One day, of course, she suspected something. I couldn’t lie to her. She cried for a while, and then she got sick. When she was better, she told me she’d agree to a threesome with another woman if that’s what it took to keep me with her.
We placed an ad and our first experience was a disaster. Claire got up in the middle of it and stormed out. I asked our guest nicely to leave and I comforted my wife. And we laid that idea to rest. Until we were taking our samba lessons and met Juliana. One evening when we were driving home, Claire, a little embarrassed, confessed that she would be willing to sleep with Juliana and me if I felt like it. The power of dance! I joked, laying my hand on hers.
We invited Juliana for supper so we could get to know her better. We learned that she had been single for a few months and wasn’t eager to get involved in a serious relationship right away. The next week when we were having a drink after class, I put “the question” to her directly when Claire went to the washroom. I had come up with a polite and rather classy way of putting it, or so I thought.
“What would you say to being our sexual guest one evening?”
Juliana was still laughing when Claire came back. She had never imagined getting a proposal like that. Claire was embarrassed, but Juliana quickly reassured her and we were able to joke about it. As we were ordering another round, Juliana said simply, “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try.”
Which we did the following week. Claire was an excellent lover and she satisfied me fully. My adventures had nothing to do with sexual frustration. Of course, all of us, especially Juliana, were delighted to find that she was able to use her knowledge for the benefit of both sexes. So Juliana became our lover, but above all, our friend. We shared various activities—the samba class, of course, but also going to movies and restaurants. She and Claire sometimes went on vacations when I had too much work to go with them—most of the time, in fact—and I know they made love in those situations. We always told each other everything. It was Juliana who had insisted on this openness.
I loved my wife and I loved Juliana, and the three of us formed a very healthy system of communicating vessels. I had less of a feeling of draining myself to give Claire the attention and care she needed. Things circulated—energy, attention, affection—there was always someone to relieve a part that was tired. As for me, I had two women to protect, which suited me perfectly. And they both screwed like goddesses, which was no small consideration.
It took the three of us two hours to kill the bottle of Scotch. Laure, my secretary, was asleep in her chair. Poor Laure, she worked so poorly and so little. And I paid her twice what she was worth. Eddy put his revolver away and we tiptoed out to find a spot in the bar across the street. Eddy caught a glimpse of the newspaper and started going on about the terrible state of the world and all the vileness man was capable of, and, as usual, I refused to follow him down that road. He had never suspected how at a loss the protector in me was in the face of all that misery. If I happened to open that door, if I let a single ray of that darkness in, I immediately felt the bodies of my haunted little brothers pressed against my leg, my mother shaking with sobs against my chest, my father, who I sometimes had to calm down by grabbing him bodily, Betty with her life sacrificed, Claire with her vulnerability, and the rest of them, flooding in and filling me with such a feeling of impotence that I wanted to pound my head against the wall until I lost consciousness. So I let Eddy hold forth and busied myself getting us drinks. While I was at it, I brought him some ice for his lip.
“How can you still go around hitting people at your age?”
“The only person I hit is you.”
“And you never apologize, which is really interesting. You don’t feel the least bit guilty.”
“That punch was completely deserved. I’ve rarely seen a punch that was so richly deserved.”
While we were at it, I asked him where he’d got his gun and what he intended to do with it. He was vague on this point. I tried to talk him into handing it over to me, but to no avail. I was sure things would end badly. I told him so and he didn’t contradict me. Would I have to leap over the table and try to take it from him by force? Probably, but the alcohol was confusing things. I was inclined to feel there was nothing to be alarmed about for the moment, that I was there and was keeping an eye on things.
“So do you want me to list the reasons you shouldn’t go see Véronique?”
“Yeah, do that, make yourself useful for a change.”
“Aside from the fact that you ruined her life?”
“Yeah, aside from that little detail.”
“Well, I don’t see any.”
“Can’t you do better than that?”
Sure, I could do better, I could just drive him to her place, I had been waiting for this moment for years. On the other side of the street, Juliana was walking toward the entrance to my office. I rushed out and shouted her name. When she saw me, she smiled with relief. I think she’d been worried. She ran across the street, her handbag pressed against her hip. I insisted she come have a drink with us.
“Juliana, I’d like to introduce you to Eddy again. Eddy, this time I’d like you to behave like a human being.”
He held out his hand limply, still pressing the ice-filled napkin to his mouth.
“What happened? Did you have a fight?”
“Just Michel,” he said.
Juliana ordered a drink and I explained our little arrangement to Eddy. He couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t able to imagine Claire, the nutritionist who calculated everything she ate, between Juliana’s legs. Or something like that. Juliana, free and beautiful, wasn’t the least bit intimidated. She was finding it all very amusing. When she stood up to go to the cigarette machine, I asked Eddy what he thought of her.
“Why, you want to include me in your activities? You’re recruiting?”
I really loved that guy. I think I loved him more than my own life. Or is it precisely that he was my life, the other part of my existence, the part I was never able to live, the other me who was amputated when my brother hanged himself? I think I envied his freedom. The freedom that allowed him to retreat while I had to walk a line laid out beforehand if I didn’t want to lose control. I also envied him for having a body that matched what he was inside, while my whole life, I’d had to struggle mentally to keep up with mine.
