Platform (22 page)

'Not really, no. She started telling me all about her job in marketing, her problems with her boyfriend, how that was why she'd come on holiday. She got on my nerves, I went to bed.'

'You should give the chambermaids a go . . .'

He smiled vaguely, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

'So, what are we up to today?' I asked. 'I mean . . . well, this is supposed to be a discovery holiday.'

'Oh, yes . . .' Jean-Yves wearily pulled a face. 'Well, kind of. I mean, we didn't have time to get much set up. This is the first time I've worked with a socialist country; it seems it's a bit difficult getting things arranged at the last minute in socialist countries. Anyway, this afternoon, there's something involving dolphins . . .' He stopped himself, tried to be a little more precise. 'Well, if I've got it right, it's a dolphin show, and afterwards you can go swimming with them. I suppose you climb on their backs or something like that.'

'Oh yeah, I know,' said Valerie. 'It's crap. Everyone thinks that dolphins are these sweet, friendly mammals and stuff. Actually, it's not true, they live in highly structured hierarchical groups with a dominant male and they're really aggressive: they often fight to the death. The only time I ever tried swimming with dolphins, I was bitten by a female.'

'Okay, okay . . .'Jean-Yves spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. 'Whatever the deal is, this afternoon there's dolphins for those who are interested. Tomorrow and the day after we're on a two-day trip to Baracoa; that should be pretty good, at least, I hope so. And then . . .' he thought for a moment; 'And then that's it. Actually, no, on the last day, before we head off to the airport, there's a lobster lunch and a visit to the cemetery in Santiago.'

A few seconds' silence followed this pronouncement. 'Yeah . . .' Jean-Yves continued, 'I think we fucked up choosing this as our destination.'

'In fact. . .' he went on after a moment's thought, 'I get the impression things aren't going too well at this resort. Well, I mean, not just from my point of view. Last night, at the disco, I didn't get the impression there were many couples getting together, even among the young people.' He was silent again for a few seconds 'Ecco . . .' he concluded, with a gesture of resignation.

'The sociologist was right . . .' said Valerie, thoughtfully.

'What sociologist?'

'Lagarrigue. The behavioural sociologist. He was right when he said we're a far cry from the days of the sun worshippers.'

Jean-Yves finished his coffee, shook his head bitterly. 'Really . . .' he said disgustedly, 'I really never thought that one day I'd feel nostalgic about the days of the sun worshippers.'

To get to the beach, we had to suffer an ambush of people hawking shitty handicrafts; but it was okay, there weren't too many, and they weren't too persistent - you could get rid of them with smiles and apologetic waves of the hand. During the day, Cubans had access to the hotel beach. They haven't got much to offer or to sell, Valerie explained to me; but they try, they do their best. Apparently, no-one in this country could get by on just their wages. Nothing really worked: there was no petrol for the engines or spare parts for machines. Hence the sense of a rustic Utopia which you noticed crossing the countryside: farmers working with oxen, getting about in horses and carts . . . But this was no Utopia, nor some environmentalist re-creation: it was the reality of a country which could no longer sustain itself in the industrial age. Cuba still manages to export some agricultural produce like coffee, cocoa and sugar cane; but industrial output has fallen almost to zero. It's difficult to find even the most basic consumer products: soap, paper, biros. The only well-stocked shops sell imported products and you have to pay in dollars. So, everyone in Cuba gets by thanks to some secondary, tourist-related work. The privileged work directly for the tourist industry; the others try to get their hands on dollars, one way or another, in other services or through smuggling.

I lay down on the sand to think. The bronzed men and women weaving between the tourists thought of us purely as wallets on legs, there was no point in deluding oneself; but it was just the same in every third-world country. What was particular about Cuba was this glaring problem with industrial production. I myself was completely incompetent in matters of industrial production. I was perfectly adapted to the information age, that is to say good for nothing. Like me, Valerie and Jean-Yves knew only how to manage information and capital; they used their knowledge intelligently, competitively, while I used mine in more mundane, bureaucratic ways. But if, for example, a foreign power were to impose a blockade, not one of the three of us, nor anyone I knew, would have been capable of getting industrial production up and running again. We had not the least idea about casting metal, manufacturing parts, thermoforming plastics. Not to mention more complex objects like fibre optics or microprocessors. We lived in a world made up of objects whose manufacture, possible uses and functions were completely alien to us. I glanced around me, panic-stricken by this realisation: there was a towel, a pair of sunglasses, sun screen, a paperback by Milan Kundera. Paper, cotton, glass; complex machines, sophisticated manufacturing processes. Valerie's swimsuit, for example, I was incapable of grasping the manufacturing process which had gone into making it: it was made of 80 per cent latex, 20 per cent polyurethane. I slipped two fingers under her bikini; under the artificial fibre construction I could feel the living flesh. I slipped my fingers in a little further, felt the nipple harden. This was something I could do, that I knew how to do. Little by little the heat became sweltering. Once in the water, Valerie took off her bikini. She wrapped her legs around my waist and lay, floating on her back. Her pussy was already open, I smoothly penetrated her, thrusting inside her to the rhythm of the waves. There was no alternative. I stopped just before I came. We came back to dry ourselves in the sun.

