“What purpose?”
“If I aim right, I should be able to knock out his dental implant.”
THE STRAND OF HAIR
It’s still better to be married than dead.
—MOLIÈRE (1622–1673), Les Fourberies de Scapin
Dear Jean-Baptiste,
Yes, I destroyed everything. There’s nothing left. The glassware is in pieces. The porcelain dishes are jigsaw puzzles. The paintings are slashed. The couches disemboweled. The books torn to shreds. Your computer exploded. The TV and the DVD player beyond repair. Your iPad is in the toilet bowl. Your suits have no arms or legs. Your shoes have been soaked in bleach.
I created this mess in quite a methodical way. I wanted to attack everything that represented the eight years we spent together. It hurt me to look at our photograph albums. All those images of vanished happiness, short-lived contentment, all those smiling faces, those family scenes, our honeymoon, our first Christmas together, those birthdays and vacations … I couldn’t bear to look at them anymore. So I burned them, one by one, along with all your letters.
The CDs and DVDs were more difficult. They’re surprisingly hard to break. But I managed in the end, with the aid of a large pair of scissors. I particularly enjoyed destroying La Wally and the song that was sung at our wedding: “Ebben? Ne andrò lontana.” I don’t think I ever want to hear that again.
How did I find out? I bet that’s what’s bugging you, isn’t it? I can imagine it so easily: this letter trembling in your hands, your struggle to stay upright amid the disorder of this disaster zone, this cemetery, this chaos that used to be our apartment, and still what bothers you most is that you can’t work out how I discovered the truth.
While you’re racking your brains, I would like to tell you a thing or two.
I remember our first meeting vividly. We were twenty-five years old. You were tall, handsome, charming. You smiled at me. It was a crowded party. We talked—all night long. And we saw each other again. And we got married. And then there was Angélique. You wanted a girl. You dreamed of having a daughter. When she was born, you cried. I remember your tears and your big hands protecting her tiny, fragile body. You told me it was the greatest day of your life. Then there was Octave. You weren’t so interested in him. He senses that, you know. He’s aware of it. He’s only four, but he’s extraordinarily sensitive. Not that you ever noticed. He realized that you hurt me, even though I was careful not to say anything to the children. He told me he doesn’t want you to make me sad anymore. I think he’s right. The children are with me. They know nothing.
I came back here, one last time, and I destroyed everything. I bet you didn’t think I’d be capable, did you? Your darling wife, so gentle, so kind, so well brought up. The patient mother. The exemplary spouse. No doubt you’ll tell the insurance company your apartment was trashed by a gang of vandals. It happens all the time.
I wanted to hurt you by destroying the objects you loved. It felt good. You probably think it was beneath me. But it made me feel better. I look at this mayhem and I breathe more easily. The violence rose within me like an erupting volcano. I let it explode. Now I am calm. The storm is over. I know I never want to live with you again. It was this summer that I realized you were cheating on me. I was in Brittany with the children. You were working in Paris. When I came home after the vacation, I found a long strand of black hair in the bathtub. No one in our family has black hair, apart from you. And yours is short. This strand of hair was at least a foot long. It lay on the white enamel like a dark party streamer. I looked at it, then rinsed the bathtub. I didn’t say a word.
A few weeks later, I found another one stuck to your sweater. Long and black. Again, I kept silent. You know me. I’m not the kind of girl to make a scene. I stay in my corner. I watch. I observe. I don’t think I’ve ever yelled at you, have I? For years, I held it all in. What you’re looking at now is the result. Sometimes it’s dangerous to not yield to anger. Look where it got us.
Then, one day, I left home for a few days on a work trip. Your mother looked after the children. When I came back, I found a long strand of black hair under your pillow. So I did what women do when they are suspicious. I followed you. This required a certain amount of organization. No one becomes a private detective overnight.
I saw you with her. A tall girl with long, dark hair, quite pretty, nice smile, slim but curvy body. You went into a café near your office. It was late afternoon. You looked at her with so much love, so much passion, that I wanted to throw up. You drank in her words; you caressed her hands, her shoulders, her thighs under the table. The two of you shared a sensual kiss. I noticed you weren’t wearing your wedding ring. It was at that moment that I decided to leave you.
