The Erotic Potential of my Wife by David Foenkinos Page A

this life of a worm in reduced earth.
    Marcel lent him his handkerchief. He promised to take him to Deauville to eat mussels. Everything would get better. This idea of mussels could have finished him off but, in a surprising way, Hector regained some composure. The memory of the wash produced a hint of a smile (a gap in his mouth). The paradoxical malaise of the collector is that he finds the biggest source of rejoicing in his vice. Transformed into a mental collection, the moment of the washing of windows has become his possibility of not living a soft life (during a session of psychoanalysis, he would be told that he is seeking to kill his father). When Brigitte cleaned the windows, it was her refrain, it was the song that lovers sing under the rain. The absurdity of his life had the charm of clichés. Thus, he was not unhappy; all he needed was to think about his secret. To feel good, he had found the solution: not to seek to get better! He was like that, full stop. He liked the window washing of his wife like others like to go to prostitutes while walking the dog. He was going to start a subterranean life for the umpteenth time. Of course, there was a non-negligible part of risk. To film the woman of your life behind her back: we had seen better for the peace of the household.
    Marcel loved to buy newspapers when he took the train: simple newspapers where current affairs, summer fashions and celebrities were discussed. Under his elbow, there was a weekly whose cover was on
the strange affair of the disappearances
. 1 Two young women had been abducted in the same Paris neighbourhood. We learned everything about their lives, but there were no elements about the abductor. Hector, still bowled over by his resolution, thought that he would never know the abduction of his personality. They were finally arriving in a city that looked a bit like Saint-Etienne. And Laurence won her match 23 to 21. She was gentle when she won.

    ______________
    1    If we mention this affair of the disappearances, it is because it will have its importance in our story. Here, nothing is ever superfluous; we do not support the unnecessary.

5
    Brigitte did not notice anything, the camera had been so discreet it was worthy of a wildlife documentary. Hector, upon his return, acted as though nothing was going on, which was incredibly easy since to act as though nothing was going on was the attitude towards which he had the highest disposition. Saturday evening they made love, endeavouring to tire themselves out as much as possible so that Sunday, a day that is sometimes hard to kill, would unfold in the torpor of physical recuperation. Well, they would have done better in abstaining, as a serious (and peculiar for people who consider Sunday as a difficult day to kill) event occurred: it was Mireille, calling in a quavering voice, a soup problem, thought Hector, and in actual fact it was far more serious, since this telephone call announced his father’s death.
    ‘Oh my God …’ sighed Hector. And three minutes later, he could hardly feel anything. Except, maybe, some gurgles in his stomach, signs that he was hungry.
    Death has its faults, it encumbers the lives of those who are alive and kicking by leaving those who do not die in their arms. A mother, for example. We should always die in groups; it would be like a package holiday. Hector did not really know why all these cynical thoughts were going through his mind, it was perhaps the effect of death, it hardened him in one fell swoop. Hector did not cry, but Brigitte, adorably discerning, understood that something peculiar had just taken place. She approached her man who suddenly had a child’s face, and placed a gentle hand on his cheek.
    ‘Is something wrong?’
    Hector thought at that moment – was it an echo of his cynical trip? – that he could obtain anything from that woman. When you lose your father, how many window washes can you win?
    Ernest was the older brother, so he was charged