The Erotic Potential of my Wife

by David Foenkinos

  Brigitte, that was promising; a little weird, but why not? We unfortunately never have the choice of the names of the people we meet. It was the kind of woman who makes you want to drink tea. That first night, she would think of Hector again. They had promised to see each other the following day. Brigitte was not in the habit of meeting people in the street, even less in libraries, even less with the same intentions regarding a book. She would probably sleep quite badly, with more awakenings than events in her life. We did not really know much about Brigitte. Surely she had not been unhappy, her parents were adorable pensioners, her brothers and sisters adorable brothers and sisters. And above all she had sumptuous calves.

  All the same we need to know one thing. Like an enchantment, a mystery surrounded Brigitte. As a child, she had fallen asleep on grass, grass long since dead. She had let her mind wander, and her little girl’s eyes had harnessed the wind, and the future, and some reminiscences. Her thoughts that day had been as gentle as successive awakenings and slumber. A butterfly had then judged it wise to rest on her nose, and in close-up Brigitte had contemplated the majesty of its movements. It remained on her nose a long time, large and docile. Brigitte had seen the world behind the butterfly; its wings, almost translucent, had formed a magical prism. When it took flight again, Brigitte’s eyes followed it the longest time possible. She was perturbed for a long time by the moment when she saw the world through the filter of a butterfly. She was afraid everything would seem ugly to her afterwards. But nevertheless, she had drawn a strange conviction from this magic moment. It was the certainty that she was gifted with a rare power; that a unique ability had just developed inside her and would reveal itself one day.

  They were so sweet during their date the next day. It was up to the man to speak, and the man was Hector. As she had referred to sociology, he asked her: but why sociology? She wanted to smile, but not feeling entirely comfortable (it would surely take twenty-six days for her to relax), she explained that she was studying ‘solitude in an urban environment’ in the framework of her doctorate. Hector repeated ‘solitude in an urban environment’, overstressing an air of intrigue. Yes, it involves spending six months in Paris with no social relations. So, she had told family and her few friends that she had spent six months in the United States. They would not have the temptation of disturbing her on the other side of the Ocean.

  ‘I have not spoken for six months. That’s also why my mouth was a bit dry yesterday,’ she clarified.

  ‘Oh I see,’ said Hector.

  After this vivacious answer, they decided to work together. Fake travellers to the ‘Staaaaaaaaaates’ had to help each other. They sat in big armchairs to revise. Their knowledge of the United States was relative to their desire to see each other. After a few days, they were under the obligation of creating new states.

  For the first time, Hector worried about whether he was attractive. He looked at himself at length in the mirror, and bought himself a tie. He decided to speak to Marcel about it, as he was a specialist in women, at least in the capillary part. Marcel had never been as happy to be somebody’s friend. At the bar where they met, there was even an order for alcoholic beverages. The place was reminiscent of a giant Turkish bath. Marcel was shouting a bit too loudly, gesticulating all over the place, and it was his way of implicating himself in Hector’s love life. He really took this mission to heart, and beneath his airs of an alcoholic adventurer, beneath his airs of a Russian athlete, beneath all his airs, a sentimental air could be unearthed. The very fact of evoking the potential entry of a woman in his friend’s life made tears rush to his eyes. Although he was meant to be reassuring and advising, it was Hector who had to raise his spirits; sentimental stories always filled Marcel’s heart, they sprinkled it with rose petals.

  At the library’s exit, Hector and Brigitte formed a couple. Without really knowing what fate wanted from them, they positioned themselves side by side, facing life. It was one of these moments preceding love where people unveil themselves in the innocence of the obvious. Hector spoke about his past as a compulsive hoarder, Brigitte confessed having had spots until the age of seventeen and a half, in a nutshell they were laughing foolishly, like all those who we have seen laugh foolishly in parks; it is one of the rare moments where idiocy is a positive attribute. A new life was now revealing itself, and to celebrate it in a burst of poetry, there was at that moment the charm of a ray of light after an angry dark sky. Hector gained self-assurance just by looking at Brigitte. He felt important, like a limousine leaving an airport. Brigitte, usually ensconced in her restraint, allowed herself to be transported, without yet really knowing the erotic potential that was wastefully dozing in her.

