Used to seeing sex as a performance, Séverine liked this intimacy: she had to satisfy her husband and also come herself—or at least pretend to. Isn’t it the obligation to have an orgasm that poisons relationships between men and woman? They are under pressure to reach it, thus transforming a carefree, pointless moment into a competition that has to be won. Séverine had only ever had sex with François-Maxime in a state of anxiety, and, at the end of every session, had doubted she had lived up to expectations. It didn’t really matter to her that she seldom achieved pleasure, but she suspected that she didn’t give any either. If she could fake it, then so could he . . . Even though there were obvious signs that he reached a climax, had it been strong? Intense? The word “cramp” kept coming into her mind. As a teenager, she had heard a boy say that for a man, ejaculating was like getting rid of a cramp. The medical nature of this statement had made an impression on her, and she had never stopped thinking about it. When she had given her virginity to François-Maxime, she had, on discovering his tense, hard penis, remembered the word “cramp.” Her husband’s subsequent thrusting inside her had felt like a convulsion, then his final cry, followed by a collapse and an immediate sleep, had confirmed that the male “got rid” of a pain.
In addition to her concern about sensual pleasure, there was the concern about procreation. François-Maxime had been eager to become a father, the patriarch of a large family, and had made no secret of the fact: before her daughter was born, she thought she might not fulfill his wish, but after Guillaume, the youngest, she had been scared that an accident might inflict another pregnancy on her. Now, watching her offspring grow, she knew she had kept her end of the bargain with François-Maxime. Yet instead of feeling fulfilled, a new fear had come over her: would she continue to attract him? Wouldn’t he grow tired of her? Her mature, soon-to-be-sterile body must be less alluring. She assumed that carnal indifference was the fate of old married couples, and every time they made love, she was afraid it might be the last. It was an insidious fear that made things tough for her and kept her from fully abandoning herself . . . And so, in fifteen years, Séverine had never let François-Maxime come near her naked body without trembling.
With Xavière, once she had gotten over the shock—she would never have imagined herself in bed with a woman—she at last felt safe. More sensual than sexual, she was convinced she had met her mate.
It was a different experience for Xavière. Snuggled up against her lover, she was running away from a part of herself and finding another that was quite new. Delightful, attentive, happy, helpful, she had left her grouchy persona far behind. If the local residents had told Séverine how they saw Xavière—a sharp-tongued, tight-fisted pain in the ass—she would have thought they were joking: Xavière showered her with flowers and books, took an interest in the smallest detail about her, joked about everything, and was proving to be the most light-hearted, most cheerful company in the world—that slap across the face aside.
The fact was that, in Séverine’s arms, Xavière took a break from herself. She didn’t like the person she’d become. Sometimes, she hated herself for it, but often she hated others, especially Orion, who, through his financial ruin, his carelessness, his pathological negligence, had forced her to become sensible, accountable, responsible for them both. His casualness had made her stolid. Yes, he had frozen her in a role. It wasn’t a matter of choice. If she had trusted him, they would be on the street by now, or already dead . . . And now she hated this husband who had transformed her into a wicked stepmother . . . In addition, through a kind of perverse force, the more cautious she was, the bolder he became; the more she criticized people, the more he praised them. Unless it was the opposite, each forcing the other to plunge deeper into his or her defects. In short, she didn’t like anything about their marriage, and yet she strove to keep it alive. Why? Habit. Laziness. Financial self-interest. Reasons that someone in love with love would have considered wicked, but which seemed perfectly good to Xavière.
“Séverine, you know I’m an expert on poison?”
“Are you?” Séverine burst out laughing. It struck her as the oddest thing to be interested in. “Why, would you have liked to study chemistry?”
“No.”
“Medicine?”
“Pharmacy?”
“No. You see, when you study these subjects, it’s because you want to treat people. In my case, it would be to kill. To kill Orion.”
“You’re joking.”
“Don’t worry, I couldn’t do when it came down to it. I’m like a eunuch in a harem: he knows how it’s done but can’t do it himself.”
“You wanted to kill Orion?”
“A hundred times, no, a thousand, a million!”
“What stopped you?”
“I must have a conscience. Even so, it always gave me such a sense of relief to murder him in my thoughts. I pictured him vomiting, choking, spitting saliva, writhing in excruciating pain. In the end, it was enough to relax me. They should put it in the penal code: imagination is the best way to prevent murder.”
“Do you hate him?”
“Since I can’t kill my husband, I cheat on him.”
“I don’t like hearing you say that. It’s as if you’re saying you’re only with me because of him.”
Xavière reassured Séverine with a hug. “What about you? How do you feel about your dashing François-Maxime?”
“He is handsome, isn’t he?”
“I must admit he is. At the same time, he’s so perfect, so well-groomed, well-fed, well-dressed, so fit, it makes me uncomfortable.”
“Funny . . . he has the same effect on me. I’ve always felt like a complete failure next to him.”
Suddenly, Xavière remembered the time and rushed to her cell phone. “I must leave you, Séverine, I have a doctor’s appointment.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Just a regular checkup.”
