by Emma Becker
What do I want to be when I grow up? Like Monsieur, I aspire to be perverse.
Sitting on the couch, I’m kicking my heels. I watch Alice and Lucy argue over the computer and twiddle my thumbs. At times like this, I miss Paris so much. I feel impotent in the countryside. The further I am from Paris, the more my power over Monsieur diminishes. Holidaying here is like being in a convent: I can no longer bring to mind the city skyline when I’m confronted by the copper beeches outside. Even the colours are different: there is an overall shade of green that doesn’t make sense, and I search in vain for the three hues I’m familiar with: the green of the RATP buses, that of the metal gratings of place Boucicault and, finally, the grey-green that dominates every Parisian statue. The sky is an exceptional blue, and the smell of the rain reminds me of endless days at my grandparents’ home, when Monsieur was not yet around to fill my head with nonsense.
The storm has the after-taste of apocalypse: now hailstones as big as my fist are piercing the surface of the pond, and it’s the middle of August. Only in Normandy would you find such a climate.
The blues. In Paris, many of the men I see regularly are back from holiday, or are gradually getting ready to leave. For some reason, Zylberstein is the one I’m most often on the phone to. But there is also his friend Octave, who cheered me up by mentioning ‘clit’ in one of his texts; it made me feel warm inside as I imagined the strident sound of the diminutive word as spoken by a man.
I’m about to suggest we all do something I will no doubt come to regret very quickly, like yet another game of tarot, when my mobile starts vibrating. Almost two weeks since we were last in contact and Monsieur is acknowledging receipt of a mail I can barely remember, but in which I told him about my tribulations with Zylberstein: ‘I really enjoyed your letter . . .’
‘Hey, it’s a message from Monsieur!’ I type: ‘When was the letter dated? When did you get it? Don’t you ever go on holiday?’
I’d crawl across the room on all fours for just a word from Monsieur, and I can’t write about sex out of the blue, there and then. When it comes to him, I’m constantly in a state of need and reluctant to let him know it. But talking to him and getting impersonal messages are two very different things. Trying to imagine his voice reading the words to me is as productive as trying to wank with a broken finger. I want to hear his voice so much, and the more I think of it, the more it hurts.
Maybe if I explained things to him, with the right words, black on white, he would come to understand how I live in his absence. Maybe he wouldn’t take a whole three days to respond to my texts with all their question marks and ‘call me back’. Maybe he would actually call me back.
We’re halfway through a game of tarot when, at eight forty-five, Monsieur is calling me. Actually, the words ‘unknown caller’ flash on the small screen, so it could be anyone, but I instinctively know it’s him. I recognize the carnival masks he wears when he’s on the phone, but most of all, since I’ve known him, I’ve come to experience a spectrum of cramps in the pit of my stomach when he rings. The ‘unknown caller’ is well known to me. I snatch up my mobile, my arm brushing against the corner of the table, and Lucy immediately understands. I smile at her, suggesting she might follow me outside, the same Lucy who, that afternoon, had defiantly remarked that she had never seen me in a room with a man – me, of all people! Lucy wraps a blanket round her shoulders and leaves the room and the ongoing game, the game with me. I go outside.
‘You OK?’
‘What about you?’ Monsieur answers.
It feels so good, so really good.
‘I enjoyed your letter. It reached me this morning,’ he adds.
‘Only this morning?’
‘I read it while I was waiting for a patient. Made me laugh!’
Shoeless in the wet grass, I smile. ‘What are you doing right now?’
‘Driving home from work, I finished early. So, what did you want to tell me?’
‘Not much to say. I’m in Normandy. Bored stiff.’
