Monsieur (28 page)

‘Aubrey Beardsley, illustrating Oscar Wilde's Salome,'
I read, before my brain made the right connection at supersonic speed and I remembered all the mails he had sent me in which he had mentioned this particular piece of art, these specific illustrations. I felt for a moment like bursting into tears because I wanted so much to see him, right there in the museum, under the gaze of the attendants, at the heart of the church-like silence.

That night, I came up with the cunning idea. In the morning, the sky still pink, I sent him a text: ‘Saw Beardsley's drawings for
Salome
at an exhibition. Wonderful.'

Monsieur responded just a few minutes later: ‘Which museum?'

‘In Berlin.'

‘Have you also seen von Bayros and Kokoschka?'

God only knows why but now that we were discussing art, Monsieur was a fount of conversation. Our dialogue continued throughout the day, barely interrupted by my travels on the U-Bahn and meals taken while still connected to Facebook. Monsieur would learnedly explain everything to me, scandalized by this apparent gap in my education. I had just posted him my lengthy, feverish letter, which ended with an assignation: Monday, 14 September. I was listening to the Rolling Stones on my way to Catherine's and asked him: ‘By the way, did you receive my letter?'

Yet another perfect way to reinforce my theory of the Unnecessary Message: Monsieur was suddenly quiet.

Puzzled by his unexpected reaction (or lack of it), I began undergoing a form of mental torture, trying to guess what in particular in my texts could have bothered him to the extent that he had ceased communicating with me in the blink of an eyelid. I didn't believe I'd been too pushy when I was describing my days spent writing. But I came to understand: on occasions, motivated by some random lustful impulse, Monsieur would condescend to answer me. The exchange would last two or three messages despatched at intervals until one of mine became the Unnecessary Message. One too many. Only Monsieur knew when and why we had reached this point. But, with time and experience, I was starting to recognize the triggers: anything banal, pressing demands. Against all expectations, he was capable, with a rudeness that was almost comical, of turning his back on me right in the middle of some torrid exchange, even as I sat drooling over the phone's keyboard. Had he not failed to pick up from his PO box a thick envelope full of pictures of my arse? I could have screamed.

But you get used to anything and, with resignation, I came to accept this type of fragmentary communication, led by his unpredictable impulses.

I arrived at Catherine's with my mobile silent. She was enjoying a siesta and, angry that I was once again journeying down a cul-de-sac, I scribbled a whole ten pages of
Monsieur
while smoking my daily quota of Lucky Strikes.

Two hours later, enter stage left the eponymous character: ‘When did you post it?'

Me (frantic): ‘A week ago. How odd. One of my friends received his letter yesterday, and I'd posted it later.'

Monsieur (growling): ‘What's all this? What letter, what friend? You send the same letter to all your friends?'

Me (roaring with laughter at his cheek): ‘Surely I have a right to send letters to whomever I wish – and, anyway, I'm not fucking all my friends! What made you think I'd send the same letter in multiple copies?'

There you are. Another Unnecessary Message, I decided, three hours later, stuffing myself with muffins and watching a German version of
The Young and the Restless
(yearning and disappointment are a universal language).

‘Fucking bastard Monsieur,' I was muttering later, in the U-Bahn.

I sent Babette a message: ‘I really have to find myself a cooler Monsieur, not a lousy one like the one I happen to have.' Then added: ‘But, of course, the problem is that there is only one Monsieur.'

And then, it goes without saying, as I was reaching Mehringdamm, he called me. Halfway through my journey, I leaped out of the carriage, found some space on an empty bench, allowed two trains to roar by, seven minutes apart, even though I'd agreed to be home at precisely eight. You must understand, I had to listen to him with perfect clarity, his beautiful deep voice so full of caresses, creeping beneath my dress, untying my shoelaces. I had spent a month deprived of that particular sound and it would be wrong for me to write, even for the sake of it, ‘I just hadn't remembered how lovely it was.' I remembered everything. I recalled with crucifying precision how hatefully arousing Monsieur could be on the phone. He penetrated me. It took me a whole five minutes to realize that I was rubbing myself against the bench, in full view of all. Monsieur's laughter was making me smile, and I was aching to test my wit against his and enjoy more of his laughter, racing like an orgasm through the phone line. Monsieur wanted to come to Berlin. The imperious way in which he said, ‘You'll show me everything,' instantly swept away all the months he had eluded me. As ever, Monsieur spoke as if we were getting out of bed. The mere thought of questioning his evasions no longer made sense.

