Ever since the incident in the Luxembourg, she had felt disgusted by Jerome D., and her aversion was accentuated by the fact that he slept with Taylor not long afterward. Taylor quickly guessed that something must have happened between Hunter and the professor. When he gave a lower grade for one of Hunter’s essays, Taylor realized the truth.
“You shouldn’t have turned him down.”
“Oh, so you have to say yes and be screwed in his whorehouse on Rue de Vaugirard to be given good grades?”
Shocked by such vulgarities coming from Hunter’s usually prim mouth, Taylor blushed and said nothing.
* * *
Hunter stood in a corridor, on the lookout for Professor D. As soon as he emerged from a classroom, she cornered him.
“Excuse me, monsieur, but what is this grade supposed to mean?” she demanded, holding up her essay.
Irritated and in a rush, Jerome D. almost barked at her: “it means, Miss Logan, that your work wasn’t good.”
Unflustered, Hunter stood in his way. “So you wouldn’t mind if I showed my essay to some other professors? I’d like to know if they find it as poor as you did.”
Jerome D. hesitated.
Hunter attacked: “I can’t go back to America with a grade like that in my file. It’s unacceptable. You know perfectly well that it was a good essay. You also know why you gave me that grade. I want you to change it. If you don’t, I’ll file a complaint against you.”
Jerome D. bared his white teeth. “Are you saying you would accuse me of what you Americans call ‘sexual harassment’? Are you planning on spreading this fib among my colleagues?”
“Certainly.”
“Believe me, in France that kind of puritan bullshit is considered laughable. No one here takes feminists seriously. As you will learn to your cost.”
“Je pense … vous allez…” Abandoning her usual reserve, Hunter ran out of French words and switched to her more reliable, more fluid mother tongue. “You’re going to regret this for the rest of your life.”
“Oh really? How terrifying,” Jerome D. snickered.
Her face hot and red, she turned on her heels and walked away, the professor’s laughter echoing in her ears. Outside, Madame D. was waiting in her car. Hunter walked past her without a glance, fists balled.
An article in a popular women’s magazine was what finally sent her over the edge.
Love Scenes, a debut novel by a young literature professor, has made a big impact in the literary world. Jerome D., who teaches at a large Parisian university, has written an apologia for marriage and fidelity. With humor and emotion, his book traces the history of a marriage, from its beginnings, through its pitfalls and joys, to its ruin and finally its rebirth. Married with two children—Albertine, 4, and Odette, 2—this handsome 34-year-old insists he wrote the book for his wife and daughters. “In the age we live in, people have stopped believing in marriage. There are more and more divorces and separations, and it’s the children who suffer. I wanted to write something romantic, even if that might seem old-fashioned now. I invented a story with a happy ending, something that will give people back some hope and joy in this time of crisis and gloom.” Such is Jerome D.’s novel, written with a subtlety and nostalgia inspired by his hero Marcel Proust, blended with a verve that is all his own.
Beneath a large photograph of Jerome D. at his desk, one of his daughters sitting on his lap, was the following caption: “Jerome D. pictured with his elder daughter, Albertine.”
Hunter almost choked. This was too much! As she paced her bedroom, her eyes fell on the photo of Evan. For a few seconds she stared at the young man’s face. How would she react, she wondered, if Evan ever cheated on her after they were married? Then she studied the photograph of her father, examined his craggy face, his kindly eyes, his reassuring smile. Hunter felt sure he would never do such a thing to his wife.
Now she looked more closely at the portrait of Jerome D. in the newspaper. She despised that face, those eyes, that smile. She felt sorry for the daughter. The professor deserved to be taught a lesson.
Visible behind Jerome D.’s right shoulder in the picture was his computer screen. Hunter grabbed a magnifying glass, which Madame de M. used for her stamp collection, and held it in front of the photograph. On the screen, Hunter recognized the logo of a Facebook page.
She thought for a few moments. Then she ran out of the room and down the hallway to bang on Savannah’s door.
A corpselike voice replied, “Who the hell is that? It’s ten am!”