Monsieur chuckles softly, and I can instantly picture him, his large hands on the steering-wheel, driving by instinct, his mind on our conversation. It’s almost two months that Monsieur has been absent from my life, and I’d almost given up hope of speaking to him again. So much so that hearing him now feels as unreal as all those Tuesday mornings I can recall in every detail. Not for a second does he suspect the sort of life I’ve been living away from him. He sounds blissfully unaware that I have been in pain, or maybe he guessed and enjoyed it in the twisted way peculiar to him. But I’m not about to elucidate. I’d rather die: as far as Monsieur is concerned, Ellie has a life of her own when he’s not around. And he’s not completely wrong: I write. A book about him.
‘Monsieur is making steady progress.’
‘So you told me in your letter. You said it would be complete by September.’
‘I’ll let you read it then.’
Monsieur’s silences, which follow my peremptory statements, please me. That’s how things work with Monsieur: when he doesn’t actually say no, I instinctively translate it as yes.
‘What about Zylberstein?’ Monsieur continues.
‘Oh, I stopped seeing him. Enough was enough, don’t you think?’
‘Did he fuck you up the arse?’
I never quite know how Monsieur will react to any of my answers, Monsieur who’s talking to me as if we’re still together. I hazard: ‘Yes.’
‘Did it feel good?’
This is a new form of torture: should I say yes (meaning ‘live with it’) or lie and not tell him that Zylberstein made me come?
‘It was good,’ I answer, and as no one, apart from the metal heron in the centre of the pond, can see the expression on my face, I stand proudly, legs apart.
He should understand that I got from Zylberstein all that I could possibly get; he should understand that I came in spite of him, despite the looming shadow floating above me when I fuck that defies me to enjoy anything that it isn’t part of. It happened and I can’t say that when I came I didn’t feel his presence close to me, I can’t pretend I didn’t feel like screaming his name. No, I can’t say anything of the sort as even when I’m alone in my bed he is responsible for every crumb of pleasure I give myself, as I recite the two syllables of his name. Pitifully, I can’t stop myself from saying: ‘But not as good as with you.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Because he didn’t do it the same way.’
‘How did he do it?’
‘You know . . .’
The right mood has been retrieved, in which Monsieur and I act out the roles of eternal lovers, and I relish the thought of revealing to him every detail of my evening with Zylberstein.
‘Actually, I was just leaving Édouard’s place and—’
‘Édouard? Who’s Édouard?’
‘A friend, who teaches French. I was with him that evening and he’d taken me from behind. Then Zylberstein called me as I was about to go to sleep, and I just felt like seeing him. So I took the Métro and went to his flat.’
‘Hold on, hold on. You’re telling me you were fucked up the arse by two guys on the same evening?’
Monsieur sounds amazed, as if he’d had a journalistic scoop, that through my contact with him I’d become a true slut. I answer playfully: ‘Yeah, well. So then I went to see Zylberstein and—’
‘Two guys.’ Monsieur sighs.
‘And when I told him I’d just been fucked in the arse, do you know what he said?’
‘Tell me.’
‘“I find that terribly arousing.”’
For the first time in weeks, Monsieur and I share a moment of laughter, like partners in crime who find the spectacle of vice awfully amusing. Then there is a delicious instant of silence, followed by his whisper: ‘You have such a lovely voice, Ellie.’
There is a hint of sadness in his tone. I take advantage of it, gazing at the strange blue shade of the sky, hating every word: ‘Why did you leave?’
> ‘Ellie?’
Forgive me, I think. I hate myself but I have no choice. I must know. I try to sound neutral, hoping that, three hundred kilometres away from me, Monsieur will not notice that my heart is about to shatter. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. I just don’t understand.’
‘What don’t you understand, sweetie?’
(‘Sweetie’. I realize my status has changed: I am now labelled like all the others whose existence I suspect. How does ‘my love’ turn into ‘sweetie’?)
‘I can’t understand how from one day to the next you stopped calling me, answering me, communicating with me in some way. I can’t understand how it can prove easier for you to act like that, instead of just telling me you’ve had enough.’
‘I never did have enough. I—’
‘Stop. Please, stop. Let me finish. I know you pretty well and I get the feeling you’ve had enough. Otherwise you wouldn’t have stopped.’
