Monsieur (24 page)

Because Monsieur had disappeared again from the face of the earth, I fed on what was left at my disposal. Now that he was no longer making me his outlet and I was writing down every one of his caresses, every inch of my flesh stank of sex. I was eating enough for four and smoking like a chimney, hungry only for seduction.

There was Lucy.

The first time I saw her topless, sitting by the edge of the pool, it felt odd, and I knew it shouldn't. Until then, it had never occurred to me that she was as naked as I was beneath her clothes. It set me thinking.

Lucy . . . Lucy likes girls as much as I like boys. I'd seen her grow up, alongside my small sister, running around the garden in her DPAM pyjamas while I was being kissed with a mouthful of braces. I had only recently noticed she had become a woman. I was at her side, a glass of punch in one hand, a joint in the other, watching her move, my mind numbed by the smoke. Her wide black eyes were closed, her skin a delicate brown, her long dark hair flowing across her shoulders. You couldn't have said she was dancing, and she wasn't in a trance. She was lost in the sound of the guitar, locked inside a private world, her legs bending with each new chord. Unbearably sensual. Every young guy there was watching her: an inner fire had ignited in the kid they saw daily at the
lycée
but had never really noticed before. Their mate. How do you pinpoint the precise moment when girls become women and boys become men to the sound of a song by Pink Floyd?

From the moment Lucy had shed her little-girl cocoon, she'd become more than a friend to me, not quite a sister. There was too much confusion surrounding Lucy, contradictory and discordant, for me to categorize her. I spent a lot of time trying to work out why she was the only girl I wanted. I felt a strong need for Lucy, which struck me repeatedly. Every move she made lit the room with the sensuality of the best Pink Floyd songs. She displayed the same quiet charisma as Monsieur, but she was completely unaware of it. It came to her naturally, in all its simplicity. With Lucy, a mundane action, such as unwrapping a cake or setting a pile of plates on the kitchen counter, became a ballet. Even if I was seemingly absorbed in a game of tarot, she was on my mind. And I could feel her when she was near without having to look up.

I didn't desire her as I would a man, but when she was close by all I could think of was her hair, her eyes, her white teeth, and the way she moved with the swiftness of a little animal. Suddenly she would sit next to me, grab my cards and giggle as she showed my hand, shamelessly flirting with me. It infuriated my sister.

‘Can't you be discreet, Ellie? You're crazy!' she complained, one night, in the tiny kitchen.

‘I can't help it – it's just the way I am.'

‘You should try to control yourself!' my sister cried, as if it were that simple, as if I could ignore the way Lucy stared at me from beneath her heavy lashes, then stole one of my best cards.

That was it: everything for Lucy was a game of tarot. If I attempted a defensive move – she was no prettier than my other girlfriends – she would burst out laughing and produce her winning card. You couldn't have said for certain whether she was beautiful or not until she stood in the right light when all doubt disappeared.

So it came to pass that summer, while I squirmed like a sardine in Monsieur's net, that Lucy came to my rescue and welcomed me into her own. While we stayed in the Midi, I'd somehow kept the situation under control, but things changed when we moved to her country house. I was ashamed to catch myself staring at her for longer than I should.

I deflected the others' attention by pretending to be interested in Antoine, who responded as anyone of his age would. It was yet another thing that got on Alice's nerves: she thought I was trying to seduce all and sundry just to forget Monsieur. I never did seduce Lucy, but thoughts of her continued to assail me, even after I'd seen her cooing in the arms of her girlfriend.

I knew what she really thought behind the furtive glances and seemingly innocent teasing. Over the years, we had built a close friendship so I can't imagine it was only a game. Anyway, I was highly unlikely prey. I'll have to ask her, one day. What do you think, Lucy? I spend so much of my life in the arms of men that maybe I'm a challenge to you. Or is it something else? Something simpler. It's probably unimportant. It's in my nature to ask questions, but I've never asked myself why I liked you so much, despite the smallness of your breasts, your narrow, supple waist, the prominent bump inside your bikini bottoms. You're the only one with whom I could have shared orgasms to the sound of Jacques Brel or Pink Floyd, or established an almost telepathic form of communication, as happened during our stay in the countryside or in the Sologne.

