The Pleasure of M (31 page)

Then
 the
 therapist
 lifted
 the
 sheet
 and
 blanket,
 indicating
 that
 Catherine
 was
 to
 turn
 
over
  just
  as
  the
  music
  had
  changed
  to
  Miles
  Davis'
  Kinda
  Blue.
  After
  adjusting
  the
 
pillow
  under
  Catherine’s
  knees,
  she
  began
  again
  with
  the
  feet
  and
  continued
  the
 
process
 up
 to
 the
 hips,
 each
 time
 carefully
 placing
 the
 covers
 so
 that
 modesty
 never
 
be
  compromised.
  She
  removed
  an
  arm
  from
  beneath
  the
  blanket
  and
  gently
 
manipulates
 the
 fingers,
 then
 wrist,
 up
 the
 arm
 and
 into
 the
 chest
 muscles.
 And
 now
 
for
 the
 piece
 de
 resistance:
 the
 neck
 and
 head.
 With
 her
 heavy
 head
 gently
 resting
 in
 
the
  strong
  hands
  of
  the
  therapist,
  Catherine
  slowly
  felt
  herself
  letting
  go,
  inch
  by
 
inch,
  approaching
  a
  loss
  of
  consciousness
  as,
  for
  a
  few
  moments,
  she
  experience
  a
 
sense
  of
  weightlessness
  -‐
  absolutely
  no
  thought
  in
  her
  head.
  Slowly
  the
  therapist
 
released
  her
  and
  murmured
  "Take
  your
  time".
  Left
  to
  bring
  herself
  back
  into
  the
 
here
 and
 now,
 she
 sat
 up
 and
 reached
 for
 her
 clothes.
 Standing
 before
 the
 full-‐length
 
mirror,
  she
  thought
  of
  how
  she
  still
  wished
  she
 could
  share
  this
  moment
  with
 
someone.
 This
 had
 been
 a
 nice
 massage,
 but
 not
 quite
 the
 pleasure
 of
 the
 firm
 and
 
sensuous
  touch
  of
  the
  man
  who
  had
  been
  her
  masseur
  for
  nearly
  four
  years:
 
Philippe,
  a
  gay
  French
  aspiring
  ballet
  dancer
  with
  the
  most
  gorgeous
  accent
  and
 
stunning
 good
 looks.
 Unbeknownst
 to
 her,
 he
 was
 an
 illegal
 alien
 and
 immigration
 
had
  apparently
  caught
  up
  with
  him,
  leading
  to
  a
  hasty
  deportation
  that
  Catherine
 
had
 been
 told
 about
 when
 she
 had
 tried
 to
 schedule
 an
 appointment
 with
 Philippe
 a
 
couple
 of
 months
 ago.
 
 

During
  the
  drive
  home
  she
  pondered
  the
  sequence
  of
  events
  that
  had
  been
  the
 
backdrop
  of
  her
  affair
  with
  Michel,
  and
  she
  still
  felt
  that
  it
  would
  be
  wrong
  to
 
conclude
 that
 Philippe’s
 departure
 had
 precipitated
 her
 decision
 to
 end
 things
 with
 
Michel,
  though
  she
  did
  feel
  in
  all
  good
  conscience
  that
  the
  coincidence
  was
  at
  the
 
very
 least
 striking.
 What
 remained
 undeniable
 was
 the
 extent
 to
 which
 Philippe
 had
 
inspired
  her
  relationship
  with
  Michel
  and
  her
  explorations
  with
  him
  of
  places
  she
 
did
  not
  know
  before.
  If
  her
  Dr
  Bentsen
  had
  opened
  the
  door,
  Philippe
  had
  shoved
 
her
 through
 it,
 however
 unwittingly,
 and
 with
 a
 song
 of
 all
 things,
 or
 rather
 an
 odd
 
twist
  on
  the
  old
  Mondegreen.
  He
  would
  lace
  the
  soundtrack
  to
  her
  massages
  with
 
old
  French
  torch
  songs
  and
  sentimental
  ballads,
  many
  of
  which
  she
  would
 
eventually
  buy
  and
  become
  fond
  of.
  Perhaps
  the
  first
  of
  these
  was
  an
  old
  Gérard
 
Lenorman
 tune,
 and
 having
 heard
 it
 two
 or
 three
 times
 she
 had
 asked
 Philippe
 what
 
the
 lyrics
 meant,
 and
 he
 proceeded
 to
 sing
 the
 song
 with
 improvised
 English
 lyrics.
 
