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

eyes. Hector had had a stroke of genius. It was so strange to be greeted by a man with his hands behind his back. He almost looked like a butler; the notion of deference was on offer. This attitude was incredibly touching, his bust leaning forward like a lead soldier, he did not know how to react to the hands behind the back. But our Gérard was not the kind to encumber himself with anything other than the fleeting echo of a surprise. He walked towards Hector, with a heavy step, the step of a man who had formerly climbed the steps to the podium of the Ouarzazate-Casablanca race. Once again, and like in all the big moments of his life, there was the ambiance of desert and dry throat; this meeting felt mythical. Brigitte and the stuffed tomatoes remained silent. Hector, hands behind his back, was doing everything not to look petrified; he attempted a smile that was finally only the jolt of a zygomatic bone at the end of its life.
    It was then that the following occurred.
    Hector was not used to putting his hands behind his back. He had never been stopped by policemen and he had never made love with the Mistress of the Dungeon. So inevitably, his
hands behind the back
profited from their new view and froze to glean time from the outrageous hegemony of the
hands in front of the legs
. In other words, and for almost two seconds, an eternity for this situation, Gérard’s right hand remained suspended in solitude. Brigitte was worried: but why does he not extend his hand? How could she know that Hector was a victim of vengeance from the
hands behind the back
? Vengeance that he managed to suppress with a big mental effort, and finally his right hand unblocked itself. Only, it shot up so fast from behind his back (a crazy pace) that it did not manage to stop at the height of Gérard’s hand, and aimed straight for his nose, where it crashed violently.
    Gérard stumbled backwards, a little like how the Tower of Pisa will in 152 years, 14 days and 12 minutes.
    For the briefest moment, Brigitte thought this gesture was intentional. How could Hector explain the involuntariness of his act? The clumsiness of a hand that pushes a vase can be excused, but how can a hand that lunges towards a face be excused? Should he admit to the crass anarchy of his hand’s movements? Gérard got back to his feet abruptly but was far too shocked to react; deep down, he respected Hector’s act. Not having understood that it was an atrocious accident, he deemed this man to have balls, and that he deserved to marry his sister immediately. Hector sweated out his last drops of sweat. Gérard touched his face. His nose was not broken. Only a bit of blood hesitated, but it was noble blood; Gérard always coagulated courteously.
    Hector did not oppose Gérard’s version of events during dinner. He remained convinced of the gesture’s intentionality (an analysis that would bring him a good number of problems in the coming months, as he would systematically punch every new person he met). Brigitte discreetly explained to Hector that her brother was like that, he often analysed things in a peculiar, even off the mark, way. Gérard went home, and profited from the full moon to wander along the riverbanks. The fist he had taken slap-bang in his face was making him romantic. He was recollecting the scene, and trembled with emotion and pride at the idea that his sister would marry a big shot like Hector. The movement of that hand had propelled the evening to the ultra-select sphere of unforgettable things. This beautiful encounter had just entered his personal history to sit against the indelible memory of the Ouarzazate-Casablanca podium.
    That night, Hector tried the missionary position.

7
    Via Gérard, Brigitte’s parents were taken body and soul to Hector’s cause. On the other side, with Hector’s parents, things would only be pure formality, as long as Brigitte liked the maternal soup. Hector dreamed to see in his parents’ eyes what he