Platform (19 page)
Authors: Michel Houellebecq
Tags: #Social life and customs, #1986-, #20th century, #Sex tourism, #Fiction, #Literary, #Social conditions, #France, #France - Social life and customs - 20th century, #Psychological, #Fiction - General, #Humorous fiction, #Thailand, #Erotica, #General, #Thailand - Social conditions - 1986
11
First thing Monday morning, he set about making some initial approaches. From the start, he was hicky: Gottfried Rembke, president of the board of TUI. was coming to spend a few days in France at the beginning of the month. Rembke would pencil them in for lunch. In the meantime, if they could put their proposal in writing, he would be delighted to give it his careful consideration. Jean-Yves went into Valerie's office to tell her the news; she froze. TUI's annual gross was twenty-five billion francs, three times that of Neckermann, six times that of Nouvelles Frontières; they were the largest tour operator in the world.
They devoted the rest of the week to writing up a sales pitch that was as detailed as possible. The project didn't require substantial financial investment. There were some small changes in furnishings; the hotels would definitely have to be redecorated to give them a more "erotic" feel. They had quickly settled on the term "friendly tourism," which would be used in all of the business documentation. Most important, they could expect a significant reduction in their fixed costs: no more sporting activities, no more children's programs. No more salaries to be paid to registered pediatric nurses, to windsurfing, archery, aerobics, or diving instructors, or to specialists in ikebana, ceramics, or painting on silk. After running a first financial simulation, Jean-Yves realized to his surprise that, allowing for depreciation, the annual costs of the clubs would drop by a whopping 25 percent. He redid the calculations three times and each time got the same result. It was all the more impressive because the catalogue rates he intended proposing were 25 percent above the category norm—essentially pegging the rates with those of the midrange Club Med. Profits leapt by 50 percent. "Your boyfriend's a genius," he told Valérie, who had just come into his office.
The atmosphere in the office at this time was a little strained. The clashes that had taken place on the streets of Évry the previous weekend were by now a familiar story, but the death toll—seven —was particularly high. Many of the employees, especially those who had worked there longest, lived in the vicinity. At first they had lived in apartment buildings that had been built at much the same time as the offices; later, as often as not, they had borrowed in order to build. "I feel sorry for them," Valérie told me, "I really do. They all bought their places in order to get
out
of town, live somewhere peaceful, but they can't just leave now, they'd end up losing a chunk of their pensions. I was talking to the switchboard operator, who has three years before she retires. Her dream is to buy a house in the Dordogne; she's from there originally. But a lot of English people have moved there, and the prices there now are outrageous, even for some miserable dump. And on the other hand, the price of her house here has collapsed, since everyone knows that it's a dangerous suburb nowadays. She'd have to sell it for a third of its value.
out
of town, live somewhere peaceful, but they can't just leave now, they'd end up losing a chunk of their pensions. I was talking to the switchboard operator, who has three years before she retires. Her dream is to buy a house in the Dordogne; she's from there originally. But a lot of English people have moved there, and the prices there now are outrageous, even for some miserable dump. And on the other hand, the price of her house here has collapsed, since everyone knows that it's a dangerous suburb nowadays. She'd have to sell it for a third of its value.
"Another thing that surprised me is the second-floor secretarial pool. I went up there at half past five to get a memo typed up, and they were all on the Internet doing their shopping. They told me that they all do it that way now. It's just safer to go home, lock themselves in, and wait for the delivery man."
In the weeks that followed, this obsessive fear did not fade. If anything, it increased slightly. In the papers now, it was professors being stabbed, schoolteachers being raped, fire engines attacked with Molotov cocktails, handicapped people thrown through train windows because they had "looked the wrong way" at some gang leader.
