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Le Soir de la générale
Claire Béchet
Le Soir de la générale
www.la-barraca.net - Anny Romand
Actes du théâtre n° 21.[ imprimer ]
It’s the evening of the dress rehearsal and the performance didn’t go well for her. She decides to go home. Her heels pound the cobblestones. Behind her echoes the sound of a man’s steps. He stops in front of the door to her building. She hesitates, goes up the stairs to the sixth floor, turns the key in the lock, and lets the man into her life. The door closes on her feelings of fear mixed with curiosity, of repulsion mixed with attraction. From that point on, there’s nothing left to do but experience this parenthesis – until the man disappears, with no reason or explanation.

“A spellbinding play by Claire Béchet, made even more so by the simple and static staging. Everything is in the words and the narrative. The text takes you into another world – the character’s – through clear and precise writing. Conscious in her idleness, and rejecting rationality, the woman responds to desires that are not her own, but have been imposed on her; unless – and there is some doubt here – she is only following her own attraction.”
Jean-Baptiste Deau, evene.fr, 21 July 2005

First staged at the Théâtre de la Manufacture, Festival d’Avignon, 7 28 July 2005.
Director: Nabil El Azan. Cast: Anny Romand.

Characters : 1 women -

I was walking up the stairs, counting as I went – twenty-two between landings, twenty-two steps and twenty-two breaths. I thought about what I was doing, about every detail. I thought about breathing, about my bent knees and about the tip of my foot hitting each step. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. The fourth floor already. It was the first time the staircase seemed too short, the first time there weren’t enough steps between floors. Twenty-two steps are no big deal. I wanted there to be thirty, forty or fifty, I don’t know. I didn’t say it, but the thought was there – an indistinct thought of that insufficiency, of that betrayal of matter, only twenty-two steps when there could have been so many more, of that insufficiency that destroyed all hope of any respite. Fifth floor. Monsieur Roublaix lived on the fifth floor. Monsieur Augustin Roublaix, tax inspector. Perhaps Monsieur Roublaix was in. It was late. But among neighbours… It was late, but in the event of overpowering circumstances… Press the buzzer for the fifth floor and wake up Monsieur Augustin Roublaix. Or else try to find a corner of the stairwell, a niche, an unexpected hiding place, some safe place. There are no safe places in stairwells, and there was none in that one. There was no safe place outside my imagination. I turned around and when I did I gave up my last chance of protection. Turning my back to him was a way of not seeing him and not being seen. I didn’t know his face, and he didn’t know mine. I didn’t even know his profile, didn’t know whether or not he was tall, stout or well-dressed. He knew my profile. He knew I was wearing a raincoat, light shoes and a bag with a shoulder strap. In turning around, I showed my face, but I also restored the balance.