Brigitte had washed the windows, Hector, too turned-on, had received a surprising slap; this dinner seemed very promising. And the fantasy was not yet put in motion. The fantasy was dozing very near the dessert. Before that, he had to digest the roast that was a smidgeon too dry. But with what had been said with the aperitifs, it was out of the question to criticise anything. Everything was exquisite, but could we, for the twelfth time tonight, have a bit more water? ‘Do you find it dry?’ worried Laurence. ‘Of course not,’ the dry throats answered in unison. This roast could have been drowned in an ocean of sauce before being eaten. Finally, the dessert course ended this pitiful dinner with a floating island in the form of mediocre apotheosis. The island was actually struggling not to sink and Marcel, as an amateur of one-liners, rebaptised the thing a floating Titanic.
Brigitte hesitated; she was no longer certain of wanting to satiate her fantasy. She could especially not guarantee that this sensual urge was not a response to the washing. A vital means, according to her, of equalising their relationship. To be honest, in remembering all these erotic moments in the darkness of her room of virgin adolescent, these moments where she touched herself in a still imprecise way, she did sometimes have strange images in mind. She imagined a man who she would love, a man who by love for her would be able to … No, it was not possible that such a thing could have crossed her mind … Everyone had their fantasy, she repeated to herself while drinking a bit more of the thankfully treacherous punch. Her vertigo progressing, she took courage, and her crescendo desire, for once, would not agonise in frustration …
She gave Hector a sign.
Then.
Then he rose abruptly and began to undress.
In prevision of what was predicted, he had worn a simple shirt and trousers without a belt. Thus, he was naked in a few seconds. Terribly awkward, he glanced over at Marcel amicably. The latter who had gathered the secrets about the washing was not really surprised. On the other hand, Laurence overplayed the prude (oh really) by covering her eyes. Hector’s genitals were quite short genitals, only a tad cumbersome. Brigitte was more and more excited by the idea that her man was the target of these looks. (Laurence did remove her hands to analyse the Hectorian anatomy.)
‘Can I ask what’s happening to you?’ asked Marcel.
‘Nothing … It’s just that I wanted to have your opinion about my genitals. I could only allow myself to ask such a question to friends. It is very awkward for me, but I would like you to be honest …’
‘Listen, you’re taking us by surprise …’
‘Oh, I thought so … you find it small?’
‘No, it’s not that,’ Marcel reassured him. ‘It’s just that we do not have many points with which to compare it to. For my part I haven’t seen many other than mine … And I don’t think Laurence saw more than two before me …’
Laurence almost choked. Then became angry: ‘OK, this behaviour is just unsuitable! You come to eat dinner at our house, we’re not in a swingers’ club! But if you want to know, your genitals are average, no more, no less … It is without interest, it has no particular quality … It seems a bit flaccid on the pre-testicular zone … (getting carried away suddenly) The gland for its part is slightly dichotomous … You have everything of a premature ejaculator … Well, I can’t be entirely sure … (shouting) In any case, you’re a sprinter! There is no doubt about that! It’s a sprinter’s dick!’
She stopped abruptly when she looked at her table companions’ bewildered faces. But, very quickly, the strangeness of that moment was engulfed by the strangeness of the whole evening. There was no more energy to focus on the details (well …).
Hector was on the lookout for a sign from his wife; she allowed him to get dressed. On that note, they got up and left, warmly thanking their hosts for this delicious evening. To be honest, they were not going to linger after their act of terrorism. Moreover, as is usually the case, once genitals have been unveiled, there is not much left to say. Marcel and Laurence blamed their friends’ sudden extravagance on their recent trip to the United States. Americans have ten years advance on us, Marcel affirmed. I would not be surprised if soon all men were to show their things at the end of a meal.
The following summer, they would surely go to Chicago.