That evening, when you came home, the wedding ring was on your finger again. Its presence confirmed my plans. Yes, I was going to leave you. Not right away. But soon.
I don’t want to hear your explanations. I suppose all betrayed wives must listen to their husbands’ excuses, but I choose not to submit myself to yours. As far as I’m concerned, you have no excuse. Coming home in the evening, you transformed yourself from cheating husband to glowing father with an ease that was stunning. You spent hours with the children, especially Angélique, reading her stories, helping her with her homework. You were kind and sweet to me. Tender and affectionate. That is what hurt me—the impudence of your double life, the complacency with which you willingly took on first one role, then the other. You cheated on all three of us—Angélique, Octave, and me. Now it’s over. The curtain has dropped, Jean-Baptiste.
I mulled over my departure for a long time. I had to choose the right moment, the perfect opportunity. In the meantime, I found out the name, address, and occupation of your mistress. Armande B., 40 Rue Richelieu, 1st arrondissement. A beautician, working in a salon at 19 Rue Mazarine. I even went into that beauty salon, to buy some lipstick. She was friendly, professional, in her white blouse and impeccably applied makeup. When she turned her back to me, I was gripped with a sudden desire to kill her. There was no one else in the shop. I could have stabbed her in the back, plunged a knife into that spotless white material. No one would have known.
I paid in cash so I wouldn’t have to reveal my identity. She never suspected a thing. She was perfectly polite to me. I was tempted to say to her, “I’m Jean-Baptiste’s wife. I know everything,” just to see the look on her face. But I didn’t. I wanted to take my time.
For another two months, I endured your lies, the supposed traffic jams that caused your late arrivals, the last-minute work meetings, the weekends when So-and-So would call you regarding an urgent case. You deployed the full arsenal of the unfaithful husband. I accepted this in silence. I prepared my vengeance. Then came the day when you told me you had to go away for a week for your job. The day after your departure, I called the beauty salon to ask for an appointment with Mademoiselle B. They told me she had taken a week off. So I called the hotel where you were staying. I asked for Armande B. I was informed that no guest was registered under that name. “Oh, how silly of me!” I said in a cheerful voice. “Of course, she’s Madame Jean-Baptiste Jourdain now.” They told me that Monsieur and Madame Jourdain had gone out. So I knew she was with you.
You called home every evening, talking for a long time to Angélique and then to Octave. It was incredible to think that you were with another woman, that you were sleeping with her, while you said such sweet and tender things to me. It only intensified my desire for revenge.
The day of your return, you came home early, with gifts for the whole family. The children were delighted. That night, you made love to me for a long time. You really applied yourself. I tolerated it in silence. It was horrific. You told me you loved me. I wanted to die.
The next day—yesterday, in other words—I decided the moment had come. I packed the suitcases. First the children’s, then mine. I told them this morning that we were going to move to a new house, but that in the meantime we would be staying at my parents�
�� place. They were very excited. Octave asked me if you were coming, too. I said no, not right away. He cried. I consoled him as best I could. You need to speak to him.
I told my parents that I was leaving you. I didn’t explain why. You can tell them whenever you like. I’m going to find an apartment for the three of us. I thank God that I have a job of my own, so I’m not dependent on you. What do housewives do when they want to leave their husbands? I have already started using my maiden name again. It’s a relief not to be Madame Jourdain anymore.
One last thing, Jean-Baptiste. Don’t try to explain. The only thing I want to talk to you about is divorce. For the rest, it’s over. We’ll find a solution for the children. One couple in two gets divorced in Paris. We won’t be the first. Or the last. We will act in the children’s best interests.
I also wanted to say that I couldn’t destroy the silverware. In order to cut short any tawdry arguments, I took half of it. So that leaves you twelve knives, forks, spoons, etc. You can also keep the furniture, even the pieces belonging to me. I don’t want to see them anymore. On the other hand, I took all the children’s things, because I want their lives to change as little as possible.
