Emmanuelle (9 page)

This evocation was now charged, for Emmanuelle, with an ambiguous emotion in which the still-recent savor of her schoolgirl ardors was mingled with the more adult frenzies that she had known in fitting rooms.

Before her mother had time to introduce the newcomer, Marie-Anne stood up and drew Emmanuelle into a corner of the drawing room where they could not be overheard. “I have a man for you,” she said with the satisfied look of having accomplished a mission.

Emmanuelle could not help laughing. “Now there’s a real piece of news! And what a way you have of announcing it! What do you mean by ‘a man for me’?”

“He’s Italian and very handsome. I’ve known him a long time but I wasn’t sure he was the man you needed. I thought it over and decided he was. You have to meet him without wasting any time.”

This note of urgency, typical of Marie-Anne, amused Emmanuelle once again. She was not at all certain that the candidate, whoever he might be, was “the man she needed,” but she did not want to disappoint her mentor. So she did her best to show interest in her plan, although she felt little gratitude for her concern.

“What’s he like, this handsome man of yours?” she asked.

“He’s a perfect Florentine marquis. I’m sure you’ve never met anyone so distinguished. He’s slender and tall, with an aquiline nose, black, deep, piercing eyes, a dark complexion, a bony face . . .”

“Ah!”

“What? Don’t believe me if you don’t want to. But I’m sure you won’t have that foolish smile on your face when you see him. He was born under the sign of Leo, too.”

“Who else is?”

“Ariane and I.”

“I see. Then . . .”

“But he has black, shiny hair like yours. With just enough silver in it to make it look elegant.”

“Gray hair! He must be an old man!”

“Naturally. He’s the right age for you, exactly twice your own—thirty-eight. That’s why I’m telling you to hurry; next year you’ll be too old. Furthermore, he won’t be here next year.”

“What’s he doing in Bangkok?”

“Nothing. He’s very intelligent. He roams through the country, he knows everything. He goes to excavate ruins, he studies the ages of Buddhas. He’s even found things in the museum that the man in charge had never seen there. I think he wrote a book about it. But, as I said, mostly he does nothing.”

“Tell me,” Emmanuelle interrupted brusquely, “who’s that fantastic girl?”

‘What fantastic girl?”

“The one who just came in.”

“Came in where?”

“
Here,
Marie-Anne! Are you getting stupid? Over there, look, straight in front of you . . .”

“Are you talking about Bee?”

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘Bee’! You’re the one whose mind is slipping.”

“Bee? What an odd name!”

“Oh, it’s not a name. It’s the English word for
abeille
if it’s spelled
b
double
e
.”

“But how does
she
spell it?”

“The way I tell her to.”

“Come, come, Marie-Anne!”

“It’s not her real name, of course. I’m the one who gave it to her. By now everyone has forgotten the other one.”

“Tell it to me anyway.”

“What difference would it make? You wouldn’t be able to repeat it. It’s an outlandish English name, completely unpronounceable.”

“Even so, you don’t expect me to call her Bee, do you?”

“You don’t need to call her anything.”

Emmanuelle looked at Marie-Anne with surprise, hesitated, then contented herself with asking, “She’s English?”

“No, American. But don’t worry, she speaks French as well as you and I. She doesn’t even have an accent; it would be quainter if she did.”

“You don’t seem too fond of her.”

“Bee? She’s my best friend!”

“Are you serious? Why haven’t you told me about her?”

“I can’t tell you about all the girls I know.”

“But if you like her so much, you could have at least mentioned her to me.”

“What makes you think I like her that much? She’s my friend, that’s all. That doesn’t necessarily mean I like her.”

“Marie-Anne! How do you expect anyone to make sense of what you’re saying? The truth is that you don’t want to tell me about anything that concerns you. And you don’t want me to know your friends. Are you jealous? Are you afraid I’ll take them away from you?”

“I don’t see what good it would do to waste your time with a bunch of girls.”

“Don’t be silly! My time isn’t all that precious. You sound as if you thought my days were numbered.”

“Well . . .”

Marie-Anne seemed to believe it so seriously that Emmanuelle was upset. “I don’t feel decrepit yet,” she protested.

“Oh, it comes on very fast, you know.”

“And that Bee, does she also have one foot in the grave, according to your calculations?”

“She’s twenty-two years and eight months old.”

