The Erotic Potential of my Wife (6 page)

Hector did not oppose Gérard’s version of events during dinner. He remained convinced of the gesture’s intentionality (an analysis that would bring him a good number of problems in the coming months, as he would systematically punch every new person he met). Brigitte discreetly explained to Hector that her brother was like that, he often analysed things in a peculiar, even off the mark, way. Gérard went home, and profited from the full moon to wander along the riverbanks. The fist he had taken slap-bang in his face was making him romantic. He was recollecting the scene, and trembled with emotion and pride at the idea that his sister would marry a big shot like Hector. The movement of that hand had propelled the evening to the ultra-select sphere of unforgettable things. This beautiful encounter had just entered his personal history to sit against the indelible memory of the Ouarzazate-Casablanca podium.

That night, Hector tried the missionary position.

Via Gérard, Brigitte’s parents were taken body and soul to Hector’s cause. On the other side, with Hector’s parents, things would only be pure formality, as long as Brigitte liked the maternal soup. Hector dreamed to see in his parents’ eyes what he called
sentimental consideration
. He wanted to be perceived as a future devoted husband and father, the kind of man capable of organising decent summer holidays, taking everyone’s leisure activities into account. Hector was fidgety, it was the first time he was bringing a girl home. He was hoping for a sparkle in his parents’ eyes, a derailment in the routine of their dreary affection from this great novelty. If he longed for his father to see him as a man, he especially wanted for his father to see him, full stop. He had called the evening before his habitual visit. His mother had feared a cancellation since he never telephoned and the weekly rendezvous was as immutable as the succession of days. ‘Mum, tomorrow I will bring company … I will be with my girlfriend …’ This sentence was circled by echoes provoked by interstellar surprise. It was as though thousands of men and thousands of women had suddenly moved into the parents’ living room. Bernard’s ears whistled: ‘Do you realise, he’s bringing company …’ Brigitte, in Mireille’s imagination, was a sort of countess crowned in one of those countries, strange because they are too hot; she was everything and nothing at the same time. Very quickly anxiety grew in the kitchen. What soup? Routine was derailed; worse, routine had turned into an airplane and was derailing clouds. Mireille was sweating. Above all, the father should not dawdle in the kitchen, he was a bother – and the exasperation rising in crescendo – he had always bothered her, she never should have married him, he was a good for nothing! So Hector’s father, far from taking offence, he was a gentle man, sought to reassure her, ‘Your soup will be divine, don’t worry.’ And, in tears, she hoped: ‘Really, you think she’ll like my soup?’

Brigitte strung several smiles together. And from these smiles, it was already clear that she would like the soup. Everything else was a piece of cake. False subjects of discussion were covered, at the rhythm of the Stalinist grandfather clock. Everyone had to sit and slurp. It was superb, divine, magical, ecstatic, Brigitte asked for a second helping; holding back many tears, Mireille asked herself who this perfect young lady was. After dinner, that is to say twelve minutes after their arrival, the conversations divided in two: women on one side, men on the other. It was a good old time, tick-tock. Hector embarked on a small discussion on a small subject: life. His father asked him about his projects in general, and with this girl in particular. He cried, please excuse him, but it really was the first time that he had a discussion of this calibre with his procreator. Brigitte, at her end, was noting down soup recipes, to the extent that Mireille verged on suicide from happiness.

Hector had never seen his parents act this way. More than sentimental consideration, he had perceived the palpitation of the iris; a palpitation wished for throughout his whole childhood. It seemed to him as though he finally had a kind of normal family. Happy parents and happy children. Eating in front of the television on Sundays. And some marriages, idiotically. Ernest already had his wife; he was certainly cheating on her with a brunette from the social litigation department, but this could not be seen in family photos. A beautiful appearance was being constructed. If they were one day to become celebrities, the paparazzi would be seriously bored with this display of happiness. He had a best friend, he had a brother-in-law who appreciated being punched in the face. All that was missing was a date, and the date would be 14 June, a wedding date to perfect this emotional festival. Thank goodness that all happiness wanes, you only have to wait. In the night, Hector and Brigitte were moving towards that direction.

The 14 June was like two peas in a pod with 12 June. Twelfth June always has this proud allure, this ambience of earrings. Ernest and Gérard were nicely getting to know each other; between brothers-in-law you need to help each other. Marcel was also a brother. You do not eat mussels like that and not be part of the family afterwards. He held onto his stomach, suffering from the indigestion of happiness. He was remembering how he had picked this little Hector up from tiny pieces, and there he was now, all handsome, and about to be married. All this was in large part because of him, and no one was coming to congratulate him. We knew it, Marcel.