You will be home soon. I should hurry up and leave. The concierge came up, concerned about the noise. I explained that I’d knocked over a few boxes when I was tidying up the apartment. You can tell him to send on my mail.
Your ex-wife
THE WOODS
Lamblike lovers become wolfish husbands.
—ISAAC DE BENSERADE (1613?–1691), Poem on Their Majesties’ Consummation of Marriage
It is a cold November evening and a light rain is falling over the woods. Cars move slowly down damp paths, tires hissing on the asphalt, coming and going and coming again, their headlights picking out the leafless trees and the figures who stand on the sidewalk, hips swaying, lips pouting, provocative. Behind a steamed-up window, hungry eyes. A car stops, the window is lowered, the prostitute leans down, and the age-old business of the woods begins again. She utters a few words. The man nods. The prostitute walks around the car, heels tapping the concrete. She opens the passenger door and sits down. Then the car disappears into darkness, in search of a quieter side path.
It is an evening like any other evening in the woods. The rain and the cold do not dampen the desires of these nocturnal prowlers for their regular fix of venal love. She looks at her watch. Eleven thirty. At midnight, she will go home. Another half hour to endure—so, three or four blow jobs, at €20 or €25 apiece. With a little smile, she watches as a metallic blue sedan passes for the fifth time, one of those family cars in which she so often ends up, with a baby seat and boosters for kids in the backseat. From behind the windshield, a man in his early thirties looks out at her, his expression almost fearful, his jaw clenched. She smiles at him, not too flirtatiously. You have to be careful with first-timers, because they have a tendency to flee. The car stops a little way off. One of her colleagues sets off, breasts exposed in spite of the grim weather. “Stop!” she shouts. “This one’s mine.” She moves toward the car. The window is lowered. She crouches down. He doesn’t know what to say, what to ask for. He clears his throat, but no words emerge. So, in a gentle voice that seems to surprise him, she intones the same words she repeats fifty times a day, a night: “Twenty for a blow job, fifty pour l’amour.” He doesn’t dare meet her eyes. She knows all too well what her own face must look like at this time of night, in artificial light, after a long, hard day’s work. But she also guesses that this man has not come to these bare trees, after his own day at work, in search of beauty and freshness. She knows he will not remember her face. “Blow job.” A whisper. She walks around the car, opens the door, sits down. His hands are still gripping the wheel tensely. “Take the second road on the right,” she says, in the same gentle voice. He follows her instructions. The car enters a dark pathway. The sky is barely visible between the crisscrossing branches above. She politely asks for her €20. Startled, he searches his pockets, becoming agitated and switching on the ceiling light. She notices he’s wearing corduroy pants and a parka. Finally, he locates his wallet and removes a bill with trembling fingers. As he hands it to her, the wedding ring he wears on his left hand catches the light and shines brightly. Hurriedly he switches off the ceiling light. She asks him to unzip his pants, and he does. She bends down over this stranger’s penis, the God-knows-how-many-eth of the night. It is not completely hard, so she masturbates it for a while. She hears the man’s breathing turn heavy. Finally, he is erect. She opens the condom packet with expert grace and puts it on him. Then she gets to work. She knows the first time is always very quick, and this client proves no exception. A few seconds later the man comes with a sort of strangled groan. She gives him a few seconds to recover, then removes the used condom and puts it in a plastic bag she has brought for that purpose. “There you go,” she says. “Did you like it? Was that okay?” He nods, then suddenly begins to sob. “Now, now … come on, chéri, don’t cry. It’s always like this, the first time. I bet you feel guilty, don’t you? Your wife will never find out. All my clients are married men.”
