Are You Married to a Psychopath? by Nadine Bismuth

Author:Nadine Bismuth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: McArthur & Company Publishing Limited
Published: 2010-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

SENTIMENTAL RISKS

Louis volunteered to go with me to the dentist, even though I hadn’t asked. That was exciting. Richard, my ex, even balked at going with me to the grocery store. But I don’t want to make comparisons.

In the waiting room, Louis took off his leather jacket and let it drop onto the loveseat flanked by two plastic ficuses. I leaned over the reception desk.

“Hello. I have an appointment with Doctor Giguère. Karine Simard.”

The lady on the other side had grey hair with mauve highlights and brown spots on her face. She tapped at her computer’s keyboard before putting her glasses back on her nose.

“Are you still on Saint Dominique?”

“Yes.”

“Same phone number?

“Yes.”

“We still contact Marlène in case of emergency?” Marlène is my best friend. I glanced towards Louis. He’d begun to read a magazine. I had my eyes on him when the answer came out of my mouth. “No.”

“No?” repeated the receptionist.

Louis raised his head; I smiled at him and looked back at the woman. “She’s moved.”

That was true. Last summer, Marlène piled all her possessions into a truck and unloaded them into Brian’s condo. Lucky her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Louis resume his reading. I leaned further over the counter.

“Can you put the name Louis instead?” I was thrown off balance at having expressed my wish as a question. Why should I need permission from this stranger? But the lady didn’t take any notice; she went on poking at her keyboard while I dictated the telephone number. Through the plate-glass window behind her, downtown Montreal was going about its business. The April sky was cloudy, but the horizon line stretched out to the river. Scalloped slabs of ice glided on the water. It was romantic.

“You can go and sit down. Doctor Giguère will come and get you.”

Louis was leafing through a Golf Digest. I grabbed a dog-eared Chatelaine and slumped down beside him. I put a hand on his thigh and whimpered that I had a horror of needles; he said he needed a new putter. With Louis, I feel like I’m under a glass bell, sheltered from all foreign bodies, but that didn’t stop me from aiming a kindly glance at the old man smoothing the rim of his hat near the aquarium. I imagined he was a widower and could use it. The dentist called me in.

Two days later, I told Louis the news that had shaken up everyone at the bank: the young Romanian waitress at the Café Suprème in the building’s lobby had posted a complaint against our director of marketing for sexual harassment. No one had seen the likes of it. He interrupted me.

“Karine, I have to tell you something.” Personally, if one day I were to write a book on the art of conversation, I would disallow this way of breaking the ice. It’s a sure sign that serious matters are to follow and it can only sow panic in the individual being addressed. I put down my fork.

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