The love around him and the meddling of others in his struggle had the perverse effect of destabilising him. Like a true French sportsman, he began to fail under the pressure; this pressure that consisted in not deceiving. He cried in the men’s room, and put toilet paper under his eyes as not to make any noise. He who had been so strong and merciless during so many negotiations, he who had mastered the art of Chinese bluff and neuropsychic concentration, was literally breaking down. He felt weak, without armour. To change his life, it suddenly seemed to him, he would at least have to die.
Hector left the office early. In the street, his legs were hesitating like first-time lovers. On impulse, he ran into a post office. He came out of it, relieved for a few seconds, with a series of insignificant stamps. Philately, my God, was the worse of the collections! If he was going to come off the bandwagon, why not do it with something more original! ‘Stamps, stamps,’ he could not stop repeating the words that were hurting him so much. Why not coins as well? It was an easy, pathetic relapse. He retraced his steps, wanting to change his destiny, with the illusion that he merely had to retrace his steps to erase his recent acts. Back in his office, with the nauseous aftertaste of the stamps still in his mouth, he was unable to get back to work. Thankfully, something happened. Géraldine (the redhead secretary) walked towards him swaying her hips in her usual way that certainly figured in the best days of the ‘Winter 54’ collection. Hector watched her in slow motion; her woman’s mouth opened.
5
‘Hello, my name is Marcel Schubert.’
‘Like the composer?’ asked Hector, trying to be convivial, and saying the first thing that came to his mind. ‘No, it’s spelt Choubert.’ Once the preliminaries were done with, something happened in the expressions of these two men, something gentle and intimate, something seeming like the evidence of a friendship.
Choubert was Géraldine’s nephew through marriage. She had come to see him because she knew that this nephew had suffered from compulsive hoarding in the past, and that he had come out of it. She had merely suggested that they meet, and Choubert had appeared in front of Hector saying: ‘Hello, I am Marcel Schubert.’ He had a clear advantage over Hector, as he had not changed collections since 1986. He had a stable passion and presently lived in a quasi-humdrum frenzy. He worked in some bank or another that, thanks to honest bonuses, allowed him to appease his passion. His parents had gone to live in Venezuela (his father had become ambassador as he had not managed to finish writing a novel before the age of thirty) and had left him a sumptuous 65-square-metre pad in the Second Arrondissement in Paris. After a short walk one could reach the Stock Exchange. At the time when the Berlin Wall was crumbling, he had met a Laurence, and they had been building a relationship ever since. Some must know Laurence since she was an attacking player in the ping-pong team whose performance was appreciated during the world championship in Tokyo; the others will get to know her later. The couple had not wanted any children, it was a choice like any other. They sometimes received guests for dinner in an atmosphere that was always very pleasant. When the mood was excellent, jokes could be expected from Choubert as the dishes were being washed in the kitchen.
This was a happy life.
The principal information that Marcel divulged to Hector was that there existed meetings of Collectors Anonymous. They took place every Thursday on the first floor of a discreet building. The concierge thought they were a sect, but, greased with gifts, she had stopped thinking about it at all. Hector listened to Marcel; for the first time, he was with somebody who could understand him. From the following Thursday, he went with him. Hector introduced himself to the eight people present at the meeting, and all expressed sincere compassion. He explained how his life had been an absurd chain of absurd collections. His confession relieved him, but far less than listening to the others. The aim of the Collectors Anonymous meetings was in fact not to feel isolated anymore. Healing became possible as soon as the suffering of others was acknowledged. It was also the strangeness of all these meetings: what seemed like the height of mutual assistance was the most egotistical enterprise there is.
Thus strange discussions could be apprehended:
‘I had a great “howlophilist” period until March 1977, just before I became a “keyboardophile”.’
‘Oh really, you were a “keyboardophile”?’
‘Yes, I needed to reassure myself, to hang on to something.’
‘That was certainly better than being a “skylightophile”!’
‘Oh, how funny!’
This is just a sample of the pre-meeting ambience. Then everyone would sit down (except the one who was collecting moments of when he was standing), and Marcel led the debates. Everyone spoke in turn, and more time was spent on those who had relapsed during the week. It was adorable. With regard to Hector, everyone agreed that he would come out of it quickly. He was young and the illness had been detected in time. For others (and here we think especially of Jean, completely addicted to miniature trains and to lighters) there was not anything more that could be done – they were euthanising themselves gently during the meetings. And there were also these two Poles who had the strangeness of collecting appearances of two Poles in novels. Their case seemed especially desperate.
That night, Hector did some push-ups, surprising his muscles. He slept on his left side, life was going to be simple. The following days, he did pretty well at work, he received encouraging remarks from his superiors, and women’s legs made his heart beat faster. He went to see the secretary without whom he never would have met Marcel, and offered her 142 porcelain spoons, vestiges of his collection. She was very moved, and her emotions spread easily. And it was already the day of the second meeting: Hector, upright, and with a certain pride, announced almost not having thought about collections at all, and he was applauded. There was delight in others’ delight, a real solidarity reigned. After the meeting, Marcel suggested a day trip on Saturday to see the sea. And also to inhale it, said Hector. Yes, to inhale it. In all honesty, Marcel was a bachelor this weekend as Laurence had a ping-pong congress – well, a kind of reunion of ancient ‘pongist’ combatants at a chateau in Sologne.