On her end, Laurence was making numerous new acquaintances, and it appeared as though she knew the location well, as she adored showing unknown places to her acquaintances (places behind the garden trees, behind the shadow of the bride and groom’s love). All the guests had grouped in the garden, where, in the sunshine, they would drink to this love’s eternal health. It was not possible to prevent the embittered people from toasting. The reception took place before the ceremony, Hector and Brigitte wanted to escape as soon as the yes was pronounced. They had decided to spend their honeymoon in the United States. The mayor finally arrived with his tricolour scarf, in case, inebriated with happiness, their geographic position would be forgotten. Brigitte was white because her dress enrobed her. Hector was concentrating hard. One thing was obsessing him: the rings. It was the last moment where he had to be perfect. He awaited this moment to finally be relieved, the fear of trembling was making him tremble. He was so afraid of not being worthy of his future wife’s finger.

Knowing everything there was to know about the United States, the lovers spent a lot of time in hotel rooms. They sympathised with the room service employees. In the airplane, every passenger could see the film he wanted thanks to a personal screen. And upon their return to France, they moved into a large one-bedroom. Thanks to Marcel and Gérard’s alternate help, the move was completed in three days. The longest endeavour was the search for the furniture of their dreams. Until the glorious point of their encounter, these two human beings had lived in dust and emotional exclusion. Presently, they wanted to appreciate the modern in order to turn definitively towards the future. Modern impulses often revealed frustrated pasts. Thus were purchased a voice-controlled Hoover, a toaster that does not burn bread, carpets and curtains that change colour, etc. They also bought a goldfish baptised Clockwork Orange (Orange being its surname); and very quickly this fish became a full-fledged member of the family.

Brigitte had obtained her diploma, and was preparing to become a professor of sociology. Of course, she would wear suits; so many students would think of her in the evening, in the obscurity of their revision. Of course, Hector could not stand this thought, jealousy took hold of him at the same time as happiness. By marrying her, he wanted to make her the princess of a kingdom of which he was the only subject. So he suggested something altogether different: create their own company! The idea was brilliant. Hector was turning into one of those ‘movers and shakers’ with plans for the future. Brigitte also desired to work with him, not to leave him for one second, to love him in a ravenous way. But what could they do? What could they do? she asked him. So Hector was begged to reveal the brilliant idea that had crossed his mind. Standing on the bed, with arms raised, he suddenly cried out:

‘For mythomaniacs!’

‘What for mythomaniacs?’

‘A travel agency for mythomaniacs!’

That was his idea. And very quickly, it was a great success. Hector left Gilbert Associate and Co. to everyone’s great displeasure. Ernest trembled with emotion at seeing his little brother fly with his own wings. He thought that one day it would also be his daughter Lucie’s turn, and one day further down the line he would die of a cancer gnawing away at his bones. We were condemned to flourish then to rot, and between the two, he spent his life kicking down all the open doors.

They loved inviting the family over for Sunday lunch. Had Sunday lunch not been created for that purpose? Brigitte was a mediocre cook capable of ruining a ready-made meal. On the other hand, she laid the table pretty well. The same table that the couple sometimes used for love-making. She gutted three turkeys with such clumsiness that he could be proud to have married her. Everyone got on like a house on fire, a postcard. Moustaches were discussed, but Gérard explained to Bernard that you could not climb Mount Ventoux with a moustache, hair holds you back. Brigitte’s parents nodded, they were so proud of Gérard when he talked about cycling. When Lucie went to squeeze some spots in the bathroom’s filtering lighting, the couple’s four parents asked when a baby would be on the way. Ernest thought that children were too often raised as though they were on holiday in Switzerland: ‘It’s true, they all look like they have asthma! How can we be shocked by the weakness and immaturity of this generation under these conditions?’ After this Ernestian theory (that, incidentally, collided against a sort of polite consternation), Hector admitted that having a child was not at the top of their project list. And anyway they could not betray Clockwork Orange, who was beginning to relax in his new aquarium where he could see life through rose-tinted spectacles.

