A Paris Affair (9 page)

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

T
HE
USB K
EY

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.

—F
RANÇOIS
M
AURIAC
(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 Th
é
r
è
se.”

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.

“Th
é
r
è
se, 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, Th
é
r
è
se—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, Th
é
r
è
se. 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, Th
é
r
è
se. 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, Th
é
r
è
se. 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 peaceful, 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.…”

He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and held it up to the camera. I was able to make out his name, the date, and the words “HIV negative.”

“I can imagine you on the other side of the screen. I can imagine you, feeling heartbroken. Sickened. Revolted. I’m sure it never even crossed your mind that I might be homosexual. It must be a terrible shock for you. If it was another woman, okay—that’s easier to accept. But a homosexual husband? No. It could scar you for life. You know everything about me now, Th
é
r
è
se. Have you managed to listen to this confession to the end? Will you be able to understand? I don’t know. I suppose we’ll get a divorce, that our marriage is over. Will you agree to see me again? Will you let me see my son, help you bring him up? And will you let me see you, too, from time to time? I really hope you will. Tell me what you want. Your wish is my command, Th
é
r
è
se. I’ll call you at eight o’clock tonight, after Luc has gone to bed. If you don’t answer, I’ll understand that you don’t want to see me anymore. And I will try to accept your decision.”