“I see! Is she married?”

“No, not even married.”

“Then she’s even more of an old maid than I am. I can imagine how you must talk to her!” Marie-Anne made no comment. “You don’t intend to introduce me to her, do you?” Emmanuelle asked.

“All you have to do is come with me! Instead of standing there spouting nonsense.”

Marie-Anne made a signal to Bee, who came forward to meet them. “This is Emmanuelle,” said Marie-Anne, as though she were revealing the perpetrator of a crime.

Seen from close up, Bee’s big gray eyes gave an impression of intelligence and freedom. She was apparently as little inclined to dominate others as she was to let herself be easily ruled. Emmanuelle told herself that Marie-Anne surely had her hands full with this girl. She felt avenged.

They exchanged innocuous banalities. Bee’s voice went well with her eyes. Its delivery was steady, without hesitation, and it was warmed by an intimate gaiety. Emmanuelle thought that she had the face and the tone of voice of happiness.

She asked how Bee spent her days. Mainly strolling around the city, it seemed. Did she live alone in Bangkok? No, she had come a year ago to visit her brother, who was a naval attaché at the American Embassy. She had at first intended to stay only a month, but, as it turned out, she was still there. She was in no hurry to leave.

“When I’ve had enough of this prolonged vacation,” she said, “I’ll get married and go back to America. I don’t want to work. I love having nothing to do.”

“Are you engaged?” asked Emmanuelle.

This question let her discover Bee’s laugh. It was forthright and very pretty.

“In my country, you get engaged the day before your wedding; and two days before, you don’t yet know who you’re going to marry. Since I don’t intend to retire tomorrow or the day after, I have no idea who my husband will be.”

“But getting married doesn’t necessarily mean retiring,” protested Emmanuelle.

Bee smiled indulgently. She merely said “Oh,” with an intonation of doubt; then she added, “There’s nothing wrong with retiring.”

Emmanuelle almost asked, “Retiring from what?” But she was afraid of being indiscreet. It was Bee who asked her, “Are you glad you married so young?”

“Oh, yes! It’s surely the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Bee smiled again. Emmanuelle was struck by the impression of kindness that emanated from her. The enamel beauty of her face (which one might have thought to be free of all makeup, although Emmanuelle knew what diligence and patience had been required to produce such a perfect simulation of nature, and the many hours of skilled handling of brushes and creams), made almost embarrassing by its extreme perfection, was forgotten as soon as the playfulness shone through it, like sunlight through a stained-glass window. One then felt like saying, not “How beautiful that woman is!” but, “How likable she looks!” Emmanuelle, however, preferred to think, “How happy she seems!” She felt that this brought them closer together, because she herself was aware of being happy. And unhappiness frightened her so much that she was incapable of sincerely liking anyone who was suffering, disabled, poor, or oppressed. She was sometimes ashamed of this characteristic, although it did not stem from hard-heartedness, but only from a sensitive, almost obsessive passion for beauty.

While Marie-Anne was making conversation with the ladies, Emmanuelle stayed with Bee. They talked of nothing important, but it was clear that they both enjoyed being together. Emmanuelle was even rather glad that Marie-Anne was neglecting her. When Jean came for her, she was sorry she had to leave. As she was saying her goodbyes, Marie-Anne said, preoccupied, “I’ll call you.” Emmanuelle thought, too late, that she should have asked Bee for her telephone number. She was so dismayed by this oversight that she was unable to answer Jean’s questions.

Without understanding exactly why, Emmanuelle dreaded seeing Ariane again. Rather than risk meeting her at the club, she gave up her morning swims. She had asked Jean what he thought of the young Countess de Saynes and he had answered that he thought she was a very pretty girl. He liked her impetuous spirit and her lack of affectation. Had he made love to her? No, but if the opportunity had arisen, he would have been glad to take it. Emmanuelle was usually rather proud of her husband’s successes with other women, but this time—against all logic, since he had actually had no success with Ariane—she felt a violent pang of jealousy. She tried not to let it show, but it made the whole day seem sour.

A short time after this conversation, Ariane called to tell her that she was bored to death by the rain that had been falling for the past two days, but that she had just had a “brilliant idea.” She was going to teach Emmanuelle to play squash. What was that? A kind of tennis unaffected by rain, since it was played under a roof. Emmanuelle would love it. Ariane would bring the rackets and balls; Emmanuelle would have only to change into shorts and tennis shoes and be at the club in half an hour.

