Woman in the Fifth

‘How did this occur?’

I told him.

‘Ca arrive,’ he said with a shrug, then explained that there was little he could do to cure a badly bitten tongue. ‘Keep rinsing it in salted water to keep the wound clean. Otherwise it must heal on its own. Within a week the swelling will diminish. I would also suggest to your “petite amie” that she doesn’t demonstrate her ardor in such an aggressive way the next time you make love.’

‘There isn’t going to be a next time,’ I said.

Another indifferent shrug. ‘Tres bien, monsieur.’

I then detailed my worry about having unprotected sex with Yanna.

‘She is French?’ he asked.

‘Yes, but her husband is Turkish.’

‘But he lives here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is she an intravenous drug user?’

‘I don’t think so?’

‘Her husband?’

‘He’s a drunk.’

‘Do you think she sleeps with other men? More specifically, Africans?’

‘She’s a racist.’

‘In my experience, you can be a racist and still have sex with those you allegedly despise. Are you having unprotected sex with anyone else?’

‘Yes, but … I do not think there is any risk involved.’

‘A final question then,’ the doctor asked. ‘Might you have any cuts or wounds in or around your genitalia?’

‘Not to my knowledge. But if you wouldn’t mind taking a look.’

Another shrug — this time accompanied by a bored sigh. He reached behind him and grabbed a small bag from an easy-to-reach pile, opened it and began to pull on surgical gloves, while motioning me to stand up. I dropped my trousers and underwear. The doctor took my limp penis between his latexed fingers and then, using a small pen flashlight, peered around my testicles and crotch. The entire inspection only lasted around thirty seconds and should have been humiliating, but was carried out in such a dispassionate way that he might as well have been examining a turnip.

‘Generally, female-to-male HIV transmission needs some sort of open wound or sore in order to enter the immune system. Yes, it allegedly can swim up the urethra, but you would have to be profoundly unlucky.’

‘I can be profoundly unlucky, Doctor.’

‘The odds are still very small … Still, if you want to be absolutely certain, we can do a blood test now and also screen you for other STDs. And then we can do another in six months’ time — to give you the complete “all- clear”.’

‘I’d like the test.’

‘Tres bien, monsieur …’

Ten minutes later, I was out on the street, a small card in my pocket with a number to ring tomorrow to get the results of the test. I knew that, privately, the doctor regarded me as a man suffering nothing more than a surfeit of guilt. Just as I also knew that when I saw Margit later that afternoon, I would have to make a clean breast of everything. There are certain things about which you can lie. And others …

Forty-five minutes later I was walking obsessively around the Jardin des Plantes, trying to work out how I’d tell Margit what had happened, terrified about how she’d react, and cursing myself for, yet again, detonating a relationship thanks to sexual transgression — a relationship I definitely didn’t want to lose. Do we ever learn anything from our mistakes? Not when it comes to sex. That’s the one arena of bad behavior in which we are recidivists, over and over again.

As I mounted the stairs to Margit’s apartment, I told myself, As long as you’re prepared for the worst, there’s really nothing to fear. But I couldn’t embrace such advice. I was guilty — guilty of so much.

I knocked on the door. A minute went by. She opened it. She was wearing a black dressing gown and smoking a cigarette.

‘Hi there,’ I said, leaning forward to kiss her and wondering if she could hear the blurriness of my speech. She accepted the kiss. I stepped inside. She led me by the hand past the bedroom and into her front room. I sat down in an armchair. Without saying anything she went to the little table where she kept a few bottles of booze and poured me a whisky. She handed it to me. I sipped it and flinched, the alcohol burning my wounded tongue. She sat down opposite me. She smiled. Then she said, ‘So who have you been fucking, Harry?’

Thirteen

‘I DON’T KNOW what you’re talking about,’ I said.

‘Liar,’ she said with a laugh.

I sipped some whisky and winced again.

‘What’s wrong with your mouth?’

‘I bit my tongue.’

‘Liar.’

‘Haven’t you ever bitten your tongue?’ I asked.

‘What was her name?’

‘I’m telling you—’

‘You are telling me shit. Which is fine by me. I don’t care. Any more than I care if you slept with someone else — which I know you did. So what was her name?’ Pause. Then, ‘Yanna.’

‘Turkish?’

‘Half-French, half-Turkish.’

‘How did you meet her?’

I explained.

‘And how did the fuck happen?’

I explained.

‘Did she did bite you before or after penetration?’

I explained.

‘And when you were finished?’

‘She threw me out.’

‘And let me guess — you didn’t use a condom …’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘But why?’

‘Because now …’

‘Now what?’

‘Now perhaps you won’t want …’

‘To have sex with you?’ She laughed again. ‘Sometimes, Harry, you become infantile.’

I hung my head … and felt infantile.

‘Surely that doctor you consulted …’

I looked up at her.

‘How did you know I consulted … ?’

‘Here we go again. Harry, you are so charmingly predictable. And you are so American when it comes to your need to feel bad about everything to do with sex. So let me guess: the doctor told you there’s nothing to worry about. But you’re still worried — still calculating the million-to-one possibility that you might have contracted