“Open up! It’s Hunter.”
“You have to be kidding. I only went to bed three hours ago.”
“Please! I need to pick your brain.”
“My brain is still pickled at this time in the morning. Leave me alone!”
“Open the door and I’ll lend you my new dress.”
Silence. Hunter listened intently.
Then Savannah’s crumpled face, framed by an unruly mop of hair, appeared in the doorway.
“Seriously? I thought you didn’t want to lend it to me.”
“Well, now I do. But only if you help me.”
“Okay,” said Savannah.
“I want to get onto a guy’s Facebook page,” Hunter told her.
“What’s his name?”
Savannah typed the letters into her computer. “All right, so this is his profile … Jerome D.… Wow, not bad! Do you have his e-mail address?”
“Yes, he gave it to us at the start of the year. He’s my professor.”
“Hmm … is this sexual, by any chance? Anyway, I need the password.”
“Can I try more than once?”
“You have six attempts. After that, it blocks you. And it’s not easy, finding a password. It’s not like a code—you can’t use pure reason to find it. Passwords usually have more to do with the heart than the head. It’s a whole different ball game. I’m no good at passwords—I’m too cerebral, you know? So, in case this doesn’t work out … you’ll lend me your dress anyway, right?”
“Try this.”
She handed a sheet of paper to Savannah, who read out loud: “‘Swann, Guermantes, Marcel, Combray, madeleine—’” She interjected: “Bit intellectual, don’t you think?”
“He is an intellectual.”
Savannah tried each word, finishing with, “Nope, not that either.”
‘Try catleya.”
“What?”
“C-a-t-l-e-y-a.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“A flower.”
“A flower?”
“Read Swann in Love and you’ll understand.”
“Who in Love?”
“It’s Proust. I told you, my professor is a Proustian. Try catleya—it means ‘making out.’ Go on, type it.”
“This is our last chance. After this, it’ll block us.”
Savannah obeyed. After a few minutes, her eyes widened with disbelief.
“Whoa!”
“What?”
“We’re in! You cracked the code.”
“I knew it.”
“I’m impressed, Hunter Logan. I would never have thought you had it in you. So … let’s see what this guy has in his private messages.”
The keys of her computer made small clicking noises under her fingertips.
“What a dick—he hasn’t deleted anything! Oh, look at this.… The rogue!”
Mesmerized, Hunter leaned close to the screen.
“He has a date this evening with a certain Oriane. Hotel D., room 208. She’s supposed to wait for him in a garter belt.… Ooh, sexy! And look at this—‘Miss Rosemonde,’ who he met yesterday at Rue de Vaugirard.… My God, have you seen how many meetings he’s made in his apartment? Your professor is quite the Casanova. And you say he’s married? Can’t say I’m surprised. The married ones are always the worst, in this city. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”
Hunter’s eyes scanned the words on the screen: words of love and lust, names and addresses, a seemingly
endless list.…
Savannah giggled.
“Can you print this for me?” Hunter asked.
“Sure!”
While the printer hummed away, Hunter looked for his mailing address on the online directory. She found it and wrote it down. Savannah handed her a sheaf of about twenty pages.
“What are you going to do with all this? It’s dynamite.”
“If I lend you my necklace, will you promise to keep your mouth shut about this? To forget it ever happened?”
Savannah looked at her. “Nothing bad, though … right, Hunter?”
“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. And it’s for a good cause.”
Hunter smiled and slid the pages into an envelope.
* * *
Standing in front of a mailbox on Avenue Denfert-Rochereau, Hunter did not even hesitate for a second before pushing the thick envelope through the slot.
On the envelope, she had written:
Madame Jerome D.
3 Rue Cassini
Paris 75014
THE USB KEY
Nearly all men resemble those vast, empty mansions
where the owner occupies only a few rooms
and never sets foot in the sealed-off wings.
—FRANÇOIS MAURIAC (1885–1970), Diary
When I came home, the USB key was on the living-room coffee table. Next to it was a white Post-it note: “For Thérèse.”