Saturday, Marcel was poetic in front of the sea. Contemplation of the horizon was giving his voice wings. You see, Hector, that whale far away, that is your illness … and together, by uniting our spirits, we do everything to attract this whale to the shore … when your illness berths it will be a beached whale. It was so beautiful out that they ate mussels. Marcel ordered champagne even though Hector did not really like champagne. Hector did not want to displease him. Marcel was the kind of person who speaks loudly, and who slaps his friends’ backs. Not having an athlete’s physique, Hector clenched his bum cheeks during these moments of beautiful friendship. During dessert, Marcel asked his new friend how he envisaged his life after collecting. Hector could not imagine anything, and especially not the future. Marcel insisted, and suggested a beautiful life with a dog and a wife. You know, Laurence has pretty friends, you must like athletic women, their backs are a bit too hard, but they’re pretty. If you want, we can introduce you to one. Hector did not want to have wicked thoughts, but it sometimes occurred to him, in the flash of a moment, that Marcel’s life must be seriously boring for him to invest himself so much in his. These were wicked thoughts of course; Marcel was a pure soul.
Marcel collected hair. Women’s hair, obviously. A lucky man, he rejoiced in having a corner dedicated to his passion in his apartment, and Hector had the privilege of visiting this sacred spot. He overdid his enthusiasm slightly so as not to vex his friend, going as far as adding a few ‘ahs’ and ‘ohs’, well executed for a novice of deceit. He resented the pressure on those who are told confidences. It must be noted that a collector is recognisable by the notable lack of interest he holds in others’ collections. In an insidiously friendly way, Marcel was also seeking to test the convalescent Hector. The first piece in the collection, ‘redhead vintage’ 77’ immediately provoked resp
ect. Hector thought that hair without a woman was like a hand without an arm; following the magic of women’s hair leads to a crash in an atrocious void. Hair does not have the right to be an impasse. Marcel launched into an explanation of the ’70s. Let’s listen. He estimated that no other period had been as ‘hair’ as the mid-70s. No one could offer a counterpoint; those years had incontestably been ‘very hair’. The worst period for the bald. Hector, during the development of the Marcellian theory, remembered his father and his fascination for the moustache.
Blondes from 1983 and 1984, eternal brunettes from 1988, and the auburns from a few days ago were all perused. Hector, to be courteous, asked him how he had procured all these wonders for himself. Marcel admitted that he had an arrangement with a hairdresser from a neighbouring street. ‘He calls me as soon as he spots a rare specimen, and I go there to filch the treasure.’ Unique and easy collection, no anxiety, there were only benefits. On that note, Laurence came in and offered to make dinner. Hector yawned but it was not enough for him to escape. He allowed himself the indiscretion of asking his friend whether his wife was jealous of his collection. Laurence jealous? This was so nonsensical that Marcel could not even muster a laugh. Laurence was not jealous, and Laurence was preparing a roast that she had kept for her return; it was one of her peculiarities, she loved eating a roast after returning from ping-pong. ‘Perfect,’ said Hector. In any case, he didn’t have a choice in the matter. They were offering him a mandatory Martini in the guise of an aperitif. Marcel looked him straight in the eye and announced with solemnity: ‘I have presented my collection and my wife to you … You really are a part of my life!’ Hector was moved to really be a part of someone’s life, but he could not help feeling uncomfortable. He had not yet dared to admit that he was not crazy about roasts.
Laurence called Hector. She wanted to get to know his culinary preferences, more precisely his preference for cooking time, so he went into the kitchen. Oh me, well you know … He did not have any particular taste. She came towards him as though she suddenly wanted to stare at him, Hector could no longer make out the details of her face, especially not the active tongue that she had just stuffed in his mouth. Simultaneous to this oral aggression, she fondled his testicles. Then, pulling back just as suddenly, she said loudly: ‘Very well, I’ll make sure it’s rare!’
Hector mumbled and blamed it on the Martini. Nevertheless, he felt the irrepressible urge to help himself to another drink. Drinking avidly, he closed his eyes so as not to see the face of the friend he had just betrayed, this friend who was showing him his collection and presenting him his wife. Hector was vermin. Wives were being presented to him, and he offered his testicles. It took him some time to realise that he had been sexually assaulted. A word was stuck in his mouth, an obvious word, but nonetheless a word that did not dare come out: nymphomaniac. My God, Marcel lived with a nymphomaniac. This same Marcel approached him, and as though he could read his guilt, he asked: ‘Do you think my wife’s attractive?’
He hurriedly answered no, before realising the tactlessness of such a response. He lamentably retracted his answer to a yes, of course. Hector was no social ace. Why was this happening to him? He was sweating. Marcel approached his ear to whisper that women who play ping-pong had a magical way of fondling, ‘erm, well you know what I mean.’ Hector was reanimated with some slaps, and Marcel accompanied him home.