A couple passed us, a big black guy and a girl with very white skin, a nervous face and close-cropped hair, who looked at him as she talked, laughing too loudly. She was obviously American, maybe a journalist with the New York Times or something like that. In fact, looking more closely, there were quite a lot of mixed couples on the beach. Further off, two big blond, slightly overweight guys with nasal accents laughed and joked with two superb girls with coppery skin.

'They're not allowed to bring them back to the hotel . . .' said Valerie, following my gaze. 'There are rooms you can rent in a village nearby.'

'I thought Americans weren't allowed to come to Cuba.'

'They're not, in theory, but they travel via Canada or Mexico. In fact, they're furious that they've lost Cuba. You can see why . . .' she said pensively. 'If ever there was a country in need of sex tourism, it's theirs. But for the moment, American companies are subject to the blockade, they're simply not allowed to invest. In any case, the country will end up becoming capitalist again, it's just a matter of years; but until then, the field is open for Europeans. That's why Aurore doesn't want to give up on it, even though the holiday club is having problems: now's the time to get an edge on the competition. Cuba represents a unique opportunity in the Caribbean-West Indies zone.

'Yep . . .' she went on cheerfully after a moment's silence. 'That's how we talk in my line of work ... in the world of the global economy.'

Chapter 9

The minibus to Baracoa left at eight in the morning; there were about fifteen people on board. They had already had an opportunity to get to know each other and were full of enthusiasm for the dolphins. The retirees (the majority), the two speech therapists who took their holidays together and the student couple, naturally, expressed their enthusiasm in slightly different lexical registers; but all would have felt able to agree on the following: a unique experience.

Afterwards, the conversation turned to the features of the resort. I shot a glance at Jean-Yves sitting alone in the middle of the minibus. He had placed a notepad and a pen on the seat next to him. Leaning forward a little, his eyes half-closed, he was concentrating on getting down everything that was said. It was at this stage, obviously, that he hoped to glean a generous harvest of useful observations and impressions.

On the subject of the resort, too, there seemed to be a consensus of opinion among the members. The reps were unanimously considered 'nice', but the activities themselves were not very interesting. The rooms were good, except those close to the sound system, which were too noisy. As for the food, it really wasn't up to much.

None of those present took part in the early morning aerobics, or the salsa or Spanish lessons. In the end, what they liked best was the beach; all the more so as it was quiet. 'Activities and sound levels considered irritating', noted Jean-Yves on his pad.

The chalets received general approval, especially as they were far from the disco. 'Next time, we'll insist on a chalet!' a heavy-set retired man said emphatically; he was in the prime of life and evidently used to giving orders, in fact he had spent his entire career marketing the wines of Bordeaux. The two students were of the same opinion. 'Disco unnecessary', noted Jean-Yves, thinking despondently of all the useless investment.

After the Cayo Saetia junction, the road got steadily worse. There were potholes and cracks which sometimes covered half the road surface. The driver was forced to zigzag continuously; we rattled around in our seats, pitched from left to right. The passengers reacted with shouts and laughter. 'It's okay, they're good-natured . . .' Valerie said to me quietly. 'That's the great thing about Discovery Tours: you can subject them to horrible conditions; to them it's all part of the adventure. In this case, it's our fault: for this kind of trip you need a four-wheel drive.'

Just before Moa, the driver swerved to the right to avoid an enormous rut. The vehicle skidded slowly and came to a halt in a pot-hole. The driver restarted the engine and revved hard: the wheels spun in the brownish mud, the minibus did not move. Desperately he tried several times, to no effect. 'Well . . .' said the wine merchant, folding his arms in a jovial manner, 'we'll have to get out and push.'

We got out of the vehicle. Before us stretched a vast plain encrusted with cracked brown mud, which looked unsanitary. Pools of stagnant water, which appeared almost black, were surrounded by tall grasses, withered and bleached. In the background, a huge factory of dark brick dominated the landscape, its twin chimney-stacks spewing out thick smoke. Rusted pipes ran from the factory and appeared to zigzag aimlessly through the middle of the plain. On the hard shoulder, a metal sign depicting Che Guevara exhorting the workers to the revolutionary development of the forces of production was itself beginning to rust. The air was pervaded by an appalling stench which seemed to rise from the mud itself rather than the pools of water.