‘Maybe we could go for a drive, and later we can play ping-pong.'

Remember? It was two o'clock in the morning and I jumped out of my chair, staring at you as if you were a Fragonard portrait. ‘How the hell did you know that was exactly what I was thinking?'

You smiled and we began to dance to ‘
Do You Love Me?
' by the Contours. Later, I was laughing too much to hit the ping-pong ball, but I could see you clearly. You were beginning to occupy an important place in my life.

One evening, I decided to read you an excerpt from a letter I was writing to Andrea, in which I talked about you at length. This marked the beginning of hostilities.

That evening, you dared me to make a pass at Flora – my sister! – and then at Clara – your girlfriend! – and I realized that, after all, you were far from perfect. Player or manipulator – but was that so bad? I fell asleep that night thinking of making love with you. The following morning, when I came across you, your ponytail askew and pillow lines still marking your cheeks, you smiled at me as if you had read my guilt.

Those days, in an attempt to overcome Monsieur's absence, I was often on the phone to one of his colleagues, Maxime Zylberstein, thirty-five years old, gynaecologist by trade (and vocation). When I told him about you, he promptly pushed me into your arms. ‘Of course,' you'd remark. ‘What could be more attractive than two young lesbians together? He couldn't understand why I should hold back because you were my sister's best friend. Had you been a boy, I would long ago have made a move. But, Lucy, think for a moment: how could I have survived had you rejected me? And could I have touched you without appearing naïve or clumsy? I would have loved to invent new caresses for you, kisses that expressed my attraction to you so much better than words. Most men have never understood the fear most women feel in the presence of other women. As if two girls together was no more than a starting point and all their techniques are worthless without a cock involved. And even though I was aware of the techniques and gestures, I had accumulated so many images of the way you might make love that I was terrified of failure with you.

What did I imagine? Your small, precise fingers pretending to discover new erogenous zones – I'm sure you've had enough opportunities to survey every inch of the female body. I don't think of pleasure when I think of you, but of watching you, listening to the sounds you make, learning the taste of your mouth, the savour of your cunt, having the chance to make you as happy as I am when I'm around you.

Thank God, as soon I moved away from the countryside, I could breathe again. Monsieur took his rightful place in my mind and the radio silence continued. This was the life I led, balancing painfully between his absence and your constant chirping.

JULY

My sister, who is evidently unable to choose between her friendship with Lucy and her annoyance over my staring at her, has invited her to Normandy to our father's place. She caught the first available train with her backpack, into which she'd stuffed the essentials: a T-shirt, knickers and grass. Alice and I waited feverishly for her to arrive, as if it had become a matter of life or death. We were bored to death. I was plodding on with
Monsieur
, lacking energy and inspiration away from Lucy and the others. After lunch, we would take narrow paths into isolated parts of the woods where we could smoke with no one to see us. The rest of the day passed so slowly, as if everything was conspiring to make us hate Normandy. We didn't care that we always looked stoned or that our hair smelled of weed. Alice blamed our father for our boredom; she couldn't conceal the redness of her eyes or the reason behind her uncontrollable laughter. At least the garden was large enough for us all to share it without having to cross paths too often.

Lucy arrived on the fourth day. The only day without rain. Coincidence? Or not? That afternoon, we'd splashed and floundered in the miserable stream that ran alongside the walls of the house and cast its dank, muddy smell across the garden. Alice, busy rolling yet another joint, had asked us to go and look for boots in the under-stairs cupboard, and as Lucy was bending over I saw her little bum half revealed by her oversize jeans. It was amazing how masculine she could appear even though she trailed the smell of woman in her wake. Reaching her, I began chatting, and our shoulders touched, generating an electric shock in the small of my back. I was somewhat slow in switching on the light and she remarked: ‘The perfect place for rape, no?'

‘Perhaps,' I conceded, my heart beating wildly. I was alone with her in the one place in the house where no one, not even Alice, would think of looking for us. Her eyes shone brightly and the white lightning of her teeth pierced the darkness.