“Why don’t you ask Juliana out?”
He gave me a sidelong look. We were pretty drunk and I think he was starting to have trouble following what I was saying.
“If you like her, why don’t you take her out?”
He grimaced. Probably because he couldn’t see how he could, with a straight face, sleep with a girl who had screwed Claire and me. It’s the kind of thing that’s actually pretty easy to forget, I think.
“It’s temporary, her and us, until she falls in love. If it were you, it would stay in the family. She’s great, I swear, from every point of view.
“It’s really incredible, you’ve surpassed anything I could have imagined.”
He stood up suddenly, tipping his chair over and making enough noise to surprise Juliana, who was on her way back.
“I show up in your office completely desperate, holding a revolver, and the only thing you can suggest to me is that I ask your lover out? Do you really think everything’s about sex?”
“Calm down, Eddy.”
The proprietor of the establishment was already coming toward us.
“I don’t feel like calming down, Michel. This time, you’ve gone too far.”
He laid his hands flat on the table and looked deep into my eyes.
“You’re making me cry with your shitty little life. Do you ever stop and look at it, your shitty life? Your work that gives you such a feeling of fulfillment that you have to keep a supply of Scotch on hand just to get through the day? And your wife who you love so much that you have to cheat on her just to be able to stand her?”
Juliana was listening to all this from a distance. I cou
ld see her out of the corner of my eye. I really didn’t want her to be hurt by what Eddy was saying.
“Your perfect house, your perfect car, your big friendly grin and the slaps on the back and the hugs … ”
I listened to him and the only thing I wanted to do was slam my fist into his face. It wasn’t clear anymore whether it was to protect Juliana or to protect myself, but I felt like breaking every bone in his body, crushing them, smashing them to bits. The words whistled by like bullets and all I saw was Eddy’s face against a black background. I had to hold myself back, because this time I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop after one punch.
“You’re running on empty, Michel. You’re running on fumes. I can’t watch this anymore.”
I plastered a bullet-proof smile on my face. It’s a tactic I developed very young, one that’s often gotten me out of touchy situations without too much damage. Like those fish that make themselves hideous to discourage attackers, I became disgustingly pleasant.
“No, don’t you give me that damn smile of yours, Michel, I can’t take it this time.”
“Eddy, you’re going to come to the house, you’re going to lie down on the couch and you’re going to have a good sleep. I’m going to take care of you, buddy.”
I tried to draw him toward me. He wanted to pull away, but I didn’t let him.
“Eddy, Eddy, Eddy … Can you tell me why I love you so much?”
He made a fist and I barely had time to squint my eyes and hunch my shoulders when he punched me in the ear with all his strength. The throbbing pain was so intense that I forgot everything else.
“Yes, I can tell you why you love me so much. Because I’m not well and you exist only insofar as someone somewhere needs you.”
And Eddy left. Juliana came over to me. I smiled lamely at her as I picked up the ice from the table. An intense heat radiated on the whole left side of my skull.
“Come on,” I said, holding my ear, “let’s go.”
“He didn’t mean it, I’m sure he didn’t mean it, Michel.”
“I think he did.”
I had one thing only on my mind—to go home and screw. That was my ultimate refuge. To slide my dick into a warm body and give pleasure. That effort, with my arms taut, my hands vigorously gripping flesh, every muscle of my body tensed, hearing a woman cry out, brought me back to my essence. Just the tip of the iceberg without the friggin’ iceberg underneath. And I could give women my full attention like that for hours on end, sucking them, jerking them off and giving it to them in the orifice of their choice for as long as they wanted. And the most marvellous thing, what I liked best, was when I was able to satisfy them without taking pleasure myself, and especially, without ejaculating. Then I had a sense that I truly existed, that I was finally myself.
Michel is nestled between their bosoms, Juliana’s large breasts and Claire’s small firm breasts. All three are naked and Michel has more skin than he knows what to do with, and instead of getting hard, he’s crying.
“What’s the matter with me? What’s happening to me?”
The tears gush to the floodgates and he can’t stop them. He feels weak and useless. It hit him in the car when he thought about what Édouard had said.
“I’m taking you to a restaurant for dinner, and afterwards we’ll go do all the bars on all the streets that are worth the trouble. I don’t want to come back here until I’ve passed out.”
They stroke his hair, they kiss his temples and they offer him tissues. He doesn’t believe all that about the restaurant and the bars, the words came out with all the enthusiasm of a dying man asking for the piss pot. The girls say again that it isn’t serious, he only needs a little rest. Claire will adjust his diet and he’ll be okay in no time. And what if the three of them went away for a few weeks? Michel could just close the office, it’s been so long since he’s had a vacation …
“I’m the one who’s headed for a burnout. Eddy’s gone off the rails and I’m having a burnout.”
“You’re not having a burnout, it’s just fatigue. And you’re drunk.”
“What?”
“You’re tired, Michel!”
