An Attempt with French

An Attempt with French

A short story attempting to justify a common human trait, jealousy:

I am in French class now. Madame Lamont uses exaggerated hand gestures and forms complex vowels with her outstretched jaws. We are in the ballet room; it has mirrors on every wall. Our jaded, dreamy reflections stare back at us.

I doodle on my notepad and I try to sketch a portrait of Madame Lamont, but fail miserably. Sohail would be able to fare much better; he is far more artistic than I am. I still have all the sketches he did to humour me.

I look up and scan my reflection. My layered hair has escaped my frail attempt at a ponytail. I decide I look awful. Sohail’s wife sits next to me; her solitary marquee diamond flashes on a gold band. Her curled mane, generously shaped with hairspray, is all in place. Her ruby eardrops sparkle beneath her mass of thick curls. She looks so fresh and radiant. Her long slender legs are crossed over elegantly and she leans forward with interest. I look so shabby in comparison.

I am here because of her. I have no interest in French and the idea of a night class, at9 pm, did not appeal to me at all. I don’t even know her well. We are strangers acquainted only recently.

I joined for Sohail’s sake. He always gets his way with me. All he has to do is look at me with his expressive, painfully beautiful hazel eyes and beg his case. His wife needed a companion and who better to ask than me, his childhood friend? How could I refuse? I am powerless before him.

Sohail’s mother used to be so cross when I visited. I was not her idea of the conventional well-brought-up girl. I never liked her either yet Sohail needed me. Perhaps he needed me as much as I needed him. That doesn’t matter now; Sohail is a married man.

So here I am for Sohail’s sake, frustrated with boredom. I look down frequently at my wristwatch; the hands seem to be frozen at five to 10. Five minutes to go. My unwelcoming studio apartment awaits me. Stacks of abandoned dishes need washing, the laundry basket has swallowed up half my wardrobe. Felix, my aging grey cat and only companion, will greet me at the door. This is not a gesture of love, I now realise, but a need to be fed.

Every night I stand before my open fridge and challenge my creativity to produce an edible meal. Mince patties again tonight. Sohail’s wife is oblivious to such worries. She is the mistress of an orderly household; a husband awaits her and not a cat.

Madame Lamont’s annoyed gaze grasps my attention. She has finally noticed my absent disposition. “ I vas telling the class”“ she begins again, heavily accented, ”today ve finis at 11 pm, an hour later. You may leave if it is inconvenient.’

11 pm? I have dinner to cook, a cat to feed, a house to clean! I stand up to leave, and once again earn Madame Lamont’s displeasure. Sohail’s wife reaches out for my arm, her eyes plead with me to stay. I fake a sudden migraine attack and rush out.

The cold night takes me unawares and I frantically redo my coat button. I am all alone now in the dark empty streets. It is not a safe place to be for a woman on her own.

I hope Sohail will not be upset with me; I hate it when that happens. He never uses angry words but gives me the silent treatment. Cruel words are easier to take. I remember the last time I upset him. He ignored me for a whole month!

It was so long ago but it seems like only yesterday. It was when he first started courting his wife. I hadn’t even seen her, yet how I hated her! Sohail didn’t have time for me anymore and when we met, it was always about her.

I had to speak my mind or I would go insane. I approached her and told her to leave Sohail. She could have anyone, but who was there for me? I used hateful words and called her selfish. Her face had discoloured; she was obviously not used to such outbursts.

Later I told Sohail it was just a bad joke. Wasn’t it funny, me pretending to be jealously in love with him? I laughed artificially. Sohail was far from amused. He had a lot of explaining to do thanks to his “immature” friend.

They patched up of course, and I am still single. Now we are friends again, Sohail and me. We still talk and laugh a lot. I laugh for his sake. He always talks about his wife; he wants us to be good friends. Is it possible?

Sohail says he is very lucky to have her. She is an angel compared to his business partner’s wife. That woman also signed up for French classes at night. But did she learn a word of French? Ah non! She never went to class but was visiting an old flame. Now they are divorced.

Sohail says his wife would never do such a thing. I am there with her.

Tonight is different; Sohail’s wife is in class without me. Sohail, do you trust her? I walk on and pass an old shop window. The streetlights lend a mysterious glow to my face. I undo my ponytail and brush my fingers through my untamed mane. Not bad I think, almost pretty.

Across the street is Sohail’s house; I see the halo of his study lamp. I can make out the silhouette of his handsome head, bent over his workbench. I hesitate, and then cross the street.

My heart is making frenzied palpations and my head feels very dizzy. My cold, bony fingers reach out for the doorbell, and it cries out loud and clear. Sohail comes to the door and looks very puzzled. “My wife?” he asks.

My throat is dry and I feel my face flushing a deep red. “ She didn’t come to class today, isn’t she home?”