À la caisse, a lady à casquette black pose quatre questions auxquelles mon père répond mais vous avez quoi ? Il se tourne vers maman qui hausse les épaules. Nico doesn't believe that sourire. Alors mon père me presse du regard, je dois décider. Sur les panneaux, les burgers, les menus, je ne les connais pas, les boissons brillent. What question is there in the caissière, my first response, and in the wood? et en dessert? quel accompagnement? I have a child's menu and an extraterrestrial lens with glasses in the black.
Claire Baglin, Indoors
At the checkout, a woman in a black hat asks four questions, which my father answers. "So, what do you have?" he asks. He turns to Mom, who shrugs. Nico just smiles. Then my father's gaze presses me on; I have to decide. The signs list the burgers and the meals—I don't recognize them—and the drinks are gleaming. To each of the cashier's questions, my father repeats, "And what about a drink? And for dessert? What side dish?" I walk away with a kids' meal and a glow-in-the-dark alien.
Indoors It's the area where no one on the team wants to work. It's the food court of a fast-food chain—and the title of Claire Baglin's first novel, written in 1998. The two parts of the text are connected in a disillusioning way: promise and alienation, childhood as the daughter of a working-class father and the years spent working in a restaurant chain. As the publisher Minuit also announces: "In a children's meal, you find a well-packaged burger, fries, a drink, sauces, a toy—a dream. And then, a few years later, you're preparing orders at the drive-thru, wiping tables, obeying the managers: you're working in a fast-food restaurant." 1
The documentary perspective of this social novel shows us the female working world in fast food and the life of the father as a maintenance worker in the factory; without explicit interpretation, without superficial criticism, it reports the processes, the hierarchies, the deformations of the bodies:
L'invasion a commencé par le pouce préhenseur. The blanchi sous l'effet du désinfectant pour dispositifs médicaux non invasifs, celui utilisé pour nettoyer les plateaux, et puis ma main s'est parée d'une corne reconnaissable entre toutes, une corne poncée, adoucie et massée par les crèmes mais qui ne partira plus jamais. Chaque jour, Chouchou me met à l'accueil, là où les plateaux et chevalets s'entassent, and je commence le service sans regarder le planning d'affectation. Chouchou ne me lâchera plus. The dress and the dress are worn on the chiffon in the plong: they are on the floor.
Les pouces des équipières en salle blanchissent, c'est un fait, les peaux se décollent et s'effritent lorsqu'elles se lavent les mains. If you need the gloves, you don't have any recommendations in times of Covid, you net a surface sale with the gloves, you touch a plateau client with the same gloves, it's dead. Sous le chiffon comptoir pendant cinq heures, sous ce chiffon humide qui sert à nettoyer tables, plateaux, chevalets et bornes, the main paraît intacte. This is what the matin, à la lumière du soleil, qu'on constate le décollement, il suffit de frotter ses doigts contre sa paume pour qu'ils s'émietent. Tres vite il est midi. The porte s'ouvre et se ferme, une équipière enfile son pantalon, ses surchaussures recouvrent déjà ses baskets et quelqu'un a vu la trame? Sur un plan de work en cuisine, nos prenoms sont inscrits dans des rectangles par un manager qui décide, voilà la trame, un plan du restaurant et nos prenoms mal écrits. The privileged equipment has great power, depending on the tram, it is one of the best places in the world. Les new savent très bien à quel service ils sont affectés.
The invasion is a concern for Chouchou. The pouces are intact and when I watch the eyes that are so effritent, it is fair to take a break from the cigarette. The borders of the ongles should be returned in a white version, assorted with the phone case. The evening dress, when the applique is on, will make the sequins avant-garde.
Claire Baglin, Indoors
The deformation began at the tip of my thumb. It turned white from the disinfectant for non-invasive medical devices used to clean the trays, and then my hand was adorned with a horn, easily recognizable to everyone—a horn that I've tried to smooth down, soften, and massage with creams, but which will never go away. Every day, Chouchou puts me at the reception desk, where the trays and boards are piled high, and I start my shift without looking at the schedule. Chouchou won't let me go. I come out of the changing room and go straight to the dishwashing area for my rag: I know I'm in the dining area.
