The Erotic Potential of my Wife (11 page)

As always (it’s a bad habit), Hector wanted to die on the spot. The shame that all were inflicting on him was immeasurable. He who had decided to change, he who had decided to accept the nascent nymphomania of his ladylove, he was being unjustly crushed in his attempt to become a responsible man. They were all playing him, from the beginning. To start with, his parents put him on this earth just to avenge themselves of his brother’s departure. You do not produce two children with twenty years difference, you are not allowed … He was not moving, transfixed in the malaise of being him. At that moment, he would have given anything to have protective objects all around him, immense collections of stamps or cocktail sticks that would hide him from the eyes of others. In the middle of them was his wife, his Brigitte. So she was not with her lover; she still loved him a little. It was a vague sensation, a tiny nuance. Nevertheless he felt the gentle echo of hope: she still loved him … She preferred his birthday to corporal activity with another. Finally, it was not so useless to be born on a specific day, and to celebrate that day. She loved him … He wanted to live his future like a castaway on a desert island on that little piece of love that was left.

Mireille, his mother, approached him to find out what was wrong with her darling. There really needed to be a lot of people for her to call him darling. This brutal return to reality had no consequence other than to make him escape. He clambered down the stairs, but not all of them. In other words, he missed a step, and spilled onto a neighbour’s landing after a rather spectacular forward roll. In the impossibility of getting up, he felt like a wild boar injured by a drunk hunter. Brigitte, who had run after him, squeezed him in her arms to reassure him. Hector was shaking. He had not broken anything but that the roll added to the few disappointments of the day had scared him. This day that was beginning to seem very long to him. ‘Don’t worry my love, I’m here…’ Reading her husband’s pain with precision, she added: ‘Yes, I will tell them to leave.’

So the guests left the aborted party.

Back in their apartment, she laid him on the bed. It hurt him to find her so beautiful, and his other pains grumbled at this useless surplus. She undressed him and passed a lukewarm sponge over the bruises on his body. Not knowing where to begin, she did not dare ask what had happened to him. She could not understand why he was trying to smile at her either. He was so happy that she was taking care of him. She must love him if she is being so gentle. She even kissed him on a wound in the strange hope that her acidic saliva would have the effect of immediate healing. Her lips were also sucking the venom of incomprehension, was it really necessary to try to find out? In any case, Hector could not speak. Brigitte, on the other hand, had to speak.

‘Does your state have something to do with the video? … Well, it’s not that … I am having trouble understanding why you have not said anything to me … I’ve waited all week for you to talk to me about it … It was fake! Special effects! You only see the man from the back, and we are pretending. The day you left, I spotted the cameras … And I did not know what to do. I had wanted to call you for you to explain yourself. I asked myself whether you were insane. And then, I preferred to get revenge by directing some adultery … And you, you did not say anything! For a week, you did not say anything … You believed I was cheating on you, and you stayed quiet … I can no longer believe that you love me …’

So Brigitte had not committed a sexual act in their living room; it was a put-on. She had endured a week of self-restraint. Hector’s smile stretched until it almost split. The slowness of his mind prevented him from comprehending that it was now his turn to explain himself. To explain why he had filmed the woman of his life.

‘Why did you film me?’

She added this question, and irrepressible tears drowned it out. They were swimming in incomprehension. Hector sought to reassure her with his eyes, to tell her how much he loved her. He would have wanted to make her eternal through his love. And it is in the heart of these unrealised spheres that he was thinking about his answer. Did he have the choice? Could he do anything other than tell her the whole truth? If she loved him, she would know how to understand him, right? Do you leave a man who admits loving more than anything the way that you wash the windows? It is a declaration like any other, a particular devastation of sensuality. Women like original men, right? Well, to know what women like, you need to know at least two, thought Hector. He rose, and took Brigitte’s hand, this hand he had seen before seeing her face, you often meet the woman of your life in front of books. Both of them were walking towards the living room. And the man pointed to the window with his finger, and the woman, facing the window, remained in confused. Up until the moment he explained: ‘I wanted to film you cleaning the windows.’

