Emmanuelle (19 page)

Emmanuelle frowned and bit her thumb, the very image of concentration, trying to think of how she could improve her argument. This stylistic exercise delighted her and Mario was aware of it.

“Furthermore,” he said, “although I know how dear the idea is to you, I personally wouldn’t put the main stress on
pleasure,
but, as I’ve already explained, on
art
. Will you forgive me?”

“All right, then,” she said in a conciliatory tone, “instead of ‘taking pleasure artfully,’ let’s say ‘the art of pleasure.’ Would you be satisfied with this: ‘All time spent on anything but the art of pleasure, in increasingly numerous arms, is wasted’?”

“Very good!” approved Mario. “You have a sense of formulation, a talent for synthesis. You realize, of course, that in your statement the word ‘arms’ mustn’t be given a narrow meaning. Needless to say, it covers a very broad range of erotic relations, from your own arms to anything besides your partner’s arms—his eyes, his ears, even if they’re invisible, behind a door, or at the end of a telephone wire—his letters, even his secret image in the depths of your heart. And, naturally, arms don’t have any gender any more than they have number . . . But let’s not digress into grammar.”

“And perhaps ‘the art of love’ would be more graceful than ‘the art of pleasure.’”

“More graceful, no doubt, but less precise. Besides, ‘love’ is ambiguous. Too limited, also; it takes at least two to love, while one can have pleasure alone.”

“Of course.”

“In fact, one
must
take pleasure alone. The kingdom of eroticism will always be closed to anyone who can’t open its gates to his solitude.” He looked at her sternly. “You do know how to take pleasure with yourself, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“And do you like it?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Do you do it often?”

“Very often.”

She felt no shame in proclaiming it; quite the contrary. In this, too, Jean had encouraged her. And it would no more have occurred to her to conceal herself from him when she masturbated than when she took a bath; in fact, finding it perfectly understandable that he should like to look at her, she always tried to do both at times when he could see her. It seemed to her a conjugal duty at least as important as the others, and she knew he felt the same and appreciated her consideration.

“Then it will be easy for you to understand what the law of asymmetry means,” said Mario. “It derives from the fact that there can be no progress without a certain imbalance at the beginning. Life and eroticism abhor equilibrium. Moreover the art of eroticism requires asymmetry to secure the presence of a public. For example, the number of those who make love must be odd.”

“Oh?” said Emmanuelle, more amused than shocked.

“There’s no doubt of it. One, for example, is an odd number—the masturbator is both actor and spectator. That’s why masturbation is eminently erotic, a work of art. The only love that can be allowed to be exclusive.

‘‘‘A virgin entwined with herself,

Jealous . . . But of whom, jealous and threatened?’”

Mario seemed to be daydreaming for a moment. Then he continued: “Adultery is also erotic. The triangle redeems the banality of the pair. No eroticism is possible for a couple without the addition of a third party. It’s true that the third party is nearly always there! If not in person, at least in the mind of one of the partners. While making love, haven’t you ever been visited by the image of someone other than the person whose caresses you’re savoring? Isn’t your husband’s hard flesh made softer when, at the same time, your closed eyelids give you in imagination to one of his friends, the husband of one of your friends, a man you passed in the street, a screen hero, your childhood lover? Answer. Do you like that? Do you do it?”

Emmanuelle nodded, with no more hesitation than she had shown a short time earlier. Merely recalling all the times when she had known the embraces of other men that way, while she was in Jean’s arms, aroused such strong physical excitement in her that she thought Mario must be able to see it. The night before, it was to him that she had thus given herself . . . As she had given herself to Christopher on the night of his arrival. To Ariane’s friends, without even knowing them. To Jean’s brother, since she had known him. And so often, during the past weeks, to the strangers in the plane—especially the Greek god. All these faces came back to her with such warmth that she felt faint and did not dare to make the slightest gesture, for fear of being unable to restrain her hand.

“You won’t fail to notice,” Mario said with a mocking smile, “that the erotic seal would be missing if both partners behaved in the same manner—when one of them slips away, the other must be present with all the strength of his desire, his fervor, his immediate physical enjoyment, with his imagination totally blocked by the violence of his exclusive passion and his absurd fidelity! Otherwise there’s no longer asymmetry, but simultaneous absence, equilibrium, equity—and that’s what must be avoided. In such cases, of course, reality is even better than fiction; a flesh-and-blood spectator is preferable to any imagined one. The lover’s natural place is in the middle of the couple. Although the truth is that a real artist will always prefer
several
spectators to one.”

“In other words,” Emmanuelle said facetiously, “there’s no eroticism without exhibitionism.”

“I’m not even sure I know what that word means. But I do know, for example, that making love standing up, at night, in a street where a few strollers are passing by in their furs and silk capes, is something that stimulates the mind.”

“Why not in broad daylight, in a crowded public square?” she asked ironically.

“Because eroticism, like all art, keeps away from crowds. It shuns jostling, noise, carnival lights, vulgarity. It needs small numbers, nonchalance, luxury, a proper setting. It has its conventions, like the theater.”

Emmanuelle reflected. She was elated to find herself able to say suddenly, with sincerity, whereas she would have been inexplicably incapable of it a few seconds earlier: “I think I could do it.”

“Make love in the street, before a few attentive passersby?”

“Yes.”

“For the pleasure of making love, or for the pleasure of being seen doing it?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“And what if you were asked to simulate it? If a man pretended to take you, would the sole pleasure of scandalizing people be enough for you?”

