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Authors: David Foenkinos
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He had vegetated, his throat dry, in a dead world. Not one thought had crossed his mind.
In the middle of the following night, Hector thought back to the great moment during which his wife had cleaned the windows. This moment of pure joy, an instant in his wife’s life, he thought, an adored instant. He faced the night with a smile frozen on his face. It humiliated all the smiles of his past by its surprising development. All those who experience such an intense joy know fear is not able to relive such a moment. The strangeness of the chosen moment nevertheless troubled him. We sometimes love something in an extravagant manner in the cosiness of the everyday; maybe it was as simple as that. He shouldn’t try to understand; too often joys are spoiled by too much analysis. So Hector gently stroked Brigitte’s buttocks, her panties were new. She turned around in her tireless femininity, and left her dreams for the man in her bed. Hector slid along Brigitte’s body and spread her thighs; she lost fingers in his hair. Stability came quickly; their two bodies were face to face, white and useful. She held on tight to his back, he grabbed on to the nape of her neck. It was impossible to know who was feeling the most pleasure, omniscience ended at the point of the possible orgasms. We only knew that Hector, at the moment of coming, when his head was an empty shell, at the moment of climax, was still haunted by this image, Brigitte cleaning the windows.
The following days went by without incident. Hector thought back to what he had felt, without yet being able to make the link with his past. Believing himself completely cured from compulsive hoarding, he sometimes mocked the crazy way that he had led his life on the periphery of the important. Since he had met Brigitte, any concept of relapse seemed unlikely to him. The evident sensuality, the Brigittian savour, all these new sensations had one point in common: uniqueness. There only existed one Brigitte like his, and in falling in admiration for this unique object, the object of his love, he was abstaining from his obsession. You can collect women, but you cannot collect women you love. His passion for Brigitte was impossible to duplicate.
And the more he loved her, the more she was unique.
Every one of her gestures unique.
Every one of her smiles as unique as a person.
But these proofs did not by any means prevent the possible fascination for any one of gesture. Was that not what was hatching in Hector’s mind? A bit too self-assured, he was forgetting his past and the relentlessness with which compulsive hoarding had always returned to impose itself on him. The thought of the window washing bordered on perfidious relapse. Hector had to be very careful, tyranny was watching him, and, faithful to its legendary rudeness, tyranny never knocked before entering.
3
What some of us feared, happened. Clarisse had not been cutting her nails for almost two months when she agreed to do a sexual act, basically quite wild, with Ernest. It cost him several scratches on his back, indisputable traces of a tigress mistress. Big brother of Hector and big dummy above all, Ernest could not undress during almost a good two weeks, and had to make Justine believe that his back was suddenly very cold. The fear of being discovered did not make him regret all the moments when he had kissed Clarisse’s shoulders, the tigress hiding in a vast mane of hair. If physical love is a dead end, Justine forced herself into an impasse in the middle of the night to lift her husband’s T-shirt, who, it must be said, had slept bare-chested for twelve years. There was something suspicious, and women always spot the suspicious. He had to pack his bags without even finishing his night, and even less this dream that seemed promising (a Chinese woman).
So before dawn, he rang his brother’s doorbell to tell him that he was sleeping with a brunette from the firm, Clarisse, and that his wife, bloody scratches, had
In the middle of the following night, Hector thought back to the great moment during which his wife had cleaned the windows. This moment of pure joy, an instant in his wife’s life, he thought, an adored instant. He faced the night with a smile frozen on his face. It humiliated all the smiles of his past by its surprising development. All those who experience such an intense joy know fear is not able to relive such a moment. The strangeness of the chosen moment nevertheless troubled him. We sometimes love something in an extravagant manner in the cosiness of the everyday; maybe it was as simple as that. He shouldn’t try to understand; too often joys are spoiled by too much analysis. So Hector gently stroked Brigitte’s buttocks, her panties were new. She turned around in her tireless femininity, and left her dreams for the man in her bed. Hector slid along Brigitte’s body and spread her thighs; she lost fingers in his hair. Stability came quickly; their two bodies were face to face, white and useful. She held on tight to his back, he grabbed on to the nape of her neck. It was impossible to know who was feeling the most pleasure, omniscience ended at the point of the possible orgasms. We only knew that Hector, at the moment of coming, when his head was an empty shell, at the moment of climax, was still haunted by this image, Brigitte cleaning the windows.
The following days went by without incident. Hector thought back to what he had felt, without yet being able to make the link with his past. Believing himself completely cured from compulsive hoarding, he sometimes mocked the crazy way that he had led his life on the periphery of the important. Since he had met Brigitte, any concept of relapse seemed unlikely to him. The evident sensuality, the Brigittian savour, all these new sensations had one point in common: uniqueness. There only existed one Brigitte like his, and in falling in admiration for this unique object, the object of his love, he was abstaining from his obsession. You can collect women, but you cannot collect women you love. His passion for Brigitte was impossible to duplicate.
And the more he loved her, the more she was unique.
Every one of her gestures unique.
Every one of her smiles as unique as a person.
But these proofs did not by any means prevent the possible fascination for any one of gesture. Was that not what was hatching in Hector’s mind? A bit too self-assured, he was forgetting his past and the relentlessness with which compulsive hoarding had always returned to impose itself on him. The thought of the window washing bordered on perfidious relapse. Hector had to be very careful, tyranny was watching him, and, faithful to its legendary rudeness, tyranny never knocked before entering.
3
What some of us feared, happened. Clarisse had not been cutting her nails for almost two months when she agreed to do a sexual act, basically quite wild, with Ernest. It cost him several scratches on his back, indisputable traces of a tigress mistress. Big brother of Hector and big dummy above all, Ernest could not undress during almost a good two weeks, and had to make Justine believe that his back was suddenly very cold. The fear of being discovered did not make him regret all the moments when he had kissed Clarisse’s shoulders, the tigress hiding in a vast mane of hair. If physical love is a dead end, Justine forced herself into an impasse in the middle of the night to lift her husband’s T-shirt, who, it must be said, had slept bare-chested for twelve years. There was something suspicious, and women always spot the suspicious. He had to pack his bags without even finishing his night, and even less this dream that seemed promising (a Chinese woman).
So before dawn, he rang his brother’s doorbell to tell him that he was sleeping with a brunette from the firm, Clarisse, and that his wife, bloody scratches, had
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