Thus Brigitte’s fantasy had been that Hector show his genitals. More precisely, her fantasy was that her husband’s dick be a topic of conversation, that everyone analyse it like an insect under a microscope. She had loved his little face all embarrassed like a darling little man. He had been so brave that she would wash the windows all night if he wanted. They had both satiated their fantasies. They were finally a couple like any other (were they going to consider buying a house in the suburbs?) They decided to walk home. They were walking hand in hand in the moonlight, crossing all these other couples in love who were walking hand in hand. Paris is a fantastic city for those who love each other with such a commonplace love. Midnight. The Eiffel Tower sparkled with precision, there were always civil servants behind the magic. And it is on the bank of the Seine that Hector had the following intuition: ‘Was it really your fantasy?’
Brigitte laughed.
‘Of course not, that wasn’t a fantasy! My fantasies are a lot simpler than that … My fantasies are to make love in a cinema or in a lift … I just wanted to know what you were capable of doing that for me, to prove your love … After all, I am going to be washing windows my whole life to excite you … little pervert! So I wanted to make sure that you deserved it … Come, I have a feeling the windows in our home are dirty …’
5
Everything was like in the time of their best days. Hector wanted to take Brigitte to the library, to breathe in the foetus of their love. Their hands would naturally find each other in front of the Atlas of the United States. Hands did not have a brain, but a memory of love. They separated at the entrance to be able to create an element of randomness in front of the book. Brigitte thought back to this book by Cortázar where the lovers walk in the street until the moment where they meet – finally. She had read it the day of her eighteenth birthday, while she was on holiday at a slightly fat uncle’s house. Passing in front of all these students, she skimmed the memory of her youth. Her life seemed surreal to her, and yet in contemplating all these static napes, she understood the point to which she loved her life that was so out of the ordinary. The surreal was a language that tickled her heart. She started to walk faster; it was the moment in films where they zoom in on the heroine. Nothing existed other than the movement of her legs. Music always ruins these scenes. Applying music to women should be forbidden, their silence is their melody.
They rediscovered themselves in front of the book, and kissed in front of the red spines.
Often it only takes slight happiness to no longer notice the misfortune of others. In the present case, it was actually the opposite. Ever since he had understood his brother’s pain, Ernest had grown closer to him. The day of his birthday, he had not believed the alibi of the fall (he had been a witness to his little brother’s drifting so many times). Hector had told him everything. In persuading him that they were a couple like any other, Brigitte had removed any guilt-feeling from him. He was now able to evoke his fascination for the window washing. Weird fantasy, thought Ernest. Hector then specified that he was again and always dealing with compulsive hoarding. His wife was regularly satisfying his desire to allow him to survive.
‘You are the happiest of men!’ raved Ernest.
Hector seemed surprised, and asked whether Justine did not satisfy him sexually. For the first time, they were having a conversation about their rapport with women. Ernest, in wanting to talk about himself, began to stammer. The appearance of his successful life transformed itself into an uncertain, almost blurry, mass. He had never allowed himself to be a topic of conversation. To be honest, he had never found a human being able to play the role of best friend. So his newly beaming brother pushed him to confess.
Justine was not the pr
oblem. Justine had a body that would have made any teenager fantasise, as well as any man who took himself for an eternal teenager. She had an unusual style in bed. But time, in its most clichéd tragedy, had thwarted their erotic games. Ernest was lying to himself; he knew it had less to do with the passing of time than his unalterable love for women. He had cheated on her with Clarisse, and the marks of her nails had almost put an end to their marriage. Perhaps things ought to have happened this way? By weakness (marriage makes you weak), by fear of a certain solitude common to these situations, they had found each other again. She had forgiven him, which meant that she had not been able to envisage a life without him. She remained persuaded that this woman had been his only mistress. She was wrong; Ernest had not ceased creating all sorts of stories to live out. Obsessed by women, their movement and their grace, he could not recall any moment of his life where a woman, unknown or almost known, had not haunted him. During his lunch breaks he sometimes walked in the street just to see women walking. This tyranny in fresh air made him a slave seated in the sensual dictatorship.
