A Paris Affair (2 page)

“I need to speak to you.”

“You look so sad!”

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

He closed the kitchen door. There was no point getting the kids mixed up in this.

With trembling hands, he poured himself a glass of wine. He couldn’t rid his mind of the vision of the babydoll and the morgue. He saw Anne’s expression become troubled as she waited for him to speak. He drank the wine down in a single swallow.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Staring at the refrigerator—that old, humming fridge—he began his confession in a monotone voice that she must surely find pitiable. Eyes glued in turn to the packet of cereal and then the toaster, he poured out his pathetic tale, his breath coming in short bursts. Gazing at the Post Office calendar pinned to the wall, he described the meeting in a restaurant, one spring day, the rendezvous, the lies, the hotel, the fire, the morgue. He spared her no details. There would, he knew, be a before and an after. He would remember this moment for the rest of his life.

His wife was pale. Her mouth hung open, and her fingers held tightly to a chair. She did not say a word. She scrutinized him with huge black eyes. Never had her eyes been so big or so dark.

An absolute silence filled the kitchen. Even the fridge had stopped humming. Time seemed suspended.

Anne got up suddenly, opened the door, and ran to the bathroom at the other end of the hallway.

He heard her throwing up. He remained standing in the middle of the room, distraught. Would this moment never end? It was unbearable.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Nervously, he picked it up.

The screen flashed up a text from GABRIEL.

Completely forgot our meeting! I’m in NYC, jetlagged. Hope you’re not too mad at me! Are you free next Friday?

T
HE
T
EXTS

It’s no easy feat getting intoxicated

with a glass of water and resisting

a bottle of rum.