Le Figaro
was having a field day. Reading it every day, you got the impression of an unstoppable escalation to civil war. True, this was an election year, and law and order was the only issue likely to hurt Lionel Jospin's chances. In any case, it seemed very unlikely that the French would vote for Jacques Chirac again. He seemed to be such an idiot, it was affecting the country's image. Whenever you saw this lanky half-wit, hands clasped behind his back, visiting some country fair, or taking part in a heads-of-state summit, you felt sort of sorry for him. The Left, obviously incapable of curbing the rising tide of violence, behaved well, kept a low profile, agreed that the figures were bad, very bad even, called on others not to make political capital of it, and reminded people that when they'd been in power, the Right hadn't done any better. There was just one little slip, a ridiculous editorial by one Jacques Attali. According to him, the violence of young people in the projects was a "cry for help." The shop windows stocked with riches in Les Halles and the Champs-Elysées, he wrote, constituted so many "obscene displays flaunted at their misery." Neither should it be forgotten that the suburbs were a "mosaic of peoples and ethnicities, who had come with their traditions and their beliefs to forge new cultures and to reinvent the art of living together." Valérie stared at me in surprise: this was the first time I had burst out laughing while reading
L'Express
.
Le Figaro
was having a field day. Reading it every day, you got the impression of an unstoppable escalation to civil war. True, this was an election year, and law and order was the only issue likely to hurt Lionel Jospin's chances. In any case, it seemed very unlikely that the French would vote for Jacques Chirac again. He seemed to be such an idiot, it was affecting the country's image. Whenever you saw this lanky half-wit, hands clasped behind his back, visiting some country fair, or taking part in a heads-of-state summit, you felt sort of sorry for him. The Left, obviously incapable of curbing the rising tide of violence, behaved well, kept a low profile, agreed that the figures were bad, very bad even, called on others not to make political capital of it, and reminded people that when they'd been in power, the Right hadn't done any better. There was just one little slip, a ridiculous editorial by one Jacques Attali. According to him, the violence of young people in the projects was a "cry for help." The shop windows stocked with riches in Les Halles and the Champs-Elysées, he wrote, constituted so many "obscene displays flaunted at their misery." Neither should it be forgotten that the suburbs were a "mosaic of peoples and ethnicities, who had come with their traditions and their beliefs to forge new cultures and to reinvent the art of living together." Valérie stared at me in surprise: this was the first time I had burst out laughing while reading
L'Express
.
"If he wants to get elected," I said, handing her the article, "Jospin would be well advised to shut him up until after the primaries."
"You're clearly getting a taste for strategy ..."
Despite everything, I too was beginning to feel anxiety gnawing at me. Valérie was working late again, and it was rare for her to get home before nine o'clock. It might be wise to buy a gun. I had a contact, the brother of an artist whose exhibition I had organized two years before. He wasn't really part of the scene, he'd just been involved in a couple of scams. He was more of an inventor, a sort of jack-of-all-trades. He had recently told his brother that he'd discovered a way to forge the new identity cards, the kind that were supposed to be impossible to replicate.
"Out of the question," Valérie said immediately. "I'm not in any danger: I never leave the office during the day, and at night I always take a cab home, regardless of what time I leave."
"There's still the traffic lights."
"There's only one set of traffic lights between the office and the highway. After that, I take the exit at Porte d'ltalie and I'm practically home. And
our
area isn't dangerous."
our
area isn't dangerous."
It was true: in Chinatown, strictly speaking, there were very few assaults or rapes. I didn't understand how they managed it. Did they have their own neighborhood watch? In any case, they had noticed us as soon as we moved in. There were at least twenty people around who regularly greeted us. It was rare for Europeans to move in here, and we were in a very small minority in our own building. Sometimes, posters written in Chinese characters seemed to extend invitations to meetings or parties, but what meetings? what parties? It's possible to live among the Chinese for years without understanding anything about the way they live.
Nevertheless, I phoned my contact, who promised to ask around. He called me back two clays later. I could have a serious piece, in very good condition, for ten thousand francs. The price included a healthy quantity of ammunition. All I would have to do was clean it regularly to make sure it didn't jam if ever I needed to use it. I talked to Valérie again, who refused again. "I couldn't," she said. "I wouldn't have the courage to pull the trigger." "Even if your life was in danger?" She shook her head: "No," she repeated, "It's not possible." I didn't insist. "When I was little," she told me later, "I couldn't even kill a chicken." To be honest, neither could I, but as a man, it seemed significantly easier.