“No,” she said resolutely. “In that case, what would be the good of it?” Realizing that she was also speaking for the present moment, because she wanted to make love immediately, because she wanted either to be taken by Mario or to masturbate in front of him, she did not know which (the choice was unimportant to her, provided her sex could be caressed), she added, “I also want a physical pleasure.”

“Frequent orgasms? That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Of course, why not?” she admitted aggressively. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

“There may be.” He let a few seconds pass, then stated:

“The pitfall of eroticism is sensuality.”

“Oh, Mario, you’re exhausting!”

“You mean I’m tiresome?”

“No. But you’re too fond of paradoxes.”

“That’s not a paradox. You know what entropy is, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, entropy—that is, roughly, the attrition, the decline of energy—lies in wait for eroticism as it does for the whole universe. And the form of entropy that’s peculiar to eroticism consists less in becoming inured to society than in satisfying the senses. A satisfied sexuality is a sexuality that’s moving toward death. At every moment, in every individual, satisfaction threatens desire. It threatens it with a slack happiness, the satiety of eternal sleep. The only defense consists in refusing the temptation of satisfaction, in never being willing to have an orgasm unless you’re assured of being able to have another one, or, rather, unless you’re certain that, once your orgasm is over, you’ll still be able to become excited.”

“Mario . . .”

He raised his finger to request her attention. “What’s erotic is not ejaculation, it’s erection.”

“What you advocate, then, on the pretext of eroticism, is depriving yourself of love-making, for fear it would make you have an orgasm! I think I’m going to stick to my original opinion —I don’t give a damn about morality. Or about eroticism, either, if it requires so much virtue! I’d rather have as many orgasms as I want. And as many as I can. I’d rather give my body all the pleasure it loves. I don’t want to measure myself out in little doses, even if it does give my mind some sort of perverse excitement!”

“Very good! If you only knew how much I approve of what you’ve said! What a joy it is to find a woman who’s ready to devote herself entirely to pleasure! All the recommendations I’ve made to you have had no other purpose than to help you be more successful in doing just that. I haven’t told you to mortify your senses or to measure out your pleasure. I’m telling you, ‘If you want to enjoy erotic pleasure as much and as well as possible, if you want it to be a reward of your mind and not only of your flesh, respect these elementary laws: refrain from isolated sex acts that lead only to sleep; don’t consider yourself contented for more than a few moments after an orgasm; try to have another one; don’t let the ease of satisfaction win out over the exactingness of eroticism; don’t imitate the mindless beatitude that concludes the sad coupling of animals; and don’t confuse the idea of coitus with that of the couple.”

He laughed.

“Think of it! You tell me I’m exhorting you to limit yourself when I’m actually opening the gates of the limitless to you! But you must realize that your horizon will always be shamefully restricted if you expect love from only one man. It’s not the love of one man, or of a few, that I’m teaching you—it’s the love of the greatest number!”

Emmanuelle thrust her lips forward in an expression of stubborn doubt and refusal that delighted Mario.

“How beautiful you are!” he exclaimed.

She shook her long hair and smiled at him. He smiled back with a look of esteem that she had never seen on his face before. She forced herself to speak, to thwart her emotion.

“So what must I do?”

“‘Recline, O my body, in accordance with your voluptuous mission! Savor daily enjoyments and short-lived passions. Do not leave one unknown joy to the regrets of your death.’”

“That’s just what I was saying!” she cried triumphantly.

“So was I.”

She laughed, incapable of arguing. He always had to be right!

“But I was saying it in greater detail,” he added.

“Too much detail!” she complained. “All your laws . . . I remember the first two . . .”

“I just gave you a third: the law of
number
. Multiplicity is in itself an element of eroticism. And conversely, there’s no eroticism where there’s limitation. Limitation to two, for example. I’ve already begun to explain my low opinion of the couple.”

“We’ll outlaw it,” she agreed. “But where will that take us? Must I refuse to make love with one man at a time? Must I do it only in a trio, a quintet, a septet?”

“If you like. But not necessarily. Number exists not only in space, but also in time. And you’re not limited to addition and multiplication. You can also divide and subtract. At the beginning of this evening I angered you by showing you one way, among many others, of dividing yourself. As for subtracting yourself, play occasionally at contending for yourself with your own senses. Before giving in to them, of course, keep them from reaching the fairy castle at the end of the enchanted road, make it move away from them as they advance. Make pleasure and desire endure. And don’t intoxicate only yourself with your inaccessible charms. Give lavishly to some what you dole out sparingly to others, without either having deserved it. If a man believes he must languish for long months and struggle to conquer you like a Knight of the Holy Grail, give your body to him all at once, and completely, the first day. With a man to whom you’ve granted the most intimate caresses, often and for a long time, refuse ‘the final gift’ out of pure caprice. With a stranger, demand that he take you without precautions, but with a friend who since childhood has been dreaming of penetrating you gently, allow him to ejaculate only in your cupped hands.”

“You’re horrible! Do you really think I’ll ever go in for that kind of debauchery? I’m glad you’re only joking . . .”

“What is it in my suggestions that horrifies you? Is it the idea of using your hands?”

“Don’t be silly! It’s not that . . .”

“You do know how to use those wonderful instruments of lasciviousness, don’t you?”

“Of course!”

“Good for you! So many women seem to believe that only their bellies, breasts, and mouths are endowed with powers. Yet hands make us human! Is there anything that can make a man more of a man than a woman’s hand? He could fornicate with a doe or a lioness, caress her nipples or quiver beneath the softness of her tongue, but only a woman can make him ejaculate in her hand. In the name of humanism, that way of making love is worthy of being preferred to all others.”