My Little Husband E-Book

Pascal Bruckner

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Leon shrinks every time he fathers a child with his Amazonian wife until he is the size of a thimble and at the mercy of his own children and the cat.

Leseprobe

For Anna in memory of the day when we encountered the little husband.

My Little Husband is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

Dedalus would like to thank the French Ministry of Culture in Paris for its assistance in producing this book and Arts Council, England for its support of the Dedalus publishing programme.

The Author

Pascal Bruckner is best known as a controversial philosopher. Two of his essays – The Tyranny of Guilt and Perpetual Euphoria: On the duty to be Happy were published to great acclaim in English translation in 2011 and 2012.

He has won two major French prizes for his fiction: The Prix Medicis and The Prix Renaudot.

His novel Lunes de fiel was made into the film Bitter Moon by Roman Polanski.

The Translator

For many years an academic with a special interest in Austrian literature and culture, Mike Mitchell has been a freelance literary translator since 1995. He is one of Dedalus’s editorial directors and is responsible for the Dedalus translation programme. He has published over seventy translations from German and French.

His translation of Rosendorfer’s Letters Back to Ancient China won the 1998 Schlegel-Tieck Translation Prize after he had been shortlisted in previous years. His translations have been shortlisted three times for The Oxford Weidenfeld Translation Prize: Simplicissimus by Johann Grimmelshausen in 1999, The Other Side by Alfred Kubin in 2000 and The Bells of Bruges by Georges Rodenbach in 2008.

His recent translations include Where Tigers Are At Home by Jean-Marie Blas de Roblès and The Lairds of Cromarty by Jean-Pierre Ohl.

My father said I must be wed,

My God, what a man, what a little man,

My God, what a man, he might as well be dead,

I’ve lost him in my great big bed!

My God, what a man, what a little man,

I’ve lost him in my great big bed,

My God, what a man, he might as well be dead…

(17th-century French song)

I want to have a spouse,

A man that’s nice and small,

Ever at my beck and call,

A proper little spouse,

A mannikin for the house,

As docile as a mouse

Who’ll never disagree –

Like Daddy used to be.

At home I’ll have the say,

Do things in my own way.

I’ll do just as I please,

It’s me who makes the rules,

If he objects – hard cheese!

(19th-century French song)

Contents

Title

Dedication

The Author

The Translator

Poem

Extract

Part 1 Love with Dire Consequences

1 Communicating Vessels

2 What’s in a Few Inches?

3 The Family Grows

4 A Multi-tasking Mother Blows a Fuse

5 The Little Brats Seize Power

6 The Eclipse

Part 2 Pippin The Short in all his Glory

7 Your Lowness

8 Winning Back Hearts

9 Formula 1

10 An Over-inquisitive Husband

11 Daddy Flips his Lid

12 The Unforgivable Sin

Part 3 Distress and Redemption

13 The Hooligan Banished

14 Attempted Pygmicide

15 A Show of Solidarity

16 Going to the Aid of the Weak

17 Lazarus Rises from the Dead

Epilogue

Afterword

Copyright

When Léon and Solange entered the church everyone was struck by the difference in height between them. Even though he was wearing heel inserts and held himself ramrod-straight, he still only came to just above her shoulder. But no one was bothered by it, neither the pious old maids muttering behind their missals nor Solange’s family. The contrast had been a shock at first, but now it was blurred by the good qualities of their future son-in-law. It showed broadness of mind for a woman to fall in love with a man shorter than she was when the converse had been the rule so far. It was seen as a happy omen: male superiority finally brought down a peg. A small man could marry an amazon, a lady of mature years could lust after a younger man. The prejudices of former times were disappearing.

It helped that Léon, with his black hair thrown back in the Romantic style, cut a handsome figure. With his big, blue-grey eyes, long face and full lips he did Solange proud. She was a magnificent creature, tall and full-bosomed with a redhead’s glowing complexion. Solange’s imposing décolletage filled with lilies and her broad, suntanned and half-naked back meant that her progress down the aisle on her father’s arm was accompanied by murmurs of astonishment. Even the priest felt his blood stir and had to keep his eyes down in order to perform his office. To be honest, Léon wasn’t that short, five foot six inches is still respectable, it was Solange who went over the top with her full six feet. It was quite a difference. But the couple had transformed the disparity into an asset, almost a mark of distinction.

