Monsieur by Emma Becker Page B

Mandiargues and so many others that I had even come to think of myself as the sole reader of their masterpieces. To learn that a man who had a similar burning passion was so close to me seemed a miracle.
    Men who read. There is a whole universe that revolves around men who read, who dive in and out and drown in this ever so feminine reverie, and, God, it makes them charming. The dazzling charm of their fingers turning pages, turning down the corner of a page, their eyes absorbing each letter, line, word. The abyss I can only dream of behind the wrinkled brows contemplating yellowing pages.
    Knowing this, I reread Calaferte’s book and found it tasted different. For hours on end, I would lock myself in my room, rediscovering with delicious discomfort the crudest paragraphs, aroused by the thought that his grey eyes had also read them, providing a new freshness to the passages I knew by heart. How did he contemplate all these words – cunt, arse, cock, moistness, cum, buggery? What sort of impact could such words have on a forty-six-year-old man, who had lived enough to distinguish between the vocabulary and the reality? What does the word ‘cunt’ evoke for him? Whose cunt does he think of as his eyes glide across the four dark letters of the word? Which woman has corrupted his memory with her scent, her presence, scattered across every page of erotic writing?
    Through all my readings, I was picturing him, considering the mystery of older men and the promises they make to us without even opening their mouths.
    I sent Monsieur a copy of my musings.
    â€˜It’s great. Go on with it!’ was his response.
    The following day, for the first time in weeks, I got up early and rushed out to buy a notebook.
    â€˜How did you spend your day, dearest?’
    â€˜This afternoon I sunbathed on the deck-chair in the garden, with my legs wide open. I think the family next door now have an intimate acquaintance with my knickers.’
    â€˜What sort of knickers were you wearing?’
    â€˜Actually, I wasn’t wearing any. But I thought it would be in bad taste to let you know that from the off.’
    â€˜You do make me laugh!’
    â€˜Is it possible to make you laugh and give you a hard-on at the same time?’
    â€˜It’s essential.’
    â€˜I’m a knickerless clown.’
    â€˜And most appetizing at that.’
    â€˜That’s the nicest compliment.’
    There are moments in the story I love recalling. Images that come to mind and make me smile, whatever the time of day, whatever my mood. The morning we spent in our small hotel on place de Clichy is in this exquisite garden of memories, every flower as precious as the next. Time can’t change them.
    I was sleeping heavily – but restless because of the vodka Babette and I had consumed the previous evening. A room decked out in red, with a stucco fountain in one corner, and there I was, snoring like a drunkard wearing only my Agent Provocateur pants. You can just imagine what a vision of bad taste I was when my mobile woke me up on the stroke of ten.
    â€˜Another ten minutes and I’ll be holding you against me,’ Monsieur said.
    I jumped out of bed as if I was on springs. I had ten minutes to rediscover my young-girl freshness and jettison my bad breath. There was not even enough time to experience the pangs of waiting, the tightness in the pit of my stomach. I threw myself under the shower, toothbrush in my mouth, eyes distorted with panic. I kicked the empty bottle under the bed. I was a mess, my hair all over the place, my eyelids puffy, but I knew that after just a few words Monsieur would see none of this. He would see all of me.
    I crept out onto the landing, wearing only knickers, half a joint in hand. Sat down, legs through the banister, swinging in the void, watching the ground floor. The vertigo I felt had nothing to do with the height. Next to me, my telephone vibrated with languid