Emma Tholozan
Translated from the French by Emma Ramadan
from Self-Worth
She had noticed me during breakfast and found me charming. She wanted us to have dinner together—her husband, Lulu, and me—that night. Plus, we were platinum-blonde hair sisters! I was flattered that someone so elegant had taken an interest in me. I adopted a high-pitched voice to confirm that we’d be there, table 239, right by the fountain. “Better the sound of the fake waterfall than those awful drums.” I couldn’t have agreed more. She put her Gucci sun- glasses back on and gave me an “air kiss,” without her voluptuous lips touching my cheek even a little bit. Then she walked along the pool, trailed by her tiny dog; it was a puny chihuahua but, like its mistress, displayed its pedigree proudly.
“You’re sure you want to go in your swimming trunks?”
I scrutinized Lulu with a critical eye. It was a way of saying: Definitely do not go in your swimming trunks.
“Oh who cares, it’s just dinner, and we don’t even know these people! Besides, they kind of seem like snobs, don’t you think?”
“So what? Don’t embarrass me, please, at least put on some pants.”
He put on a pair of jeans while I was turning my suitcase inside out looking for my chicest outfit. Fortunately, to be on the safe side, I’d brought several satin dresses.
Veronica and her husband were sipping glasses of white wine. When she noticed us, she waved with incredible grace. She was holding her dog in her other arm. Philippe introduced himself and apologized for having his nose glued to his phone. “The stock market . . . ” he said in a whisper. We ordered appetizers: oysters, salmon, “and caviar!” demanded Veronica. “We’re on vacation, after all!”
We cheers’ed to the good life and the yachts polluting the ocean but oh well, we won’t be around anymore to see the planet implode. Lulu didn’t speak, but seemed fascinated by the fact that the chihuahua had a dish cooked specially for him. Philippe checked his email.
“My husband works a lot, excuse him. He doesn’t know how to take a break.”
“I work in M&A, it’s true, but we also have my mother’s inheritance.”
“In what?” Lulu asked.
“Mergers and acquisitions. Anyway, that’s not very interesting. Lulu, what’s your profession?”
“I repair objects.”
“Ah! So you’re an engineer. I’ve always respected that kind of work. You need rigor, discipline, and such inventiveness!”
“No, no, I just repair objects. Like a handyman.”
I kicked him hard under the table. Seeing Philippe’s confusion, I tried to divert the couple’s attention.
“And you, Veronica? Let me guess, you’re a model, right?”
“Hahaha, you’re very sweet, Anna. No, I don’t have time to work, little Grégoire takes up all my energy . . . ”
“You have a son?” Lulu asked.
“A child? God no, this is Grégoire.”
She lifted her chihuahua who, his mouth still full of crab, started to lick her face. Lulu put down his fork and looked away.
“You don’t want kids, Anna, do you?”
“We haven’t talked about it, to tell the truth, but I . . . ”
“Definitely don’t do it, your body after . . . The horror! You’ve seen them, all those women full of stretch marks around the pool, right? Honestly, we deserve better than that.”
She touched my hand with a knowing expression. Veronica wasn’t wrong. She asked me what I did for work. I stammered.
“I’m a stylist, well, I do a lot of things, but fashion, it’s not really a job, it’s more of a passion.”
“What are you talking about?” Lulu whispered.
Reproach oozed from his eyes, and his face was twisted into his classic expression of disappointment. I wasn’t about to confess to Veronica that our fortune came from his stomach and that I spent the whole day lifting my arms up and down like a robot.
“How wonderful!” (I don’t know whether Veronica was talking about fashion design or the stuffed shark that had just been placed on the table.) “It’s clear immediately, Anna, that you’re not one of those women who dresses in those awful ready-to-wear brands. You realize that it’s children who make those clothes, somewhere in China? It’s shameful. But let’s not talk about tragic things, there’s so much beauty in the universe.”
Philippe agreed while tapping away on his phone. Grégoire was having a field day, gradually licking off Veronica’s makeup. A few brownish spots emerged from beneath her foundation.
“Well, dear Anna, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you since I first saw you . . . Maybe it’s too invasive, but . . . are those your real cheekbones? They’re so prominent, it’s incredible. I NEED the name of your surgeon.”