Séverine helped her get dressed, which gave them the opportunity for more caresses.
Xavière went to the chest of drawers, on top of which there was a marron glacé leather handbag. “This is gorgeous!” Without asking for permission, she lifted it, looked it over, even opened it. There was a yellow letter sticking out of the inside pocket. Taken aback, Xavière grabbed it and read it: Just a note to tell you I love you. Signed: You know who. Beneath, in unfamiliar handwriting, someone had added, Me, too.
“What—”
“It’s a gift from François-Maxime.”
“Séverine, I received the same note.” She turned to Séverine, pale-faced. “You do everything in duplicate: love and mail!”
“I swear it wasn’t me,” Séverine said indignantly.
“Oh, sure!”
“I swear it on my children, Xavière.”
Stopped in her tracks by such a passionate declaration, Xavière accepted her explanation, especially since she suddenly started remembering a few things. Hadn’t she seen other people with yellow letters? She focused her mind, and two images came back to her. Quentin Dentremont had produced a similar piece of paper before scribbling a few words to go with his rose, and the gay philosophy teacher, Tom Something, had been reading a letter as he crossed the square and walked past her shop.
She nearly shared her discoveries with Séverine, but realized she was running out of time.
Ten minutes later, she was with Dr. Plassard, her gynecologist, in his office on Avenue Lepoutre, a street lined with chestnut trees.
“So, we weren’t supposed to meet for another six months, but you’ve brought our appointment forward, Xavière. What’s going on?”
“Something boring: I’ve started menopause.”
“It’s quite possible at your age.”
“My periods have stopped, I sometimes feel very tired, and . . . how shall I put it? . . . my nipples are a little sore.”
“That
’s normal. Any urinary problems?”
“Oh, no! Why, does that happen?”
“I’m going to examine you.”
For the following fifteen minutes, she decided to relinquish possession of her body. Indifferent, almost absent, she let the gynecologist run the tests and investigations he wanted.
When he told her to get dressed and wait a few minutes, she took advantage of the pause to doze off.
Then Dr. Plassard woke her and asked her to come back into his office and sit down.
“You haven’t started the menopause.”
“Oh?”
“You’re pregnant.”
15
So, no yellow envelope this morning?”
“No. What about you?”
“Me neither.”
Mail in hand, Tom brought in the croissants for breakfast—golden, crisp, and warm. Although he had spent the night at Nathan’s, he had just made a detour to the baker, then to his own studio apartment, hoping there would be another anonymous letter waiting for him.
Nathan sighed. “We won’t find out the truth today.”
“Unfortunately not.”
The two men were fascinated by this unexplained phenomenon. Once they had managed to convince each other that neither had written the message Just a note to tell you I love you. Signed: You know who, they had tried to figure out who had. The mystery fueled their imagination, and triggered endless discussions. Since that day, they had hardly spent a minute apart.
Taking the croissants, Nathan laid the table. On it, the china shone with all the colors of the rainbow.
“I have no idea who sent us those letters, but I note that the main consequence is that you can’t tear yourself away from here.”
“Oh, really?” Tom stammered, embarrassed that Nathan should have noticed it, and dreading in particular that he would start again on his favorite refrain about their living together.
“My conclusion is that this person wished us well. They must have known we’d each assume the other one wrote the letter, and that that would bring us closer. Isn’t that a clue?”
Tom nodded and started thinking. Did someone wish them well? Surprised, he stopped chewing. “What a strange question! I’ve never asked myself before. Is there someone on this earth who’d wish us well? I could possibly name those who wish me well—like my sisters—or wish you well—like your parents—but wish us well . . . the two of us together?”
Nathan assumed an offended expression, hands on his hips, and aped a black mammy with a drawl, “Wha’, M’s Scarlett? What yo’ talkin’ about? Yo’ think no one loves yo’ n’ yo’ girlfriend? What yo sayin’s mighty sad, M’s Scarlett, and it breaks ma heart!”
Tom grabbed him by the arm. “Stop clowning around and think, Nathan: do you know people who really want us to live together?”
“Nobody gives a shit, Tom. Just like we don’t give a shit about other couples, gay or not. It’s a carousel, and you get on and off as you please. We each of us decide how we’re going to be happy in our own way.”
“You pretend not to understand: nobody’s interested in us as a couple.”
“So? Just as long you and I are interested!”
“Doesn’t that drive you to despair, the fact that nobody thinks you’re my destiny and I’m yours?”
Nathan blinked. “Say that again?”
“What?”
“Say that again, say I’m your destiny and you’re mine. It sent shivers down my coccyx.”
“Your coccyx?”
“That’s where my thoughts lie, at least where you’re concerned.”
Irresistibly attracted by Nathan’s excessive playacting, Tom hurled himself on him and pressed his lips to his.
As soon as he could speak, Nathan continued, “I get the feeling you’re seduced by what’s worst about me: my vulgarity and all the bullshit I talk.”
“I like you in your full glory.”
“Whatever! The crazier I am, the more attached you get to me.”
“Loving someone means also loving their faults.”
“Oh, how lovely: sounds like the title of a song for young girls.”
