One night Jean-Philippe wasn’t home. Actually there were many nights like that, but this one was bad. I went to bed and waited for them to start to rock out. But they didn’t. I waited and waited, but they were perfectly still. I couldn’t sleep. I called Jean many times, but he didn’t answer. I grew angry. I got out of bed and tried to wake them up. I ate milk chocolate—sugar always drove them wild. I sang to them. I rubbed my stomach. I drank lemonade. I lay down again and pretended to sleep. That usually helps. When I want to feel that they’re alive, I lie down and take deep breaths. Using your diaphragm, like they teach in yoga. That almost always wakes them up and starts their boxing and kicking practice.
I’ve always been a little worried, even when there were kicks, if they only come from one direction. They’re very close, in a sort of “69” position: Little Antoine head down, Little Antoinette head up. I wonder if they’re both still alive or if one of them is kicking for the other one. Or has one of them kicked the other to death? Smashed the other’s head in with a foot? The doctor said that’s impossible. The water protects them. And besides, this is the easiest kind of twin pregnancy. Fraternal. They each have their own pouch with their very own placentas. Technically they’re completely separate. They can’t even get tangled in each other’s cords. And because they have their own placentas, no bad connections can form between them, no vasculaire things, shared blood vessels that one can suck too much blood through and swell while the other one loses blood and shrinks. Little Antoinette is a little smaller, but that’s because she’s a girl, not because Little Antoine is sucking the life out of her.
But then came that horrible night. Jean-Philippe was gone. They stopped moving. For real. Both of them. One night. I sent Jean a text message, at least five, asking him to come home, saying I was afraid. Usually I’m very rational. I call the family doctor and ask my questions if I have anything to ask. It doesn’t embarrass me at all. Stéphanie answers patiently, explaining as many times as necessary until I understand. But that night I didn’t bother waking her. I called the hospital directly. “Are you having contractions?” they asked. “Is there any bleeding? What week are you? How long have you been feeling the pain?” But I didn’t have any pain. The babies were quiet. That was all. “Monitor the situation,” they said. “And if you’re still worried in the morning, call again.”
I can’t describe that night. Occasionally I fell asleep and felt something moving inside of me, but as soon as I woke up, everything was still again. I also had a dream, or it wasn’t a dream but a vision, because the whole time I knew I was lying in bed waiting for the morning and kept looking at the clock. So I was lying in bed and suddenly our doctor, Stéphanie, walks through the door. She walks up to me with a box of matches in her hand. Supposedly I’d given birth to the children or they’d been taken out of me somehow. And now they were sleeping in the matchbox! Stéphanie didn’t say a word, she just handed me the box. I took it and pushed in one side. I saw Little Antoine’s face, his skin transparent and his eyes black spots, like pinheads. Salamandre blanche. Sort of a human fish that had come out too soon. Then I pushed in the other side, and out came Little Antoinette’s head, her face red and shriveled; but around her head was wonderful hair, like grain. The hair covered both babies and kept them warm. Stéphanie had put in cotton wool for their bed.
So there I was pushing the ends of the box back and forth: Little Antoine, and then in the other direction, Little Antoinette. Little Antoine. Little Antoinette. Monsieur Transparent and Mademoiselle Red.
I was sure I had gone tout à fait folle, but then the phone rang. I woke up. The matchbox disappeared. Jean-Philippe explained that he’d missed the last train. That he was staying in a hotel and would come first thing in the morning, and that everything was sure to be fine, ma chère.
I could have strangled that man. He was with some woman. I know that.
Well, so how did I die?
I survived until morning because I remember preparing to leave for the hospital. Alone. I remember crying and putting on these clothes, and I remember how difficult bending to tie my shoes was. I felt as if I was smashing them once and for all in there. Water isn’t any protection. My burnt toast stank. The whole house stank, and I couldn’t eat a single bite. I felt like vomiting. Finally I got the laces tied, and then—a blank. Did I take a taxi? Did I get to the hospital? I don’t remember the reception, the hallway, the waiting room. I don’t remember a doctor or an ultrasound. Did someone say, “I don’t hear anything. There’s no heartbeats”? I have no memory. I managed to tie my shoes, and that’s it. Then comes the blank. And what if I did go tout à fait folle? I wanted these children so much! If they had really ceased to exist, then I might have done anything. I might have gone to the harbor and thrown myself into the sea. I might have traveled to Cassis, where we were married five years ago, climbed the limestone cliffs, and jumped. How should I know?
They’re quiet now too.
Here, you can feel: nothing.
They’re as dead as rocks, and I’m here.
Bof, on laisse ça alors.
Let’s move on.
Maimuna said (with Nina translating from French to English):
I walk, I walk, I walk (I walk), and it’s hot. I’m in the desert (I’m in the desert), and there is
