Voice Over Read Online Free PDF

had forgotten nothing. The three days they spent together had been slow and heavy-going. There had been enough time to understand who her friend had become and, with such a person, she could not share her past and sustain relations in the present. For as long as the conversation had moved between matters of little importance, she had not noticed a thing. But as often happens when people live and sleep in the same room, vigilance slips; living at such close quarters soon becomes trying unless you agree to go beyond mere pleasantries. And the moment they ventured down that path, she had sensed her own secret steering her friend’s remarks. Though no mention of it was ever made, it crept into her thinking, formed the basis of the logic she was using to size up her guest. As if Marion could no longer conceive of her except in terms of that central piece of information, the event confessed to years earlier. The more they talked, the harder it became to bear, and the more Marion kept returning to it, both of them coming to realize, with each passing hour, how little they had in common. Marion thought she could use the rite of passage to find a path back to intimacy, whereas for her part, she dreaded the slightest, even tacit mention of the episode.
Ever since that visit, neither she nor Marion had made any attempt to get back in touch.
    Â 
    Â 
    In front of her is the microphone. To her right, the computer. A new message has just appeared on her screen, with the number of the train, its destination, time of arrival, the platform where it has pulled in. She presses the red button at the base of the microphone. The three notes of the mini arpeggio ring out. Over to her. To talk, she uses her other voice, the one she draws up from the depths of her throat, that gives her the authority of an SNCF announcer. Articulating each syllable, she feeds the impatient travellers the details that will enable them to find their platforms.
    At 4:45 pm, she leaves the office, passes through the stage door in the reverse direction. If she had a mask, she would have chosen that moment to put it on. With a sweeping, pathetic gesture, like Renée with his dark glasses. It would be a plastic mask, held on by a piece of elasticated string, in the likeness of Everyman, who would do the same job she did, but who would then get to live another life every evening. Unfortunately, the only masks on sale in the shops are those of celebrities. At the end of the day, the station concourse—a vast structure with a part-glass roof, lit from below by the nimbus of orange-tinted globes—always seems to take longer to cross. The travellers haven’t really changed places: only their identities have changed. The ones rushing head-down for the exits are those long accustomed to lonely arrivals. They are generally travelling on business and never go anywhere without a clear aim. The rest of the crowd wanders about with their noses in the air, looking for signs or a familiar face. The only people who approach
strangers are the tramps. One night, she remembers, seeing one of them land a couple of slaps on a guy who’d been waiting at a café terrace with his girlfriend. The couple were enjoying a quiet kiss when the tramp came over to ask for money. He could hardly get his words out, was emitting guttural sounds in a language that no one could grasp except him. The boyfriend had shaken his head without so much as a glance. The tramp went round behind him; then clapped the filthy palms of both hands down hard on the two healthy pink cheeks. Astonishingly, the boyfriend relied only on his voice to ward off his assailant, who hurried away, limping. A beefy security guard set off in pursuit.
    It seems that tonight the tramps are not out to cause a stir. They are wandering among the travellers as usual, gauging with practiced eye each one’s willingness to part with a few euros. Outside the brasseries in front of the station, foreign tourists are