I was delighted; my ego inflated like a balloon ready to explode.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Veronica, but, yes, these are my real cheekbones. Yours are also stunning.”
“These ridiculous nubs? You’re kidding! I have one wish: to have them redone.”
“I’d love to get my nose done,” I confessed.
Lulu spat out his glass of wine. A few droplets spattered Philippe’s phone, but he remained unperturbed.
“Anna, you’re not serious! You can’t risk going under the knife for no reason! Your nose is lovely.”
“Hey ho, young man!” Veronica interrupted. “Does women’s liberation mean anything to you? We don’t need your permission. What’s next, we can’t have a checkbook or a bank account in our name? The patriarchy is over.”
Lulu stayed quiet. Perhaps because he was shocked that I wanted to have plastic surgery, but perhaps because Veronica had used the term “patriarchy” in a way that only she understood.
Despite his chronic muteness, Philippe felt the atmosphere tense. By way of reconciliation, he offered to teach Lulu how to play golf. It’s a great sport to take a load off. But Lulu left the table before dessert. His loss, the Baked Alaska was delicious. Veronica and I continued talking and I was impressed by her specific tastes, her good breeding. I could learn a thing or two from her. I got her phone number. They lived between New York and Copacabana, but, of course, had a little pied-à-terre in Paris; just one phone call, and the plane would drop her off in time for brunch!
Lulu didn’t come back until well after midnight, stinking of sweat and leaving piles of dirt in the shower. Fortunately, the cleaning woman could be called twenty-four hours a day. I needed money for the next day; I was planning to buy myself some new bathing suits at the hotel boutique. Between the pareos, the tips for the young women who fanned us with palm leaves on our beach chairs, and the dozens of cloth bracelets I’d bought so the beach vendor would finally leave us alone, there were almost no bills left in the suitcase. I turned the entire bungalow upside down, but I couldn’t find any more cash and, thinking about it, I realized I hadn’t seen Lulu vomit once since we’d arrived.
“No, I haven’t coughed up anything since the plane,” he confirmed.
“What are we going to do now?”
“I don’t know, Anna, it’ll be okay. We still have a bit of cash, it should last us.”
“And my bathing suits?”
“Do you really need them? You haven’t even asked me how my day was . . . ”
“If you stuck your finger down your throat, do you think that would work?”
He called me crazy, and I sulked. Eventually I wore him down and he gave in. It still didn’t work.
“You’re not putting them down far enough, let me do it.”
I didn’t leave him time to protest. I buried my index and middle fingers down to his glottis. He heaved. Not enough. He tried to get away, but I held him down firmly. I tried again, scratching a bit with my nail. Then he vomited. When he lifted his head, his gaze had changed. Much more somber. I could tell there was something brewing inside of him, and it wasn’t a flood of cash. He was angry, an expression I rarely saw on his face. I caressed his forehead and summoned all the tenderness I could muster to murmur: “Thank you.” I was relieved, until I noticed that in the toilet bowl were not the usual blue bills, but two-euro coins.
“Alright, are you happy now?”
“What do you expect me to do with this change? This isn’t enough, what a nightmare.”
“Are you ever going to worry about me, Anna? Like people who love each other?”
“I’m worried about you, of course I am, what are you talking about? But you said it yourself, it’s nothing serious.”
“My body is now producing coins. It’s full of iron. I’ve lost eight kilos and I’m starting to lose my teeth. I could die from this, and you, all you can think about is your fucking bathing suits.”
“You could die? Isn’t that a bit of an exaggeration?”
He slammed the door on his way out for a night pirogue ride, or some other absurd activity, and left me all alone.
Clearly, I had to forget about my bathing suits. The obligatory expenses of our trip—food, room, and beach chairs—had been paid for in advance, but I had to be careful with the extras. Bye bye, coconut oil massages from soft, expert hands. We tightened our belts, and the rest of our vacation was fine. To apologize, I even followed Lulu on one of his outings. “Isn’t it amazing?” he said in front of the tombstones of some population decimated ages ago. “Yes, yes, incredible, but still, so much space dedicated to the dead . . . they could have built a beautiful resort with a big pool here, it’s south facing.”
Emma Tholozan is a French writer whose novel Self-Worth won the Prix des Catherinettes and the Prix du roman TMV.
Emma Ramadan is an educator and literary translator of all genres from French.