—G
USTAVE
F
LAUBERT
(1821–1880),
Notebooks

“Hello, is this SOS Couples in Distress?… Yes, madame. I’m calling because I—Exactly.… It’s very simple. Something incredible happened to me—Yes, something incredibly horrible, and I have to talk about it. I have to tell someone, and there is no way I can tell my mother, so when I saw your ad on the Internet, I thought: why not you? So … shall I tell you about my problem?… Okay … It’s hard to know where to begin, or how to explain this.… Yes, I’ll try to calm down.… Take a deep breath? Okay, let me try.… All right. So … I’m married. I’m thirty years old. My name is Emma. Oh, you don’t want to know my name? Okay. Anyway, I have a child, who is almost two. So, that’s my life. You can’t see me, so I’ll describe myself: I’m a brunette with dark eyes, pink cheeks—Oh, you’re not interested in my appearance either? I’m sorry. What are you supposed to do when you learn that your husband is cheating on you? I apologize for asking you that so abruptly, but that’s why I called. What should I do now? It may seem like a dumb question, and I hope you’re not laughing at me—I know it’s stupid, it’s banal; I know. Husbands are always cheating on their wives. That’s what everyone says. We’re given enough warnings, aren’t we, when we’re little girls? We see our father cheating on our mother, our uncle cheating on our aunt, our grandfather cheating on our grandmother.… Yes, we know all that, of course, but when it’s your own husband, the man you said yes to, blushing deeply in a church full of flowers, wearing a beautiful white dress, the man who gave you a child and who plans to have more children with you, the same man who says he loves you and who is so kind, so tender, who even takes out the trash and knows how to change a diaper—Please don’t laugh! I heard you giggling then. No, this isn’t funny. And I just wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t want to expect it. I wanted to believe that my marriage would not be like all the others. Other women’s husbands might cheat and cheat again, but not mine. Not my husband. And yet, that’s exactly what he did—my own husband. He cheated on me. I’m one of those wives who everyone pities—How did I find out? Oh, so you do want to know that? Well, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you if you stop smiling.… Yes, I’m absolutely sure that you are—I can hear it in your voice—and I don’t think this is funny at all. Anyway … yes … I found some texts on his cell phone—Was I spying on him? Not at all! I’m not like that. Absolutely not. But his cell phone was just lying around.… Well, let’s just say I wanted to tidy up. He’s pretty disorganized, my husband. I wanted to pick up his office, and I noticed that he’d forgotten his cell phone there. I took a look at it, that’s all. Texts from a woman … love messages.… You suspected as much? Really, is it that common? Texts that haven’t been deleted?… Oh, okay. Why did he leave his cell phone in such an obvious place? I have no idea. If I had a lover, and there were compromising texts on my phone, I would never leave it lying around—What’s that? You think he wanted me to see them? He wants me to know that he’s cheating on me? I don’t follow you. Why would he want me to know?… Sorry? What are you saying? Because he … because he doesn’t love me anymore? No, I’m not saying anything else because I don’t know what to say. I’m just blown away by what you’re telling me—Did I take notes about the texts? Yes, of course. I copied them all down.… Read them to you? All right. Hang on a minute. Okay.… ‘My love, oh, my lover, the memory of those moments still burns within me. I live only for our next passionate meeting.’ And it goes on: ‘You are the king of my nights. You are my prince, my god, my sovereign, and I am your love slave.’ No, there’s more, I’m afraid: ‘Yes, you are the most beautiful lover in the world. You fill me with such delight. Every time I say your name, I feel a thrill run through my entire body.’ His name is Gustave. Oh, you find that thrilling, too? ‘I’ll wait for you at the usual place. I am madly in love with you. I can’t be without you. You drive me crazy. I will kiss you passionately, all over your body. Your loving and adoring Lili.’ Yes, they’re all signed ‘Lili. Your adoring Lili’! Ridiculous, isn’t it? Who is this Lili? I don’t know anyone named Lili. And I haven’t found anyone named Elisa or Liliane or Eulalie or Magali or even Val
é
rie in the address book on his computer. So, who can she be, this Lili? A girl he met at work? Someone I know, hiding behind a false name? As for the usual place, I imagine it’s her apartment. It can’t be
my
home, anyway, because I’m here all the time—A hotel? You think so? A love hotel? Yes, I know what you mean but, really, I can’t imagine Gustave in a love hotel. He’s not a love hotel kind of guy—What
is
a love hotel kind of guy? Well, I don’t know. Someone sleazy, I guess—What’s that? You still think he wanted me to know? What is it with you?… You’re stubborn. All right, I guess I’ll have to tell you the truth. It makes me ashamed, but never mind, I’ve gone this far.… You suspected I was lying? Well, you were right. Yes, I wanted to spy on his cell phone. And, as he always kept it on him, I had to be cunning. It wasn’t easy, but I did it. I’m kind of nosy, like most women. I thought he’d been acting a little strange lately—Why? I don’t know, exactly—Had he changed his aftershave? Yes, he had, actually! Bought a new suit? How did you know? Coming home late at night? Whistling in the shower? Spending all his time checking his texts and hiding himself away to read them? Do you know him, or something? I’m impressed, madame.… Oh, the same thing happened to you? Really? Oh yeah? And what did you do, when you found out he was cheating on you?… You left him! I would love to leave him, madame, but where would I go? I don’t want to go back to my parents’ house, with my little girl.… You did that? Oh! If I don’t leave him, he’ll start again? Ah … So you really think I have to leave?… Uh-huh. And I have to tell him that I know? No woman should ever stay with an unfaithful husband—is that what you’re saying? But you also said that all husbands are unfaithful, so why are there any couples who are still together? That must mean there are women who accept the infidelity and stay with their husbands. They close their eyes, or at least they don’t go through their husbands’ things, they don’t read the texts on their husbands’ cell phones, they don’t ask questions if they change the brand of aftershave they use or if they buy new suits or come home late or whistle in the shower. You think we have a choice when we find out we’re being cheated on? Either you get the hell out, or you shut up and put up with it? You would advise me to get the hell out? Without even talking to him about it? I just grab my daughter and leave? I don’t even say to him, ‘Who’s this Lili?’ Because I want to know who Lili is, madame! I refuse to let this Lili steal my husband! That husband of mine is important to me! Maybe you were happy to get rid of your husband: maybe he smelled bad or he snored or he beat you, I don’t know, but it’s not like that for me. Gustave and I have been married for four years, and he can be a very kind and devoted man— You think there will be other Lilis? Excuse me for saying this, madame, but I find you depressingly pessimistic! You’re against marriage? Yes, I thought so. You must despise men—I can sense it. So, in your opinion, if some poor guy has a brief fling with a waitress or a receptionist, we should dump him on the spot? So a wife who finds ridiculous texts, full of clich
é
s and spelling mistakes, on her husband’s cell phone, should just pack up and leave? Well, good for you, madame! I wish you luck in your narrow, boring little life. I bet you look like an old maid and you live with some mangy cat and spend your evenings watching reality TV shows! Oh, you think that’s funny? Go ahead and laugh. I would much rather be an understanding wife than a liberated woman. Good night, madame.”