Why was he telling him all that? Hector found this story very common. He did not think there was anything pathological to such a passion. Many men loved women in an excessive, hysterical way. He did not understand that Ernest envied him for his fixed passion. His passion for the washing was monogamous. Not only did he only love his wife, but in addition he loved a precise action of hers! For all men exhausted by the incessant movement of stiletto heels, Hector seemed like a restful oasis. What he considered a pathologic tyranny was a sterilised paradise. Ernest longed to love Justine insanely when she washed the windows. He too wanted to experience sedentary sensual fascination.
Alone, Hector felt disgusted. The people we admire do not have the right to expose us to their weaknesses. This brother who had been a role model had just flown away like a deflated balloon. His wife had stopped him feeling guilty, his brother had just mythified him, he who had been the fifth wheel of a social coach had suddenly become a stable man. At that pace, it would not be long before he would be considered charismatic. ‘A stable man’: the expression fascinated him. People would soon ask him for advice, and he would know how to answer. He would read the pink pages of Le Figaro, and would finally vote for the Right. While he was daydreaming (you would think that they had spread the word), Gérard showed up unannounced.
‘My sister’s not here?’
‘No, Brigitte is not here.’
‘That’s good. It’s you I came to see.’
Before, no one ever came to see him unannounced.
Hector and his brother-in-law had not seen each other since the famous blackmail affair that ended in torture. It goes without saying that no one else knew about this; enemies in violence often unite in silence. They both maintained a wonderful memory of their sportive, and extra-sportive, afternoon. They hugged an instant too long for this Saturday. Gérard scrutinised Hector’s face, and, as a connoisseur, admired his scarring prowess. There was practically no souvenir left from the beating. Not even the teeth; two new ones filled the void with the charisma of their calcium.
Hector offered a coffee, or any kind of beverage that would prove his convivial spirit. Gérard, for many weeks, had thought a lot. His brain, not being in the habit of such a use, almost overheated. The motive of his reflections: the lie of his life. It was not possible to continue like this! He was not allowed to be loved and admired for false pretences. Before his brother-in-law’s threat, he had however forgotten that it was a pure product of his mythomania. He had rehashed his false exploits so many times that he had persuaded himself he had won Ouarzazate-Casablanca. If everyone believed him, it had to be true. And then, there were the friends from the photomontage (the neighbours): they too used the photo to prove their presence on the podium of the famous race. So the three of them recalled the race from time to time, inventing more and more extravagant details every time. How not to believe it in such conditions? Until the day Hector had come to shake up the myth of his life. After the attack, he could no longer look at himself in the mirror; you did not cheat on the other side. He remained persuaded that his life, without this event, was not worth anything in others’ eyes.
In others’ eyes.
Hector repeated this expression in his head. Everything seemed very simple to him. His whole life, in accumulating the most absurd objects, he too had wished to appear important by building a material identity for himself. Raised by a moustache and a soup, his benchmarks had produced hot air. Ouarzazate-Casablanca was a collection like any other. Every person found his fantastical nourishment. The guiltless Hector explained to Gérard the extent to which he should not say anything. He needed to assume and conserve the sources of his happiness.
‘Are you happy when you talk about this race?’
Gérard’s lit-up face was worth all the talk. He was not allowed, under the absurd pretext of transparency, to remove himself from his greatest climax. For this was his way, the admiration he provoked in the eyes of those he loved. The search for enlightenment could seem sane, but it did not necessarily make you happy. We should not seek to annihilate our lies and impulses. To admit them should be sufficient. He thought back to his brother and his suffering under the dictatorship of women. He could now find the words. Gérard was observing Hector’s face. After a silence, he confirmed that he should above all not admit anything. It was advice from the one who had wanted to denounce him! He understood nothing. And it was a feeling that Gérard knew well, not to understand.
