The Erotic Potential of my Wife (3 page)

‘So, I have something to tell you … I tried to commit suicide … and I wasn’t in the United States, but in convalescence …’

After a moment of silence, his parents started to laugh; a laughter that was the opposite of eroticism. ‘That was so funny!’ They clucked at their chance of having such a gentle and comical son – Hector of Hectors – comical son! This son who had (what’s the word?) a slight credibility problem. He had been classed in the ‘good son’ category, given that he came to eat even when he was not hungry. And good sons do not commit suicide; in the worst case, they cheat on their wives when she goes on holiday to Hossegor. Hector stared at his parents, there was nothing nuanced to read in their faces; their faces like telephone directories. He was condemned to be their cliché. In their eyes he saw the reflection of who he had been the day before. This bond imprisoned him indefinitely.

His mother loved to accompany him to the doorstep, like a stewardess at the end of a flight. He almost felt the urge to say thank you, while promising to fly again soon with this airline. The soup airline. Once downstairs, he always needed to walk a few metres to no longer hear the heralding tick-tock of death.

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1
   We make an exception here for the six days of a semi-torrid fling with a Greco-Spanish woman.

Hector is in the trough of the wave, in the trough of the ocean, in the trough of the Universe. There is good reason to feel small.

After this blasted semi-final where it was concluded never to trust Swedes who are not blond, he had cried about the absurdity of his life. However, a positive feeling emerged from his disgust: and it is from disgust that one can progress. Hector found a bench; once seated his ideas began to stabilise. The pathetic floated all around him. Hector could see apparitions of Swedish heads, so much so that he had to close his eyes to avoid a Stockholmian whirlwind. Nixon was nothing but a good-for-nothing who had really deserved his Watergate. Nixon was his moment of hitting rock-bottom. Hector sighed and made a major resolution: he would stop collecting. He had to try to live like everyone else, hold off and not accumulate things anymore. In the flash of a moment, he felt as relieved as never before, and yet it only lasted the flash of a moment, because the memory of all the previous resolutions that he had never adhered to came to his mind, like a depraved undertow. All those times he had promised himself, on his knees crying, to stop everything. And every time he had fallen off the bandwagon, seeing a coin, then another, then another. His conclusion was simple: in order to abstain, he had to stop accumulating altogether, to stop having twos of anything, to concentrate zealously on uniqueness.

We were at the beginning of 2000, which was a handicap for Hector. He could not stand Olympic years, judging them nefarious for all the meagre exploits the rest of us try to achieve. He especially resented that collectors’ competitions weren’t recognised as Olympic sports. (Even if only to be humiliated by a non-blonde Swede – as long as it took place under the Sydney sun.) He was trying to occupy his thoughts, so as not to have to confront his struggle at that moment. He went home, and put his calendar on his desk. He noted the date: 12 June, day one of the Olympics. He clenched his fist as though making a passing shot on a match-ball.

Afterwards, he spent a more or less peaceful night.

And even dreamed that a brunette whispered to him: ‘Make a wish and that’s it.’

The next morning, he made his first mistake by turning on the television. Almost all products were offered in twos. There were even ‘two-for-one’ offers and his heart began throbbing. He changed channels and landed on TV-Shopping where the moderator was explaining that for ‘one more franc’ we could have a printer with the computer; might as well say that one franc was nothing but symbolic dust. Nowadays, to sell a product, two needed to be offered. We had gone from a consumption society to a double consumption society. And, as for glasses, they were flogging four pairs in so-called box sets for all seasons, as though the sun had become an all-powerful celebrity in front of whom you need to accessorise accordingly. In this particular case of quadruple consumption, the active incitement to collect was flagrant, criminal.

Later that morning, Hector went to work. With a certain dose of anxiety, he confessed his resolution to his brother. Ernest kissed him hard and hugged him as hard; he was proud of him. If their parents have never really grasped the seriousness of the situation, on the contrary, Ernest had always been very worried by his little brother’s passion: no sex life, a professional life that solely relied on familial support (‘Between brothers, you have to help each other’), and hours spent accumulating cheese labels. In spite of his big size, Ernest was quite sentimental. He dropped a tear. In the throes of his emotion, he assured him of his full support, and of all his love. ‘You have to admit your illness before beginning to heal.’ He loved saying these momentous slogans. Then he went to deal with a case of the highest importance. He was one of those in charge at Gilbert Associate and Co. (pronounced Guilberrte – it’s English), a firm founded in 1967 by Charles Gilbert. Those in charge of Gilbert Associate and Co. often had to deal with cases of the highest importance.