Curiously, I was not afraid for my own sake. It's true that I had very little contact with the "barbarian hordes," except perhaps occasionally at lunchtime when I went for a walk around the Forum des Halles, where the subtle infiltration of security forces (the riot squad, uniformed police officers, security guards employed by local shopkeepers) eliminated all danger, in theory. So I wandered casually through the reassuring topography of uniforms: I felt as though I was in the Thoiry Safari Park. In the absence of the forces of law and order, I knew, I would be easy prey, though of little interest. Very conventional, my middle manager's uniform had very little to tempt them. For my part, I felt no attraction for this youthful product of the "dangerous classes"; I didn't understand them, and made no attempt to do so. I didn't sympathize with their passions, or with their values. For myself, I wouldn't have lifted a finger to own a Rolex, a pair of Nikes, or a BMW Z3; in fact, I had never succeeded in identifying the slightest difference between designer goods and nondesigner goods. In the eyes of the world, I was clearly wrong. I was aware of this: I was in a minority, and consequently in the wrong. There
had
to be a difference between Yves Saint-Laurent shirts and other shirts, between Gucci moccasins and Andre moccasins. I was alone in not perceiving this difference, though it was an infirmity that I could not cite as grounds for condemning the world. Does one expect a blind man to set himself up as an expert on Postimpressionist painting? Through my blindness, however involuntary, I set myself apart from a living human reality powerful enough to incite both devotion and crime. These youths, through their half-savage instincts, undoubtedly discerned the presence of beauty. Their desire was laudable, and perfectly in keeping with social norms. It was merely a question of rectifying the inappropriate way in which it was expressed.
had
to be a difference between Yves Saint-Laurent shirts and other shirts, between Gucci moccasins and Andre moccasins. I was alone in not perceiving this difference, though it was an infirmity that I could not cite as grounds for condemning the world. Does one expect a blind man to set himself up as an expert on Postimpressionist painting? Through my blindness, however involuntary, I set myself apart from a living human reality powerful enough to incite both devotion and crime. These youths, through their half-savage instincts, undoubtedly discerned the presence of beauty. Their desire was laudable, and perfectly in keeping with social norms. It was merely a question of rectifying the inappropriate way in which it was expressed.
Thinking about it carefully, however, I had to admit that Valérie and Marie-Jeanne, the only two long-term female presences in my life, manifested a complete indifference to Kenzo blouses and Prada handbags. In fact, as far as I could make out, they bought any old brand at random. Jean-Yves, the highest-paid individual I knew, exhibited a preference for Lacoste polos, but he did it somewhat mechanically, out of habit, without even checking to see if the reputation of his favorite brand had been surpassed by some new challenger. Some of the women at the Ministry of Culture whom I knew by sight (though I regularly forgot their names, their job titles, even their faces, between each encounter) bought designer clothes, but they were invariably by young, obscure designers, each of whom had only one outlet in Paris, and I knew perfectly well that the women would not hesitate to abandon the designers if by chance they ever found a wider public.
The power of Nike, Adidas, Armani, Vuitton was, nonetheless, indisputable; I could find proof of this whenever I needed simply by glancing through the business section of
Le
Figaro
.
But who, exactly—aside from youths in the projects —assured the success of these brands? Clearly there had to be whole sectors of society that were still alien to me, unless, more prosaically, they were bought by rich people in the third world. I had traveled little, lived little, and it was becoming increasingly clear that I understood little about the modern world.
Le
Figaro
.
But who, exactly—aside from youths in the projects —assured the success of these brands? Clearly there had to be whole sectors of society that were still alien to me, unless, more prosaically, they were bought by rich people in the third world. I had traveled little, lived little, and it was becoming increasingly clear that I understood little about the modern world.
On September 27, there was a meeting of the eleven Eldorador holiday club managers, who had come to Évry for the occasion. It was a routine meeting that took place every year on the same date, to assess the figures for the summer and consider improvements. This time, however, it had particular significance. First, three of the resorts were about to change hands—the contract with Neckermann had just been signed. Second, the managers of four of the remaining villages—those that fell into the "Aphrodite" category—had to prepare themselves to fire half of their staff.
