Monsieur (9 page)

‘It's not what you think,' my eyes say to her beneath the surgical mask. ‘Well, maybe a little . . .' my reddening cheeks confirm.

Tough luck. As soon as I slip away the telephone in the corridor rings loudly.

‘Doctor, it's your wife!' a nurse shrieks, making her way through the small crowd surrounding the sobbing female patient.

The shadow that looms above us. Isabelle Simon gives me one final lengthy stare and turns on her heels. I make myself small again, in a corner of the room, stuck between two women for whom I represent, from different perspectives, an intrusion. He exchanges some rapid banalities, without any note of tenderness in his voice, which serves only to emphasize the strength of their bond, the untold complicity that has little use for the words other lovers rely on. Monsieur's wife: evidently a Dark Continent as immense as the couple it represents. Look at the man, whose beautiful Oriental eyes are drawn to every specimen of the female species, and remember that his voice, his fingers grasping the phone that connects him to his family, will never change. He might travel to the four corners of the planet with twenty different girls, each one even younger, as tempting as the uncut pages of a book, but he always returns to Her. Maybe a divorce would cost him too much, but that's not the point. Monsieur is not the sort of person who leaves a marriage on the spur of the moment for another woman. And he's not the sort of guy who's likely to fall in love with the girls he fucks in secret, not even me, though I happen to be his current obsession. He can smother me with sweet nothings, but it's all too clear he needs his roots, the immovable foundation stones, to enjoy his freedom to roam. Monsieur loves his wife, and has done so for such a long time that he is no longer even aware of it; it's the way people his age love. She's under his skin, a part of him.

Monsieur hangs up and, without looking at me, standing pressed against a partition wall, leans across his patient as she clears her throat, muttering to him. In Italian. He begins to speak to her in the same language, soothing her calmly but firmly. In quiet control of the surgical landscape they inhabit, he may be annoyed by her theatrical shrieks, but he doesn't complain. He doesn't even try to silence her. Such compassion; I didn't think he was capable of it. A nurse strokes away a few strands of the woman's dark hair as it spills from her skullcap, informing her that her new teeth are beautiful.

‘Show them to the doctor so he can see how pretty you are!'

The young Italian woman, between sobs, attempts to smile. It's an old technique to make her forget she is in pain, but it appears to be working. Monsieur obligingly joins in and in a simulacrum of seduction ups the odds. ‘See? She really is beautiful. And soon her cute little nose will be too.'

Now the young woman can't help smiling. I yearn to catch Monsieur's eye; I want to know that, even though I am shapeless beneath my pyjamas, so near but so far from him, he is still aware of my presence.

‘And haven't you noticed, Doctor, how much weight she has lost?' the nurse continues, hoping he'll take the hint as their patient is wailing again.

‘Indeed,' he says, ‘but you should still lose some more, you know, all these days of being inactive and lots of French food . . .'

The young woman chuckles. I'm ashamed of how vulgar she sounds. I gaze at her, daggers in my eyes. And still Monsieur is flirting outrageously with her, jokingly listing the culinary delights responsible for the size of her thighs.

‘How could you say such things to her?' I ask him later, as he removes his scrubs and his surgical mask. ‘When she arrived at the clinic, she was truly enormous. Now, she's just fat. Still much work to do. That's all,' he answers, washing his hands.

(I love the way the foam spreads through the soft hairs of his lower arm. So virile.)

‘I'd hate to hear you talk about me like that,' I say, after a few seconds' reflection.

‘That will never happen.' Monsieur smiles at me as he calls the lift. ‘You have an adorable little body.'

An orderly passing us prevents Monsieur moving closer to me. But, as if all the inanimate objects assembled in this clinic are at his beck and call, the creaky lift appears and, once again, a catastrophe is miraculously averted.

We rush in, my mind clouded with apocalyptic thoughts. Just as, out of sheer relief, I release a sigh, I am assaulted by my own breath and its lingering smell of stale coffee and empty stomach. That's why coffee drinkers always carry chewing gum. All of a sudden, I no longer care about Isabelle Simon, the fat patient or the orderly: the whole world revolves around my putrid breath and how to prevent Monsieur smelling it. Here he is, drawing me towards him, his soft hand grazing my neck, pecking at my nose with his lips. His fingertips toy with the elastic of my surgical mask.

