The Tales of Mme Auberte, Madwoman. II Greed, Lust, Sloth

(Orgueil, poursuite et décapitation (comédie hystérique et familiale))

THE WIFE.  Here’s what happened. I woke up in the middle of a banquet.  There were strings of sausages everywhere.  I’ll say it again.  I don’t like sinking into immoderate drinking.  I hate fatty things.  I take the fat off meat.  Lamb makes me sick to my stomach.  I don’t really understand festive events.  Sometimes I’m jealous of cheerful types. They seem so happy. They’re boastful.  Sometimes I wish I could join in.  Scream like a drunkard.  Moan in the middle of the night on a public bench.  But I’m too well educated.  All the same, when I woke up this morning, a fierce appetite gripped me, to eat and drink life in.  I called some girlfriends who like to have a good time.  I ordered three knuckles of ham.  Fresh fruit.  I called over a fat little girl I know, and I ate her.  I ate, ate, ate everything.  I called my German penpal.  Then I ate him.  I sucked his eyeballs out—delicately.  I ate everything.  Afterward, I wasn’t afraid of anything.  Encouraged by my friends, I ate the president.  I ate him raw—him and his big wife.  Afterward, I exercised a little bit—to get rid of it all. I went to the pool to stay in shape.  I biked to the pool.  The pool’s far away.  I pedaled and pedaled.  I melted.  I shed all the fat on me.  And all the fat that had melted off me looked appetizing.  I made a big sandwich with all my fat.  Then, I auto-consumed myself.   Afterward, I wanted to dance with you, but you didn’t want to.  You were looking at someone else.  And then, I went back to my little town to my little son, my little friends, my little habits.  Through the window, I sometimes see the big world out there.  My husband has returned.  He can smell betrayal on the window ledge. He smiles through the smoke.  I’d like my husband to caress me forever, but he does it quickly.  We sleep alongside each other in bed.  There you go.  That’s what I think.  That’s what I think, and it makes me sad.  I’d like to lounge around with an easy novel.  Chez Mounir, the sign is always on.  The chickens are always turning on the spit.  All the chickens.  Over there, chez Mounir, it’s a little chicken-hell.