Valérie was not present for the meeting; she was seeing an Italtrav representative to present the scheme to him. The Italian market was much more fragmented than those of northern Europe. Italtrav might well have been the largest tour operator in Italy, but its gross was less than a tenth of TUI's. An agreement with them would, nonetheless, bring in valuable customers.
She came back from her appointment at about 7 p.m. Jean-Yves was alone in his office. The meeting had just ended.
"How did they take it?"
"Badly. I know how they feel, too —they must think they're next up on the chopping block."
"Are you intending to replace the resort managers?"
"It's a new project. We'd be better off starting out with new teams." His voice was very calm. Valérie looked at him in surprise: lately he had become more assured —and tougher.
"I'm convinced that we're going to be a success, now. When we broke for lunch, I was talking to the manager at Boca Chica, in the Dominican Republic. I wanted to be clear in my mind about something: I wanted to know how he managed to have 90 percent occupancy regardless of season. He dithered, he seemed embarrassed, talked about teamwork. In the end, I asked him straight out if he was allowing girls to go up to the guest rooms. I had a hard time getting him to admit it, since he was afraid I was going to put him on probation. I had to tell him that it didn't bother me at all, that in fact I thought it was an interesting initiative. At that point he confessed. He thought it was stupid that guests were renting rooms a mile away, often with no running water, and with the risk of being ripped off, when they had every comfort right there. I congratulated him and promised him he'd keep his job as resort manager, even if he's the only one who does."
It was getting dark. He turned on a lamp on his desk, was silent for a moment.
"For the others," he went on, "I don't feel the slightest remorse. They're all pretty much the same. They're all former reps, they joined at the right time, they got to get it on with all the girls they wanted without doing a fucking stroke of work, and they thought that becoming manager of the resort meant they could bum around in the sun until they retired. Their days are over—tough. Now, I need real professionals."
Valérie crossed her legs and looked at him in silence.
''By the way, the meeting with Italtrav?"
"Good. No problems. He knew at once what I meant by 'friendly tourism,' he even tried to make a pass at me. That's the good thing about Italians, at least they're predictable. Anyway, he promised he'd include the clubs in his catalogue, but he said we shouldn't get our hopes up. Italtrav has a strong presence because it's a conglomerate of a lot of specialized tour companies. It doesn't have a very strong image in its own right. In fact, it operates as a distributor, so we can get on their list, but it will be up to us to make a name for ourselves in the market."
"What about Spain? How far have we gotten?"
"We've got a good relationship with Marsans. They're much the same, except they're more ambitious. For a while now, they've been trying to get a foothold in France. I was a bit worried that we'd be competing with their products, but apparently not; they think what we're doing is complementary."
She thought for a moment and then continued: "What are we going to do about France?"
"I'm still not sure. Maybe I'm being stupid, but I'm really worried about stirring up the moralists. Obviously, we could do some focus groups, test the market..."
"You've never believed in that stuff."
"No, that's true.'' He hesitated for a moment. "Actually, I'm tempted to do a minimal launch in France, just through the Auroretour network. Put ads in a couple of carefully targeted magazines, like
FHM
or
L'
É
cho des Savanes
.
But really, for the first stage, I want to focus on northern Europe."
FHM
or
L'
É
cho des Savanes
.
But really, for the first stage, I want to focus on northern Europe."
The meeting with Gottfried Rembke took place the following Friday. The night before, Valérie made herself a cleansing mask and went to bed early. When I woke up at eight o'clock, she was already ready. I was impressed by the results. She was wearing a black suit with a short, tight skirt that hugged her ass magnificently. Under the jacket, she was wearing a lilac blouse in lace, close-fitting and, in places, transparent, with a scarlet push-up bra that showed off her breasts. When she sat opposite the bed, I discovered she was wearing black stockings, faded toward the top, held in place by garters. Her lips were emphasized in a dark, almost purplish, red, and she had tied her hair up in a chignon.
"Does this do the trick?" she asked teasingly.
"That does it
in
spades
.
Well, well, you women," I added, "when you put yourselves out there . . ,"
in
spades
.