* * *
His wife is preparing the baby’s bottle. Her face drawn by the sleepless nights she has endured since the child’s birth. The baby screams impatiently, wriggling in his crib. Stifling a yawn, she warms up the bottle. The baby is choking with rage, his face turning purple. She takes him in her arms and cuddles him. He calms down. She puts a bib around the baby’s neck, grabs the bottle, checks the temperature by pouring a few drops onto her wrist, and settles down to feed him. He drinks slowly and greedily, staring up into her bluish eyes. She is almost asleep on her chair, with this hot bundle pressed close against her. All is quiet. She feels tired. The baby burps on her shoulder; she tells him he’s a good boy, changes his diaper, and puts him back in his crib, a stuffed animal to one side and a musical box to the other. She winds up the musical box, but he’s already falling asleep. So she tiptoes out of the room and goes to take a look at his big sister, who is also asleep—that deep sleep of early childhood, breathing light and regular, round pink cheeks, teddy bear gripped tightly in her hands.
As she undresses, she realizes he is still not back. It’s forty-five minutes since he left to drive the babysitter home. And yet she doesn’t live far away. She shrugs, then slides into bed with a sigh of relief. He must be looking for a parking spot. She falls asleep as fast as her son. The next feeding is in five hours’ time.
As he enters the silent apartment, his heart is speeding. He listens carefully. Not a sound. He slips into the bathroom and takes a shower. He examines his penis. It looks a little red, the skin sore. Nervously he soaps it. Then he gets out of the shower and dries himself. He rolls on deodorant and sprays himself with cologne. He does not look in the mirror. He puts on a T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, then goes to look at his children sleeping, as he does every night. Tonight, there is an ashy taste at the back of his throat. He forces himself not to think anymore about that furtive blow job in the woods, about that stranger’s mouth sucking him, about the vague excitement he felt. He gets in bed next to his wife, who is sleeping the innocent sleep of the exhausted young mother.
* * *
A few months later, in February, she asks him sleepily as he sneaks into bed, “Why does it always take you so long to drive the babysitter home?”
In the darkness, he turns red.
“Traffic…”
“At this time of night?”
“There’s always traffic at this time of night.”
“We should try to find someone who lives locally.”
“Yeah,” he says.
* * *
In May, his son is six months old. He’s sleeping through the night. His wife is less tired. They start making love again. But he still feels drawn by the secret world of the woods, by those women who wait there, always available. He doesn’t feel as if he’s cheating on his wife because those women who dispense oral pleasure in the p
rivacy of his car have no names, no addresses, no telephone numbers. And he limits himself to fellatio with protection; he would never have intercourse with them. That would be going too far. That would be cheating on his wife. He thinks he is not cheating on her like this, because he is not penetrating another woman.
Sometimes he goes there during the day. He goes to a different forest, farther away, because he’s afraid of seeing someone he knows. Instead of eating lunch with his colleagues, he drives off in his car. He now approaches these women unhesitatingly. He chooses one quickly, she gets in, he hands her the cash, and it’s all over in a few minutes. He goes back to the office, filled with a growing self-disgust. He loves his wife deeply, sincerely, but he also loves these sordid desires that rise up within him, those anonymous lips, those women who never say no. He loves roaming these hot places, seeing this display of flesh, the garish makeup, the obscene lingerie. Every day, he fights against these buried urges. Every morning, when he wakes up, he tells himself he has to stop before it’s too late. But each time he ends up driving to the woods, fascinated by this perverted drive-thru. He knows he could never talk to his wife about it. She wouldn’t understand. She would never accept it. He can imagine all too well how her face—her very existence—would collapse if she ever found out.
Does she ever suspect, when she cooingly secures her children into their seats in the back of the car, that dozens of prostitutes have sat in her seat and have put her husband’s erect penis into their mouths to make him come?
Yes, she suspects something. She thinks that the babysitter is perhaps her husband’s mistress. In June, she casually asks the girl how long it takes to drive to her house. “Ten minutes.” She asks if there’s much traffic on the roads, around midnight. “Hardly ever,” the girl replies.
She thinks about this. So, he should be home within half an hour at most, whereas he usually takes more than an hour. She is not a naturally suspicious woman, but she is not stupid either. She is a calm person, quite mature for someone of twenty-eight. She has been married for five years and she loves her husband deeply. She has never doubted him before.
A Paris Affair Page 5