Léon was crazy about his wife. He showered her with presents, and surrounded her with attention and little marks of affection. Being very pious, she had stood firm in refusing to allow them to yield sooner to their mutual desire, insisting on a proper engagement before the wedding. For a whole year she had kept his passion on a low flame. Full of the joy of being courted, she only granted him minor favours, too slight to be immoral but with sufficient promise to stoke his fire. On the wedding day, after the priest had asked the ritual questions, reminded the couple of their duty to be faithful, to keep each other in sickness and in health, and dealt with the rings, Léon stood up on the tips of his toes to plant a kiss on Solange’s lips. She, unable to lean down for fear of spoiling her long white dress and losing the circlet of flowers over her forehead, had to grasp him round the waist to lift him up to her mouth. In her hands he seemed light as a feather, literally walking on air a couple of inches off the ground. The assembled guests, moved by this tender gesture, applauded.

Part 1

Love with Dire Consequences

1

Communicating Vessels

They set up home in one of the central districts of Paris, not far from the Bastille, facing some public gardens, and they took an apartment with a balcony on the sixth floor in order to have an open view. Solange’s parents, prudent shopkeepers who had put away a tidy sum, lent them the deposit for the mortgage. The young couple, just into their thirties, put themselves in debt to the banks for the next twenty years at an attractive rate of interest. Solange, an only child, had sailed through her studies, qualifying at the age of twenty-nine as a dental surgeon specialising in traumas of the jaw. While waiting to set up her own surgery, she was working for a colleague and was highly regarded by her patients for her skill at treating them painlessly. Léon, an orphan from the age of four, had lived on social security and scholarships. He had got to know Solange at university where he had specialised in otolaryngology, with equally outstanding results. The connections between their specialisms brought them even closer together.

How did they deal with their respective sizes, how did they go about it? That was their business and theirs alone. It didn’t stop them from being the most radiant of couples. Being seen with this dazzling valkyrie in tow brought Léon the female sympathy vote on numerous occasions, but he paid no attention to it; the splendour of Solange put all potential rivals in the shade. He didn’t even see them, his sole ambition was to love his lawful wedded wife and to inseminate her as often as she wished. The males of their acquaintance were outraged at the idea of this little runt sharing the bed of such a beauty, but the couple were completely impervious to their banter.

Statistics tell us that tall, self-assured men are what women prefer. Solange was not one of them: her little doctor was all she could wish for. She set a cracking pace for him, he had to take three steps to every two of hers which, at the end of the day, amounted to several hundred extra steps. She never slowed down, and so he got into the habit of scurrying along beside her, slightly out of breath. When travelling, he would trot behind her carrying the suitcases while she strode along, head held high, not looking round. On certain evenings, when she’d had the odd drink, she would take Léon on her knee, calling him my Lion, my Magnificent Stallion, all the while teasing and tickling him. He gave himself up to it like a little boy, squirming, legs squeezed tight together in mock embarrassment. Perhaps because he’d lost his parents very young, Léon dreamt of a large family. He loved children above all, they were his passion, his raison d’être. The wailing of a newborn child and a warm glance from a little urchin made up for all the indignities of life.

He performed his marital duties so assiduously that nine months to the day after their nuptials Solange was delivered of a boy, Baptiste, a strapping brat of almost ten pounds with bright red cheeks, bawling like a barracks bugle. Well, well, he certainly took after his mother as far as physique and sound level were concerned! Generally during pregnancy husbands are relegated to second place, confronted with a mystery which is beyond them. That was not at all the case here. Together with his wife, Léon had experienced every little aspect of gestation, feeling with her the foetus kicking, suffering the contractions. His stomach, thanks to a special talent for distension, had managed to swell up to the size of his wife’s. It looked like a wineskin or an amphora.

For a whole week Léon never took his eyes off the little marvel, who they installed in a little room with pink and blue wallpaper and a cradle with a canopy. A wooden stork, hanging from a gold thread over the cot, gently flapped its wings at the least breath of air. Heavy cretonne curtains shielded the infant’s sleep, creating a soft half-light during his siestas.

Léon was so proud he had to restrain himself from stopping people in the street and declaring, ‘Just imagine, I’m a father!’ He rang up his friends, even those who lived far away, to tell them the news, and had pinned up photos of the baby all over the walls of his office.

To celebrate the birth, the new parents acquired a little black-grey-and-white cat, which they christened Furbelow, hoping it would soon be a playmate for their son. As a modern father, Léon insisted on doing his share of the chores, getting up during the night to wipe the baby’s bottom, clean him up and change his nappy, while Solange, generously endowed, suckled him every three hours, graciously allowing her husband to gather the last drops that the little darling, having drunk his fill, rejected. For Léon there was nothing sweeter than to make a fuss of his little pink cherub. He wasn’t disgusted by anything, not by slobber, nor by wee-wee or poo. Everything about Baptiste was magical, his googoos had the beauty of an epic poem. He couldn’t wait for Solange to recover from her confinement so that he could serve her again. Once the conventional period of abstinence had been observed, he threw himself into her arms and sowed his seed abundantly. Wherever they were, whatever the time, they didn’t go to sleep without a vigorous cuddle.