‘Ellie—’
‘You’re like me. As long as things feel fine, you’d carry on.’
‘You, of all people, should know it’s not easy. All this has nothing to do with my desire for you.’
‘So what’s the problem, then?’
‘I felt we were moving in the wrong direction. Things were becoming dangerous.’
Shit. I freeze. Here we are. The moment when I can choose to believe him or decide that he’s lying through his teeth. This is the moment my head splits in two. It’ll affect me for days and he, of course, won’t have a clue what’s going on inside me. Frankly, I have no wish for Lucy to be a witness to this, because right now I no longer have anything in common with the witty and brilliant Ellie I can be when I’m with her. What with my wet ponytail and my father’s shapeless sweat-shirt, I look like shit. I try to get my nerves under control, twisting my curls into unwieldy clumps and knots.
‘How can I be dangerous? I never asked you for commitment.’
‘That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean risks I can or cannot take. It’s not easy for me, you know.’
‘Because of your wife?’
‘Because of many things. We were heading in the wrong direction. You know we were.’
I have difficulty in controlling my anger. ‘So why the hell are you calling me?’
‘I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your letter. You put so much of yourself into it.’
‘But if you read it all, you will no doubt remember that I ended it by suggesting we meet up again to fuck.’
‘That’s right,’ Monsieur says, and I see his smile light his face. ‘It’s a part of the letter that charmed me.’
‘Just that particular part?’
‘And the prospect of fucking you. The thought of your arse.’
For a few more minutes at least, the Ellie Lucy is watching has an opportunity to shine.
‘So?’
‘So what, sweetie?’
‘What do we do, Monsieur? Do we fuck or don’t we?’
He explodes with laughter, but for just a second, within the beauty of the sound, the open-throated roar, there is an unmistakable overload of joy that betrays him: Monsieur is uncomfortable. He’s probably thinking he had the monopoly on indecent proposals, and the misunderstanding is so typical of our situation. He is totally unaware of the misery he’s put me through. I’ve been playing the game too subtly. Subtlety has to be perceived on both sides of the fence. I have no choice but to be openly wanton: it’s the only way I can exploit such brief moments of grace.
‘I don’t know,’ Monsieur answers. ‘What should I say, Ellie?’
‘Don’t you feel like it?’ I’m being evasive, in search of a new tone, with all the lascivious inflections of a courtesan putting forward the right arguments.
‘I’m dying for it, as you well know. Every time I see you, I get a boner.’
(In many ways, Monsieur is like Pink Floyd’s Eclipse: on occasion, the words he pulls out burst inside me, taking me light years away from where I stand to unimaginable places where all he says must happen.)
‘So, tell me we’re going to fuck. It’s so simple, you and me in a room, on a Tuesday morning.’
‘I’d love to. You know that.’
‘So, let’s do it! You keep saying “you know that”, but I don’t seem to know anything. You talk to me as if you’re dying to see me, but you seem to spend your life running away from me. It hasn’t been easy for me either. From one day to the next you just faded away. If it’s over I’d rather you told me so.’
‘There is no way I could say that to you.’
What is the bastard trying to do to me? Is he dumping me or not?
Through the mist surrounding his voice, I can vaguely hear the soft rhythm of his car’s engine and, further afield, the sound of traffic in Parisian streets. I hold back the deep sigh that would let Monsieur know how much I miss the city, how much I would like to be sitting next to him, looking at him, because I know he would want to touch me. Which is all it would take. Night falling across the Marais streets and Monsieur’s hands delving under my dress as he explains that our relationship can never work.
‘I’m sorry, some of the drivers around here are so awful. Can’t you understand that the whole situation is a thousand times simpler for you?’
‘How so? Do explain, because from where I stand I’m pretty convinced you’re the one who has the advantage.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. You have your wife, your job, and on the side a chick whose only demand is to be fucked. You have everything.’