‘Stop!' I'm squirming like an eel in his arms, but Monsieur has other ideas. He can't understand why my mouth is so close to his but remains unavailable. I despairingly attempt to justify myself: ‘All I've had this morning is a coffee. My breath stinks!'

‘I don't care,' Monsieur blurts, as the lift doors open and we reach the changing room. ‘I'm a doctor. I know every smell there is to know in the human body.'

For what it's worth, some nurses are looking at us.

‘That's not the point,' I answer, pulling away my mask, feeling almost as if I'm unveiling my cunt to him (knowing Monsieur and his love of symbolism, it's probably all the same in his mind). I have heard him fall back on his profession a thousand times when we argue about my possible unavailability and I come up with random pretexts to avoid him. It's irrelevant to me. I've never thought of Monsieur in that way: he's always a man before he's a medic, affected by the same stimulations as all of his sex, whether he's aware of it or not. He unknowingly confirms this when I ask him to pass me my handbag from the locker and he takes advantage of the situation, allowing his extended arm to slide over my arse. With a knowing wink, he takes the clitoris-pink sheets of paper on which I've scribbled a series of Byzantine words for him.

‘For me?' he whispers, and stuffs them into the pocket of his jacket.

I nod, for the record.

In a corner of the changing room, while I am slipping my skirt on, Monsieur undresses. He is soon in deep conversation with another doctor, who's just walked in. They're talking about a colleague, François Katz; I clearly recall being held on the man's lap some ten years ago.

‘Ah, that rascal Katz has calmed down a little,' Monsieur remarks, chuckling softly, as he stretches out topless.

I love the colour of his nipples, the quiet strength and inner fragility his body conveys, whether he knows it or not. The smoothness of the skin, as soft as a woman's, makes him look younger than he is, while the fire still burns inside. The fire always burns.

‘Remember the row he caused when they changed the operating theatre's schedule!' the other surgeon continues, and Monsieur laughs while untying his skullcap.

His hair, salt and pepper, falls to his neck and, with a swift movement of his hand, he smooths it down. I'm standing there, my breasts almost on display, but I'm oblivious of the fact, hypnotized by the sophisticated architecture of his arms. His long, powerful animal muscles are evidence that he belongs to a world he has never needed to tame. Below his navel the road to Damnation stretches, cleverly drawing my gaze, capturing my imagination in a thousand wicked ways. How can I watch the path disappear inside the waistband of his blue trousers without simmering? Framed by his narrow hips, it's like a postscript indicating that the chaste hairs of his belly will blend into a fiery burning bush.

I'm falling headlong into a daydream filled by the landscape of Monsieur's cock, when my mobile brings me back to my senses. It begins to vibrate: my mother. Wanting to know where I am, what I'm doing, with whom. When I'm coming home. The first excuse I can think of isn't necessarily the best: I'm playing poker at Timothée's. Yes, at eleven thirty on a Wednesday morning. My mother pretends to believe me, although I know she's far from convinced. I can't allow her the slightest clue that Ellie is at a clinic, so my speech is succinct, monosyllabic.

‘Well, if that's what you want to do,' she concludes, in the high and mighty tone I hate.

‘Mum, where would you like me to be?'

In just a few seconds, she's put me on the defensive. As I raise my voice, Monsieur throws me a querying glance.

‘I don't know, Ellie. Anyway, what does it matter?'

(Oh, the endless sigh that says, ‘My daughter is a total social failure'! Sometimes I could kill her. With my bare hands.)

‘I hope you have your keys, because I'm not at home.'

‘You don't believe me, do you?'

‘Do what you want to do,' my mother says. ‘Have fun.'

That's just what she would say at the end of a conversation to put further pressure on me and prevent me having fun, like a cartoon cloud that pours litres of cold water over me as I walk along.

‘What's happening?' Monsieur asks, buttoning his shirt, next to me.

