wife’s lover was called Martial Arnoult and his wife was Martine, residing at number 45 Rue Charlot, in the third arrondissement in Paris.
Martine Arnoult, 45 Rue Charlot. Paris, 3rd arrdt. The first thing he did when he got home was to note the name and address on the white board in the kitchen underneath brown shoe polish, batteries (4), pay electricity bill. He didn’t really know what he would do with it. Probably nothing. He had just collected the information like picking up a stone on a beach. The kind of thing you chucked in the bin when you got back from holiday. Then he had slept straight through for fifteen or sixteen hours.
But tomorrow wasn’t another day. Sylvie was still dead. In the street and in the supermarket, everyone continued with their lives as if nothing had happened. A warm summer was forecast, the cashier’s sister had just had a little girl. Someone dropped a bottle of oil.
Fabien bought the brown polish, the batteries, eggs and some strong chorizo. He would do the cheque for the electricity as soon as he got home. Hello, goodbye, everything was incredibly normal. He was torn between the desire to shout out, ‘Hey! Don’t you know? Sylvie is dead; I’m a widower!’ and the bitter pleasure of being in possession of a secret: ‘I know something that you don’t and I’m not going to tell you what it is.’
In the flat, Sylvie’s presence could still be felt everywhere. It was not just because of the familiar objects dotted about, but it also felt as if she had left behind a little part of herself in every molecule of air she had breathed. It was like watching invisible hands on the keyboard of a pianola. Fabien fried himself two eggs, with onions, tomato and chorizo. That was what he always cooked when he ate on his own. Sylvie couldn’t bear strong chorizo. He loved it and could happily have eaten it for lunch and dinner every day for the rest of his life. Now his delight in it was ruined.
He went over in his head all the household tasks and other duties that he had never undertaken and quickly felt overwhelmed. He poured a large Scotch to make himself feel better. But it wasn’t just the tasks. It was the loss of all their little routines – evenings in front of the telly, going to the market on Saturday morning, family birthdays, trips to the museum. In short, everything he had detested up until the day before yesterday. This revelation had a strange effect on him; he was even going to miss their petty little squabbles. He helped himself to another glass, fuller than the first one. He hadn’t thought of what he would miss. Until now he had considered widowhood a sort of honorary bonus, like a rosette to pin on his lapel. Of course, it had been a long time since they had been in love, but he hadn’t hated Sylvie; there had been a sort of tender complicity between them.
The alcohol was making him tearful. Memories of the happy times they had spent together kept surfacing like soap bubbles. Gradually self-pity gave way to anger.
‘At a stroke you’ve made me a widower and a cuckold. Nice one. Bravo! Do you know that down there in the street no one cares you’re dead? Yes! A widower and a cuckold! I don’t like that word. It’s not right for me. It’s a silly word like poo and wee-wee. But people like it. It’s a comic word, probably because it sounds rude. And at Le Petit Chez-Soi with a guy called Martial! Classy! What got into you, for God’s sake? Of course, now you’re not obliged to answer me. The dead get all the rights, especially the right to remain silent, like my father, like Charlotte … I was going to say you’d sent word round. That’s funny, since none of you actually speak. But I can make any jokes I like! I’m the one who’s been wronged; I have the choice of weapons! I’m free, you hear? FREE! I can stuff my face, vomit on the carpet, belch, fart, wank, spray come all over your ridiculous lace curtains! That’s right, keep saying nothing, but I can ruin your eternal peace by saying anything and everything. I can fill your goddamned nothingness with a torrent of words from morning to night! Oh, fuck it! Do what you like with your death. What do I care? … You’re free, I’m free, we’re all free …’
It was darkest night when he awoke face down on the carpet. It was so thick it was as if the pile had grown. He rolled onto his side. The bedroom light was on. For a fraction of a second he imagined Sylvie reading in bed, her cheek resting in the palm of her hand, her glasses perched on her nose. The image disappeared as he retched. He staggered to the bathroom. Eggs, chorizo and whisky swirled down the basin plughole. Fabien leant back against the wall and let himself slide to the floor. His hand landed on a book. It was a book on gardens that Sylvie had been reading recently, Secret Gardens by Rosemary Verey. He opened it randomly at page 8: ‘Since his fall from grace, man has not stopped creating gardens, secret places to gather and exchange confidences and pledges, places of reminiscence. Although over the centuries the secret garden has taken on a different aspect, it still symbolises man’s inner secrets.’
The ringing of the telephone acted on him like an electric shock. He let it go on for a long time, but obviously the person on the other end was not going to give up. Fabien propelled himself towards the phone, banging his leg on the bedside table, and collapsed onto the bed.
‘Hello?’
‘Fabien? It’s Gilles. Are you OK?’
‘Yes, yes … I was asleep. How are you?’
‘Me? I’m fine, it’s you I’m worried about.’
‘I just banged my shin. It’s nothing.’
‘Fabien, I …don’t know what to say …Sylvie …’
‘What about Sylvie? She’s not here. She must have gone to the cinema with Laure.’
‘What are you saying? Stop pissing about. Your father rang me. He’s really concerned. Your phone call shook him up.’
‘My phone call?’
‘Yes, your phone call. Don’t you remember? You were dead drunk but he understood everything. I feel terrible for you … Do you want me to come round?’
‘What for?’
‘To be with you! I’m your friend.’
‘Thanks … but not now. Tomorrow morning if you want. I’m going to sleep, for a long time.’
‘OK, mate. You’re sure you won’t do anything stupid?’
‘Why would I do anything stupid?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘I’m just going to sleep. Come at about nine o’clock.’
‘OK, see you then. I’m really sorry. I’m here for you.’
‘Thanks, Gilles. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
So that was it. Once again he had blurted everything out to his father. But sooner or later, everyone would have to know. He would have preferred it to be later. The real penance was about to begin. He was going to have to tell the story ten times over, hundreds of times over, thank people, shake people’s moist hands, kiss their flaccid, damp cheeks, see distant provincial cousins. It all seemed beyond him. He told himself coffee would do him good. As he crossed the apartment he took in the damage wreaked by his one and only fit of jealousy: drawers emptied, furniture overturned, ashtrays spilt, and the contents of the wardrobe strewn about and soiled. Devastation as shameful as it was derisory. Who was going to clean up that bloody mess? Gilles? Laure? The best strategy would be to hide behind his new-found status as a betrayed widower floored by grief and to get everyone else to look after him. That wasn’t the noblest of stances but at least it had the merit of giving him time to work out what to do next.
Somewhat