‘You’re looking at it in the wrong way. You’re twenty, you have no ties, the whole world belongs to you. I have many obligations. Believe me, you have it easier.’
‘That’s so WRONG!’ I cry out, forgetting that Lucy is listening to me and my father is lighting the barbecue close by. ‘It’s wrong, and so unfair of you to even think it. You say things like that as if what the two of us have shared hadn’t touched me inside, as if I’d already forgotten about it. Has it ever occurred to you I might have an opinion on our relationship? I wasn’t asking for much – even “Go to hell” would have been enough.’
‘Maybe there was so much violence in our relationship that it called for a violent ending.’
I react to this with a lengthy, indecisive silence, even as the core of me is screaming: ‘No way was that violent, darling. You merely disappeared off the face of the earth, and I couldn’t reach you however hard I tried. It was terribly painful. Speaking bluntly, it was as if you’d run into me with your car and left me for dead on the side of the road. But I wasn’t dead. You should have been the one hanging on the telephone, piling up masses of incoherent messages. You should have been in my place and me in yours. That would have been fun, no? Then we’d see if you’d prefer a quick death or an endless one. And I . . .’
But hold on. Hold on hold on hold on. Why is he going on about an ending if . . .?
‘If you thought it was over, why did you acknowledge a letter like the one I sent you? All you had to do, yet again, was nothing.’
‘I was thinking of you.’
How can you argue with that sort of man? Monsieur always finds a way to turn the situation back to his advantage, so I’m mad with rage and overflowing with joy that he still has me in mind, however briefly, even if his thirst for me can be quenched at will.
‘A pretty good reason,’ I mournfully concede.
‘You seem strange today,’ Monsieur remarks, and doesn’t know how right he is.
‘It’s just that I have no clue where all this is leading, and I don’t know what to think.’
Monsieur struggles for inspiration. ‘I don’t know, either. When are you back in Paris?’
‘Not sure.’
A single word, a date provided by Monsieur, would be enough for me to go and purchase my return ticket, but I like the way my ‘not sure’ sounds. I’m not sure and don’t give a damn about finding out.
‘I’m about to drive into the car park so I have to leave you
. I can call back any time you want.’
‘As you wish.’ I sigh. ‘You can call me tomorrow when you go to work.’
‘OK.’
Even though I’m desperately biting my lip, I have to squeeze out a PS in a pitiful attempt to counter the indifference I fear I have just conveyed: ‘I thought you no longer loved me, that’s all.’
‘Don’t think that, Ellie.’
‘No?’ My smile has returned.
‘No. If I could see you, if it weren’t so risky, I would do so as soon as possible.’
‘Good.’
‘OK, sweetie?’
‘OK,’ I say, to the voice that is so delightfully nibbling my ear lobe.
‘So, all’s fine, then. I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Kisses,’ Monsieur whispers.
‘Me too,’ I whisper back, and there is no way for me to describe with any clarity the three or four seconds of silence that follow the end of the conversation, a short eternal instant while I listen to his breathing, wondering if I should say any more, the deep hum of the car’s engine and then nothing. It’s over. I’m going to have to manage until tomorrow morning, compiling the inventory of everything else Monsieur and I could have said between these two parentheses.
I stand, arms hanging at my sides, in the wet grass. So, Monsieur has returned. From nowhere. I have no idea how he spent all that time away from me. All I know, and it makes me perfectly happy, for a couple of minutes, is that Monsieur is back. Monsieur exists. Monsieur is alive. I’ve spoken to him. My whole body is on fire.
‘So?’ Lucy asks me, approaching me, as she always does, in total silence.
‘I still don’t know.’
‘He wants to go to bed with you again?’
‘Yes. Or I think so. He seems to want to, at least. Unless he’s lying. I never know. This is Monsieur we’re talking about.’
As we walk back to the house, I’m tormented by lack of understanding. What does he want from me? I know I shouldn’t but I send him a text with a final question: ‘Do you want me to stop squirming in your presence like a cat in heat?’