Marcel tucked him in, and insisted that Hector call him at any time in case of emergency. He had quite a bad night, he was tormented by images of old collections, he dreamed of overflowing wardrobes where he did not lack anything. He clung to these dreams, and could not stand opening his eyes again. But someone was ringing his doorbell early in the morning; and the bell was far too insistent to pretend not to be there. An enormous box was delivered that, once left in the living room by the sweaty courier, lorded it like a dictator after a putsch. He opened it mechanically to fall face to face with two thousand corks, give or take, from champagne bottles. And at the top, a card on which was written:
Monsieur Honorė Delphine, deceased on 12 October, has left you his collection of corks.
This time, he could not pull himself back together. There he was, trying to be a man like any other, but still people were sending him corks. There were always dead people who were sufficiently bored to try to ruin lives; feeling so lonely, they tried to hasten the demise of the living. Destabilised by a fondling of testicles, finished by a collection delivered by a courier, he had to end this life that was heading towards a mirror, modelling itself on his past. How could he know at that moment that he should hang on to find out its strange outcome? His movements were becoming blurred, and he rushed to the Metro, to play out the scene of his failed suicide attempt and, additionally, the beginning of our book.
6
Six months later, our pseudo-hero was coming home from the United States, that large country he knew as much about as happiness. The concierge tried to score her Christmas presents, and an alcoholic neighbour (a pleonasm if ever there was one) tried to hold him back. Once seated at home, we had stopped to go back in time. Hector did not sleep a wink that entire night. After six months of convalescence, he needed to find the courage to return to a normal life. This was the turn of phrase that the tanned doctor had used: ‘Normal life, old boy, you are returning to normal life.’ It was necessary to at least try to commit suicide to be called ‘old boy’ by a doctor. Normal life, life without collections. This time, he was cured. He could not really say how, or at what precise moment, but during all his time in the clinic, he had washed himself of his past. He felt as though the particles of another man had parachuted inside him.
His brother called him to ask what he intended to do. He had allowed him to obtain a long sabbatical, but now that he had done a comeback, he needed to tell him when he was going to go back to work. He did not dare tell him that the real reason for this pressure was that he was missed! Without him, the firm had taken on a ruthless appearance, like an episode of Dallas. Hector requested a further week’s holiday for a peculiar reason: he did not at all have the look of someone who has just returned from the United States. And to look like your journey was important nowadays. In any case those who have been there say States, and the longer their stay, the more they stretch the ‘a’ to mark a certain intimacy that the rest of us are unable to understand: ‘Staaaaaaaaaates’. This intimacy is interpreted as proof. He therefore needed a week to learn everything about the United States. One week to go back to work, cured, and with a concrete alibi for the not very glorious six months of convalescence.
At the François-Mittérand Library he asked for the United States section, and ended up in the Geography department. Hector enjoyed letting his finger slide on the spines of the books as he remembered an old collection, without any palpitations. How could he have been so stupid? He hesitated to do some push-ups, just to generate some instant pride. Finally, he came face to face with the Atlas of the United States. He stretched his arm, and this same arm collided with another arm. You needed to follow this other arm to see that it belonged to a human sample of feminine origin. He had just entered a competition with this woman for the same book. Polite, she was the first one to apologise. Gentlemanly, he insisted that she take the book. The union of politeness and gentlemanliness had the following conclusion: they would share the book, they would sit together and they would try not to step over each other when turning the pages. On the way to the sofa, and without really knowing why, Hector thought back to a Croatian maxim that said that we often meet the woman of our life in front of books.
Manifestly, there was a book there.
‘So you’re interested in the United States?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’ve just come back from there.’
‘Oh really, you were in the Staaaaaaaaaates?’
‘Yes, and I have the feeling that you were too.’
They were swimming in the points in common and the coincidences. And to back up this good fortune, each one contri
buted his comments, while glancing over at the Atlas. Yes, Boston, it’s magnificent, it’s a good agglomeration of 8,322,765 inhabitants. And Kansas, it’s crazy the way how it’s crossed by the Bluewich Meridian. In short, globetrotting mythomania was being flaunted. And it would only have taken one of them to have really gone to the United States to realise the other’s con. When two people lie to each other about the same subject, there are few chances that they will be unmasked. It was then that Hector committed the fatal error of asking his atlas partner why she was so interested in the United States. She explained to him that she was a sociologist. It is a word that muddled him so much that it took him a while to understand that she had just retuned his question. They were almost playing ping-pong. He was lost. He did not know what to say; and as often happens when we do not know what to say, we say the truth.
‘I want to make people believe that I’ve been there.’
He thought that she would take him for a madman, but what she thought to be mad was this coincidence. She also wanted to make people believe she’d gone! Fired up, Hector asked the name of the young lady and, amazingly, he was confronted with a Brigitte. And in a totally weird way, he had needed to know her name to find her beautiful. He never admired the unknown, and the name of a woman reassured him.
Before panicking him completely.
The Erotic Potential of my Wife Page 3