Persuaded that no one would ever want to see him again, Hector was readying himself to experience the solitary fate of summer rain. We are not allowed not to pick the surprises that others plan for us. Brigitte reassured him like only she knew how. She had called family and friends to explain to them the reasons for the sudden escape. She had invented a fall in the street (a concrete alibi). They had to understand, right? Who would not have done the same? Only Gérard had appeared dubious, of course, but as he often did not comprehend what people were telling him, his sister did not notice this dubiousness. For the moment, they needed to save face, to make others believe that there was nothing serious, that falls were frequent in our slippery society. She was even forcing herself to laugh. Women always manage to stay on course during the chronic drifting of men. Now that she had staved off the others’ interrogations, she was finding herself confronted by her own. Immense, major interrogation, interrogation without the merest echo in the history of interrogations. How to react to a man who secretly films you, who films you washing the windows? After the initial anger, she could not consider him anything other than sick. And you do not leave the sick, especially not those you love obsessively. For she loved him, there was no doubt about that. They shut themselves away in their apartment for many days. She had been a nurse. He would have liked for this illness to last longer, just to eternalise the sensation of being held in the palm of his beloved’s hand. The illness was making an object of him. He felt occupied like a vanquished country, no longer in the least responsible for his body. The couple soldiered on in the silence of these days; this phase was surely necessary before they explained themselves and thought about the future. The silence was bandaging the evidence of their love. Without words, their gestures were of an accentuated tenderness. Their hands spoke in the manner of Chinese shadows, miming gentle declarations. In these moments they were brushing euphoria. A kind of ecstasy of primitive beasts. The last days, Hector was wincing to show pains here and there. He allowed himself to drift on the crazy dream in the absence of words, of people and of things. A life in the contemplation of his wife.

They were not going to be hermits eternally. Brigitte wanted and needed to know why. Why he had filmed her, and especially why he had not said anything. Two ‘whys’ whose responses would determine their future. Hector was very bad at explanations. Speaking about himself caused him anguish. He was afraid she would not understand him and that she would take a plane to leave the country, and then trains and ships moving unfathomable distances away from him. The first word that formed in his mouth was the word ‘relapse’. Slowly, he managed to evoke his past in compulsive hoarding, the defeat with Nixon, the lie about the trip to the United States … In short, he was stammering his life like a novel. And finally he admitted he wanted to collect the moments when she was washing the windows. It was his new collection, the most absurd, the craziest, the collection that was ruining his stable life, but however, in evoking it, his heart was palpitating. He had never been as happy in a collection as in this collection where his wife was the heroine. Lucid about the drama that was playing out, he did not reject the sensual power of such a moment any less. Brigitte hesitated a moment to be flattered, before admitting the absurdity of such a thought. Her husband was sick. Well, all the same, few women were able to drive their husbands crazy just by washing the windows … And the more she found that what she was listening to was tantalizing, the more she knew that she would not leave him.

Hector was sobbing. His life had only been a long illness. Guilty of having relapsed in such an atrocious fashion, it was up to him to face up to his responsibilities (this expression made him nauseous) and to leave. He did not have the right to spoil their love. Up until this terrible collection, he had never implicated anyone in his illness. He needed Brigitte; without her, the collection did not exist. The equation was of a rare perversion. Dramatically, he searched for his suitcase. ‘I have to leave!’ he shouted, raising his fist. He looked like an actor auditioning for a role as an understudy. Those who leave in such an ostentatious manner never leave. His wife began to laugh at his shticks and at the weirdness of their relationship. She had dreamed, in the hours of youth where clichés reign, of a life with a strong and protective man; together, they would have had children: a football-loving son, and a daughter who plays the piano badly. She had never dreamed of a husband who would drool in front of her way of washing windows. However, she liked this idea more than anything: every second of her life really did not resemble any already chewed-up idea.