At work, everyone liked Hector. He was an exemplary employee who always did his work with a smile. If young women did not look at him, women who were not as young were moved by (it should be confessed) his pretty lamb’s head. When the news of his resolution did the rounds of the firm, a great unspoken compassion surrounded the brave Hector. Employees had witnessed the collector’s frenzied crises on many occasions; he had often left traces of his fever in his wake. And this unspoken compassion turned into a telethonesque compassion. The whole afternoon people came to pat him on the back, and many offered him their tuppence worth. ‘Good luck,’ ‘Our hearts are with you,’ ‘My brother-in-law quit smoking last week,’ ‘My wife no longer satisfies me in bed’; in short, he had the privilege to listen to all the weaning experiences of the legal milieu. He was the spoiled child of the day.

A secretary who was almost as much a redhead as she was old placed a basket on Hector’s desk; it was money! There had been a collection to encourage him in his ordeal. In the US collections are customary for operations not covered by Social Security (because there is no Social Security) and, as a result, dollars were often gathered for kidney transplants and such like. In a way, Hector was having a life transplant. That evening, in his room, Hector stared at the money and reflected that this sum was the price to pay for healing. It was a thought that did not mean anything, but he was seeking to fill himself with musings verging on incoherence to avoid thinking about any stamp or cocktail stick. As he had the habit of counting sheep before falling asleep, he was rather unsettled. To fix things, the sheep was followed by a horse, then the horse by a seahorse, then the seahorse by a red squirrel, then as our goal is not to make our reader fall asleep, we end here this enumeration which lasted a good part of the night. For the record, it was the otter that knocked him out.

The days passed without a hint of collecting. Hector began to believe in his until now unused aptitude for quitting. Nevertheless, people warned him: ‘The first days are always the easiest.’ (His brother’s sentence, of course.) Days were made easier because he suddenly found himself at the heart of a wonderful enthusiasm. People sought to support him like a political candidate, the lawyers were careful not to ask him anything twice the same day. And a secretary was assigned to ensure that he never dealt with files that were too similar to each other. Hector took on the role of royal child who systematically had to be entertained in different ways. We could wonder why there was such collective enthusiasm. It is true that they all had affection for him, but was that a sufficient reason?

It seemed that it was not. In a super-competitive professional context stuck on appearances, an employee’s weakness (more precisely, an employee who poses no danger to the hierarchy) unites rivalries in one fell swoop. Hector was like a new coffee machine in a tyre factory. A new social fabric was materialising around him. And, to top it all, what was happening was not escaping the eyes of the director of human resources, who would soon preach what he considered a radical method: nothing was worth more for the profitability of a company than hiring a depressive in an underling position.

The love around him and the meddling of others in his struggle had the perverse effect of destabilising him. Like a true French sportsman, he began to fail under the pressure; this pressure that consisted in not deceiving. He cried in the men’s room, and put toilet paper under his eyes as not to make any noise. He who had been so strong and merciless during so many negotiations, he who had mastered the art of Chinese bluff and neuropsychic concentration, was literally breaking down. He felt weak, without armour. To change his life, it suddenly seemed to him, he would at least have to die.

Hector left the office early. In the street, his legs were hesitating like first-time lovers. On impulse, he ran into a post office. He came out of it, relieved for a few seconds, with a series of insignificant stamps. Philately, my God, was the worse of the collections! If he was going to come off the bandwagon, why not do it with something more original! ‘Stamps, stamps,’ he could not stop repeating the words that were hurting him so much. Why not coins as well? It was an easy, pathetic relapse. He retraced his steps, wanting to change his destiny, with the illusion that he merely had to retrace his steps to erase his recent acts. Back in his office, with the nauseous aftertaste of the stamps still in his mouth, he was unable to get back to work. Thankfully, something happened. Géraldine (the redhead secretary) walked towards him swaying her hips in her usual way that certainly figured in the best days of the ‘Winter 54’ collection. Hector watched her in slow motion; her woman’s mouth opened.

