Read Online Voice Over by Celine Curiol - Free Book Online

for who could have set the three fishbowls down in this unusual spot, but she seems to be the only person there. Tugging up her sleeve, she plunges her fingers into the large bubble of water. The fish wriggles away, working its fins to avoid the hand that has just burst in on its world. She feels like catching the delicate slippery body, hauling it out of the water and contemplating the mouth opening and closing in the suffocating air. Once, at the seaside, she’d observed a fish that had been thrown down on the shingle after being caught. A terrible,
fascinating sight. Blood was trickling from its gills; now and then its body would wriggle. She’d crouched down and with her finger had given the animal’s scales a timid caress. She had asked if it couldn’t be put back in the water. The fisherman had laughed at her. It’s just a fish, they’re made to be eaten.
    Someone is calling out to her. Just what does she think she’s doing? She pulls her fingers out of the fishbowl at once. A woman, who must have been lying in wait behind a bush, is striding towards her. Addressing her as though she were a prize idiot. It’s an in-sta-lla-tion, not a finger-bowl, looking is fine, but no touching, do you understand? Her hair in dreads, an orange band around her forehead, a ring in her nose, the woman is about to knock her down. Given a sword, she’d have pulled it out already in order to slice her into little pieces. Your installation is really great. The anger drops from the woman’s face. Artists live at the mercy of compliments, which is why she doesn’t understand them very well. Don’t worry, I’m going now. Actually, the artist would be happy for her to stay and share a few more favorable impressions of her work, maybe even ask her questions about where she gets her inspiration. She’d be happy now to give her permission to dip her fingers in, let her art become interactive. Accessible to ordinary folk like her, isn’t that the criterion all creators must live by? She has heard what the artist is saying but has no real opinion on the matter.
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    Rue de Buci. Large signs up on all the shop fronts: Everything Must Go, Clearance Sale, Up to 50% Off. Enticing phrases to coax you inside. She pauses outside Vanilla Girls. Chocolate, strawberry and raspberry are also available. All the flavors you could wish for, gentlemen. To be consumed without moderation,
but must be kept refrigerated. She goes inside. Five young women work their way along the hangers like automatic sorting machines, taking out an occasional garment to check for defects in the manufacture. Each displays remarkable powers of concentration: the fruit of years of practice begun in early adolescence. A female voice is singing in English. She catches the word love and the word . . . love. The sales assistant is wheeling packs of clothes from one side of the store to the other, taking them around for some fresh air. She spots a dress for 49 euros. Not really her style, but it could cheer her up to see herself looking different, not to recognize herself in the mirror. Can she try it on? she asks the assistant, who brushes by her at top speed and, without stopping, points to the rear of the shop. The garments in critical shape have to be moved urgently for fear they will suffer irreversible decay. In a corner of the shop, a curtain hangs from a semi-circular rail. The curtain is narrow. Through the space between the fabric and the wall, she can see large sections of the shop. People can see her. She ought not to give a damn, since everyone here is of the same sex. No need to be shy, you’re all built the same, her gym mistress would shout in the changing rooms at school. Except that she had breasts, whereas the others still had only the insignificant volcanic burgeonings of nipple. She undresses, keeping her movements to a minimum in order to stay hidden. She gets her head and arms in, but once the dress