No & Me - Softcover

Delphine De Vigan

3.72

16,444 ratings by Goodreads

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0747599645 ISBN 13: 9780747599647

Publisher: Bloomsbury Paperbacks, 2010

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Lou Bertignac has an IQ of 160 and a good friend in class rebel Lucas. At home her father puts a brave face on things but cries in secret in the bathroom, while her mother rarely speaks and hardly ever leaves the house. To escape this desolate world, Lou goes often to Gare d'Austerlitz to see the big emotions in the smiles and tears of arrival and departure. But there she also sees the homeless, meets a girl called No, only a few years older than herself, and decides to make homelessness the topic of her class presentation. Bit by bit, Lou and No become friends until, the project over, No disappears. Heartbroken, Lou asks her parents the unaskable question and her parents say: Yes, No can come to live with them. So Lou goes down into the underworld of Paris's street people to bring her friend up to the light of a home and family life, she thinks.

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About the Author:

Delphine de Vigan is the author of several novels, including Jolis Garcons, Soir de decembre and Les heures souterraines. No and Me is her first novel to be published in English; it was a bestseller in France (100,000), where it was awarded the Prix des Libraires (The Booksellers' Prize) in 2008, and also a bestseller in Italy (50,000).George Miller is a regular translator for Le Monde diplomatique's English-language edition. He is also the translator of Conversations with my Gardener by Henri Cueco and Inside Al-Qaeda by Mohammed Sifaoui.

‘Miss Bertignac, I don’t see your name on the list of presentations.’

Mr Marin is looking at me from a distance with one eyebrow raised, his hands on his desk. I’d reckoned without his long-range radar. I’d been hoping to get away with it, but I’m caught red-handed. Twenty-five pairs of eyes turn round, waiting for my answer. ‘Brains’ has been caught out. Axelle Vernoux and L�a Germain stifle laughter behind their hands, and a dozen bracelets jingle in delight on their wrists. If only I could disappear a hundred miles under the earth, right down to the lithosphere, that would be convenient. I loathe presentations. I loathe talking in front of the class. I feel like a huge crack has opened beneath my feet, but nothing’s moved, everything is stuck in slow motion, nothing’s falling in. I wish I could faint right here and now. Just be struck down. Drop dead. There I’d lie, spreadeagled in my Converse Allstars, and Mr Marin would take his chalk and write on the blackboard: ‘Here lies Lou Bertignac, top of the class, but silent and a loner’.

‘. . . I was going to put my name down.’

‘Good. What’s your topic?’

‘The homeless.’

‘That’s rather general. Can you be a bit more specific?’

Lucas is smiling at me. His eyes are huge. I could drown in them, or disappear, or let the silence swallow up Mr Marin and the whole class. I could take my Eastpak and leave without a word, the way Lucas does. I could apologise and say that I haven’t a clue, I just said the first thing that came into my head. I’ll go and see Mr Marin at the end of the lesson and explain that I can’t do it, a presentation in front of the whole class is simply beyond me. I’m sorry, but I’ll get a doctor’s note if I have to: ‘constitutionally unfit for any sort of presentation’, all stamped and everything, and I’ll be let off. But Lucas is looking at me, and I can tell that he’s waiting for me to get myself out of this, that he’s rooting for me, he’s thinking that a girl like me can’t make a fool of herself in front of twenty-five students. He’s got his fist clenched. Any higher and he’d be brandishing it in the air, like football supporters encouraging their team. But suddenly the silence feels heavy, like we’re in church.

‘I’m going to follow the journey of a homeless girl, her life, erm . . . her story. I mean . . . how she ended up on the streets.’

A buzz goes through the rows. There’s whispering.

‘Very good. That’s an excellent subject. Figures show that every year more and more women run away, and at a younger and younger age. What documentary sources are you planning to use, Miss Bertignac?’

I’ve nothing to lose. Or else so much that you couldn’t count it on the fingers of one hand, or even ten, there is so much.

‘Erm . . . interviews. I’m going to interview a young homeless woman. I met her yesterday and she’s agreed.’

Thoughtful silence.

On a pink sheet of paper, Mr Marin notes my name and the subject of my presentation. ‘I’ll put you down for 10th December. That will give you time to do some background research.’ He goes over the basic rules: don’t take more than an hour, provide a socio-economic analysis, give examples . . . His voice tails off. Lucas’s hand unclenches. I’ve got transparent wings, I’m flying above the tables. I close my eyes, I am a tiny speck of dust, an invisible particle, weightless as a sigh. The bell rings. Mr Marin dismisses us, and as I’m putting away my things and getting my jacket on, he calls me over.

‘Miss Bertignac, a word, if I may.’

There goes my break. He’s done this to me before – a word by his reckoning equals a thousand for the rest of us. The others are hanging back, keen to hear. I wait and look down at my feet. My lace is undone as usual. How the hell can I have an IQ of 160 and not be able to tie my shoelaces?

‘You should be careful. With your interviews, I mean. Don’t meet unsuitable people. Perhaps your mother or father should go along with you.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s all sorted.’

My mother hasn’t been out of the flat in years and my father cries secretly in the bathroom. That’s what I should have told him.

Then, with a single stroke of his pen, Mr Marin would have crossed me off his list.
From the Hardcover edition.

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