‘Hello, my name is Marcel Schubert.’

‘Like the composer?’ asked Hector, trying to be convivial, and saying the first thing that came to his mind. ‘No, it’s spelt Choubert.’ Once the preliminaries were done with, something happened in the expressions of these two men, something gentle and intimate, something seeming like the evidence of a friendship.

Choubert was Géraldine’s nephew through marriage. She had come to see him because she knew that this nephew had suffered from compulsive hoarding in the past, and that he had come out of it. She had merely suggested that they meet, and Choubert had appeared in front of Hector saying: ‘Hello, I am Marcel Schubert.’ He had a clear advantage over Hector, as he had not changed collections since 1986. He had a stable passion and presently lived in a quasi-humdrum frenzy. He worked in some bank or another that, thanks to honest bonuses, allowed him to appease his passion. His parents had gone to live in Venezuela (his father had become ambassador as he had not managed to finish writing a novel before the age of thirty) and had left him a sumptuous 65-square-metre pad in the Second Arrondissement in Paris. After a short walk one could reach the Stock Exchange. At the time when the Berlin Wall was crumbling, he had met a Laurence, and they had been building a relationship ever since. Some must know Laurence since she was an attacking player in the ping-pong team whose performance was appreciated during the world championship in Tokyo; the others will get to know her later. The couple had not wanted any children, it was a choice like any other. They sometimes received guests for dinner in an atmosphere that was always very pleasant. When the mood was excellent, jokes could be expected from Choubert as the dishes were being washed in the kitchen.

This was a happy life.

The principal information that Marcel divulged to Hector was that there existed meetings of Collectors Anonymous. They took place every Thursday on the first floor of a discreet building. The concierge thought they were a sect, but, greased with gifts, she had stopped thinking about it at all. Hector listened to Marcel; for the first time, he was with somebody who could understand him. From the following Thursday, he went with him. Hector introduced himself to the eight people present at the meeting, and all expressed sincere compassion. He explained how his life had been an absurd chain of absurd collections. His confession relieved him, but far less than listening to the others. The aim of the
Collectors Anonymous
meetings was in fact not to feel isolated anymore. Healing became possible as soon as the suffering of others was acknowledged. It was also the strangeness of all these meetings: what seemed like the height of mutual assistance was the most egotistical enterprise there is.

Thus strange discussions could be apprehended:

‘I had a great “howlophilist” period until March 1977, just before I became a “keyboardophile”.’

‘Oh really, you were a “keyboardophile”?’

‘Yes, I needed to reassure myself, to hang on to something.’

‘That was certainly better than being a “skylightophile”!’

‘Oh, how funny!’

This is just a sample of the pre-meeting ambience. Then everyone would sit down (except the one who was collecting moments of when he was standing), and Marcel led the debates. Everyone spoke in turn, and more time was spent on those who had relapsed during the week. It was adorable. With regard to Hector, everyone agreed that he would come out of it quickly. He was young and the illness had been detected in time. For others (and here we think especially of Jean, completely addicted to miniature trains and to lighters) there was not anything more that could be done – they were euthanising themselves gently during the meetings. And there were also these two Poles who had the strangeness of collecting appearances of two Poles in novels. Their case seemed especially desperate.

That night, Hector did some push-ups, surprising his muscles. He slept on his left side, life was going to be simple. The following days, he did pretty well at work, he received encouraging remarks from his superiors, and women’s legs made his heart beat faster. He went to see the secretary without whom he never would have met Marcel, and offered her 142 porcelain spoons, vestiges of his collection. She was very moved, and her emotions spread easily. And it was already the day of the second meeting: Hector, upright, and with a certain pride, announced almost not having thought about collections at all, and he was applauded. There was delight in others’ delight, a real solidarity reigned. After the meeting, Marcel suggested a day trip on Saturday to see the sea. And also to inhale it, said Hector. Yes, to inhale it. In all honesty, Marcel was a bachelor this weekend as Laurence had a ping-pong congress – well, a kind of reunion of ancient ‘pongist’ combatants at a chateau in Sologne.