Today I'm paying,” I say firmly.

Dinah turns toward me, looks me in the eye, then looks me up and down. “Fine. Since that's the way it is, there's no need for me anymore. I'll
leave you alone.” She bends toward us, puts back the packets, and, with a theatrical gesture, leaves behind the keys and the basket on your knees. Then she turns and heads for the door.

Your shriek, Molly, is engraved forever in my memory. A child being torn away from his family wouldn't have screamed as violently.

The Neapolitan singers seem to have doubled in volume, in this luxury minisupermarket where everyone has suddenly become silent.

Dinah continues imperturbably to amble toward the exit.

Finally, she stops at the threshold of the door and gives herself five long seconds of pure melodrama before coming back.

This time, I'm the one she's heading for. “See? She absolutely cannot get so worked up.”

Finally, she decides to place her two hands on the back of your wheelchair. She looks at me triumphantly, bends toward you, takes out a pack of tissues, and delicately wipes a strand of drool that has flowed from your mouth. Then she produces a small bottle of mineral water from her bag and has you drink through a straw while caressing your hair.

We leave the store, attempting to save face as much as possible. The blue packets have stayed behind on the moving belt.

You'll pretend to doze all the way back.

Dinah remained for six more months. After her there was Sally, then Nancy. Right now it's Eva, a Puerto Rican. I don't know where they come from, whether they're from an agency. I'm unaware whether it's your father who still chooses them. It really doesn't matter. They're all built from the same model: patient, calm, available. Incredible girls. Lalas for adults who, inevitably, end up assuming the power. Depending on the personality of each, the blackmail takes different forms but remains the same. Life is a jungle. And you, my Molly, are now like Babar in the big city. You've lost your defenses.

I NEVER DID FIND OUT WHAT HAD REALLY HAPPENED WITH THE YOUNG STUDENT
. Vincent's cell phone once again lies around anywhere at all without him worrying about it.

He barely remembers to recharge it.

We've never spoken about that episode again.

For the first time in my life, I gave up.

Instead of taking it all the way and doing battle, I let it slide.

Out of wisdom or cowardice?

I keep the marks of it inside me.

An indelible, painful, humiliating scar. Jealousy.

I hated it.

You're still living in the same apartment. You never went back to work.

Films interest you a lot less than before. At least, that's what you say. I think instead your short-term memory continues to play tricks on you. You're completely refocused on music, and you've got a talent for digging up rhythm-and-blues singers who are as obscure as they are talented. But Tina Turner is still your favorite.

You never forget your friends' birthdays, nor their spouses' or their children's.

The day Tom got married, you ended up admitting to me that if you had had someone like him to love, maybe you would have fought harder.

You're still the most caustic, the most brilliant girl I know.

The most direct, too.

Last week, I told you that I'd spent ten hours in a plane next to a delightful passenger and had only discovered when we arrived that she was in a wheelchair. “There are plenty of people who get along on their own despite their handicap and who travel. Don't you want to come back to Europe, to see Venice and Paris again?” Your answer was cutting: “As long as I can't piss alone, I'm not going anywhere. Get that?”

THE MOLLY TO WHOM I WAS WRITING NO LONGER EXISTS
.

However, when I think of you, when I wonder what you'd say, how you'd react to things that I am experiencing without you, you're always the same.

A fighter and a conqueror.

I never think of your wheelchair.

That Molly only materializes when I see you.

When I am with you, in that living room where you have again put up all the photos of your previous life, I become aware that you still can't drink without a straw, that you've gained weight, that the television is always on, that you are hooked on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, and all the social networks, that you can't succeed in concentrating on any book, any DVD, that you sometimes fall asleep in the middle of a sentence.

When I'm with you, I rediscover your devastating repartee, the precision of your memories, the distinctive nature of your intelligence.

I rediscover to a small extent how we are in league.

At the moment of leaving you, I feel your sadness and I try to hide mine from you.

I spend the rest of the day with a lump in my throat.

With all my strength I've wanted our friendship to remain intact.

I've got to face facts: that's far from being the case.

I lack courage.

Molly, I'm admitting it to you.

There have been times when I've been in New York and haven't told you.

MICHÈLE HALBERSTADT
is a journalist, author, and producer of such films as
Monsieur Ibrahim
,
Farewell My Concubine
, and
Murderous Maids
, which she also cowrote. Her novels include
La Petite
and
The Pianist in the Dark
, which won the Drouot Literary Prize and was short-listed for the Lilas literary prize in France.

BRUCE BENDERSON
is a novelist and essayist as well as a translator. He is the author of a memoir,
The Romanian: Story of an Obsession
, winner of France's prestigious Prix de Flore in French translation, and the novels
User
and
Pacific Agony
.

OTHER PRESS

LA PETITE by Michèle Halberstadt

La Petite
is neither grim nor sentimental. Every woman will recognize something of herself in this moving story about adolescent grief, solitude, and awakening.

“[A] touching glimpse of a young life nearly lost and then redeemed … [A] brief but powerful memoir … A haunting story with a triumphant conclusion.”
—Kirkus