“I knew you’d like it.”
This time, it was Nathan, delighted even though he pretended to be annoyed, who initiated the kiss. There always had to be patter between them, sarcastic remarks, ridicule. Banter was their madrigal. Because they feared traditional expressions of love—probably because they feared traditional love—they blossomed when they pretended contempt, mockery, even hatred; every bitchy comment was a gift. The more they teased each other, the more they declared their affection. Their sincerity needed to be clothed in derision to remain authentic.
They rolled onto the couch, locked together, each trying to dominate the other, neither succeeding. They knew they wouldn’t make love again—they only just had—but they had a good time pretending.
In the end, they fell on the rug and separated, then lay on their backs, holding hands, staring up at the chandelier.
“I know who wrote those messages,” Nathan whispered.
“Who?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Yes, I will. Who?”
“God.” Nathan sat up, looking grave. “God Himself sent them to us, to confirm us in our love.”
Tom also sat up. “So you believe in God, do you?”
“What do know about it?”
“I’m asking you a question.”
“Stop there! Just because you’ve fucked me four hundred times doesn’t mean you can get deep into the most private part of me.”
“What you’re saying is obscene.” Tom mocked.
“Damn! And I thought it was really spiritual.”
Nathan went and poured himself another coffee, then stated in a professorial tone, “God picked up His quill, dipped it in the ink of compassion, and told us not to wait any longer.” He altered his voice to imitate God, trying to summon his deepest cords. “Live together, my children, do not pay two rents but one. This single rent will be the consecration of your union, take my word for it. Tom, my son, give notice to your landlord. Nathan, my daughter, throw away your porn magazines and your array of dildos and make room in your closets for Tom. When you have done what I say, you will be happy, my children, for all the centuries to come.”
“Amen,” Tom concluded.
Nathan did a double take. “Did I hear right?” He walked up to Tom, his face tense, his limbs rigid. “Did you say, ‘Amen?’”
“Yes,” Tom replied phlegmatically.
“Did you say that without thinking or because you meant it?”
“What do you think?”
“Tom, I know you’re not a Catholic, I know you’re not a believer, but do you speak Hebrew?”
“Enough to know that Amen means ‘So be it.’”
“So you agree to us living together?”
“If you agree to a misalliance with a nonbeliever.”
“I do.”
“Amen.”
Over the days that followed, Nathan couldn’t restrain his joy: instead of walking, he skipped; instead of speaking, he choked in the rush of his own words; instead of laughing, he neighed. Tom was moved at having aroused such emotion in his partner; calm as he looked, he too was delighted.
One night, as they were watching an American TV series in bed, Tom turned to Nathan abruptly. “The anonymous letter was sent by someone who wants to get rid of us.”
Nathan switched off the television. “Get rid of us?”
“Yes. An old lover who wants to make sure that you or I are fixed up.”
“That’s absurd.”
“The lover of a lover . . . Someone morbidly jealous who knows how important we were in his boyfriend’s life before. So he’s trying to push us away.”
“That’s a tw
isted theory.”
“Human beings are twisted, Nathan. People don’t wish other people well, they want what’s good for themselves. They’re not interested in general well-being, only in their own.”
“Translation, please?”
“The person who wrote that letter isn’t after our happiness, but his.”
So they spent the night talking about past lovers. While they may have started by trying to identify the author of the letters, the exchange became a pretext to discover one another, to talk about themselves and hear each other’s stories.
Far from driving them apart, these confidences brought them closer together. They talked about what had seemed their glory in the past, but now struck them as pitiful: the many partners they had had. Because it involves a minority, homosexuality is more defined by sex than heterosexuality: it pushes those who discover that tendency in themselves to seek out skin contact, the meeting of bodies, pure pleasure, the organic, at all costs, and easily neglects the complexity and importance of feelings. Tom and Nathan had at first felt the need to prove to themselves that they were desired and could be desired. To that end, they had had many affairs, some of them lasting no longer than a passing encounter; they had frequented such sex joints as saunas, cellar nightclubs, even public parks, places where conversation is neither useful nor recommended, and where all you need to do is exchange a knowing look for two bodies to come together in the semidarkness. Both had experienced more silent affairs than verbal ones. Nathan had suffered from that: being so exuberant and talkative, he loved conversation and was curious about everything. Tom’s sexual urges, mixed with a vague feeling of superiority, had been so important to him that it had taken him longer to find the repetition monotonous. Cultured, thoughtful, passionate about literature, he had such doubts about ever meeting his equal that he approached every boy with disillusioned wariness and no ambition to get to know him. Make love to him, yes, but conversation, no thanks, could have been his motto. So Nathan and Tom had experienced many disappointments after sexual pleasure, as soon as their partners, until then reduced merely to skin and cock and sighs, suddenly spoke: discovering an ugly voice, a surprising accent, hearing, after a faultless sensual journey, grammatical errors, flawed syntax, and a poor range of vocabulary; discovering the tastes and interests of a creature whose body they had enjoyed and realizing that, had they known all that, they would never have manifested any desire toward him.
The Carousel of Desire Page 25