Convinced by his brother-in-law not to say anything, Gérard breathed easy again, judging absurd these introspective weeks. He knew deep down that he would never have been able to confess. Like in the Romand affair, he would have been forced to gun down his parents while telling them the truth. His sister finally came home. He found her beautiful, but did not comprehend her full radiance at that moment. It’s true that she was feeling better and better. Brigitte threw herself on her brother, so happy was she to see him. She felt his muscles, and surmised that his recent disappearance resulted from a great occupation to tone and tighten his athletic physique. He answered that she was entirely right, not without having winked discreetly in Hector’s direction. The latter gave him a knowing glance. When you live on a well-oiled lie, things roll really easily. Others spend their time making hypotheses, asking questions, so that all that the liar needs to do is to answer yes or no.
Brigitte, as a sublime homemaker, was never taken by surprise when a familial guest invited himself. There were always two or three nibbles (stylish expression) that could be heated hastily. She could even be heard laughing in the kitchen, alone and happy. ‘Is she not slightly bordering hysteria?’ her husband asked himself. And then, he thought of something else, not to drift towards another urge for washing which would have been awkward in front of Gérard.
The phone rang.
‘I’m in the kitchen, can you get it, my love?’
Hector stood up. It was Marcel. He was not angry about the nudist dinner. What a relief! Hector had not dared call him after what had happened; he was far too embarrassed. Marcel’s voice was incredibly sparkly. Laurence was very close since her heavy breathing could be heard. She whispered: ‘So, what’s he saying?’ Marcel had placed his hand on top of the receiver to answer Laurence: ‘Just wait, how do you want me to talk to him, if you stick to me like that! Let me first relax the atmosphere!’ If Marcel had always been incredibly nice with Hector, this conversation seemed to surpass all these moments of niceness. We could frankly say that Marcel was sucking up to his friend. He was saying that it had been an age since they had seen each other, he missed him, the four of them should go on holiday together, and soon another dinner (not one allusion to the exhibitionist scene), etc. Finally, he asked how Brigitte was.
Marcel stopped and caught his breath. Yes, how is she? Hector admitted that he had detected the beginnings of hysteria in his wife, and laughed. Marcel quickly joined in the laugh. Finally he dared to ask: ‘W
ell, Laurence and I, we would really like … well, this could seem weird to you … that Brigitte come back to wash our windows …’ Hector burst out in laughter; it was incredible having such funny friends. And in seeing Brigitte go out of the kitchen, he hung up because they had to eat.
Once seated at the table, Brigitte asked what they had wanted, and especially if they were angry for the other night.
‘Not only are they not angry … But Marcel just made a joke, asking if you want to come and wash their windows!’
‘Ah that’s funny. They are taking their revenge …’
Gérard did not understand anything about this conversation, so he took matters into his own hands, and evoked Ouarzazate-Casablanca, against all odds.
6
Brigitte visited her parents. She tried to see them once a week. When Hector did not use it as an opportunity to go to his mother’s, he joined Brigitte with pleasure. His parents-in-law would have been ideal parents. Simple, kind, attentive, it was even possible to discuss this, that and the other with them. Since a few months ago, they had aged terribly. Especially the father who couldn’t easily walk anymore. His whole life he had adored leaving the conjugal home to go on walks, more or less long. He often went to smoke cigarettes in cafes, and play cards while telling misogynist jokes. His relationship had surely held together because of these escapades. Not being able to walk anymore, what bothered him the most was incontestably to see his wife all day long. Old age reduces couples’ vital space. You ended up on top of each other, as though you were preparing for a concession. At that age where there was nothing left to say to each other, it was necessary to string platitudes together. Brigitte took the role of referee during these visits. She relished the good points, and did not seek to reconcile them. Her father spoke less and less; it hurt her not to be able to find any topics of conversation that interested him anymore. He never wanted to talk about the past. And finally, neither about the present nor the future. So, she would observe him, this old man who was her father. His face creased by skin as tight as the time left in his life. Far from depressing her, watching him made her think more than ever that she had to profit from life. Her father’s face, in its decrepitude, had surely weighed in her attitude during her marital crisis.
The Erotic Potential of my Wife Page 10