Monsieur (15 page)

‘You say that because you've never actually read
La Mécanique des femmes
,' I pointed out, annoyed.

My mother's disparagement of Calaferte had thrown me into the arms of Monsieur. She had never opened any of his books, but she knew they were erotic and felt, foolishly, that she could express an opinion about him. She raised her eyes upwards.

‘What do you mean? I'm the one who bought the book!' She turned to her brother. ‘It's the one where he describes a woman peeing over the pages.'

Inevitably most of the people around the table were laughing nervously, displaying their stupidity. This was one of the things I had not dared express to Monsieur, for fear he would guess from my tone how I sometimes found my family contemptible. There were moments when I truly hated them, wondering why we were so different when it came to certain subjects. Irritation rising, I almost shouted: ‘That's enough, Mum! You might have bought the book, but you evidently haven't read it. At no stage does Calaferte describe a woman peeing. I know because I've read it at least ten times. And even if he had done, it's possible to write well of such things.'

‘You're quite right,' my aunt said, patting my arm. In an attempt to defuse the situation, she changed the subject. ‘Philippe, what was his name again, the photographer who liked to take pics of young girls weeing in fields? We saw his exhibition.'

‘Anyway,' my mother continued, ‘I'm not surprised S likes Calaferte. He's a sex maniac.'

‘I don't see the connection,' I retorted. ‘As it happens, sex maniacs don't read Calaferte.'

‘Philippe, do tell her what a sex maniac S is! When we were in Jersey, it was all he could talk about.'

‘All men are sex maniacs,' my uncle said philosophically. ‘It's just that some conceal it better than others.'

‘Maybe,' I said, clumsily sitting down again. ‘But in the meantime he's the only person with whom I can discuss the books I like.'

‘No wonder, if you raise the subject of sex with him . . .' My mother sighed, clearly hoping the conversation had come to its natural end.

‘How can you not understand that discussing literature is not automatically a matter of talking about sex? Do you really think I'm some sort of tramp?'

‘Ellie, I was joking!' she said.

And everyone was laughing. At me. I was ready to defend those books with tooth and claw, but for them it was just a pretext to talk about his love of sex. When he had offered me
Irene's Cunt
, I had spent the whole evening behind the locked door of my room, sprawling across my couch, smoking cigarette after cigarette, breathless. Beyond the literary beauty, I was thinking of Monsieur. If he'd made me receptive enough to read the text, it was because he approved of Aragon. That was the night when I had elevated Monsieur to a pedestal and had come to understand that he was the only soul who could keep me company on my path through erotic literature. It bound us together.

I had crawled to the kitchen where my mother was cooking dinner. I wasn't expecting a miracle, but I had to attempt to explain the divine nature of the work I had emerged from. The mere thought that I would ever be capable of expressing myself in the same way consumed me. I sat on a stool, and began reading aloud, daunted by Aragon as much as my audience. I hadn't been angry with my sisters for laughing when I'd used the word ‘slit', but I had never hated and despised my mother more than when she had burst out laughing as I read: ‘“. . .
the moist folds of her outer lips yawned . . .”'

‘It's disgusting!' she cried.

I kept my lips sealed in a rictus of scorn.

It was far from easy to begin reading again, starting where I had been so rudely interrupted, conscious that she was now already concentrating on the next pretext to belittle Aragon's sublime verbal violence, and I stopped reading two lines further on. I felt foolish.

‘Why did you stop?' My mother was surprised.

‘You're not making the slightest effort to understand the beauty of the text!' I was indignant.

‘Come on, Ellie, we're just having a laugh!' she said. Then, serious: ‘Do you really like this sort of stuff?'

‘Yes.
I like this sort of stuff
.' I repeated her words, backing away with all the dignity I could muster,
Irene's Cunt
held against my chest, rejected.

I had been offended enough that evening when Philippe said: ‘I didn't know he was on Facebook.'

‘Why should it surprise you?' my mother interjected. ‘Typical of his sort!'

‘Why hasn't he friended me?'

‘Probably because you didn't ask him to,' I answered. with pained indifference. ‘People don't automatically become your friends. Anyway, you don't know how to use Facebook.'

‘You're right,' he confirmed. ‘But if I asked him to become my friend, he would, wouldn't he?'