What
  she
  heard
  was
  “You,
  the
  lover
  that
  I
  never
  had…”,
  and
  that
  night,
  she
  ‘met’
 
Michel.
  She
  would
  find
  out
  several
  weeks
  later
  that
  the
  true
  lyrics
  were
  “You,
  the
 
brother
  that
  I
  never
  had,
  do
  you
  know
  if
  you
  had
  lived
  what
  we
  would
  have
  done
 
together?”
 and
 thinking
 of
 it
 still
 made
 her
 laugh
 like
 a
 child
 will
 laugh
 at
 the
 sudden
 
appearance
 of
 a
 bunny
 in
 the
 hat.
 She
 arrived
 home
 and,
 having
 a
 couple
 of
 hours
 
before
 her
 husband’s
 return
 home,
 poured
 herself
 a
 glass
 of
 wine
 before
 making
 her
 
way
  to
  her
  computer.
  She
  brought
  up
  her
  ‘secret’
  e-‐mail
  account,
  re-‐read
  a
  few
 
messages,
 then
 typed…
 

This
 is
 it.
 My
 last
 message.
 I
 realized
 yesterday
 that
 I
 have
 arrived
 at
 my
 destination,
 
and
 that
 this
 glorious
 adventure
 of
 ours
 must
 now
 come
 to
 an
 end.
 Why
 now,
 you
 
might
 ask,
 but
 I
 don’t
 have
 an
 answer.
 Obviously
 I
 have
 been
 ready
 for
 a
 time,
 but
 it
 
is
 only
 now
 that
 I
 feel
 it
 fully.
 Ready
 to
 resume
 the
 quiet
 course
 of
 my
 life
 without
 
longing
 or
 unsatisfied
 lust.
 So
 what
 is
 it
 that
 you
 gave
 me
 that
 I
 could
 not
 get
 without
 
you?
 In
 an
 odd
 way
 nothing
 that
 I
 did
 not
 already
 have,
 I
 suppose,
 but
 I
 needed
 you
 
to
 see
 that.
 I
 have
 been
 and
 am
 still
 a
 desirable
 woman,
 desired
 in
 fact.
 I
 have
 been
 
praised
  and
  receive
  praise
  still.
  Wife,
  mother,
  friend,
  confidant,
  lover
  even,
  I
  have
 
been
  all
  of
  these,
  but
  in
  a
  way,
  never
  on
  my
  terms,
  always
  in
  relationship
  to
  the
 
desires
 and
 expectations
 of
 others.
 So
 there
 we
 have
 it,
 I
 guess.
 I
 needed
 to
 find
 out
 
who
 I
 am,
 who
 would
 come
 out
 if
 it
 were
 on
 my
 terms.
 It
 was
 glorious,
 and
 now
 I
 
know.
 Or
 at
 least
 I
 know
 a
 lot
 more
 than
 I
 did
 before.
 I
 know
 about
 France
 and
 so
 
many
  other
  places
  that
  I
  never
  knew
  I
  was
  so
  fascinated
  by.
  Who
  knew
  that
  New
 
York
  was
  so
  full
  of
  ‘frenchness’?
  Well,
  admitting
  that
  I
  didn’t
  does
  say
  a
  bit
  about
 
how
 sheltered
 I
 had
 become.
 I’m
 at
 the
 point
 now
 where
 I
 have
 had
 to
 tone
 it
 down
 
and
  not
  jump
  up
  whenever
  I
  see
  a
  reference
  to
  anything
  French
  lest
  it
  arouse
 
suspicion.
 
You
 were
 the
 perfect
 lover
 according
 to
 Catherine,
 and
 from
 the
 beginning
 you
 were
 
full
 of
 surprises.
 All
 the
 desires
 I
 needed
 quenched,
 all
 the
 fears
 I
 needed
 quelled,
 so
 
many
  things
  surfaced
  for
  you
  to
  mirror
  back
  to
  me.
  I
  suppose
  that
  the
  first
  real
 
surprise
 was
 when
 I
 wrote
 back,
 though
 maybe
 that’s
 not
 really
 how
 it
 happened.
 I
 
wrote
 to
 you
 with
 no
 expectation
 of
 a
 response,
 on
 a
 whim,
 or
 not,
 but
 more
 as
 an
 
imaginary
 pen
 pal,
 one
 who
 would
 not
 criticize
 my
 ramblings
 nor
 analyze
 them
 like
 
Michael
  Bentsen.
  I
  wrote
  a
  few
  messages
  and
  thought
  you
  would
  disappear,
  but
 
when
 I
 read
 them
 back
 a
 few
 days
 later
 I
 was
 surprised
 at
 the
 intensity
 and
 I
 started
 
wondering
 what
 a
 man
 could
 answer
 to
 such
 things,
 and
 as
 a
 game,
 I
 inserted
 some
 
reactions
 into
 one
 of
 the
 messages.
 And
 then
 I
 sent
 it
 to
 myself.
 And
 when
 I
 read
 it,
 it
 
sent
 chills
 down
 my
 back.
 