The thumbs of the women on the dining team are turning white, that's a fact. The skin is peeling and crumbling when they wash their hands. I ask for gloves, but they're not recommended in times of Covid. You clean a dirty surface with your gloves, you touch a customer tray with those same gloves—it's life-threatening. For five hours, their hands seem intact under the counter cloth, under the damp cloth used to clean tables, trays, boards, and terminals. Only in the morning, in the sunlight, do they notice the peeling. Just rubbing their fingers against their palms is enough to make them crumble. Very quickly, it's lunchtime. The door opens and closes, a teammate pulls on her trousers, her overshoes already covering her sneakers—did anyone even see the pattern? On a work surface in the kitchen, a manager, making decisions, writes our first names in rectangles—that's the grid, a plan of the restaurant, and our first names are misspelled. Only the privileged team members still hope, given the current system, to be in a better position than the day before. The new recruits know exactly which department they'll be assigned to.
The deformity doesn't affect Chouchou. Her thumbs are intact, and when I show her my crumbling thumbs, she goes for a cigarette break. Only the edges of her nails are coated with a white polish that matches her phone case. When she applies it in the evening, she has to sprinkle glitter on it before the polish dries.
We are introduced to the first-person narrator's childhood and adult life in alternating chapters: the strict confinement, the surveillance cameras, the pressures at work. Johan Faerber interprets this writing style in his review: “Claire Baglin doesn't decide for her reader, she isn't socially engaged, she has lived this dual history, she isn't here as a sociologist or ethnologist in a field, she doesn't take notes, she records actions rather than facts, […] without giving them an obvious meaning or a more convenient scope. Yet the social and political dimension is present, powerful, undeniable, without being dictated to us. Everything is determined by a sharp, strikingly clear attention to detail (which is never detail), situations, and dialogue.” 2
Writing here appears almost exclusively as signing forms, contracts, and work processes. However, as a girl, she invents stories about the heroine Natasha, who lives far from her parents in the forest. The computer crashes, a perhaps significant scene for understanding the book's structure.
Plus, after reading the history on the family computer, you will find it in the environment of the room with my parents. Les garçons s'enfuient en courant, Natacha is couchée au milieu de la ruelle mais sa mère psychologue la comprendra mieux que personne, le chien-loup arrivera, mais l'écran de l'ordinateur devient bleu, j'appelle mon père, il faut que je dates l'histoire. Il répète je vais le réparer, je l'ai récupéré à la déchetterie, je sais comment le réparer mais l'écran de l'ordinateur s'éteint. Mon pere insère des CD, tape plusieurs combinaisons de chiffres et de letters et je quitte la chambre épouvantée. After a few hours, the frappe à la porte et vient me retrouver avec a grand sourire, I'ai réinitialisé l'ordi, I'ai tout sauvegardé sur une disquette. Mais, when you return to the computer, the history is in the train d'écrire a disparu. I search in the files that are different from the photos that are recapitulated. Mon père continue de répéter j'ai réparé j'ai réparé, mon père continue de mentir.
Claire Baglin, Indoors
Later, I type the story out on the family computer, the one that sits enthroned in the middle of my parents' bedroom. The boys run away, Natasha lies in the middle of the alley, but her mother, a psychologist, will understand her best. The wolfhound will come, but the computer screen turns blue. I call my father; I have to finish the story. He assures me again that I'll fix it, that I got it from the junkyard, that I know how to fix it, but the computer screen goes black. My father inserts CDs, types in several combinations of numbers and letters, and I leave the room in horror. A few hours later, he knocks on the door and comes to me with a broad grin. I've reset the computer and saved everything to a floppy disk. But when I go back to the computer, the story I just wrote is gone. I search through the files, but only the photos remain. My father keeps repeating, "I fixed it, I fixed it." My father continues to lie.