The handwriting was that of my husband, Hubert. I took Luc out of his romper, then put him in the playpen in his bedroom.
I switched on the computer and plugged in the USB key.
To begin with, there was nothing. Then the video started. Our couch. The same one I was sitting on now. The empty couch. Silence. Then, a figure walked into view. It was Hubert. He seemed to be thinking of what to say. Finally, I heard his voice, slightly distorted by the recording.
“Thérèse, I know what I have to say will hurt you. But I have no choice. I must tell you the truth. I’m not good with words—I don’t feel capable of writing you a letter. I don’t know how to tell you what I’ve done. I daren’t tell you to your face. So I came up with this solution: recording myself as if I were talking to you. Yes, I know, it’s a coward’s way out. But I am a coward, Thérèse—you just didn’t know it.”
I paused the video. Hubert froze on the screen. I looked at his blond hair, his clear-eyed gaze, his tortoiseshell glasses: the open, normal, good-looking face of a young father.
The baby was gurgling in his bedroom, playing with a musical box. I continued to examine Hubert’s face. What else was he going to tell me? I thought I knew everything. He’d already confessed.
I had found a credit card receipt in his jacket one month before this. It was for a hotel in Biarritz, and the date was on a weekend when he’d told me he was in Bordeaux on a work trip.
I had handed him the receipt and his face had fallen. He had taken me in his arms, crying and mumbling some story about a girl who meant nothing to him. A momentary lapse. The first infidelity in a marriage that was only three years old. He swore to me he would never do it again. It was difficult, but I forgave him. I thought of our son. I didn’t want to sacrifice our marriage for a mere fling. Other women had always warned me that all wives must expect to be cheated on one day or another. That was life. That was marriage. My parents’ marriage had been the same, and his parents’, too. Close your eyes to the husband’s misdemeanors.
“That’s just how men are, my dear,” my mother had told me. “Incapable of being faithful. They’re like rutting beasts. Women don’t have the same instincts. We’re more moderate, monogamous. When a man cheats on his wife, it’s no big deal. But when a woman cheats on her husband, the opposite is true. She is considered a fallen woman. For a man, though … it’s just in his nature. You have to understand that, accept it.”
And that’s what I did. I forgave Hubert for the one-night stand he’d had in that Biarritz hotel, while I had imagined him working in Bordeaux. I wanted to turn the page. I didn’t want to talk about it. I never even asked him for her name.
I think he was relieved by my reaction. He must have feared a big scene—sobbing, screaming, the usual things that women do when they find out about a husband’s infidelity. Maybe he thought I would pack my bags and leave with the baby. But no, I remained the same—I hid my wounds, suffered in silence. I prayed that it would never happen again. I was afraid my calmness would desert me, the second time around.
I pressed “Play.” Hubert’s petrified face came back to life.
“You thought I had a mistress. I can still see you handing me that credit card receipt. You said, ‘What were you doing at a hotel in Biarritz?’ You were pale and trembling. I was ashamed. So I lied. Made up a story about another woman. You never even opened your mouth. Our son was crying in his crib. You went to console him. He had a fever. Once he fell asleep, you came back to the living room. You sat on the couch. You asked me questions. I answered them. With lies. What did I tell you? That I didn’t love her, that it was a one-night stand. Then you asked me why I’d married you. I told you—and I repeat this now—I married you because I loved you. But I had a secret. Something that’s been buried inside me for years. I love men, Thérèse. I’ve always hidden it—from you, and from everyone else I know. I’ve fought against it as best I could. I tortured myself, forced myself not to give in. I had a few brief affairs with women during our marriage—mainly because I was trying to prove to myself that I wasn’t homosexual. But I am. And, at thirty years old, I have to accept the fact. Even if it destroys my marriage—and you with it.”
I got up so I wouldn’t have to keep looking at his face. While he spoke, I looked out of the window. It was raining. Gusts of wind shook the trees. Night fell. Hubert’s voice, broken by emotion, continued to reel off his sordid confession.