‘It's so difficult to reach you on the phone!' I explained, and Monsieur, without my having to prompt him, told me about a fictitious congress in Potsdam, a long weekend hand in hand, me acting as spiritual guide to Berlin nights. Monsieur spoke softly of nights sliding into days and turning again into nights, as we'd lie together naked among the scattered sheets of our Friedrichshain hotel. Finding myself in the very heart of the city, soothed by the warm air of the U-Bahn, I did not dare imagine his shoulder against mine on the bench for fear of screaming aloud. But it was a lovely thought. I was trying to convince myself we could manage it, if only Monsieur could, if only Monsieur
would
. (
Come on, Ellie, it's tough enough to manage a virtual form of communication with him. How do you expect to hold him captive for three or four whole days? Even in a strange town, with barely a word of German, he would still be capable of fading away.)

‘Are you pretty today?' he asked.

‘Not particularly.'

He roared with laughter. ‘Why?'

‘My ponytail's untidy, my jeans are torn . . . I'm not at my best.'

‘You're lying,' he replied. ‘Look closely at yourself in one of the Métro's glass windows. Now, can you see yourself?'

‘Yes.'

Facing me, the reflection of my flushed features, my tiny feet in a dreadful pair of trainers. A woman in love: listening to me babble, that was what any onlooker would have thought. Feeling sick, but only I was aware of that.

‘Earlier, I was reading your message again and it made me think of those photos by Bellmer. Have you heard of him? Hans Bellmer.'

‘Of course. The dolls.'

‘There is one in particular that made me think of you, and the first time I set eyes on you. I didn't even know what you looked like. All I could see was your small pink body between the bed covers, pink like a Bellmer doll.'

‘You've never said that to me,' I interjected, not wanting him to realize how much more I wanted to hear, so many more words of that sort, magic words acting like caresses.

‘When are you getting back from Berlin?'

‘On the third.'

For a few seconds I bit the inside of my cheeks, but couldn't contain myself: ‘Shall we meet up when I'm back?'

‘Yes,' Monsieur said, and my whole body suddenly felt lighter, just like that, for no particular reason, as if he was no longer in a position to go back on his word, and I floated, floated, even when the network disconnected us, floating across the sound of ‘
Honky Tonk Women'
and my feet didn't touch the ground until I reached the Steglitz station.

Once in my bed, as if this called for an unorthodox form of celebration, I brutally inserted the hairbrush handle into myself and lay momentarily on the brink of tears. Not having Monsieur at my disposal, I needed something to fill the emptiness he had just reopened, summoning back all the sensations he triggered at the heart of my being.

Thursday.

All too often, returning from Berlin, I would find myself bored to tears sprawled across my bed. It's mostly the scent of the streets I miss, the air full of pollen, the green waters of the Spree and the smells from all the street stalls scattered along the pavements. I miss the people. I miss the general feeling of euphoria. Skipping along on my own without being a hostage to time-keeping. But now that I have Monsieur to look forward to, Monsieur who is only fifteen kilometres away, boredom tastes different. We've been on the verge of disaster for two nights, and all because of the telephone landline. And because I'm so bloody stupid. Why did I think of calling him from a phone number he didn't know? I was taking refuge in the study and left a message on his answer machine, just telling him he should under no circumstances try to reach me on this number. The reason: it was my uncle's, and it would only take him a couple of seconds to sniff out any monkey business. But I knew that Monsieur never had the time or the patience to pick up his messages from the machine, where thirty or so out-of-date calls were usually waiting for him. Fifteen minutes later, as I was about to call him again, the phone rang. I was writing at my desk. First ring: the sound of people running around, on the floor above my sister rushing towards the phone. Second ring: in an instant, I realized my fate was about to be sealed if the person calling was miraculously the one I was thinking of, and I jumped up, knocking to the floor a whole shelf of pants, screaming, ‘It's for me!' The telephone at my ear felt as hot as a piece of flaming coal.