Well, well, you women," I added, "when you put yourselves out there . . ,"
"This is my Corporate Seductress outfit. I put it on a little bit for you, too; I knew you'd like it."
"Reeroticizing the workplace." I muttered. She handed me a cup of coffee.
Until she left, I did nothing but watch her come and go, stand and sit. It wasn't much, I suppose, actually it was quite simple, but it
did the trick
,
no doubt about it. When she crossed her legs, a dark band appeared high up on her thighs, accentuating the contrasting sheerness of the nylon. When she crossed them a little more, a band of lace was revealed a little higher up, then the fastener of the garters, the bare, white flesh, the curve of the buttocks. She uncrossed them, everything disappeared again. She leaned over the table: I could feel the palpitation of her breasts through the fabric. I could have spent hours watching her. It was a simple joy, innocent and eternally blessed; a pure promise of pleasure.
did the trick
,
no doubt about it. When she crossed her legs, a dark band appeared high up on her thighs, accentuating the contrasting sheerness of the nylon. When she crossed them a little more, a band of lace was revealed a little higher up, then the fastener of the garters, the bare, white flesh, the curve of the buttocks. She uncrossed them, everything disappeared again. She leaned over the table: I could feel the palpitation of her breasts through the fabric. I could have spent hours watching her. It was a simple joy, innocent and eternally blessed; a pure promise of pleasure.
They were supposed to meet at 1 p.m. at Le Divellec, a restaurant on the Rue de l'Université; Jean-Yves and Valérie arrived five minutes early. "How are we going to raise the subject?'' Valérie asked anxiously as she stepped out of the taxi.
"I dunno, just tell him we want to open up a chain of brothels for Huns.'' Jean-Yves gave a weary grin. "Don't worry about it, don't worry about it, he'll ask all the questions."
Gottfried Rembke arrived at 1 p.m. precisely. The moment he walked into the restaurant and handed his coat to the waiter, they knew it was him. The solid, stocky body, the gleaming scalp, the open expression, the vigorous handshake: everything about him radiated ease and enthusiasm. He was precisely what one imagined a head honcho, particularly a German head honcho, looked like. You could imagine him eagerly throwing himself into each new day, leaping out of bed, doing half an hour on the exercise bike before driving to the office in his spanking-new Mercedes, listening to the financial news. "This guy seems perfect," muttered Jean-Yves as he got to his feet, all smiles, to greet him.
For the next ten minutes, in fact, Herr Rembke spoke of nothing but food. It turned out that he knew France very well, the culture, the cuisine. He even owned a house in Provence. "Impeccable, the guy's impeccable," thought Jean-Yves as he studied his consommé de langoustines an Curaçao. "Rock and roll, Gotty," he added to himself, dipping his spoon into the soup. Valérie was wonderful: she listened attentively, her eyes sparkling as though charmed by him. She wanted to know where, exactly, in Provence, whether he had time to visit often, etc. She had chosen the salmis d'étrilles aux fruits rouges.
"So," she went on without changing her tone, "you'd be interested in the proposal."
"The way I see it," he said thoughtfully, "we know that 'friendly tourism' " — he stumbled a little on the expression —"is one of the primary motivating factors of our compatriots when they vacation abroad — and, moreover, one can understand why. After all,
what more delightful way to travel
?
However, and this is somewhat curious, up until now, no major group has actively taken an interest in the sector—apart from a number of attempts, all hopelessly inadequate, marketed to a homosexual clientele. Essentially, surprising as it may seem, we are dealing with a virgin market."
what more delightful way to travel
?
However, and this is somewhat curious, up until now, no major group has actively taken an interest in the sector—apart from a number of attempts, all hopelessly inadequate, marketed to a homosexual clientele. Essentially, surprising as it may seem, we are dealing with a virgin market."
"It's much discussed. I think that attitudes still have a long way to go," interrupted Jean-Yves, realizing as he did so that what, he was saying was ridiculous. "On both sides of the Rhine," he concluded miserably. Rembke gave him a frosty look, as though he thought Jean-Yves was making fun of him; Jean-Yves hunched over his food again, determined not to say another word until the meal was over. In any case, Valérie was getting along brilliantly. "Let's not project French problems onto the Germans," she said, ingenuously crossing her legs. Rembke fixed his attention on her once more.
