“Mrs. James, Mrs. James, please!”
How long has the judge been
calling my name? Actually, it is my husband’s name. I am already subconsciously
divorced and refuse to hear anyone calling me by that name.
“Yes, Your Honour?”
“I can see that your attorney is
not present. Your counsel Ms. Martin has sent me a letter which leaves me quite
puzzled and you will understand why. Please listen.”
Dear Judge Barnard,
I refuse to represent Mrs. James. I apologize for the inconvenience
caused to my former client but some exceptional circumstances have forced me to
abandon her divorce case.
Yours sincerely,
Ms. Martin
That bitch!!! She did not even
have the decency to inform me! I feel almost worse than when my husband told me
that he had a mistress and was leaving me for that geisha. The judge takes
control of the situation as I stand stupidly staring at him, with mouth agape
and bulging eyes: “Mrs. James, Mr. James. In these conditions, we will have to interrupt
the audience. The hearing is adjourned.”
As I exit the tribunal, I meet the
eyes of my hopefully soon to be ex-husband. He is looking at me with pity. Am I
dreaming or do I also catch a glimpse of guilt? I shake my head violently: now is
not the time to dither. What I need at this moment is a very strong and
ruffling coffee. A coffee and my best friend, Isa.
OK, Isa is not my best friend, per
se. She is hardly even a friend. Actually, she annoys me most of the time with
her clueless smile and that irritating foible of always agreeing with me in a
theatrical manner. Argh!! But today is a case of force majeure. Sometimes, one
needs these kind of people to pour out their frustration and anger: they listen
quietly and vigorously nod at the appropriate time, they don’t lecture and condescendingly
pretend that “it is for your own good, honey!”.
I sit at a terrace, order a stiff double
espresso and wait for Isa while nervously scratching my nail paint. After few
minutes, I spot her from a distance. Even the blindest bat would have been thrown
off by her tacky orange hairy coat and her outrageously swaying hips. “Jen”, I
order myself, “Stop criticizing the poor blonde. One, it is not her fault; two,
she is about to save you 300 dollars of therapy.”
“Hi Isa!” I hug her tightly,
partly to compensate my toxic thoughts (never know: God might exist!).
“Jen, I rushed up as soon as I got
your call. It is horrible!! I don’t know what to say!”
I bit my lit before I can retort: “So don’t say anything, you dumbass, just
shut your gigantic botoxed mouth!”
“That’s so nice of you, Isa. It
feels good to know that someone still cares about me”, I press her hand with
gratitude.
“Tell me everything!”, she crosses
her legs in a burlesque attempt to be sensual, lays her DD cup size asset on the
table and expectantly looks at me while slurping her carrot juice, her lips
comically pouted around the straw.
“Oh, Isa! I am devastated!” I soon
forget I am confiding to my favourite idiot as I pour my heart out. When I
reveal the dramatic end of the hearing, she gasps loudly. “Oh, Jen! First Fred,
now your lawyer! Everyone is abandoning you!!”
Sometimes, hearing the truth is
more painful than experiencing it, especially when it is exposed by Isa with a
genuine concern.
“What should I do?” I moan, not
really expecting Isa to reply. She nonetheless ponders on my question and frowns
seriously. After few minutes of intense reflexion, she enthusiastically
exclaims: “You should be your own lawyer and spy on your husband! You are so
smart, Jen. You should be able to sort things out!”
I stare at her dumbfounded and incredulously
observe her empty glass. Has the waiter added some kind of magical intelligence
philtre to her juice? Why on earth has that brilliant idea not stroked me
before? Is my intelligence also failing me? I mumble some vague protests and rise
from my chair as I hang my bag on my shoulder.
“Thanks a lot, Isa. It was really
great talking to you. Sorry, I have to dash off. Just remembered some urgent
work in office! Ciao!” I don’t allow her to reply and leave without looking
back.
Driving back home, I am
exhilaratingly cursing an imaginary Fred: “You little bastard! You ruined my
life. You wasted my best years. You thought you could blithely trample on our
marriage vows? You imagined I would ingenuously let you destroy me? Ha! Watch
out! I may not have a lawyer anymore, but I am pumped up and ready to crush
you. Just need to find the evidence of your pathetic animal behaviour and get
that divorce pronounced!!!!!”
When I reach home, I feel
deflated. I crash heavily on the sofa and ruminate. Where should I start? I sit
at the computer, open my mailbox and violently hit my head! Of course!! I just
need to check my husband mailbox. With a little bit of chance, the bastard has
not changed his password. God, what is it already? Something to do with sport,
or with travel? No, no, I remember, it is something to do with his favourite
pick up line: he claimed to be like Casanova in college. Casanova! I hardly suppress
a hallow laugh: I should have known!