“I’m leaving you because I’m in love with a man. There—I’ve said it. You’ll hate me for saying it, despise me. You don’t know this man. You are strong, Thérèse. You are a woman. I believe women are stronger than men. I want to believe that to make myself feel less guilty. To spare myself the shame of having ruined your life. The next day, you said to me, ‘I forgive you. You were weak. It’s human. But I love you and I want us to raise our son together.’ I realized then I would have to tell you the truth. Even if you hadn’t found that receipt, I would still have told you. I shudder to think of how other people will react: your parents, my parents, our friends. I think about everything you’ll have to go through. I think about our son. He’s so young. I tell myself I should just leave, without writing a letter or making any kind of explanation, that you would find out in the end anyway. But I owe you the truth.”
I moved away from the window and sat down again, but with my back to the screen. I found it impossible to look at his face.
“I think I’ve always preferred men, without ever accepting it. When I was fourteen, I used to masturbate with a friend from my class. I wasn’t interested in girls. He used to buy magazines full of naked women and he would get hard, looking at them. But not me. What got me hard was looking at him. I slept with a man for the first time when I was eighteen. And I liked it. I prefer men’s bodies—those masculine smells, those hard edges. I tried to talk to my parents about it. I felt dirty, guilty, perverted. But they didn’t want to hear what I had to say. Or rather, they were afraid to. They just shut me out, and left me to my demons. Then I met you, after several years of wandering and doubts. You were beautiful and sweet. You still are. I thought: a woman like that could save me, could get me out of this nightmare. With her, I could be a normal man. A married man. A father. So, for three years, I tried to play that role. I did my best, Thérèse. Strangely, I never had to force myself to make love with you. With you, it felt natural and beautiful. It was innocent, tender. But it wasn’t sexual. For me, it wasn’t really making love. Simply because you’re a woman and I prefer men. There were nights when I woke up in a cold sweat: you were sleeping next to me, so peacefu
l, so happy, and I wanted so much to confide in you, to tell you what was tormenting me. Then you became pregnant, and the idea of spilling all the vileness that tortured me to a woman whose belly was so perfect and round seemed monstrous. I felt a thrill run through me whenever I saw a man I liked. I would surf the Internet, watching videos of men having sex. I would do that when you were away. It really excited me. I told myself I was sick, abnormal. I would be seized by terrible desires. I had to stifle them, suppress them. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I began hanging around in places where homosexuals go. There were public toilets with holes in the cubicle walls. The holes were quite low down. I didn’t understand what they were for. Then I saw a man put his penis through one of those holes. On the other side of the wall, a stranger’s mouth sucked it. I was horrified and turned on. I ran out of there, my head full of furtive images. I also went to a gay nightclub. The men there were kissing each other on the mouth, caressing each other openly, slow dancing together. That was where I met Phili.”
I turned to face the screen. Hubert was speaking in a new voice, less hesitant. His gaze had softened.
“I think he looks like Daniel Day-Lewis in My Beautiful Laundrette. He’s tall and slim, and he loves life. He taught me not to be ashamed of my difference, not to be ashamed of my desires. It’s true—before I met him, I felt ashamed all the time. I felt marginal, excluded, alone. Now, I’m at peace with myself. I understand what I want. The weekend in Biarritz, I was with Phili. We went to Arcachon, too, on a different weekend.”
For the first time since beginning his confession, Hubert paused. He changed position, lit a cigarette. He took a few drags, then stubbed it out.
The baby was still babbling in his playpen. Soon he would want dinner, and I hadn’t bathed him yet. How much longer would this video last?
As if in reply to my unasked question, Hubert went on:
“Don’t worry, I’ve almost finished. I know you have to look after Luc. It’s not a good time for you. Forgive me. I wanted to tell you this, too. I think that, when a man loves other men, they often change partners. There’s a sexual hunger. After him, there will be others. And then one day, I hope, there will be the man of my life. The man who will love me. The man I’ll love. It’s okay—I’m taking precautions. I’m not crazy. I don’t have AIDS. I’ve taken the test several times. Look.…”
A Paris Affair Page 7