The Erotic Potential of my Wife by David Foenkinos Read Free Book Online Page A

with the same lack of lucidity they will feel later when they go into rapture about the beauty of their ugly baby. The second feeling is a great intoxication. Hector for instance savoured the expression ‘my wife’. He used it whenever he could. He only had to be asked the time in the street for him to answer ‘I don’t have it, but if my wife was here … my wife has a beautiful watch …’ Brigitte took on the mystique of Mrs Columbo to Hector’s Detective Columbo. Placing ‘my wife’ in every sentence was disconcertingly easy. He could also innovate by veering into the international. An American
hors-piste
skier incontestably remained the climax of the pleasurable, nothing was chicer than a ‘my wife’ nicely thrown in. Soon, Hector would surely dare the mythical ‘you fuck my wife’; happy as he was, it would not take him long to take himself at least for Robert De Niro.
    But before anything else, he had to meet Brigitte’s brother. He had always played the role of decision-maker in the family. He was a kind of Godfather, minus the hand-kissing. Even Brigitte’s father did not take any decision without previously discussing it with his son. Gérard did not have many neurones, but he did have very beautiful thighs. He had participated in the acclaimed Paris-Roubaix race, but had unfortunately fallen on a rock that had hammered in his skull. Added to the doping from previous years, this fall had ended by turning him into a vegetable, so much so that certain gossipmongers called him ‘the Turnip’. There was something unfair in this label, and the ungrateful had quickly forgotten Gérard’s hour of glory when he had climbed onto the podium of Ouarzazate-Casablanca. It was always very easy to criticise after the deed. Brigitte’s family had remained focused on this victory. It was a shame that no image of the exploit had been taken. Only a magnificently framed photo on the parents’ sideboard attested to the performance. This photo where Gérard was surrounded by young men, slightly paltry but forcedly combative, and brandished a trophy in the wind and dust (the gossipmongers who called him ‘the Turnip’ claimed that this photo had been taken at a studio in Bobigny. What slander!). It was this heroic image that made Gérard the incontestable leader of the family. In other words, to have a chance of officially possessing the woman of his life, Hector had to bone up on his cycling history.
    Luck was decidedly not leaving him, as he had the privilege to have the son of Robert Chapatte as one of his acquaintances, albeit very far removed. In a few meetings, he had transformed himself into an unbeatable expert on the gear ratio, and still could not understand how Laurent Fignon had allowed the Tour ’89 escape him to the benefit of Greg Lemond because of a few cursed seconds. Brigitte was proud of her sporty future husband. She was not worried about what turn the summit meeting between the two men of her life might take. Hector was dressed to the nines (he was so lacking in confidence that he even had doubts about that number); and his yellow tie was turning pale. All that was left was to find his welcome posture. It is well known by all competitors that everything is in the first look; you have to know to take the ascension even before the first whistle. While Brigitte was preparing stuffed tomatoes in the kitchen – her brother’s favourite dish – Hector sat on the couch, stood up again, settled by the window, tried to smoke, but that did not look sporty so he placed a hand on the table to look nonchalant, acted surprised, frankly wanted to absent himself. Sweating, he was seeking the ideal posture, when suddenly, without really knowing how it found itself there, an idea crossed his mind. A brilliant idea, that of the
hands behind the back
.
    The door rang.
    Gérard came in and discovered the one who was postulating for the honorific role of brother-in-law. Surprise was immediately perceptible in his