Considering the circumstances, I thought long and hard about going to this dinner with William. I was scared to think of standing beside him in public, letting people see us—or what’s left of us—as a couple, being party to that pantomime. But I couldn’t come up with a valid excuse to get out of it. We go out so rarely. That also happened gradually. We’re invited out less and less often. We no longer go to the movies. We never eat in restaurants. I don’t know when the end of our social life dates from. As with many things, the fact is I’m unable to say when it began… to space out, dry up, die off—nor when it stopped. Everything is happening as though I’m waking from a strange torpor. From a general anesthetic. And this question keeps on recurring: why didn’t I realize sooner?
Previously—I mean, when we still used to go out—William always found something to criticize: people talked too much, took themselves too seriously, didn’t ask questions. And he wasn’t always wrong about that. We very rarely reciprocated the invitations. William doesn’t like people coming to our home. I think he’s afraid that allowing people to see the place we live, giving them access to our interior, will reveal our deception. Or, to be accurate, mine. He’s afraid of the little detail, the faux pas that might escape his vigilance and reveal my background—a milieu where people don’t just make errors in French, but also errors of taste. Some of which he’s probably missed. It’s not (of course) for want of trying to impose his ideas. And asking me to take things he thinks unworthy of our apartment down to the cellar. Besides, William has never liked entertaining. Even in the early days. He always did it grudgingly.
This time it was partly a work thing, and my husband indicated that it was important to him. Charles, our host, also works for the group, but in another company. Anaïs, his wife, is a corporate lawyer. We’ve seen them two or three times, but they aren’t friends. They moved a few months ago and were eager to have us over to their new apartment. So we set off around 8 p.m., leaving Mathis and Théo at home. In the end, our son had won easily: as we were going out, of course he got to invite a friend rather than stay at home alone.
Anaïs and Charles had invited another couple we didn’t know.
We sat around the coffee table drinking aperitifs. We swapped news and then, as always, I became invisible. I’m used to this. Give or take a few details, the scenario is always the same. I’m generally asked two or three questions, and then after I’ve said that I don’t work, the conversation shifts to someone else and never comes back to me. People don’t imagine that a housewife can have a life, interests, much less anything to say. They don’t imagine she can string together a few sensible sentences about the world around us or be up to formulating an opinion. It’s as though the housewife is by definition under house arrest and her brain, having suffered oxygen deprivation too long, operates at reduced speed. Guests discover with a certain fear that they’re going to have to put up with a person at their table who has withdrawn from the world and civilization and who, apart from purely practical and domestic topics, won’t be able to take part in any genuine conversation. So quite quickly I’m excluded from the company. They stop talking to me and, in particular, they stop looking at me. Mostly I let myself become absorbed by the color of the walls or the pattern on the wallpaper. I look for vanishing points and disappear.
In truth, for different reasons, William appreciates the fact that I’m a silent woman.
But this Saturday, over dinner, my husband began telling an anecdote. William has always liked to be the center of attention. He likes the moment when silence descends around the table and all eyes converge on him and everyone shows signs of interest. It’s a form of group allegiance. My mind was wandering, only vaguely following what he was saying. It was about a conference in the provinces and a very boozy dinner. They’d been hanging around outside with some colleagues, all of them pretty drunk, when a young woman they didn’t know but who had taken part in the seminar walked past. One of them called out to her, as a joke.
The tone that William used about this woman snapped me out of the familiar, inner drifting state in which I’d taken refuge.
“… You can take it from me that she clenched her buttocks!” he was saying as I fully returned to the conversation.
Everyone laughed. Including the women. I’m always surprised that women laugh at jokes like these.
“Really?” I interrupted. “She clenched her buttocks? Did that surprise you?”
I didn’t give him time to reply. “Do you want me to explain why?”
He was looking at the others, as if to say, Look at the kind of woman fate has saddled me with.
“Because you were four piss-drunk guys in a deserted business park, near some practically deserted Ibis or Campanile hotel. So yes, William, that’s probably one of the essential differences between men and women, fundamental even: women have very good reason to clench their buttocks.”
An awkward silence had fallen. I saw William hesitate between getting me to explain exactly what I meant (at the risk that I would make a fool of myself in front of his friends if, for example, on the spur of the moment, I came out with one of the turns of phrase he cannot bear) and dismissing my remark with a wave of his hand and going on with his story. He asked me, with barely a hint of condescension, “What do you mean, my dear?”