  Erotic potential, the expression was enticing. Indeed, we were entering the immediate hope of sensuality. Brigitte, never nominated elsewhere, was standing at the front of the stage. The last time Hector had seen a naked woman was on a television screen. The idea of sex was like a fish that wakes up with legs. The future lovers had spoken little since their exit from the library. Brigitte’s apartment was located on the top floor of a building in the centre of town, the noise coming from the street cradled the room, the co-owners had recently voted for the installation of a lift. They were allowing themselves to slide into love. Hector acted like he was used to this type of thing by partially drawing the curtains; of course, he dreamed of being in the most complete darkness. He was afraid that their bodies would not be at the height of their encounter. He stayed in front of this window, an instant, an instant that was becoming rather long, an instant that was not really an instant anymore but the outline of eternity. Behind him was the body of a woman that was no longer hidden by anything. Hector had heard the sound of feminine clothes vanishing into the ground, this sound of nothing that justifies men having ears. Hector lifted the sheet; Brigitte was naked. In front of the beauty of that moment, he collapsed while remaining standing; his spinal column slid towards his feet. In the face of this emotion, Hector was flesh with no foundations. He laid his body on her body, and placed his lips on her lips. Everything was then but an affair of silence. A silence like the beginning of processions; each felt as though they were making love with a church.

  Some minutes later, Hector was enveloped by the uneasiness of sudden happiness. Brigitte also did not feel comfortable; she clenched her fists. After long methodical breaths, they made love again. Many, many times again. At nightfall, Hector got dressed; he wanted to walk under the stars. Brigitte kissed him on the landing. As soon as he was outside he thought again about the shoulders of this woman he wanted to love madly, the nape of her neck in the afternoon. He then began to stagger; feelings gnawed at his legs. He allowed himself several detours before going home to stretch his legs, dizzy in his happiness. He was thinking about Brigitte’s body again, he wanted to see her under a magnifying glass, raise her skirt in the lift and slip himself between her thighs. The body of the other, the body of the woman, what is the word? He felt as though he had suddenly become pure. We progress through the body of the other; it is through the body of the other that we become innocent.

  Hector’s night of wandering ended in the office. His brother arrived on the dot at the time he arrived every day. He was surprised to see him so early. He was sick of waiting, he had walked all night! He wanted to see his brother to announce the big news. His wedding, yes, he was going to get married to Brigitte! Ernest paced up and down, it was the least distance required to express his frenzy. He brought out his address book to notify everyone; hello, are you sitting down? After two hours, cursing himself for not knowing more people, he began a new round of his address book, and announced the wonderful news yet again. At Gilbert Associate and Co., a reception was organised to celebrate the event. There was a spread of appetisers, and Hector did not flinch in front of the cocktail sticks. Of course, Marcel was invited. (Laurence could not free herself because she had a vital training session before a vital competition.) Champagne arrived triumphantly at six, and people kissed him a lot
. There were many great ‘hip, hip, hip, hoorays’ for Hector. Finally, he was asked the name of the lucky lady. And it is at the precise moment when he pronounced the name ‘Brigitte’ that he remembered not having notified the lucky lady of his intentions.

  A strange paradox had been torturing Brigitte the whole day: it was during her total immersion in urban solitude that she had met the man, seemingly, of her life. She hesitated to change the subject of her sociology thesis, and then considering happiness to be a selfish matter, she had preferred to protect her fundamental discovery: to find love you have to seek solitude.

  Hector’s brain, completely stuck in Brigittian flavour, had neglected that one of the particularities of marriage is to unite two people. That did not really matter anyway, wasn’t this irrevocable proof? You could always forget to announce your intentions when they were flagrant. It was a fact, they were going to be married. And that evening when they met for their second night together, the matter was simply outlined. Shall we get married? Yes, let’s get married. What simplicity, this Hector and this Brigitte! They were like Swiss heroes. Sexual pleasure developed all aspects of its incipient hegemony. Brigitte’s calves were themselves surprised at their Olympic suppleness, Hector discovered himself an adorer of ear-lobe nibbling. Underneath the sheets, they became anonymous. They practised saying yes in all languages. The next day at lunchtime, Brigitte would be peeling leeks, and the peels would be fascinating.

