The Revenge

It had taken a long time in coming. That was the general consensus, now that the facts were public knowledge. Of course it wasn’t a genetic trait. And it certainly wasn’t one acquired slowly over the years. People in the know, blamed her husband for the obsession that overtook her suddenly as if out of the blue. Not that she made excuses for her behaviour but it turned out that she had confided in some of her close friends after she took the extreme step. But still the facts were incontrovertible. She had done the unthinkable.

Of course, Jennifer blamed herself for letting things drag on for such a long time. She should have known better. But in the heady days of whirlwind courtship, she was overwhelmed by his knowledge. And Bob was handsome, that was a bonus. That he had a very good job as an investment analyst; that was fortunate. But if anyone had asked her what quality had swept her off her feet, she would unhesitatingly have replied that it was his thirst for facts and his ability to explain anything, everything.

He knew of every twist and turn in the Orinoco or for that matter the ebb and flow of every river that ever was. He could even describe to you each compass heading Columbus steered by in the thirty odd days he took to reach the New World. And whether it was the capital of Outer Mongolia or Paraguay, he could tell you where to get the best meal in town. And if you pressed him further he would dig out their latitudes and longitudes to the nearest minute from his memory. Jennifer was inordinately proud of him in those days. She showed him off shamelessly to her friends and relations.

Not that there were no warnings, danger signs so to
speak. But she brushed them aside. Love was not only blind but also deaf to the faint stirrings of doubt thrown up now and then by the subconscious. The first night that they spend together should have been warning enough. She did admit that later, much later. The dinner at the restaurant had been excellent. He had told her how they pronounced ‘pommes de terre’ in Paris as well as in Lyons and why too. Somehow the potato salad had tasted better after knowing that. She was in love. When they had returned to his apartment, he knew which music to play. And of course, he had explained how the Greeks played the harp. She had been fascinated. And when they finally started making love, he had whispered to her how the sense of smell enlarged the sensations. She found that terribly erotic. She was euphoric. This handsome man, this man who seemed to know everything was in love with her. In bed, his hands caressing her, she waited for volcanic passions to erupt. His hands had strayed to her back now and he was whispering. She could not catch the words.

“What dear?” she asked softly. She liked to hear his endearments.

“Is it gluteus maximus or is it tensor fasciae latiae?”

“What? Is everything all right dear?” She was perplexed.

“I never seem to get it right. Just a minute…” He had rolled over and switched on the lights. She found him pushing away the books on the side table till he found the one he seemed to be looking for. He turned the pages, reading furiously. He looked at her then. His face was flushed with excitement.

“I was right. It is gluteus maximus.” He reached over and pinched her behind as if to make sure. “You know. I love these Latin terms.” He traced his hands over to her hips. “That’s tensor fasciae latae here and then,” he murmured, tracing his hands further down, “there’s abductor magnus.”

As he moved back to resume lovemaking, he added, “I am sure you would be interested in this. Did you know the word ‘gynaecology’ has its roots in the old proto Indo-European language?”

For a fleeting moment, she didn’t like the look of ecstasy on his face. But the moment passed. She couldn’t admit it to herself. She was still terribly in love.

And she had to admit that he was the most considerate of men. In the months and years ahead, she could find nothing to fault him. He remembered every anniversary and even those dates that normally one would hardly consider worth celebrating. She was inundated with flowers and presents. She had no reason to be unhappy. But her closest friend, Sara, did note on her face, on a rare occasion or two, the faint frowns of dissatisfaction. Sara was to make much of it later.

Of course Jennifer had to admit she had learnt a lot in the years of her marriage. Morning till night she was regaled with anecdotes, with the etymology of words, the effect of the Aghuilas Current on the sub-Saharan economies and a plethora of related and unrelated obscure facts. She was punch drunk with the statistics and the GNP figures of whole continents. She was drowning in trivia. In unguarded moments she longed for the blessedness of ignorance.

Increasingly her deepest fantasies revolved around men who did not know the difference between a synonym and an antonym, men who did not care whether the Langrange points were deep in space or just around corner, men who would laugh and remember ‘Groucho’ whenever Marx’s Das Kapital was mentioned. But Jennifer still loved him. Bob was the most considerate of men.

The denouement when it came, and it had to occur, as Sara, her friend, was to declare later, started with an innocuous reference to truffles. The first faint stirrings of doubt had started in her mind on their first night in bed. And, by design or chance, for the gods are inscrutable, the explosion occurred just at the start of their lovemaking. She had arched her spine in anticipation of a wordless, soundless bout of quite play for he had a sore throat. She resolved not to say a word also.

But as he ran his fingers, caressing the spinal curve, he had hoarsely said, “Truffles.”

In spite of her resolution she exclaimed, “Truffles?”

“Oh you know, in France they use a sow to locate truffles and watch out whenever it arches its back. Lordosis they call it.” His voice was sore but he was not one to deny an answer.

The dam broke then. All the years of silent suffering, being the dartboard for his incessant darts of trivia, came to a head. She collapsed and let out a shriek, “I hate you.” And then she had wept uncontrollably.

He was shocked. And after all the years they had been together, she heard him uttering for the first time, “But I don’t understand.”

But she did not wait to explain. She was in the grip of uncontrollable forces; forces repressed for years. She swept out of the bedroom and ran to his library stumbling in the dark. She stood swaying for a moment at the door and then determinedly went to the kitchen. When she came back to the library, her eyes were blazing. She was no longer crying. As if in a stupor she gathered up the books piled on his table. She threw a lighted matchbox into them and then for good measure she ran around to the windows and set the curtains on fire.

The firemen found her sitting in a catatonic state on the floor, surrounded by wet, soggy and half burnt books. Her husband had rushed in time to put out most of the fires. Considerate as ever, he hugged her and held her close to him, as the firemen walked over his beloved books. He whispered to her again, “But I don’t understand.”

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