l'amour part deux: The Married Man

It seems that in France everyone is making love with someone other than their epouse. I am sure this comes as no suprise as this fact has become ingrained in the mythology of the french lover, but even unshockable moi was a little taken aback by the magnitude of the situation. I am often approached in the metro, restaurants, and even on the street as I move about, minding my own business. Of course I am not interested in being picked up on the street, in fact I find it a bit unsettling when strangers are "creeping", nevertheless it happens. Occasionally there is an interesting looking-ok, f-ing gorgeous-man on the train who picques my interest, until I check his ring finger....married! I am not making any moral judgements, far be it from me to do so. I am just not wired for being number two. I will give frenchmen this: at least they are open about their marital status, and they will tell you up front they are not going to quit their wives. Of course, there is an exception to every rule. Meet "Bernard." Bernie responded to my profile posted on an online dating site. He seemed pleasant, possesing intelligence so highly valued in french society-as well as a good sense of humour and handsome features. We began corresponding, exchanging email a couple of times a week. He was, as he explained, working in the U.S. for a few months and returning to France soon. He had an apartment in the 15th arrondissment, as well as a lovely home in Normandy. The photos of the Normandy location he shared were impressive, a 15th century maison surrounded by trees and flowering shrubs. It was quaint and typically french, complete with peeling plaster, ancient beams, and windowboxes brimming with geraniums. Soon, I began receiving a message from him everyday, and he confessed that he looked forward to finding the same from me in his inbox first thing in the morning. Our communications escalated into daily phone calls, always interesting and intellectual, never smutty. In fact, he never brought up the subject of sex, and none of the photos he provided of himself included a peek at his penis. (Thankfully.) I found I was rather enjoying our little e-lationship, even though I wasn't smitten. It was pleasant to talk with him, and I was curious to discover if we had any chemistry once we actually met in person. But one day something very unusual took place. He phoned me, as was his habitude, around 11 a.m. and we talked for nearly an hour. After ringing off, about 5 minutes later, my phone rang again. Bernie's number was displayed, and I thought it strange, but even more strangely, the call was aborted before I could answer. I shrugged off the oddity and went about preparing for my yoga class. Ten minutes later the phone rang again, the number showed it was him. I picked up and was greeted by a female voice, his secretary perhaps? "Is this Elizabeth?" she asked. "I am calling on behalf of Bernard (last name)". "Yes," I answered, "and you are?" "I'm his wife" she announced, sounding quite vexed (and rightfully so). I was stunned to say the least, my mouth gaping and my mind reeling. "May I ask the nature of your relationship?" she continued. Frankly, I had no idea what to say, but as he and I hadn't really met I told her we were "friends". She asked how I came to know her husband, and I told her we had become aquainted online. I was still in a state of shock, this had never happened (to me) before, and I wasn't sure how to react. I had a quick decision to make, did I have his back or did I have hers? It took about two seconds to arrive at the conclusion, I had hers. We began to talk openly, and this is what I discovered: She and Bernie had met on the very same dating site a year earlier, had a whirlwind romance that culminated in a beautiful, romantic wedding in Paris attended by friends from around the world. She had fallen hopelessly in love with him, and the fact that he was deeply in debt and unemployed didn't matter to her. She saw them as a team and had bailed him out of his financial troubles, including saving the Normandy property from imminent foreclosure. On top of that, she had created a position for him in her highly successful law firm in New England, thinking it would boost his self esteem and give him new purpose. Everything he owned she explained, was provided by her, his car, his cellphone, even his PC! But how did she get my number? How did she catch him in his little game? Here's how: It was lunchtime as she approached his office to suggest they go have a bite to eat. His door was shut however, and she overheard him talking on the phone. The tone of his voice suggested an intimacy incongruous to a business conversation, immediately her feminine intuition was aroused. She explained that she had 9 employees, and some years ago had aquired the ability to monitor their calls. She checked the lines, he was not using the office phone. She entered his office just as he hung up from me, and grabbed his cellphone, demanding to know who he was talking to. She hit redial, (that's when my phone rang briefly the first time). He grabbed the phone from her, aborting the call, but not before her quick eye and sharp mind found and memorized my name and number. After a brief and angry confrontation, she had kicked his sorry ass out of the office and telephoned me. Of course, I assured her I wanted nothing more to do with him, and it was the truth! I felt terrible that she had been taken in by a scam artist, and I felt lucky to have discovered the truth before I got in too deep. We ended the conversation with a strange bond between us, and I wished her well. We had one more conversation, she and I. She phoned the next day, somewhat aplogetically, because she wanted to confirm something he told her after the debacle. According to him, he was only talking to me because I was suicidal, the nerve of that man! Of course, she knew in her heart it was a lie. The good news was she had already consulted an attorney, filed for divorce, confiscated his car and computer, cut off his cellphone, and retrieved the keys to the office and her home, leaving him once again destitute and undoubtedly trolling the internet for his next mark. I wonder if she is now the proud owner of a home in Normandy? I'll never know, but I hope so. As for Bernie, he made himself scarce, for a couple of months anyway. Then one day I opened my mail to find a message from him, as if nothing unusual had transpired. "Hello Elizabeth, how are you? I am in Paris......" I won't repeat my reply, as the terms of use for this blog prohibits obscenity. The moral of the story is one we all know by now: You never really know who your talking to online!