(Need I add that William uses the expression “my dear” to respond to women who contradict him on social media or get enraged by what he has written? For example, he writes, “My dear, look around: most men are fags” or, “My dear, go and get fucked in the ass by some Jew pharmacist. That’s their specialty.”)
I was addressing William, but also the other two men at the table.
“Do you clench your buttocks when you come across a group of young women who are obviously drunk in the middle of the night?”
The silence was perceptibly deepening.
“Of course not. Because no woman, even if she’s dead drunk, has ever put her hand on your penis or buttocks, or made a sexual remark when you’ve walked past. Because it’s pretty unusual for a woman to throw herself on a man in the street or under a bridge or in a hotel room in order to penetrate him or force I don’t know what into his anus. That’s why. So yes, you should realize that any normal woman clenches her buttocks when she passes a group of four men at three in the morning. Not only does she clench her buttocks, she also avoids eye contact and any behavior that might indicate fear, challenge or invitation. She looks straight ahead, is careful not to quicken her pace, and only starts to breathe again when she’s alone in the elevator.”
William watched me, astonished. I saw his mouth become a hard line and I thought that Wilmor probably had that expression when he was at his keyboard.
“My dear, don’t talk nonsense. You never go out alone, especially not at night.”
“Perhaps it’s not too late to start. Thank you for an excellent dinner, but I have to say I’m finding the conversation a little tedious. That’s what you’ll say to me in the car, isn’t it? If I go home with you in two hours: ‘God, they’re a pain in the ass!’ Isn’t it, my dear?”
A few minutes later I was in the street, alone and laughing.
For the first time, I had broken the rules. I had broken the pact with my husband. I have to admit that I replayed the scene in my head several times. Yes, yes, I know—talking to myself outside. Bursting out laughing, even! After all, lots of people talk to themselves. I walked for a bit before hailing a taxi. I was still laughing as I got into the back of the cab.
I spent the journey imagining how I’d describe this scene to Dr. Felsenberg, which details I’d choose.
It’s stupid, but I was so happy at the thought of finally having something to tell him.
I got back at ten thirty. They weren’t expecting me so early.
I found them both sitting on the sofa in front of a reality TV show. At their feet were a bottle of whisky, two or three Coke cans and some plastic glasses.
They hadn’t heard the key in the door. I came up behind them. They were completely euphoric, to the point that Théo was almost rolling on the floor—literally. I thought that something one of the characters on the show had said must just have sent them into this state of competitive hilarity.
When Mathis finally realized I was there, I saw his face change, going in a flash from uninhibited laughter as a result of the alcohol to panic. The laughing stopped. Mathis started picking up the plastic glasses, removing evidence of the crime. Théo sat down again on the sofa. He wasn’t in a fit state to do anything. Mathis seemed less drunk than his friend. That reassured me a little: on the disaster scale, we weren’t the record holders.
I asked who had brought the alcohol.
Without hesitation, Théo said it was him.
He squared up to me a little defiantly, as though he was protecting Mathis, as though he had decided to take the brunt of my anger, while Mathis was still fussing around, pretending to clean up.
I asked him where he’d bought the bottle. How he’d paid for it. How much they’d drunk. Did his parents know he was drinking at the age of twelve and a half? I’d never spoken to a child this harshly. He stopped responding. I wanted to slap him and throw him out without further ado. Or take him in a taxi back to his house, but the truth was I was afraid he’d be sick in the car. He could barely stand.
Mathis tried to explain the fortuitous circumstances which had led them, against their will, to have this bottle of whisky, which had come into the apartment by itself, as it were, almost by breaking and entering (or some such nonsense), but I shouted, “Go to bed, both of you!”
I didn’t have to say it twice.
My son helped his friend down the hall and they disappeared.
I sat down where they’d been. A young woman in a bathing suit, with voluminous breasts, and makeup with colors and highlights that were rather fascinating, was talking to the camera. I paused to listen—maybe she knew some truth that had escaped me—but I heard her chuckle, “Let’s shake some booty,” and switched off the television.
I poured myself a generous measure of whisky in an empty glass and downed it in one gulp. I wanted to laugh again.