T
HE
“B
ABY
M
ONITOR
”

I do not wish to love anyone,

    for I have no faith in my faithfulness.

—L
OUISE
DE
V
ILMORIN
(1902–1969),
Notebooks

Standing in the child-care aisle, Louise was sweating. Her distended belly felt heavy. Inside, she felt the movement of vigorous little fists. She was attempting to decipher the user’s guide to a device she had heard great things about. With one hand, she tenderly patted her rounded uterus; in the other, she held that marvel of technical progress, a “Baby Monitor.”

A saleswoman, taking pity on Louise’s swollen ankles, came toward her.

“Can I help you, madame?”

Louise gave her the grateful smile of a first-time mother.

“Yes, thank you. I’ve heard a lot about this device, and I’d like to understand how it works.”

The woman launched into a sales pitch that would have delighted her department head.

“With the ‘Baby Monitor,’ you can wave good-bye to all your worries! Your baby—and I can see that the little darling will be with us soon!” she added, with a simper. “Your baby will never go unmonitored; you will be able to hear even the slightest breath, or the quietest sigh.”

“How does it work?”

“The ‘Baby Monitor’ consists of two parts: a transmitter, which you place near your child’s crib, and a receiver.”

“So it’s a bit like a walkie-talkie?”

“Yes, but the difference is that communication is only one-way, so your child won’t be woken by any noises around the receiver.”

“So I can hear my baby, but my baby can’t hear me?”

“Exactly. In this way, you can speak as loud as you like without fear of upsetting your baby, and at the same time you can check how the baby is sleeping, giving you perfect peace of mind. This sophisticated sensor is only triggered when there is a noise. Otherwise, it remains on standby. So you can leave the transmitter on all the time, and switch on the receiver whenever you wish.”

“That does sound practical. Does it take batteries?”

“Nine-volt batteries. But both parts can also be plugged into an electrical socket.”

“How far does it transmit?”

“Fifty meters.”

“I’ll take one.”

“Excellent choice, madame. I’m sure you’ll find it extremely practical when your baby arrives. Do you know if it’s a girl or a boy?”

Louise smiled.

“Yes, it’s a girl. Her name is Rosie.”

*   *   *

Rosie was born a few days later. Back at home, she slept in her crib in a delightfully girly lilac-colored bedroom. And with the “Baby Monitor” Louise could hear every cry and whimper Rosie made.

“What the hell is that?” asked Louise’s husband, Andr
é
, rendered rather surly by the night feeds and the way his life had been turned upside down by the arrival of this bawling, insatiable being.

“It’s so I can listen to Rosie no matter where I am. It’s really practical. I can go down to see your mother on the first floor. I can even go across the road to buy bread.”

A staticky sound came through the receiver, followed by a quivering cry of hunger.

“Oh, our little angel wants more milk!” sang Louise.

“Ugh, how do you unplug this thing?” Andr
é
sighed.

*   *   *

She could attach the receiver to her belt. Louise never tired of hearing that light, fragile breathing, all those sweet little baby sounds.

At the other end of the apartment, far from the mauve bedroom, she held the receiver to her ear and listened to her daughter breathe. Terrified, like all mothers, by the thought of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, Louise kept the device under her pillow at night, the volume turned to its lowest setting. Her husband was oblivious to this fact. Sometimes, when the silence seemed too loud, she would get up in a state of dread and tiptoe to Rosie’s room to check that she was still breathing. Then Louise would return to bed, reassured by the little start her baby made when she stroked her cheek.

*   *   *

“I still think you should try to lose some weight,” said Julietta, Louise’s best friend.

Julietta was tall and slim. You would never have guessed she’d had two children.

Three months after Rosie’s birth, however, Louise’s ankles were still swollen.

Louise shrugged. “I know, I know. Andr
é
tells me that every day. But I don’t have the energy to start a diet.”