To
 be
 honest,
 I
 thought
 about
 breaking
 it
 off
 more
 than
 once
 over
 the
 last
 four
 years.
 
There
  were
  some
  really
  difficult
  times,
  times
  when
  you
  were
  taking
  up
  way
  too
 
much
  room
  in
  my
  life.
  There
  were
  times
  when
  I
  really
  struggled
  with
  your
  very
 
existence
 and
 what
 it
 meant
 in
 terms
 of
 my
 sanity.
 Does
 calling
 it
 a
 fantasy
 excuse
 
what
 would
 otherwise
 have
 to
 be
 seen
 as
 irrational
 behavior?
 I
 would
 feel
 like
 the
 
lonely
 voice
 in
 ‘Asylum’
 yelling
 out
 ‘it’s
 just
 a
 game
 I
 play
 for
 fun’.
 Not
 that
 I
 ever
 felt
 
that
 I
 was
 crazy
 or
 that
 it
 was
 crazy
 to
 have
 you
 in
 my
 life,
 but
 like
 with
 most
 affairs,
 
the
  price
  of
  being
  caught
  would
  have
  been
  great.
  What
  would
  people
  think
  if
  they
 
found
 out
 that
 I
 was
 writing
 to
 myself,
 leaving
 phone
 messages
 to
 myself…
 

I
 admit
 that
 I
 created
 you
 to
 find
 out
 what
 it
 would
 be
 like
 to
 be
 whisked
 away
 to
 a
 
harem,
 and
 it
 was
 a
 great
 feeling.
 It
 is
 Ash
 Wednesday
 and
 I
 have
 no
 plans
 to
 anoint
 
my
  forehead
  with
  ashes
  (although
  I
  am
  wearing
  black
  today!).
  I
  have
  come
  a
  long
 
way
 from
 the
 devout
 Catholic
 girl
 of
 the
 past.
 I
 find
 myself
 moving
 more
 and
 more
 
away
  from
  the
  repression
  of
  my
  upbringing
  -‐
  and
  it
  feels
  damn
  good.
  I
  feel
  some
 
pain
 at
 letting
 you
 vanish
 from
 my
 life,
 at
 losing
 my
 imaginary
 friend,
 but
 no
 sense
 of
 
regret.
 

There
 will
 never
 be
 any
 other
 men
 in
 my
 life.
 I
 am
 blessed
 to
 have
 a
 husband
 whom
 I
 
love
 and
 who
 loves
 me.
 While
 it
 is
 true
 that
 I
 have
 transgressed,
 I
 have
 never
 caused
 
him
 pain
 or
 harm
 in
 my
 wanderings.
 The
 road
 was
 long
 and
 there
 were
 bumps
 and
 
bruises,
  but
  you
  have
  healed
  so
  many
  of
  them,
  my
  French
  lover,
  that
  I
  feel
  whole
 
now
 as
 I
 never
 had
 before.
 You
 showed
 me
 that
 there
 is
 nothing
 that
 I
 could
 have
 
been
 that
 I
 am
 not.
 I
 am
 woman.
 

Adieu
 
Catherine”
 

Just
 as
 she
 hit
 the
 send
 button
 she
 heard
 the
 sound
 of
 her
 husband’s
 car
 pulling
 up
 
into
 the
 driveway
 and
 a
 smile
 came
 to
 her
 lips
 as
 she
 sipped
 the
 last
 of
 her
 glass
 of
 
wine.
  Tomorrow
  she
  would
  delete
  the
  secret
  e-‐mail
  account
  and
  all
  the
  messages
 
therein
 but
 for
 now
 she
 just
 shut
 down
 her
 computer
 and
 went
 down
 to
 meet
 her
 
husband
 with
 a
 large
 smile
 and
 a
 certain
 swing
 of
 the
 hips
 as
 she
 walked
 that
 would
 
immediately
 let
 him
 know
 what
 she
 had
 in
 mind.
 She
 was
 struck
 upon
 seeing
 him
 at
 
how
 handsome
 he
 still
 was
 and
 she
 felt
 her
 pulse
 quicken.
 He
 was
 maybe
 no
 Michel
 
but
  had
  been
  and
  was
  a
  wonderful
  husband,
  a
  wonderful
  father
  to
  the
  beautiful
 
children
 he
 had
 given
 her.
 He
 was
 a
 man
 who
 loved
 her
 and
 desired
 her.
 He
 was
 a
 
man
 she
 knew
 how
 to
 give
 pleasure
 to
 and
 tonight
 she
 would.