Pick up line, pick up line,
beauty, eternity…. Ahhhh, a big thank to my elephantine memory: “If beauty were
time, you'd be an eternity”. How can any girl fall for that? It is so cheesy I
want to puke. I enter the first letters of each word: “IBWTYBAE”. Bingo! Ah
Casanova, only if your brain cells were as prompt as your womanizing impulses! Too
bad for you, good for me!
I start exploring. I feel guilty
and I jump twice at some sudden noises, quickly shut down the laptop and look
behind me. But it is just Max, my cat, playing with the curtains. Not easy to
be a spy! How can these people shamelessly stare at others’ life through the
keyhole?
In the pool of spams, the emails
of my rival, the girl (sorry, at this stage, I cannot say woman, she is just a
girl) whom he is staying with. I read few of them, but soon get nauseous: the
correspondence is riddled with mushy dialogues and tasteless allusions. Ah
Fred, elegance has never been your strong point, but this is a festival of tawdriness!
I scroll down and an email attracts my attention: the name looks familiar. Where
have I seen it before? I open the email and sit up on my chair while the
message loads.
“All is under control. Meet you at the court. xoxoxo”
What the??? What is going on? I
jump out of the chair, crush my laptop against the floor and start punching the
sofa cushions violently. I grab the phone: I am shaking as I dial my husband’s
number. The ringing tone is unbearable. Max bolts as a huge roar blasts from my
throat.
“Hello? Hello?”
“How do you know her?” My voice
was just a raucous thunder.
“Sorry, who is this?” My husband’s
voice was hesitant and shaky. “Jen, is that you?”
“You bet it is me! Now, Don Juan,
you listen to me carefully.” I never knew I could be so assertive. “You are
going to tell me the truth. The real truth, you hear me? What have you two
scoundrels been cooking up behind my back?” What that my imagination or I could
hear a hiccough?
“What are you talking about,
Bunny?”
“Don’t bunny me! What are all the
emails about? Why is she signing them by a cascade of XO? Don’t foul me, I am
in no mood. Is that clear enough?”
An eloquent silence follows. And
then finally: “OK, Bunny. I have not been fair to you. You are right, you
deserve the truth” This unusual poise voice betrays an unexpected level of maturity
from Casanova.
*****
Three days have passed. Three days
of emotional roller coaster. My delicate complexion probably went through all
the colours of the rainbow. The first day, I felt humiliated and betrayed (yet
another time). On the constant verge of crying, the lump in my throat was
preventing me for swallowing the tiniest crumb. The second day, I blamed my
naivety and cursed my lack of suspicion. Nothing I could gulp down was filling
the emptiness my stomach experienced. After two sleepless nights, I was
exhausted. I decided to wash away my worries in the bath tub. This is when I
started laughing hysterically. After all, this story has an incommensurable
comical potential: the biter’s bit, a classic!!
*****
Once upon a time, there was a man
named Casanova. In spite of being married to a lovely princess named Jen whose
horticultural skills were legendary, he always needed to assess the colour of
the grass of other princesses’ garden. He was collecting disappointment and
enchantment phases, gardens devastated by drought or lovely blossoming spring orchards;
but his curiosity was insatiable. When
princess Jen discovered sub rosa Casanova’s passion for gardening, her love for
her husband withered. Should she be clutching at the straws of their love? She
was confused.
She got the solution from a garden
sorceress, Ms Martin, expert in inopportune gathering of nectar from perverted bumblebees.
Ms Martin was positive: the only treatment against a worm-eaten marriage was to
prune the sickened shoots and get a quick divorce. Jen was so impressed by Ms
Martin’s legal knowledge that she did not even consider the milder options: treating
the infested part (although the therapy was long and the success not
guaranteed) or getting a good price in the form of a separation alimony (after
all, Casanova may still have some value in the market). Ms Martin volunteered
to act as the executioner: she predicted a quick but efficient legal separation.
Princess Jen waited anxiously for the fatidic pruning day, only to realize that
the witch did not turn up.
It appeared that Ms Martin was in
reality jealous of princess Jen’s lawn and furiously wanted to obtain what
Casanova had promised her: the exclusive maintenance of her own garden, for Ms
Martin’s bewitching English garden had also been overrun by Casanova’s weed.
But few days before the pruning day, princess Jen revealed to Ms Martin that
Casanova was already planting his seeds in the fashionable and exotic Japanese
garden of a fresh bimbo and their love was blossoming.
In shock, Ms Martin disappeared, prostrated
by her guilt, her shame and her disenchantment. She gave up on her own garden, which
is now a brushy and overgrown romantic desert. As for princess Jen, she suffered
but overcame her difficulties and nurtured her property. She got her revenge
from the witch Martin and she knew that Casanova would just remain an
unsatisfied gardenaholic.
*****
No comments:
Post a Comment