The present project was to expand TAM (the Travel Agency for Mythomaniacs). Within just a few weeks the classes had filled to the brim. If TAM was initially mostly offering the United States and South America, there was now practically no corner of the globe that could not be covered by a course. It was possible, after only six hours of lessons, to make anyone believe that you had spent the last six months in Tajikistan, in Iraq, or for the more reckless, in Toulon. TAM’s professors taught, according to their own words, the anecdotes that kill any verbal opposition, that prove our trip without the slightest doubt. And there were even all-purpose arguments: to speak about any country, say that ‘
nothing is as it used to be
’. People will always agree without really knowing what you are talking about. Well, for the wealthy, the company needed to supply evidence, personalised souvenirs that could even cross the little respected bar of photomontage. Or, for some regions reputed to be dangerous, people could be slightly injured. There was for instance a section: ‘Vietnam 1969 with war injury option.’

A newspaper article that discussed a poll taken among a representative sample of a thousand men was framed at the entrance of the agency.

a)  Do you prefer to sleep with the most beautiful woman in the world without anyone knowing about it?

b)  Do you prefer for everyone to believe you have slept with this woman without it actually being true?

The result overwhelmingly confirmed that in our society everything is only other people’s consideration. Indeed, 82 per cent of the men asked opted for the second answer.

Hector appreciated sitting peacefully on a chair to read an interior decoration magazine. The price of English furniture is insane. He felt good at home, with his wife. Sometimes, boredom took them by surprise. On certain Tuesdays or Saturdays, without surprises, you needed to learn to kill time. It was also in these moments that they understood the stodgy value of sex: the hollowness of existence was filled by boxing themselves in, filling in sensuality. Hector put down his magazine, and, kissing Brigitte’s mouth, his happiness sometimes hurt him. It was a happiness from everywhere that surged like a Napoleonic army in Prussia. Thanks to their company’s success, Hector and Brigitte moved into a four-bedroom apartment. Every night, the torrid couple made love in a different bed. They really believed that routine was a question of location, not bodies, illusions.

It is impossible to know exactly at what moment the thing occurred. It certainly involves the vague echo of a feeling with an uncertain dawn. Besides, Hector cannot be said to have been alarmed in the early days.

That summer was more than a promise. We knew with certainty that the sun’s rays would tickle lovers’ bodies at a time when everyone was talking about the death of the seasons, a favourite subject of those who
really
have something to tell each other; this summer was not going to betray anyone. Brigitte had put on a very nondescript outfit to do what she called her
cleaning
. Hector wanted to help (their marriage was barely a year old), but Brigitte laughed saying that his help would only make her waste time. (Ah, men.) Hector began humming some words of an old song, Brigitte loved his voice. She felt happy and secure, happy even during the Saturday afternoon cleaning. That summer, they had decided not to leave, to profit from Paris without the Parisians. They would stroll along the Seine, in the evening, with the shooting stars and lovers fixated by their happiness. Brigitte would be a princess. For the moment, she had to clean. The sun’s rays betrayed the windows’ lack of cleanliness.

The windows’ lack of cleanliness: that is the beginning of our drama.

The window is open. The unmistakable sound of women rushing and men rushing to catch up with them can be heard from afar. Hector is sitting reading his interior decoration magazine as usual. He thinks of his living room furniture like he would his children’s start of the new school year had he had the time to have kids. Brigitte is busy with her cleaning. Hector raises his head, he leaves the magazine. Brigitte is on a wooden stepladder, her two feet are not positioned on the same step, so that her calves are supporting different weights; in other words, the first calf on the higher step is of a flawless roundness, while the second one is marked by the vein of effort. One is naïve, the other one knows. After the vision of these two calves, Hector raises his head to kiss his wife’s hips with his eyes. A slight movement is perceptible, regular waves like the backwash of the night, and all it takes is to raise the head further to understand the reason for this movement. Brigitte is cleaning the windows. We slow down. Brigitte is cleaning the upper part of the windows. It is good work, and the sun is already profiting from the first gaps due to the cleanliness. With finesse, evident in her wrist, Brigitte cleans and hunts down the merest traces of dirt on the windows; nothing should be seen, she aims for transparency. Brigitte reties some strands of hair in her pony-tail. Hector has never seen anything as erotic as this. Certainly, his experience in erotic matters is like the charisma of a fissure. The living room is heating up in the sun. Feeling eyes locked on her, Brigitte turns to check: her Hector of a husband has his eyes glued on her. She cannot see the extent to which his throat is dry. And there, the window is clean. Hector has just been confronted with happiness; it is as simple as that. It should not, above all, be interpreted as macho. Hector is the least macho specimen there is, you know that. It’s just that happiness never gives notice. In some stories, it manifests itself at the moment when the knight saves the princess; here, it surges at the moment when the hero looks at the heroine clean the windows.