The Erotic Potential of my Wife

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Book: The Erotic Potential of my Wife Read Free
Author: David Foenkinos
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    Hector saw his brother once a week when he came to eat the family soup. It felt good to be a foursome. There was the atmosphere of a Bach quartet, minus the music. Unfortunately, these meals did not linger. Ernest talked about his business, and no one ever knew the right questions to prolong his stay. They had a certain incompetence in the art of rhetoric and conversation. Hector’s mother – let’s call her by her name this time – Mireille (writing this, we realise we always knew she was called Mireille; everything we had learned about her was typical of a Mireille) dropped a tear when her older son left. Hector was jealous of this tear for a long time. He understood that no one cried for him because he returned too soon. For a tear, the separation needs to be at least two days. It would’ve been almost possible to catch Mireille’s tear, weigh it, and know exactly when Ernest would come back; oh, this is an eight-day tear! A heavy tear, the bubble of depressive lives, through which we see Hector in the present time, this time of narrative uncertainty, to face a terrible epiphany: though he is now an adult and comes to slurp soup once a week, his mother does not cry for him. Suddenly, her weightless tears are the heaviest burden that his heart has ever had to bear. We are faced with the certainty that his mother prefers his brother. In a strange way, Hector almost feels good; we must try to understand, it is the first time in his life that he finds himself faced with a certainty.
    Our hero knows that what he feels is wrong; it is palpably simplistic. His parents have a stunningly narrow range of emotions. They love everyone the same. It is a simple love that extends from a sponge to their son. This good son, thinking himself the least favourite, had treacherous thoughts towards his parents, hatred even. Some days, he dreamt that his father gave him a couple of hard slaps; the image of a red mark on his skin would have made him feel alive. At one time, he had thought of provoking reactions in his parents by becoming a problem child; he never dared to in the end. His parents loved him; admittedly in their way, but they loved him. Therefore he had to play the role of good son no matter what.
    Parenthesis about Hector’s father in order to know why his life is only moustaches, and outline a theory that considers our society exhibitionist
    His father sighed from time to time, and these sighs revealed the extent of his role in his son’s education. In the end, it was better than nothing. This father (let’s say it straight: this Bernard) had sported a moustache very early on. It was in no way indicative of a carefree attitude, as many people would lead us to believe; a lot of thought had gone into this moustache, it was almost an act of propaganda. To understand this Bernard, let’s allow ourselves a short break, it will last as long as a sigh. Bernard’s father, born in 1908, died heroically in 1940. The word ‘heroic’ is a great mantel. Everything can be hung on it. The Germans had not attacked yet, the Maginot Line was still virginal, and Bernard’s father and his regiment had a small village in the east under siege. A small village where there lived a woman weighing 152 kilos who wanted to profit from the regiment’s passing. Though men usually didn’t want her, she had more chances in times of war, in times of abstinence. To cut a long story short, Bernard’s father decided to attack the mountain, and due to the sliding of a sheet, in a rotary motion whose horror we do not dare to imagine, there occurred what is commonly referred to as suffocation. This story (quiet now!) had been spared from his family, by masking everything with the word heroic. His son was only ten. Bernard was thus raised with the cult of his father as a hero, and slept underneath a portrait that covered that of the Virgin Mary. Every evening and every morning, he blessed this face curtailed by death, this face adorned by a

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