Three Women in a Mirror by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt, Alison Anderson Page B

stop most often? As a woman of the cinema, she tended to prefer reflection to reality.
    On several occasions a blond nurse’s aide came up to her. Whenever he leaned over her she spoke to him, but each time something strange happened that prevented him from speaking. Whenever she opened her mouth, the employee hurried away; yes, the moment she spoke he disappeared. But the magic trick did not seem intentional, and the young man’s face expressed neither vice nor malice. As soon as he came back, he seemed attentive, and gazed at her, clearly wishing to help her. But as soon as she said a word, it all changed.
    Initially she thought she was prey to an unstable reality, especially since she felt as though she were falling. She deduced that time must be playing tricks on her by breaking off without warning. Finally she noticed that as soon as she spoke to the nurse she was in an empty room. She concluded, correctly this time, that she was falling asleep again.
    After two days had gone by, she managed to hold a conversation.
    â€œWhere am I?”
    â€œI’m glad we can talk, Anny. My name is Ethan.”
    â€œHmm . . . ”
    â€œYou are in room 23 at the Linden Clinic, in Hollywood.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with me?”
    â€œYou have various contusions. Nothing serious. You’ll be fine. Are you in pain?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSo we’re giving you the right dose.”
    â€œDose of what?”
    â€œMorphine.”
    From the depths of her brain a memory emerged of her father with a scientific journal in his hand, declaring that morphine was considered a dangerous drug because the moment you take it, you can no longer do without.
    In the hours that followed, as she drifted in and out, she remembered what he had said, sat up, shouted at the top of her lungs, wore herself out, fell asleep, and started all over again until, tired of resisting, she resolved to ignore her father’s warning. Addiction was her specialty: she was already hooked on booze, weed, and coke, so why not add morphine! What difference did it make? At least in this case she’d be able to say that it wasn’t her fault. “Exactly, your Honor, it was the doctors who filled me with poison: they said they were treating me, but in fact they were condemning me to a life as a junkie. You should send them to prison, your Honor, or make them do community service. It’s their fault, not mine.” Several times between naps she played the scene to an imaginary courthouse: she was delighted to be cast as the innocent young woman.
    One morning Dr. Sinead, the head of the clinic, came into the room. He was followed by a cluster of new interns, inflated with vanity and proud to be in the surgeon’s company: they already considered themselves eminent physicians just by virtue of being in his wake.
    â€œHow is America’s little darling?”
    Anny almost burst out laughing: Professor Sinead spoke with a nasal voice similar to that of an old actress that Anny adored, the one everyone called Vuitton Bag, so often had the skin on her face been tugged and stitched and stitched again.
    â€œWell, how are we feeling today?” he insisted.
    If his inflection was the same as Vuitton Bag’s, it was for an identical reason: his lips had been remodeled, pulled wider then puffed up.
    Anny scrutinized Dr. Sinead.
    His skin had been ravaged by diets, wearied by the years, and it drooped wherever it had not been lifted—neck, ears, the top of his chest, his forearms and wrists. Elsewhere, his washed-out skin bore the marks of the stretching inflicted by cutting, twisting, and stitching. After so many cosmetic operations, Dr. Sinead’s face displayed not the vitality of a youthful creature, but the frailty of an accident victim.
    â€œAnny, can you hear us?”
    What a horrible voice. Metallic, no timber to it. And his scrambled elocution: his vowels lacked all purity, while his consonants were