is on, she canât do up the zip at the back. The makeshift fitting room doesnât have a mirror. She steps out, with her back exposed and the dress gaping at the front, to get at least some idea of how she looks. A split second later the salesgirl is upon her, ramming up the zip with an iron hand. She barely has time to draw a breath: her chest will never be the same shape again,
thatâs certain. She senses that the other women in the shop are peering at her. The salesgirl is recuperating by the till. Itâs very nice, donât tell me you donât like it. She doesnât like it, but she doesnât say so. She already knew that pink doesnât suit her. Besides, itâs a color she detests. And the length is wrong. As for her breasts, squashed at the front, plumped up at the top, they resemble nothing so much as a fine pair of soufflés still in their baking tin. The ruse hasnât paid off. Even dressed like that, she still looks the same, only worse. Forty-nine euros, itâs a bargain, the shop-girl calls out, before flying to the rescue of other endangered garments. Get back behind the curtain now that sheâs gone. She flaps her elbows, trying to catch hold of the zip. No way is she going out there again. After twisting herself into four or five different positions, release. She hurriedly gets back into her clothes and abandons the dress. She throws a quick glance outside. The shop-girl is standing guard a few yards from the shop entrance. She makes a run for it, ducking at the first display stand she comes to and finds her way, hidden by a mound of heaped-up clothing, to the exit.
She crosses the carrefour de lâOdéon, then walks up one of the three streets leading to the Théâtre de lâEurope. She is surprised to find in this part of the city an erotic bookshop with no sign. In the window, books of photography featuring pictures of women in bras and G-strings on the front covers; novels and reference works. The thought of going in is tempting but makes her feel uneasy. In between the piles of books, she tries to catch a glimpse of what is happening inside. Two young men are leafing through magazines. Enthroned behind the cash register is a fairly stout woman in her fifties. The presence of the woman strengthens her resolve. She makes her silent entrance; neither
of the two men turns round; the woman, on the other hand, greets her arrival with an amused stare. She must look like a self-conscious child walking into a place it has been forbidden to enter. Not daring to touch a thing, she goes over to the shelves, tilts her head to start reading the titles and authorsâ names, which she immediately forgets. Except for one: Marie Nimier. The name rings a bell, as if it were the name of an old friend, or the pseudonym she could have chosen for herself if she had been a writer. She takes down the novel and reads the first page. The story begins with the overwhelming attraction one woman feels for a man. A passionate love which makes one want to worship everything about him, even the worst parts. What is the worst about him? For her, best or worst has no meaning. She doesnât think of him in those terms, apportioning him into two columns and adding up the sum of his good and bad qualities. In the novel the man wears a silver ring, which the woman sees as an integral part of his body. Whatever the object of her obsession owns is turned into a fetish. In fairy tales, a magicianâs power comes from a ring. Rings are exchanged at weddings; a ring is affixed to the leg of a carrier pigeon. For the first time she wonders what his penis might look like. But she has no way of telling; each is unique, a signature whose overlapping lines are hard to decipher even when the person is known. All she can do is to refer back to the ones she has seen and remembers. That game of adolescent girls: trying to find out whether the length and thickness of the male organ corresponds to
thatâs certain. She senses that the other women in the shop are peering at her. The salesgirl is recuperating by the till. Itâs very nice, donât tell me you donât like it. She doesnât like it, but she doesnât say so. She already knew that pink doesnât suit her. Besides, itâs a color she detests. And the length is wrong. As for her breasts, squashed at the front, plumped up at the top, they resemble nothing so much as a fine pair of soufflés still in their baking tin. The ruse hasnât paid off. Even dressed like that, she still looks the same, only worse. Forty-nine euros, itâs a bargain, the shop-girl calls out, before flying to the rescue of other endangered garments. Get back behind the curtain now that sheâs gone. She flaps her elbows, trying to catch hold of the zip. No way is she going out there again. After twisting herself into four or five different positions, release. She hurriedly gets back into her clothes and abandons the dress. She throws a quick glance outside. The shop-girl is standing guard a few yards from the shop entrance. She makes a run for it, ducking at the first display stand she comes to and finds her way, hidden by a mound of heaped-up clothing, to the exit.
She crosses the carrefour de lâOdéon, then walks up one of the three streets leading to the Théâtre de lâEurope. She is surprised to find in this part of the city an erotic bookshop with no sign. In the window, books of photography featuring pictures of women in bras and G-strings on the front covers; novels and reference works. The thought of going in is tempting but makes her feel uneasy. In between the piles of books, she tries to catch a glimpse of what is happening inside. Two young men are leafing through magazines. Enthroned behind the cash register is a fairly stout woman in her fifties. The presence of the woman strengthens her resolve. She makes her silent entrance; neither
of the two men turns round; the woman, on the other hand, greets her arrival with an amused stare. She must look like a self-conscious child walking into a place it has been forbidden to enter. Not daring to touch a thing, she goes over to the shelves, tilts her head to start reading the titles and authorsâ names, which she immediately forgets. Except for one: Marie Nimier. The name rings a bell, as if it were the name of an old friend, or the pseudonym she could have chosen for herself if she had been a writer. She takes down the novel and reads the first page. The story begins with the overwhelming attraction one woman feels for a man. A passionate love which makes one want to worship everything about him, even the worst parts. What is the worst about him? For her, best or worst has no meaning. She doesnât think of him in those terms, apportioning him into two columns and adding up the sum of his good and bad qualities. In the novel the man wears a silver ring, which the woman sees as an integral part of his body. Whatever the object of her obsession owns is turned into a fetish. In fairy tales, a magicianâs power comes from a ring. Rings are exchanged at weddings; a ring is affixed to the leg of a carrier pigeon. For the first time she wonders what his penis might look like. But she has no way of telling; each is unique, a signature whose overlapping lines are hard to decipher even when the person is known. All she can do is to refer back to the ones she has seen and remembers. That game of adolescent girls: trying to find out whether the length and thickness of the male organ corresponds to
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