‘Nothing. My mother just wanted to know where I am.'

‘What did you tell her?'

It's clear that he's worried. You bastard, is my only thought. My mother's short call reminds me that all our recent arguments have been caused by my spending so much time with Monsieur, in real time and on the phone. On Saturday night, although I hadn't met him then, he'd pushed me into a corner. I'd just got back from work and the phone had rung as I was hanging up my coat. With no word of explanation, I'd walked out again with him filling my ears, tempting me. For a quarter of an hour, we had chatted about lingerie and vaginal orgasms while my dog was left sobbing behind the door, begging to join me, and my mother repeatedly called me to the table, as she moved about the house. Once I was back inside, she made it her business to find out who I'd been talking to. It was clear that she'd overheard some of our conversation so I called her bluff.

‘Just a friend.'

A friend? I'd been speaking to him or her so formally!

‘Yes, Timothée. We're very formal.'

Why was I talking about sex with him?

‘You've got a nerve, listening in to my conversation!' My mother had overheard me brazenly discussing the advantages of open-crotch panties.

‘You were talking very loudly.'

‘If you'd stayed in the kitchen, you wouldn't have had to hear me,' I pointed out.

She didn't say any more, but I could see she was aware that we were entering a tangled skein that had little to do with Timothée.

So, any moment now, I'm about to initiate chaos within my family because of him. All Monsieur seems concerned about is whether I'm involving him in my downfall.

‘I told her I was at a girlfriend's.'

His eyes won't let go of me. He's far from reassured or willing to believe that I'm capable of misleading my parents, so I mockingly come up with the necessary cliché: ‘Don't worry.'

He doesn't hear the irony in my tone, and continues:

‘Still, be careful.'

I've always been aware that, at heart, Monsieur is a terrible egotist: you have to be to react with such alacrity to the advances of a young girl when you're married with children. You have to be to risk bringing a young woman whose family you know to your place of work so that you can witness the admiration in her eyes. Only an egotist would bet on the odds of a whole life against a few hours' pleasure. Monsieur is motivated sometimes by irresponsible childlike desires, although at others he's in complete control, in the way he caresses and kisses me, even determining the alias I give him in my phone. But on every single occasion he is the one who endangers us, and he's convinced that the outcome will be decided by my carelessness. I already have enough on my plate in taking care of myself, and now I have to deal with a forty-six-year-old baby, who likes to play at scaring himself and terrifying me. However, however . . . every time I gaze into those eyes, so different from mine, I understand how similar Monsieur and I are. Deep in his eyes, there is no mask and I recognize the artfulness and egocentricity we share, even if we labour in different ways to achieve our desires. If I rush straight into the trap Monsieur is setting for me, it's because I identify with the childlike immorality, the polymorphous perversion, or at least that I know he resembles me enough to intrigue and please, in ways I can't yet understand.

‘Can I drop you off somewhere?' Monsieur asks me, outside the clinic.

‘I'll be OK,' I say.

‘So, you're really going to take a taxi?' he asks, with a smile that hurts me.

It's as if he's conversing with the perfect courtesan, who came here by cab and is about to depart likewise, living in his own financial world. I am still at the age where every five euros count; where my pragmatic student soul is ever at odds with the laziness of a penniless tart who wouldn't think twice about taking a taxi, but it's not simply a question of cost.

‘I'm off to see a girlfriend, just a few Métro stops away. Don't worry, I'll be OK.'

Monsieur doesn't understand. He's enjoyed driving and speed for too long to understand that, after such a morning, the only thing I'm looking forward to is spending an hour on a train with my iPod, replaying every scene, analysing it, and brooding over my craving to see and possess him, without the handicap of thirty people surrounding us. Monsieur isn't aware that I seek solitude.

Unsteady on my legs, my eyes heavy, I have the slow demeanour of a woman who's just got out of bed. I feel as if I've made love to him all the time we've been together in the clinic.

‘Kiss me one last time,' Monsieur whispers, his hands in his pockets, just like the student he must have been twenty years earlier, rakishly relaxed.