"Our compatriots," he went on, "forced to fend for themselves, often find themselves at the mercy of intermediaries of dubious honesty. More generally, the sector remains marked by rank amateurism, which represents a considerable loss of earnings for the industry as a whole." Valérie agreed eagerly. The waiter arrived with a saint-pierre rôti aux figues nouvelles.
"Equally," he went on, having glanced at his dish, "your proposal interests us because it represents a complete reversal of the traditional view of the holiday club. A formula that was conceived in the 1970s does not correspond to the expectations of the contemporary consumer. Relationships between individuals in the west have become more difficult —a fact that, needless to say, we all deplore," he continued, glancing again at Valérie, who uncrossed her legs with a smile.
When I got back from the office at a quarter past six, she was already home. I felt a twinge of surprise: I think this was the first time since we'd been living together. She was sitting on the sofa, still wearing her suit, her legs slightly apart. Staring into space, she seemed to be thinking of happy, gentle things. Though I did not know it at the time, I was witnessing the professional equivalent of an orgasm.
"Did it go well?" I asked.
"Better than well. I came straight home after lunch, I didn't even bother dropping in to the office; I really couldn't see what else we could do this week. Not only is he interested in the project, but he intends to make it one of his key products as of next winter. He's prepared to finance printing the catalogue and an advertising campaign targeted specifically at the German market. He believes that, on his own, he can guarantee to fill all the existing clubs. He even asked whether we had any other projects in the works. The only thing he wants in return is exclusivity in his own market—Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and the Benelux countries. He knows that we've been in touch with Neckermann too.
"I've booked a weekend for us," she added, "in a thalassotherapy center in Dinard. I think I need it. We could drop in on my parents as well."
The train pulled out of the Gare Montparnasse an hour later. Quite quickly, as the kilometers passed, the accumulated tension faded and she was back to normal, that is rather sexual and playful. The last buildings of the outer suburbs disappeared behind us. The TGV approached maximum speed just as we came to the Plain of Hurepoix. A sliver of daylight, an almost imperceptible reddish tinge, hung in the air to the west over the dark mass of grain silos. We were in a first-class car arranged in small compartments. On the tables that separated our seats, small yellow lamps already glowed. Across the corridor, a woman of about forty, very upper middle class but pretty stylish, with her blonde hair tied up in a chignon, was leafing through
Madame Figaro
.
I had bought the same paper and was trying without much success to interest myself in the financial supplement. For some years, I had nurtured the theory that it was possible to decode the world, to understand its evolution, by setting aside everything dealing with current affairs, politics, the society pages, and the arts; that it was possible to form an accurate image of the thrust of history purely by reading the financial news and the stock prices. I therefore forced myself to read the
Figaro
financial section daily, supplemented by even more forbidding publications like
Les É
chos
or
La Tribune Desfoss
é
s
.
Up to this point, my theory had remained impossible to judge. It was possible, in other words, that historic news was concealed within these editorials, with their measured tones, their columns of figures, but the reverse might just as easily be true. The only definite conclusion I had categorically come to: economics was unspeakably boring. Looking up from a short article that attempted to analyze the fall of the Nikkei, I noticed that Valérie had begun crossing and uncrossing her legs; a half smile flitted across her face. "Descent into hell for Milan stock exchange," I managed to read before putting down the paper. I suddenly got an erection when I discovered she had found a way to take off her panties. She came and sat beside me, pressed herself against me. Taking off her suit jacket, she draped it across my lap. I glanced quickly to my right: our neighbor still appeared to be engrossed in her magazine, specifically in an article on the garden in winter. She too was wearing a suit with a tight skirt and black tights; she looked like a posh tart, as they say. Sliding her hand under her jacket, Valérie placed it on my penis. I was wearing only a pair of thin cotton trousers, the sensation was terribly precise. It was, by now, completely dark. I sat back in my seat, slipped a hand under her blouse. Pushing her bra aside, I encircled her right breast with the palm of my hand and began to stimulate her nipple with my thumb and forefinger. Just as we reached Le Mans, she undid my fly. Her movements were now absolutely brazen, I was convinced that our neighbor was missing nothing of our little game. As far as I'm concerned, it is a physical impossibility to resist masturbation by a truly expert hand. Just before Rennes I ejaculated, unable to suppress a muffled cry. "I'll have to get this suit cleaned," Valérie said calmly. Our neighbor glanced across, making no attempt to conceal her amusement.
