Philippe Djian trans. by Mark Polizzotti

September 11, 2020 
The following is excerpted from Philippe Djian's newly translated novel, Marlene. Djian is the award-winning author of more than twenty novels, including the bestseller 37°2 le matin, published in the United States as Betty Blue. His novel Elle was a bestseller in France, where it received the 2012 Prix Interallié, and was adapted into a film. Mark Polizzotti has translated more than fifty books from the French.


It wasn’t the smartest thing to do. It might even worsen the situation, which wasn’t great to begin with. But since she refused to let him in or hear him out, he rammed open the door with his shoulder.

Dan hovered a moment on the threshold, weary, about to give up. She raised her head and gave him a blank stare—he could have been just anyone, just anything. The heat wasn’t on and the air in the room was frigid. Listen, he said. Come eat something. Let me think about it.

She swiveled in her chair to face the window, scraps of melting ice sliding down it.

Mona, I’m talking to you, he said to her back.

He hadn’t taken the time to change and he considered the mark his footsteps left on the floor, the imprint of his wet soles on the pale wood. He winced—that kind of detail bothered him. He danced from foot to foot for a moment, then retreated without another word.


Nath sighed: her daughter was driving her bonkers. She no longer knew what to do with her; she felt as if she’d tried everything and had run out of steam.

He remained silent at the other end of the line. He knew all this.

Dan, I need a break, she moaned.

Outside, darkness was falling, and lights had gone on inside the surrounding houses. He was stuck. Fine, he said eventually. But you’d better be careful.

You’re not in my shoes.

I’m just saying.


He glanced at Mona, who had fallen asleep in a chair. Putting her up, even for a few days, wasn’t his idea of a fun time. That temper of hers. He was very fond of her, but at a distance, and definitely not from morning till night. He’d already battered in a door, and she had only just arrived. That wasn’t a good omen. If her mother was throwing in the towel, what was he supposed to do—he who knew nothing and had no desire to know anything about an eighteen-year-old girl whose head and heart were like a vat of boiling sulfur. His back wasn’t broad enough for this. It was just broad enough to take care of himself. And even then, only on condi­tion that nothing upset the order he’d worked so hard to establish.

A storm had broken out overnight. Nothing special— lawns torn up, trees knocked down, roofs damaged, could have done without this extra worry. Even at rest, immobile, now quietly asleep and harmless, Mona didn’t promise anything good.

He went out to get some air. It wasn’t too chilly; the wind had all but died down and the sky was again stretched smooth like a black satin sheet. They’d cleared away the main debris that had been blocking the road—though not blocking it enough, rotten luck, to keep Mona from arriving at his doorstep as he was sweeping away the sawdust from an old fallen tamarisk he’d cut up. The tart aroma of freshly sawed wood and sap lingered in the night air. Broken glass sparkled all around, and several figures, silent and resigned, were still cleaning up in the twilight, slowly dragging man­gled refuse to the curb. He watched for a moment. It seemed appropriate to offer his help. People appreciated that kind of gesture. Having a guy like that as your neighbor. Not very chatty, but always ready to lend a hand. And well built, to boot. And who minded his own business, rarer still.


Nath was dressed to kill. Dan had rattled her a bit with his warnings, but she had zero intention of heed­ing them. She glanced at her watch. She felt feverish.

Apprehension, guilt, excitement. The whole goddam circus. She poured herself a drink and tried to remain calmly seated while waiting for it to be time.

She wondered how the two of them had managed to live together even this long, by what masterstroke or dark miracle. Calling her own mother a whore. And so coldly, so contemptuously. Sweet Jesus, who did her daughter think she was.

She shook it off, pinched her cheeks to give them a rosy blush, and hopped in a cab.

And she hadn’t even slept with this guy. Not that she didn’t want to, but that’s how it was. She wasn’t a whore. She was just a woman on her own, and that tended to drive her a little crazy at times. But about that, of course, Mona didn’t give a flip.

He hadn’t realized she was married. He knit his brow. He seemed nice, not terribly bright. My husband works on an oil rig, she told him. We don’t see each other much. She shrugged. Let’s talk about something else, she said with a smile. He was in insurance. Okay, she said, never mind. Let’s go dancing.

He propped himself up on one elbow and knit his brow again as she got dressed. He was young. It occurred to her that the girl he’d someday marry would have a very simple life.


Dan set his alarm for four in the morning, but he always woke up earlier and started his exercise routine while listening to the radio, then went running for several miles without ever varying his route, keeping count of his steps. After that, his day could begin. He could attack the housework.

His inability to sleep more than a few hours a night no longer bothered him. He had other worries. The mo­ment he had opened his eyes, this time, and strained his ears in the dark, his usual reflex, he had immedi­ately sensed the difference. Nothing betrayed Mona’s presence in the house, but one thing he could still rely on was the instinct he’d developed, the indispens­able vigilance, the faculty of perceiving an invisible presence in the sector, even in an ocean of silence and shadow. He hadn’t dreamed. He remained upright in bed for a few minutes—whereas normally he leaped to his feet—sitting cross-legged, forehead damp, taking the measure of this new lousy annoying disturbing situation.

When she appeared, much later, at the kitchen doorway, in sweats, barefoot, sleepy, he had just returned from shopping and was putting away the groceries.

What’s that noise I heard in the middle of the night, she said, yawning.

She meant the rowing machine, the back-and-forth of the saddle and the rhythmic wheeze of the fan blade each time he tugged on the oars and sucked in air. Oh, yeah, right, she said. Guess I’ll have to get used to it. He paused in front of the open fridge, grimacing to himself.

He washed his hands again as she sat down at the kitchen table for lunch. I thought you said you’d be there, she said. Anytime, anywhere. What was that supposed to mean.

He set a cup and the coffeepot in front of her.

Your mother doesn’t have an easy life. Let her work it out with your dad, don’t get mixed up in it.

She reached toward the coffeepot. I didn’t expect to be welcomed with open arms, she sighed, but even so. Shit, coming from you, that’s cold.

He turned toward the window, beyond which lay a pale, uncertain sky. He waited for her to get up so he could clear the table and wipe the Formica, whose perfect brilliance drew a smile of satisfaction from him. There was still one thing he knew how to do—which had gotten him through more than one desperate situation—and that was make a quick decision.


In the space of several months, Richard had put on weight again, his outline had thickened, but he didn’t give a damn. Never mind about my waistline, he smirked, crushing Dan in his arms like a brute.

They sat down at a small, austere table, facing each other amid the noise of the room.

I always gain a few pounds in winter, he said.

In warm weather, he melted. Without abstaining from fat, or sugar, or alcohol, which pissed off more than a few people and turned girls’ heads as soon as the sun came out. At thirty-seven, he still led the pack with his handsome bad boy looks. That thought comforted him as he gazed after Dan, while the latter went through the door and headed with furtive steps down the hall. If he had to choose, he’d rather be in his own shoes than in that guy’s. Be half alive rather than half dead. A matter of temperament.

Richard rubbed his chin for a moment, thinking of Mona and the falling-out she’d had with her mother.

He’d deal with that all in good time. At least they hadn’t demolished the place. If only these little spats were as bad as things got in life. Nothing to make yourself sick over. Dan wanted everything to be clear, no misunder­standings. There weren’t any. There couldn’t be. Mona was Richard’s daughter. That fucking Dan, he mused, shaking his head. He stood up with a smile and went about his business.


Excerpted from Marlene by Philippe Djian, translated by Mark Polizzotti, recently published by Other Press.

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