‘Rape, eh?'

If God had made me just that bit sharper, I would have stopped fumbling for the light switch and the boots, and let her caress me secretly against the shelves and their network of cobwebs. Just imagine the depth of that moment of silence. My hands under her T-shirt, and her lips against mine. Her fingers. I was literally close to a heart-attack, with all sorts of excuses springing to mind: I was wearing an old-fashioned pair of knickers, I'd not showered that morning, I was all hairy. I spoiled the moment: ‘So, who's raping whom?'

‘I was only joking,' she answered, barely registering my disappointment.

After a few minutes' splashing around in the stream, which was no fun, we had other ideas. We threw the boots back into the under-stairs cupboard where hers landed on top of mine, haloed by a thin ray of sunlight rushing through the open door. A small detail that stayed in my mind: I knew I would write it down later in the notebook.

At nightfall, my father drove us back to Grandma's place. The darkest of nights. Do you remember, Lucy? As soon as we sat together in the back of the car, I felt your mud-spattered brown-skinned thigh graze mine, then come to rest close enough for me to feel your heat radiate in my direction. I moved my right knee, and for the whole journey your golden and my white skin touched, even when my father drove too fast over the humps that were meant to slow us down. I kept watch over Alice, who was arguing with Louise about some Michael Jackson song, and did not dare look you in the eyes. I was thinking of all the men I'd had recently, and how not one had made me shiver like this. It all seemed so clear. The way they triggered me was so much less powerful than this slow-fuse explosion.

Everything, well, almost everything, happened that night, in the small room you shared with Alice. The classic aching-back scenario. I straddled your hard little bum to give you a massage. Alice gave me a filthy look, but I ignored her. I enjoyed kneading your soft flesh and watching you clench your teeth but feign surprise and pleasure. In my mind, I could see myself spoiling it by taking your breasts in my hands. Bypassing them was almost unbearable: there was no hiding the way they swelled under your arms, squashed against the mattress, the fawn light of the bedside lamp playing hide and seek across your skin,
and why should I pretend I was blind?
OK, Ellie, calm down. She's a girl. That's what I was thinking. I don't know if you even noticed how hard I was struggling against the hunger I had for you, against the vision of your hard nipples between my fingers, but you probably did, because a few minutes later you volunteered to massage me. What should we have done?

Maybe what we did: nothing.

‘Goodnight, you old bitches,' I mumbled, rising from the bed to go my room.

Alice chuckled, ‘You too, old cunt,' but Lucy, her eyes illuminated by the light of the moon, seemed to take the insult too literally. Of course she was smiling. I owed my whole vocabulary to my lovers and everyone knows that you call a lesbian an old bitch as a form of endearment.

‘So, how is Monsieur?' Lucy asks, as we sit smoking in a mosquito-infested alleyway.

Alice has just got up unexpectedly and gone to fetch something to rehydrate our parched throats. It's so hot that all the water in our bodies seems to evaporate in an instant, as if a pump were vacuuming it straight out of our mouths.

‘Physically? Mentally?' I ask, looking at my knees, uneasy that I've generated so much curiosity among my friends. Since the summer began I've turned Monsieur into one of the main topics of conversation – I hate it .

‘How would I know? Just tell me more about him,,' says Lucy, who's never been particularly nosy or asked me for the sordid details I usually enjoy telling Flora or Babette.

‘Well, I can definitely say I've never come across another man with whom I've done so many filthy things.'

Lucy wrinkles her nose, visibly unimpressed. Right then, a deafening clap of thunder detonates above us, where a horde of dark grey clouds are gathering, dark and grey like the small house, grey like Normandy. The whole gamut of grey. With a sigh and a shudder, I continue: ‘I believe Monsieur is profoundly perverse.'

Lucy half smiles.

‘Not just sexually. It's the way he behaves when I'm around that's particularly perverse. As a matter of fact, so is our whole relationship.'

‘OK, Ellie, I see, but it's the sort of relationship you were looking for, no?'