‘Drop your suitcase!’

Hector obeyed from the word ‘drop’. She put a finger on her husband’s mouth, a well-known sign that incites silence. She took him by the hand, and suggested they walk towards the living room. They slowly passed their corridor. And in the room where the shock of the washing had occurred, she asked in a
Lolita
voice: ‘So, you like it when I wash the windows?’

He bobbed his head.

She continued: ‘You know, my love … All couples have their fantasies and madness … And to be honest, I still prefer this to you taking me to an orgies club … Plus it’s quite practical since it also allows me to clean the windows … No, I do not see anything that bothers me, I even think that we are a relatively normal couple … And me, your wife who you love, it’s my duty to satiate your fantasy …’

On that note, she climbed the small stepladder magnificently anticipated for that effect. Hector, who did not agree with the word ‘fantasy’ (he was dealing with irrepressible and pathological impulses, fantasies could be lived without), did not really have the possibility of producing any sounds since, as soon as the movement of washing started, his throat became dry. There was a sublime particularity in that opus propelling itself in the heights of his collection: this particularity was the actual announcement of the moment. His wife had looked him straight in the eyes to tell him: ‘I am going to wash the windows for you …’ Without a doubt, this washing belonged with the masterpieces; not to say the masterpiece of his collection. Yes, it was apotheosis. And he understood the major ingredient that, on top of the announcement, was killing him with pleasure: the lack of guilt. For the first time, he was delighting in his sensual fascination in broad daylight. He was no longer buried in the obscurity of his peculiarities.

Once the last fleck of dirt was cleaned, Brigitte stepped back down towards her husband. Hector did not know how to thank her. Brigitte interrupted him:

‘Don’t thank me … Once again, it’s normal for a couple … And if we want our marriage to function, you too will need to satiate my fantasies …’

Hector’s mind stopped one moment on that last sentence. He had never thought that his wife would have any fantasies. Brigitte was far too pure for that … Or else, her fantasy was perhaps to turn on the light, once, like that, while they were making love. To turn on the light, just to be a little crazy. That had to be her fantasy. Brigitte, so gentle, Brigitte with such divine calves, Brigitte who was approaching his ear to reveal her fantasy to him: Hector managed to fall even though he was seated.

Hector appreciated this newly discovered quality in his wife: situational intelligence. She was placing both of them on an equal footing. She was transforming herself into a sexual master of ceremonies to save their relationship. In equalising the relationship, she was polishing their difference, making their borders porous. Brigitte had infinite resources of compassion; so suddenly compassion was becoming vital to make cars roll – the United States would no doubt attack her immediately. She was kissing Hector in the darkness, their embraces were becoming less and less sexual; they loved each other in their solitude. They remained entangled the longest time possible. At his request, she would wash the windows.

Their life would be like that.

It was too soon to see their friends and family again (they had feigned another trip to the United States to avoid explaining their social imprisonment). They decided to repaint the whole apartment white and let, more or less voluntarily, the paint overflow. They became white for a few days. White lovers on a white background.

Their love was modern art.

Of course, everything was not so rosy. To live as a couple with a washing of windows from time to time as their only occupation was monotonous. Having a child could have fulfilled them, but it would take too long to come, they wanted something to do right now. To be honest, they were in a phase of reconstruction, and nothing could be predicted in these moments of healing. All the other collections of his life had ended one day or another, but this last one seemed to assume a mythic ease. He could not get over seeing Brigitte wash the windows. It was always the same movement, and yet so different every time. The motion of the wrist, the small sigh between the lips, according to the day and the season, you did not wash the windows in the same way. His collection was enriching itself visually, not like any other. Rain spiced up the lot on occasion; a storm made the washing such a delicate art form. But once the excitement passed, he fell back to the whole breadth of malaise. He would only have to wait for the next time, the next urge. Hector was regaining the state he had known all his life, this perpetual anguish of the collector, drugged on the hits of dictatorial power.