The rut was not too deep and thanks to our concerted efforts we easily got the minibus back on the road. Everyone boarded the bus again, congratulated themselves. A little later we had lunch in a seafood restaurant. Jean-Yves

consulted his notebook with a worried air; he hadn't . touched his meal.

'With the discovery holidays,' he concluded after considerable reflection, 'I think we're off to a good start; but with the standard resort, I really don't see what we can do.'

Valerie observed him calmly, sipping her iced coffee; she looked as though she didn't give a fuck;

'Obviously,' he continued, 'we could just fire the team of reps; it would reduce our total wage bill.'

'That would be a good start, yes.'

'You don't think it's a bit radical as an idea?' he asked anxiously.

'Don't worry about that. Being a rep at a holiday club village is no education for young people. It makes then stupid and lazy, and anyway it leads nowhere. The only thing they're fit for afterwards is to be a holiday club manager - or a TV presenter.'

'Okay, then, I reduce the overall wage bill; but then again, they're not all that well paid. I'd be surprised if it saved us enough to be competitive with the German clubs. Anyway, I'll run up a spreadsheet simulation this evening, but I'm not convinced.'

She nodded in indifferent assent, something like: 'Go ahead and simulate, it can't do any harm.' She was really surprising me at this point, I thought she was cool. It's true we were fucking quite a lot, and there's no doubt that fucking is calming: it puts things in perspective. For his part, Jean-Yves looked ready to rush to his spreadsheet; I even wondered whether he was going to ask the driver to get his laptop out of the boot. 'Don't worry, we'll find a solution . . .' Valerie said to him, shaking him affectionately by the shoulder. That seemed to calm him for a while; he quietly went back and took his seat on the minibus.

On the last leg of the journey, the passengers talked mostly about Baracoa, our final destination; they already seemed to know pretty much everything about the city. On 28 October 1492, Christopher Columbus dropped anchor in the bay, impressed by its flawlessly circular form. 'This is the most beautiful land human eyes have ever seen,' he had noted in his logbook. At the time, the region was solely inhabited by the Tainos Indians. In 1511, Diego Velazquez founded the city of Baracoa; it was the first Spanish city in the Americas. For more than four centuries, being accessible only by boat, it remained isolated from the rest of the island. In 1963, the construction of the Farola viaduct made it possible to establish a road link with Guantanamo.

We arrived at about three o'clock; the city stretched along the bay which did indeed form an almost perfect circle. The satisfaction of the group was universal and was expressed in appreciative exclamations. In the end, what all lovers of journeys of discovery seek is confirmation of what they've already read in their guidebooks. All in all, they were a dream audience: Baracoa, with its modest one star in the Michelin Guide, was unlikely to disappoint them.

The El Castillo Hotel, situated in a former Spanish fortress, dominated the city. Viewed from above, it seemed magnificent; but to be honest, no more so than other cities. In truth it was actually quite nondescript, with its seedy tower blocks of blackened grey, so squalid that they looked uninhabited. I decided to stay by the pool, as did Valerie. There were about thirty rooms, all occupied by tourists from Northern Europe, who all seemed to have come for much the same reasons. I first noticed two rather plump English women in their forties; one of them wore glasses. They were accompanied by two easy-going mixed-race guys, who were twenty-five, tops. They seemed comfortable with the situation, talked and joked with the fatties, held their hands, slipped their arms around their waists. For my part, I would have been completely incapable of doing this kind of work; I wondered if they had some kind of trick, something they could think about when they needed to get an erection. At some point, the English women went up to their rooms while the two guys stayed and chatted by the pool; if I was truly interested in human nature, I would have struck up a conversation, tried to find out a bit more. Still, maybe you just had to jerk off properly, an erection could probably be a purely mechanical reflex; biographies of male prostitutes would undoubtedly have enlightened me on this point, but the only thing I had at my disposal was Discourse on the Positive Spirit. As I was leafing through the subsection entitled 'Popular politics, ever social, must above all become moral', I noticed a young German girl coming out of her room, accompanied by a big black guy. She looked exactly the way we imagine German girls, long blonde hair, blue eyes, a firm, pleasing body, big breasts. As a physical type, it's very attractive; the problem is it doesn't last: by the age of thirty there's work to be done, liposuction, silicone. Anyway, for the time being, things were fine, in fact she looked positively sexy - her suitor had been very lucky. I wondered whether she paid as much as the English women did, if there was a going rate for men as there was for women; here again research needed to be done, enquiries made. It was too exhausting for me, I decided to go up to my room. I ordered a cocktail which I sipped slowly on the balcony. Valerie was sunning herself, taking a dip in the pool from time to time, I noticed she'd struck up a conversation with the German girl.