‘How would I know? It's up to him to decide. There's no reason for him to turn you down, is there?' (Apart from the fact that he's fucking your oldest niece, I didn't say.)

‘Did I tell you I saw photos of his children?' my mother broke in. ‘They look so much like him. They're darlings. And his wife isn't bad, either.'

‘I've met her a few times. She's good fun.'

‘I've always wondered how she can live with a guy like him. Such a skirt-chaser.'

‘She's probably up to the same tricks,' my stepfather said, and everyone around the table pretended to be shocked, as if it would have been something out of the ordinary, the secret arrangement of a couple.

‘I couldn't live like that,' my mother added. ‘I'm just not selfish enough.' For the first time that evening, I was in total agreement with her.

‘A lot of married people do,' my aunt observed. ‘It doesn't prevent them living together in harmony. Either they know and tolerate it, or they keep it a secret.'

‘After twenty years of marriage, I don't see how you could avoid knowing about it,' my mother objected. ‘She's like an ostrich, with her head buried in the ground. As for him, he probably doesn't know his wife's cheating on him and thinks she hasn't a clue about him. Men think women are stupid.'

Once we'd disposed of a birthday cake, much too rich to follow a veal casserole, I rushed back to my room. With a quick trawl through Facebook, I found a stack of photos of her. In most of them, she was lost among a crowd of unknown faces, but I always knew which one she was. She stood out from the others as if I was shining a light on her.

‘Who is it?' my sister asked, as I was zooming in on her features.

‘His wife.'

‘So now you're spying on his wife. Oh dear . . .'

‘I'm not spying on her. I'm intrigued, that's all.'

‘This will all end badly,' Alice predicted.

I kept the page open for the hour Alice and I were surfing, watching silly clips from the eighties. From time to time, I'd close a window by mistake and her face would reappear, large black eyes circled with dark makeup, pretty white teeth, a smile like a question mark making a rendezvous with me for later when I would be alone.

Estelle
. A name I seldom hear that will for ever be attached to this woman, his wife. When I pronounce its dull, old-fashioned syllables, it sounds like a refugee from a bad Mills & Boon novel, but from Monsieur's lips it would sound like a caress. I don't know. I'm terrified of hearing him say ‘Estelle'. The gulf that separates her from me would be evident in the way he pronounces our names.

Monsieur has no idea how much respect I demonstrate in the way I say ‘your wife'. Deep in his grey eyes, I search for her, for a footprint of the love and how different it might be from the tenderness he extends to me. When Valentine or Babette pity her for the metaphorical horns on her head and use the odious ‘cuckold' word, I explain to them how she differs from the provincial trophy wives who avert their eyes from their husbands' peccadilloes and suffer in silence. I am intimately persuaded that life at his side has taught her what sort of man shares her bed and brings up their children. I've looked at photos of her for hours, and she has a fierce intelligence: she shines with the awareness that she will never change Monsieur. Has she ever tried? It's just the way he is: fascinated by women, but in love with just one. I've never been tempted to think I could rival her. All I am is a parenthesis in his life, a parenthesis among others already forgotten, while Estelle remains, year after year, sitting on the same pedestal, and that is no metaphor: there is a photograph, taken on their third son's birthday, in which she is floating around on a chair held high by a dozen friends. And there is Monsieur, too, about to burst into youthful laughter, gazing at her with eyes full of love and admiration. Dazzled, I remained still for several minutes observing them, my heart bleeding.

In all the photos of them together, mostly taken without them being aware of it, if they are not in each other's arms, they are never far apart, their shoulders, arms, cheeks or eyes magically converging in the same direction, their bodies merging. It's evident this woman has managed to tame Monsieur and his impulses. I could never attempt it. Domination is a strong aspect of his character, manifesting itself in the beds we share. He cannot accept any kiss he hasn't planned; whenever he's taken by surprise, he says, ‘I am the one who's kissing you,' and then his lips devour mine. That's the way we always communicate, verbally and physically. I'd thought he could never bend to anyone's authority until I came across another wonderful photograph, also taken on Louis's birthday. The shot is focused on a single image: the two faces seemingly welded together, as if capturing the precise moment of a spontaneous kiss, Estelle's pretty hands unfolding like a fan, stroking and holding Monsieur's freshly shaven cheeks. Their eyes are closed; at the corners of Estelle's the trace of a small wrinkle betrays that the embrace has caught her in the midst of laughter. Monsieur is partly obscured by his wife's long fingers, but across the upper part of his face, there is no evidence of resistance. At first glance, there is nothing special about this photo. But it showed me where my power over Monsieur ended, and Estelle's began. That she had tamed Monsieur for the duration of a photographic flash was beside the point. What mattered was deciphering the good fortune that emanated from the image: a woman happy because her child was growing up, all her friends had joined her for the occasion, and kissing that child's father was the best way to express her joy. The woman in the photo is profoundly in love with her husband.

