A Paris Affair (6 page)

“How was it?”

“Not great. Afterward, I told him my husband was on his way, and that he should leave me alone. I never even knew his name.”

“And since then?”

“Since then, I’ve been faithful. I’m scared of catching AIDS.”

“Oh shit!” Marguerite said, dropping her cell phone on the tablecloth.

“What?”

“The rubbers!”

“What about them?”

“I don’t have any!”

“So?”

“I can’t sleep with Pierre without a rubber, can I?”

“You think your husband wore a rubber, with the Swede?”

“The Swedes use rubbers more than any other nationality in the world. The Scandinavians are totally pro-condom!”

“Well, just go buy some at the pharmacy.”

Marguerite bit her lip. “That’s such a nuisance!”

“Why?”

“I’m embarrassed to buy them.”

“I’ll buy some for you, if you like.”

“You won’t believe this, but I have no idea how to use them. I’ve never put a condom on a man in my life.”

“Your Pierre will know how. The man usually does it, anyway. It’s like putting on a sock. Just don’t get it the wrong way round. It’s not difficult.”

“This messes up my whole plan. How am I supposed to seduce him if I have to put that thing on him?”

“He’ll do it himself.”

“Yes, but who’s supposed to bring up the subject—him or me? How does it happen these days? It’s the first time I’ve been in this kind of situation. And what am I supposed to say, exactly? ‘Would you mind wearing a thingamajig … you know, a whatsit—’ Ugh! It’ll turn him off in an instant.”

“I wouldn’t say anything. I’d just put it on him myself.”

“And what if I get it on the wrong way? What if I end up wearing it like a glove and he loses his erection? Oh, what a nightmare!”

“There are different sizes and models, too—”

“No!”

“Oh yes. There’s king-size, super king-size, and extra-super king size.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means men can’t bear the idea of walking into a store and asking for a pack of ‘medium’-sized condoms. Then there’s lubricated, unlubricated, different flavors—vanilla, pear, banana, strawberry—and different colors. You can get them with patterns or without, with studs or ribs—shall I go on?”

“Where did you learn all this, Marie?”

“I gave up using the pill at one point. Would you like me to come with you, to buy some? I could help you choose.”

Marguerite sighed. “Oh … no, thank you, darling. I think I’ll just go home and beat the crap out of my husband. It’s less complicated.”

She removed the large gem from the ring finger of her left hand and put it on her right. Now the thick signet ring and the engagement ring were touching. She made a fist and looked at it appraisingly.

“Look—I have brass knuckles now! So that diamond will finally serve some purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“If I aim right, I should be able to knock out his dental implant.”

T
HE
S
TRAND
OF
H
AIR

It’s still better to be married than dead.

—M
OLIÈRE
(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 andr
ò
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 Ang
é
lique. 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 caf
é
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 Ang
é
lique, 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—Ang
é
lique, 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, 1
st
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 Ang
é
lique 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

T
HE
W
OODS

Lamblike lovers become wolfish husbands.

—I
SAAC
DE
B
ENSERADE
(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,
ch
é
ri,
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.”