‘Hello,' Monsieur said. ‘You called, but I don't recognize the number.'

‘It's me.' I smiled, my heart beating fast.

‘Who?'

‘Me, Ellie. Best check your answer machine – I asked you not to call me back here. I'm at Philippe's.'

But Monsieur was no longer listening to me, repeating my name gleefully, as if my call had just shone a ray of light over his whole day. ‘How are you, sweetheart? It's so good to speak to you!'

‘I'm OK. You?'

‘Work, as ever, nothing new. You're in Paris?'

‘I came back yesterday. Did you get my letter?'

‘Still no. What a palaver. What did you write in it?'

Curled up tight in my bed, in the foetal position, I was squeezing my arms hard between my thighs.

‘All sorts of things, about Berlin, the fact I haven't been to bed with a guy for a whole month. Too much to talk about over the phone.'

‘I know. When do we see each other?'

‘I was thinking of the fourteenth.'

‘It's long time till the fourteenth.'

Monsieur is unaware how true his words are, cutting, steel sharp. Another ten nights before I see him.

BOOK III

SEPTEMBER

At the end of the day, what I know of Monsieur can fit into a single sentence, both subtle and concise: ‘It would be so great, if only I had enough time.'

If I had enough time, Monsieur and I would enjoy long conversations on the phone. We would sip coffee at bar terraces. Maybe we would dine in the Italian restaurant he considers the best in Paris. He would invent out of nowhere some seminars in the provinces, as he has no doubt done for others. In the world of imagination, Monsieur and I lead an exciting life, the sort of life any married man would enjoy with his mistress; and if I don't get this, it's not down to lack of time, as he so often tells me, but that I'm not worth it. While he fucks me and I feel nothing, I consider this hypothesis: I'm not worth it, but I don't know which of the two of us is the most wretched. He who deigns to mount me, or me below him moaning with lust. I can effortlessly count every kiss and word I have been granted prior to penetration, and I'm already counting the minutes until he comes, so we can discuss the subject.

It's on this particular Tuesday morning in September that I feel the initial seeds of rebellion rise inside me. If I'd had the slightest trace of will-power, I could have spent my holidays learning to despise him by remembering the collateral damage, the disappointment, the slow degradation, the terrible disorientation, by weighing up the total mess versus the few seconds of euphoria. But I'd adopted the wrong attitude, assembling all my memories in a row, like relics, making a hero of the man and finding paradise in his arms. Monsieur is just another guy and I've turned him into something else altogether.

He hasn't changed. Above me, he pours out a cascade of filthy words and obscene instructions, but I'm no longer caught between the fires of arousal and awkwardness. ‘Touch yourself,' he whispers, and I feel like telling him to go to hell. That, whatever happens, I won't come. And if he needs to watch a porno movie, he should invent one in which my thighs are thinner, my virtue less evident, my pussy wetter.

But Monsieur systematically goes on fucking. The quest for an orgasm, not customarily his main goal, preoccupies him. And if he grips me with such strength, it's mostly to avoid my eyes. But wasn't I the one who suggested we meet up again? I asked him to fuck me. So we fuck.

I picture myself two days earlier on the phone with Monsieur, telling him about a conversation I'd had with my girlfriends during which they had actually taken his side, thoroughly approving of his obsession with seeing me touch myself. The main argument Ines had come up with: ‘Having reached the age of forty-six, he realizes he'll never manage to make you come on his own.'

His hackles raised, Monsieur had snapped: ‘Tell her from me that I'm quite capable of making her come for a whole bloody night, should she ever be game!'

My initial thought, confused by my need to see him and the disillusion growing inside me, was
Just start by making me come, just me! Any time!

But all I could tell Monsieur, with a faint smile on my lips: ‘You'll never be able to make anyone come, ever!'