She hung up before Emmanuelle had time to concoct an excuse. She had never heard of squash, but she told herself that, after all, it might be an amusing game, and she got ready with reasonably good grace.

When they met, the two women discovered that they were both dressed in the same way—yellow cotton knit shirts and black shorts. They burst out laughing.

“Are you wearing a brassiere?” inquired Ariane.

“I never wear one. I don’t even own one.”

“Bravo!” Ariane exclaimed enthusiastically, seizing her by the waist with both hands and lifting her slightly off the ground, much to her astonishment, for she would never have imagined that Ariane was so strong. “Don’t believe a word of all those old wives’ tales about tennis or horseback riding making your breasts sag if you don’t tie them up in one of those straitjackets. It’s just the opposite. Sports strengthen them, and the rougher you treat them the firmer they become. I can prove it. Just look at mine.”

She pulled up her shirt in the middle of the terrace, as other players were passing by. Emmanuelle was not the only one who was able to admire her athletic bust.

She found that a squash court was the most ordinary thing in the world—a floor, four wooden walls, and a roof. From the gallery, it looked like a kind of pit. They went down into it by a ladder that pivoted on its topmost rung and flattened itself against the roof, automatically raised by springs as soon as they stepped off. To climb out of the pit, they would have to bring the ladder down again by pulling on a rope. Ariane explained that the game consisted of hitting a hard rubber ball against the wall with a racket that had a long handle and a small diameter.

Propelled by Ariane’s smashes, the little black ball flew so fast that Emmanuelle had to run wildly from one wall to another, laughing loudly when her loose hair whipped her face. Within half an hour she was making some rather brilliant returns, but her legs were beginning to falter and she was out of breath. Her whole body was streaming with sweat. Ariane signaled for a rest and pulled the ladder down. After taking two towels from a bag that she had tied to one of the rungs, she removed her shirt and rubbed herself energetically, then she went over to Emmanuelle and wiped her chest and back with the dry towel. Emmanuelle stood still, panting. Her wet shirt was rolled up under her armpits and she felt too weary to lift her arms to take it off. Ariane backed her against the inclined ladder and she gaily pretended to let herself be crucified, spreading her arms and legs.

Ariane rubbed Emmanuelle’s breasts lightly and continued long after they were dry. A not unpleasant congestion was added to the harsh sensations of breathlessness, fatigue, and thirst that were burning Emmanuelle’s throat. Suddenly, Ariane dropped the towel, put her arms under Emmanuelle’s, and leaned against her with her whole body. Emmanuelle felt two nipples seeking her own—as soon as they had found them, she abandoned herself to a pleasure that was too great for her to resist—and an active pubis that was pressing her through the cloth of two pairs of shorts. Her position, leaning backward, made up for her smaller height, so their mouths were on exactly the same level. Ariane kissed her as she had never been kissed before—very deeply, exploring her lips, her tongue, all the heights and hollows of her mouth, her palate, her teeth, without neglecting the slightest surface, and for so long that she never knew whether that kiss had lasted minutes or hours. She no longer felt the thirst that had been irritating her throat. She moved gently, so that her clitoris could swell, harden, and seek refuge in the solidity of the other belly. When its erection was so strong that she was like an enormous bud ready to burst, she squeezed one of Ariane’s thighs between her legs, unaware of what she was doing, and began rubbing her sex against it with a lithe movement of her pelvis. Ariane let her continue for several minutes, knowing she needed that outlet for the excessive tension of her senses. Then Ariane stopped kissing her and looked at her, smiling, as she so often did, in a way that seemed to express the joy of having played a good joke on someone. Emmanuelle was embarrassed by this look and, at the same time, reassured to see that Ariane attached so little sentimentality to their intimacies. She wanted to be kissed again, and she did not want Ariane’s breasts to leave her. But Ariane abruptly seized her above the hips, as she had done when they arrived, and vigorously lifted her up the ladder until her heels came to rest on one of the rungs. She thought Ariane wanted to kiss her breasts, but the tyrant kept her head at a distance and her mocking eyes never left her victim. Before Emmanuelle had time to realize clearly what was happening, Ariane’s hand had slipped under her shorts and was already taking possession of her moist sex.