“That stupid idiot messed up my ear, I can’t hear what you’re saying. I’m having a burnout and I’m deaf.”
Whatever Claire and Juliana say, the best case is that Michel is having a burnout and the worst case is that it’s depression.
“Eddy’s right, my life is shit.”
“Sleep a little, it’ll do you good.”
“What? What did you say?”
16
THERE’S A PLACE FOR EVERYTHING. A colour, a shape and a place. Each thing, from the smallest to the biggest, from my pumps lined up at the back of my closet to my car parked exactly in the centre of the driveway, equidistant from each side, to love in everyday life—the love of my son, of my lover, of my parents. Of course, you have to leave a certain amount of room for frivolity. It’s perfectly healthy to have moments when your mind can go where it wants and your body can feel joy. I find them in going to the movies, to the gym, or shopping, and in making love. I see my life as a dresser where each component occupies a drawer that I can open and close at will. That may seem restrictive, but, on the contrary, it gives me a feeling of enormous freedom, and even more, an exhilarating sense of precision. There’s nothing stopping me, incidentally, from opening more than one drawer at a time or opening one all the way while two others are only half or a third open. It’s not a matter of rigidly confining myself, but of knowing at every moment what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. There’s a time for everything, and everything has its place. It’s quite simple, it seems to me.
I haven’t always been like this, of course. It started when Maxime was born. I can even say the exact day when it all began. Maxime was eight months old. I was doing some last-minute shopping for supper, holding a handful of zucchinis, with Maxime in my arms, and I was in a cheerful, carefree mood. That was something new for me; I’d reached a certain level of comfort when I met Édouard, and the rest had come with my son. And when I got to the cash in the Lebanese grocery store, while I was waiting my turn, an old woman came over to us. She must have been close to eighty. Her son—at least I imagined he was her son—was picking up a few things farther away. I saw him glancing over at his mother from time to time. The old woman came over to get a better look at Maxime. I was used to this. Maxime was a beautiful baby and women always wanted to look at him up close. With the tip of her index finger, she tickled him gently under the chin. Then she looked up at me and said in a strong Arabic accent, “May God protect him.”
At the time, I nodded my head and smiled. And as the old woman walked away, a kind of uneasy feeling came over me. I paid, picked up my bag, and left the store. Outside, instead of abating, the uneasiness kept getting worse, until something exploded in my chest and I was seized by an irrational fear. The car was parked right in front, and I steadied myself against it until I reached the door. I was walking at the edge of a cliff, in danger of falling into the void. I strapped Maxime into his car seat and dropped into the seat beside him. A fear so enormous, an anxiety so profound that it shrouded my whole life … all of life, even.
“May God protect him.”
My heart was hammering in my chest, I felt my rib cage throbbing like it was trying to call for help. I really thought I was going to die. I tried to figure out why. What could be causing such colossal anxiety? And suddenly, the answer came, as banal as it was obvious, it came out without the slightest artifice, just a simple, clear fact: nothing and no one is protecting my child, no superior power is watching over him. He can be torn away from me at any moment. He can die at any time and be gone forever. The whole structure I’ve been putting up, everything I’ve been building day after day, can collapse in three weeks, in two years, or in ten seconds.
That night, I didn’t sleep a wink. I was lying on my back beside Édouard, listening to Maxime’s breathing, which I could hear from his bedroom. As soon
as I couldn’t hear him anymore, I’d get up to check if everything was okay. The following night, I didn’t sleep at all either. Same thing the next night, except for a few minutes. But I had to try to be sensible. In spite of my fear, and in spite of the fatigue that was seriously muddling my thinking, I knew deep down that I couldn’t go on like this. So I very carefully analyzed the fear, I dissected it and placed each of the organs that made it up in individual bags. It was my way of regaining some control. By isolating each detail, by not letting them pile up and accumulate into an inextricable pile, I was a bit better able to master the situation. And little by little, since the process seemed to be effective, my whole life went through that sieve. And it simply became second nature, and I maintain it now with a certain pride.
At the beginning, I was able to contain Édouard the same way. Just by my presence, I created a defined space for life, and he was able to function within that framework. This was not manipulation or power or control, nothing like that. His more ethereal nature needed me to define the rules and the boundaries, and I was glad to do it for both of us. Translator, lover, father, he played all these roles to perfection once I had drawn the boundaries. His patience and sensitivity with Maxime, the feeling it produced in me when he looked at me, in public or with my friends or my family, the perfection he embodied—he was exactly as if I had ordered him from a catalogue, if such a thing had been possible. I’m joking, obviously.
Of course, with time, things relaxed a little. Nothing abnormal, just what all couples go through. Each little disappointment, however rare, was easy to file away under “fatigue,” the wear and tear of time, or a fleeting wish for change. In short, nothing, from him or from me, that I couldn’t understand and contain. An exasperated glance caught without the other knowing. An arm trying to free itself from an unexpected caress. Édouard could even, for an instant, let his eyes wander to another woman, since there were times when I would excite myself by thinking of another man when he started touching me. But these are only examples.
A Slight Case of Fatigue Page 12