Philippe Lançon praised in Libération "What Indoors What makes it so valuable is its pace, its precision, its restrained anger, its humor and its rigor in the situations, portraits and dialogues: a wild, language-driven attention.” 3
The equipment to drive me prepared a tapestry, which I then pose in just the right direction. Les commandes s'espacent, je prends le gobelet et m'éloigne pour boire pendant qu'un collègue me réapprovisionne en sachets. Les équipiers se pressent toujours autour des friteuses, s'empressent de combler les désirs et besoins de celui qui y travaille comme pour s'excuser un peu. Certainly, I have no courage, I save that my main things are different and I don't have to spend enough money to spend more time in my life. Je n'espère plus le drive, accaparé par les anciens et ceux qui font des heures supplémentaires, je ne redoute que la salle et le vide qu'elle crée en moi. Aux frites, l'automatisme m'empêche de réfléchir.
Claire Baglin, Indoors
The drive-thru attendant prepares a cup for me and says, "I'll put this here for you." Orders are thinning out, so I take the cup and walk away to drink while a colleague refills my bags. My teammates are still crowding around the fryers, rushing to meet the needs and desires of whoever is working there, as if trying to apologize. Some try to encourage me, knowing my hands are calloused from the salt and that I haven't been thinking for hours, but all I want is to stay where I am. I no longer have any hope of getting the drive-thru position, which is now occupied by the old hands and those working overtime; I only dread the dining area and the emptiness it creates within me. With the fries, the automatic response prevents me from thinking.
Olivier Mony has emphasized the power of such vividness in such empty scenes: “True readers know that the text is always stronger than what it evokes, that the subject is only valuable through the writing that bears witness to it. Claire Baglin’s text impresses with its directness and its precision.” 4 One comment about the new female colleagues reads: "They daydream while disinfecting the toilets." 5 However, a counter-place of dreams seems to emerge only quietly and very modestly in this noisy world:
Je rêve que quelqu'un me susurre à l'oreille il est l'heure tu peux partir. Je rêve de mots chuchotés mais tous parlent continued. Les commandes s'espacent, le director remet sa veste parce qu'il va partir, les managers allument les lumières de la terrace, les équipiers are prepared à l'assaut de la nuit.
Claire Baglin, Indoors
I dream that someone whispers in my ear, "It's time, you can go." I dream of whispered words, but everyone is speaking loudly. Orders are dwindling, the managing director is putting on his jacket because he's about to leave, the managers are switching on the lights on the terrace, the employees are preparing for the nighttime assault.
This article is written in German and can be found at https://rentree.de. Automatic translations into English and French are available. English, French.
Notes- "Dans un menu enfant, on trouve un burger bien emballé, des frites, une boisson, des sauces, un jouet, le rêve. Et puis, quelques années plus tard, on prepare les commandes au drive, on passe le chiffon sur les tables, on obéit aux managers: on travaille au fastfood.">>>
- “Claire Baglin has decided to read, she has a social background, she has a double histoire, she is not on the terrain of sociologue or ethnology, she has written notes, she consigns the words of her actions, [...] without the thunder of a sense of evidence or a portée Confortable. Pour autant, la dimension sociale et politique est bien là, puissante, indéniable sans nous être dictée. Tout passe par une attention aiguisée, sidérante de lucidité, aux détails (qui n'en sont jamais), aux situations et aux dialogues.” Johan Faerber, “Claire Baglin: « Je n'y allais pas pour faire un reportage » (In the hall)" Diacriticism, 5. September 2022.>>>
- “Ce qui fait la valeur d’Indoors “It has a rhythm, a precision, a color that is rent, a sense of humor and a rigor in situations, portraits, dialogues: a great attention, portée par le language.” Philippe Lançon, “Le roman «En salle» de Claire Baglin: «L'odeur de friture nous parvient à travers la porte, l'odeur de la fête»”, Libération, 17. July 2022.>>>
- "Les vrais lecteurs savent que le texte est toujours plus fort que ce qu'il évoque, que le sujet ne vaut que par l'écriture qui en témoigne. Celle de Claire Baglin impressionne par sa frontalité et sa justesse." Olivier Mony, “Claire Baglin, “En salle”: Vingt fois sur le métier”, Livreshebdo.fr, 3. September 2022.>>>
- “Elles rêvent quand elles desinfectent les toilettes.” Claire Baglin, Indoors.>>>