  Lovers always feel two emotions skimming gentle hysteria. First, they discover all the good qualities in life. Suddenly, the daily routine goes on a diet, and the worries that were the encumbering existence of every respectable single person disappear in a new lightness. Life seems beautiful to them with the same lack of lucidity they will feel later when they go into rapture about the beauty of their ugly baby. The second feeling is a great intoxication. Hector for instance savoured the expression ‘my wife’. He used it whenever he could. He only had to be asked the time in the street for him to answer ‘I don’t have it, but if my wife was here … my wife has a beautiful watch …’ Brigitte took on the mystique of Mrs Columbo to Hector’s Detective Columbo. Placing ‘my wife’ in every sentence was disconcertingly easy. He could also innovate by veering into the international. An American hors-piste skier incontestably remained the climax of the pleasurable, nothing was chicer than a ‘my wife’ nicely thrown in. Soon, Hector would surely dare the mythical ‘you fuck my wife’; happy as he was, it would not take him long to take himself at least for Robert De Niro.

  But before anything else, he had to meet Brigitte’s brother. He had always played the role of decision-maker in the family. He was a kind of Godfather, minus the hand-kissing. Even Brigitte’s father did not take any decision without previously discussing it with his son. Gérard did not have many neurones, but he did have very beautiful thighs. He had participated in the acclaimed Paris-Roubaix race, but had unfortunately fallen on a rock that had hammered in his skull. Added to the doping from previous years, this fall had ended by turning him into a vegetable, so much so that certain gossipmongers called him ‘the Turnip’. There was something unfair in this label, and the ungrateful had quickly forgotten Gérard’s hour of glory when he had climbed onto the podium of Ouarzazate-Casablanca. It was always very easy to criticise after the deed. Brigitte’s family had remained focused on this victory. It was a shame that no image of the exploit had been taken. Only a magnificently framed photo on the parents’ sideboard attested to the performance. This photo where Gérard was surrounded by young men, slightly paltry but forcedly combative, and brandished a trophy in the wind and dust (the gossipmongers who called him ‘the Turnip’ claimed that this photo had been taken at a studio in Bobigny. What slander!). It was this heroic image that made Gérard the incontestable leader of the family. In other words, to have a chance of officially possessing the woman of his life, Hector had to bone up on his cycling history.

  Luck was decidedly not leaving him, as he had the privilege to have the son of Robert Chapatte as one of his acquaintances, albeit very far removed. In a few meetings, he had transformed himself into an unbeatable expert on the gear ratio, and still could not understand how Laurent Fignon had allowed the Tour ’89 escape him to the benefit of Greg Lemond because of a few cursed seconds. Brigitte was proud of her sporty future husband. She was not worried about what turn the summit meeting between the two men of her life might take. Hector was dressed to the nines (he was so lacking in confidence that he even had doubts about that number); and his yellow tie was turning pale. All that was left was to find his welcome posture. It is well known by all competitors that everything is in the first look; you have to know to take the ascension even before the first whistle. While Brigitte was preparing stuffed tomatoes in the kitchen – her brother’s favourite dish – Hector sat on the couch, stood up again, settled by the window, tried to smoke, but that did not look sporty so he placed a hand on the table to look nonchalant, acted surprised, frankly wanted to absent himself. Sweating, he was seeking the ideal posture, when suddenly, without really knowing how it found itself there, an idea crossed his mind. A brilliant idea, that of the hands behind the back.

  The door rang.

  Gérard came in and discovered the one who was postulating for the honorific role of brother-in-law. Surprise was immediately perceptible in his eyes. Hector had had a stroke of genius. It was so strange to be greeted by a man with his hands behind his back. He almost looked like a butler; the notion of deference was on offer. This attitude was incredibly touching, his bust leaning forward like a lead soldier, he did not know how to react to the hands behind the back. But our Gérard was not the kind to encumber himself with anything other than the fleeting echo of a surprise. He walked towards Hector, with a heavy step, the step of a man who had formerly climbed the steps to the podium of the Ouarzazate-Casablanca race. Once again, and like in all the big moments of his life, there was the ambiance of desert and dry throat; this meeting felt mythical. Brigitte and the stuffed tomatoes remained silent. Hector, hands behind his back, was doing everything not to look petrified; he attempted a smile that was finally only the jolt of a zygomatic bone at the end of its life.