Monsieur has never made me shine in the same way. Monsieur has never been present to smother my joy with his lips. Monsieur has never granted me entry to the kingdom he has built with Estelle. And while I feverishly hold on to the power he almost accidentally afforded me, and shudder at the thought of the other, unknown, women, Estelle reigns supreme, so untouchable that she allows Monsieur to roam free: he will always return. Over twenty years the seductions have multiplied and he has always come back to Estelle, his harbour. So many other men among his acquaintances have become soft and harmless, like fat, neutered cats, exercising their blunt wiles on unworthy prey, but Monsieur continues to fine-tune his art.

Maybe she
is
up to the same thing. Monsieur and she are not even friends on Facebook.

What led Estelle to cut Monsieur so much slack? How did she come to understand that none of his mistresses mattered? They must have clashed over it. You don't become an expert in deceit without getting caught out once or twice. That's how you learn the business.

I have a very cinematographic vision of the whole improbable scene. Nine o'clock in the evening, Monsieur in the lift waiting to reach his floor, while a short distance away his young wife, who's just finished feeding the baby, is watching the TV news, her mind switched off. Agitated, she is thinking of the phone call that tore her day apart: around two in the afternoon, a woman had asked to speak to Dr S. Estelle, her heartbeat resonating in her ears, had tried to recognize her mother-in-law or a secretary, two women who would normally have no reason to call him at home at this time of day.

‘He's not home yet,' she'd said. ‘Who's that? Maybe I can pass on a message. I'm his wife.'

The unknown woman had immediately hung up, leaving Estelle holding the receiver, assailed by the thought that it could only have been one of
them
: she had never been stupid enough to believe that Monsieur would restrict himself to a
single
mistress.

Estelle had spent the rest of the day with her hands shaking, unable to think beyond what had just happened. She was mad with anger and pain. Humiliated. When the baby was having his afternoon nap, she had stood for a few minutes in front of the open wardrobe of Monsieur's clothes. She had instinctively slipped a hand inside the pocket of a jacket, hating herself for acting like a typical betrayed wife but hating him more for having placed her in this situation. Just a petrol receipt and a few ten-franc coins. Fifteen other suits beckoned her, now that she had begun searching for evidence, had actually become that sort of woman. In one, there must be some tangible proof, something to provide her with more pain. Come on, Estelle, turn all of this upside-down, open every drawer, unfold every pair of trousers. Here they must be, all the bitches he fucks between consultations, during his nights on call, all those girls who know his body as well as you do. If one of them has his home phone number, there must be something to betray him in this wardrobe, don't you think? While the baby sleeps, and can't see how ugly an hysterical mother looks, investigate. When he returns this evening and you mention the phone call, he's bound to have an excuse. He'll say you're crazy and, anyway, you haven't an ounce of proof.

Avenge yourself: among the thousands of scraps of paper folded at the bottom of sundry pockets, how many do you think will provide you with clear evidence? And we're not even talking about all the blonde, brown, red hairs, all the white stains on his shirts and trouser legs. If we could talk to each other, I could tell you how they climb on to his knees, naked under their dresses, when his office is locked. Which dry cleaner's he goes to so you won't come across the lipstick of all those whores, most of whom haven't half of your class or beauty, but have him running around in circles because they smell so strongly of no-strings sex. Search, Estelle. Do it for me. If he was you, he'd have turned the apartment inside out, not that he would find anything: women are much too cunning. But men are stupid: there's always something they've forgotten to hide. Don't let him turn you into of one those shrews everyone takes pity on. Defend yourself, while you're still young and pretty. Change him. Cut him off at the knees. We women can do that, no?