he found himself watching her sleeping, just as he had done in those early days and nights, and the sight made him thank God for having sent him Martine. She was resting at last, emotionally exhausted by thisaccident which had forced her to perform some unusual new gestures: she had had to spoon-feed Didier, wipe his mouth, hold a glass to his lips. She, who had never smoked, had to light a cigarette, put it between his lips, and take it out to tap off the ash. How could he have had such a terrible fall? Supposing he had fallen head first? She had often dreamed of freedom, but now she had been offered a glimpse of life without him and the prospect had filled her with horror.
Didier had bravely faced all that day’s ordeals, until now, at 2.17 a.m., when a horrible itch started up, down by his perineum. About ten years earlier he had picked up a skin complaint from God knows where. The doctors had assured him that the tests were negative, that it was benign, that there was nothing much you could do about it, that it would go the same way it had come, but still, at least once a day and according to ambient heat and sweatiness, he was seized by an irresistible urge to scratch between his thighs. It was an awkward place to have to scratch during the day, and he often disappeared into toilets, or went back to his car for no obvious reason, returning almost at once. The only way to achieve some form of relief was to wash the affected spot with dermatological soap, dry it thoroughly and, in times of great heat, sprinkle it with talcum powder to soak up the sweat and alleviate the friction. He, a plumber, had insisted on installing a bidet in their bathroom, to the great surprise of his wife, who couldn’t see the point of it, and indeed he was the only one who used it (it was a masterpiece of a bidet, ultramodern – he had put his all into it). In the morning, when he got up, the jet of water soothed the patches which he had scratched during the night, sometimes drawing blood. On summer evenings,he would sometimes take a hip bath as a late reward for a sweaty day spent resisting the temptation to put his hands between his legs in public.
By 2.23, the itch had become intolerable. He had felt it coming on since the early evening, but he had held out, like a soldier biting his belt to make pain disappear. His battle with himself had taken the form of cold sweats, a strange shuddering of the shoulders – his whole body was begging for release so forcefully that eventually all qualms were swept aside. He woke his wife, calling her name, begging her to scratch his “perineum” – a word he had learned at the dermatologist’s, along with “scrotum”. Such precision made her hesitate; Didier always called a cat a cat, and a tomcat a tomcat, even with people he hardly knew. This word “perineum” was hiding something, it was a roundabout way of saying “scratch my balls”, but still, she was in no doubt about the urgency of the situation. Guided by her husband, she slipped her hand into his underpants, then under his testicles, a gesture she hadn’t made for a long time. He yelled when she found the crucial spot:
“Harder!”
The happiness he felt at that precise moment was so intense that it was soon followed by an erection.
To distract themselves from the insomnia that they were both suffering from, Fred and Maggie watched a film late into the night. She was feeling guilty at lying about the Secours Populaire , at having secrets from this monster of a husband whom she still loved despite everything. He, for his part, felt unable to give an honest answer tothe question she had asked when she came home: “How did it go with the plumber?”
What he had done to Didier Fourcade could well imperil the fragile equilibrium that she and Quintiliani were trying to maintain. Fred did not even dare to imagine what would happen if the Feds got wind of the story. However, he didn’t have much to fear on that front – the fear he
Didier had bravely faced all that day’s ordeals, until now, at 2.17 a.m., when a horrible itch started up, down by his perineum. About ten years earlier he had picked up a skin complaint from God knows where. The doctors had assured him that the tests were negative, that it was benign, that there was nothing much you could do about it, that it would go the same way it had come, but still, at least once a day and according to ambient heat and sweatiness, he was seized by an irresistible urge to scratch between his thighs. It was an awkward place to have to scratch during the day, and he often disappeared into toilets, or went back to his car for no obvious reason, returning almost at once. The only way to achieve some form of relief was to wash the affected spot with dermatological soap, dry it thoroughly and, in times of great heat, sprinkle it with talcum powder to soak up the sweat and alleviate the friction. He, a plumber, had insisted on installing a bidet in their bathroom, to the great surprise of his wife, who couldn’t see the point of it, and indeed he was the only one who used it (it was a masterpiece of a bidet, ultramodern – he had put his all into it). In the morning, when he got up, the jet of water soothed the patches which he had scratched during the night, sometimes drawing blood. On summer evenings,he would sometimes take a hip bath as a late reward for a sweaty day spent resisting the temptation to put his hands between his legs in public.
By 2.23, the itch had become intolerable. He had felt it coming on since the early evening, but he had held out, like a soldier biting his belt to make pain disappear. His battle with himself had taken the form of cold sweats, a strange shuddering of the shoulders – his whole body was begging for release so forcefully that eventually all qualms were swept aside. He woke his wife, calling her name, begging her to scratch his “perineum” – a word he had learned at the dermatologist’s, along with “scrotum”. Such precision made her hesitate; Didier always called a cat a cat, and a tomcat a tomcat, even with people he hardly knew. This word “perineum” was hiding something, it was a roundabout way of saying “scratch my balls”, but still, she was in no doubt about the urgency of the situation. Guided by her husband, she slipped her hand into his underpants, then under his testicles, a gesture she hadn’t made for a long time. He yelled when she found the crucial spot:
“Harder!”
The happiness he felt at that precise moment was so intense that it was soon followed by an erection.
To distract themselves from the insomnia that they were both suffering from, Fred and Maggie watched a film late into the night. She was feeling guilty at lying about the Secours Populaire , at having secrets from this monster of a husband whom she still loved despite everything. He, for his part, felt unable to give an honest answer tothe question she had asked when she came home: “How did it go with the plumber?”
What he had done to Didier Fourcade could well imperil the fragile equilibrium that she and Quintiliani were trying to maintain. Fred did not even dare to imagine what would happen if the Feds got wind of the story. However, he didn’t have much to fear on that front – the fear he
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