  It was then that the following occurred.

  Hector was not used to putting his hands behind his back. He had never been stopped by policemen and he had never made love with the Mistress of the Dungeon. So inevitably, his hands behind the back profited from their new view and froze to glean time from the outrageous hegemony of the hands in front of the legs. In other words, and for almost two seconds, an eternity for this situation, Gérard’s right hand remained suspended in solitude. Brigitte was worried: but why does he not extend his hand? How could she know that Hector was a victim of vengeance from the hands behind the back? Vengeance that he managed to suppress with a big mental effort, and finally his right hand unblocked itself. Only, it shot up so fast from behind his back (a crazy pace) that it did not manage to stop at the height of Gérard’s hand, and aimed straight for his nose, where it crashed violently.

  Gérard stumbled backwards, a little like how the Tower of Pisa will in 152 years, 14 days and 12 minutes.

  For the briefest moment, Brigitte thought this gesture was intentional. How could Hector explain the involuntariness of his act? The clumsiness of a hand that pushes a vase can be excused, but how can a hand that lunges towards a face be excused? Should he admit to the crass anarchy of his hand’s movements? Gérard got back to his feet abruptly but was far too shocked to react; deep down, he respected Hector’s act. Not having understood that it was an atrocious accident, he deemed this man to have balls, and that he deserved to marry his sister immediately. Hector sweated out his last drops of sweat. Gérard touched his face. His nose was not broken. Only a bit of blood hesitated, but it was noble blood; Gérard always coagulated courteously.

  Hector did not oppose Gérard’s version of events during dinner. He remained convinced of the gesture’s intentionality (an analysis that would bring him a good n
umber of problems in the coming months, as he would systematically punch every new person he met). Brigitte discreetly explained to Hector that her brother was like that, he often analysed things in a peculiar, even off the mark, way. Gérard went home, and profited from the full moon to wander along the riverbanks. The fist he had taken slap-bang in his face was making him romantic. He was recollecting the scene, and trembled with emotion and pride at the idea that his sister would marry a big shot like Hector. The movement of that hand had propelled the evening to the ultra-select sphere of unforgettable things. This beautiful encounter had just entered his personal history to sit against the indelible memory of the Ouarzazate-Casablanca podium.

  That night, Hector tried the missionary position.

  7

  Via Gérard, Brigitte’s parents were taken body and soul to Hector’s cause. On the other side, with Hector’s parents, things would only be pure formality, as long as Brigitte liked the maternal soup. Hector dreamed to see in his parents’ eyes what he called sentimental consideration. He wanted to be perceived as a future devoted husband and father, the kind of man capable of organising decent summer holidays, taking everyone’s leisure activities into account. Hector was fidgety, it was the first time he was bringing a girl home. He was hoping for a sparkle in his parents’ eyes, a derailment in the routine of their dreary affection from this great novelty. If he longed for his father to see him as a man, he especially wanted for his father to see him, full stop. He had called the evening before his habitual visit. His mother had feared a cancellation since he never telephoned and the weekly rendezvous was as immutable as the succession of days. ‘Mum, tomorrow I will bring company … I will be with my girlfriend …’ This sentence was circled by echoes provoked by interstellar surprise. It was as though thousands of men and thousands of women had suddenly moved into the parents’ living room. Bernard’s ears whistled: ‘Do you realise, he’s bringing company …’ Brigitte, in Mireille’s imagination, was a sort of countess crowned in one of those countries, strange because they are too hot; she was everything and nothing at the same time. Very quickly anxiety grew in the kitchen. What soup? Routine was derailed; worse, routine had turned into an airplane and was derailing clouds. Mireille was sweating. Above all, the father should not dawdle in the kitchen, he was a bother – and the exasperation rising in crescendo – he had always bothered her, she never should have married him, he was a good for nothing! So Hector’s father, far from taking offence, he was a gentle man, sought to reassure her, ‘Your soup will be divine, don’t worry.’ And, in tears, she hoped: ‘Really, you think she’ll like my soup?’