Madame Figaro
.
I had bought the same paper and was trying without much success to interest myself in the financial supplement. For some years, I had nurtured the theory that it was possible to decode the world, to understand its evolution, by setting aside everything dealing with current affairs, politics, the society pages, and the arts; that it was possible to form an accurate image of the thrust of history purely by reading the financial news and the stock prices. I therefore forced myself to read the
Figaro
financial section daily, supplemented by even more forbidding publications like
Les É
chos
or
La Tribune Desfoss
é
s
.
Up to this point, my theory had remained impossible to judge. It was possible, in other words, that historic news was concealed within these editorials, with their measured tones, their columns of figures, but the reverse might just as easily be true. The only definite conclusion I had categorically come to: economics was unspeakably boring. Looking up from a short article that attempted to analyze the fall of the Nikkei, I noticed that Valérie had begun crossing and uncrossing her legs; a half smile flitted across her face. "Descent into hell for Milan stock exchange," I managed to read before putting down the paper. I suddenly got an erection when I discovered she had found a way to take off her panties. She came and sat beside me, pressed herself against me. Taking off her suit jacket, she draped it across my lap. I glanced quickly to my right: our neighbor still appeared to be engrossed in her magazine, specifically in an article on the garden in winter. She too was wearing a suit with a tight skirt and black tights; she looked like a posh tart, as they say. Sliding her hand under her jacket, Valérie placed it on my penis. I was wearing only a pair of thin cotton trousers, the sensation was terribly precise. It was, by now, completely dark. I sat back in my seat, slipped a hand under her blouse. Pushing her bra aside, I encircled her right breast with the palm of my hand and began to stimulate her nipple with my thumb and forefinger. Just as we reached Le Mans, she undid my fly. Her movements were now absolutely brazen, I was convinced that our neighbor was missing nothing of our little game. As far as I'm concerned, it is a physical impossibility to resist masturbation by a truly expert hand. Just before Rennes I ejaculated, unable to suppress a muffled cry. "I'll have to get this suit cleaned," Valérie said calmly. Our neighbor glanced across, making no attempt to conceal her amusement.
Even so, at the station at Saint-Malo I was a little embarrassed when
I noticed that she was boarding the same shuttle bus for the thalassotherapy center, but not so Valérie: she even struck up a conversation with her about the various treatments. For myself, I've never really worked out the respective merits of mud baths, high-pressure showers, and seaweed wraps. The following day, I was happy just to mess around in the pool. I was floating on my back, vaguely aware of the underwater currents supposedly massaging my back, when Valérie joined me. "Our neighbor from the train," she said, all excited, "she came on to me in the Jacuzzi." I registered the information without reacting. "Right now she's alone in the
hammam
,"
she added. I followed her at once, wrapping myself in a bathrobe. Near the entrance to the hammam, I took off my swimming trunks; my erection was visible beneath the terry-cloth robe. I followed Valérie in, letting her make her way through steam so dense you couldn't see two feet ahead of you. The air was saturated with a strong, almost intoxicating scent of eucalyptus. I stopped and stood still in the hot, whitish emptiness, then I heard a moan coming from the far end of the room. I untied the belt of my robe and walked toward the sound. Beads of perspiration formed on the surface of my skin. Kneeling in front of the woman, hands placed on her buttocks, Valérie was slowly licking her pussy. She really was a very beautiful woman, with perfectly rounded, silicone-enhanced breasts, a harmonious face, a wide, sensual mouth. Unsurprised, she turned to look at me and closed her hand around my penis. I came a little closer, went behind her, and stroked her breasts, rubbing my penis against her buttocks. She opened her thighs and bent forward, leaning on the wall for support. Valérie rummaged in the pocket of her robe and handed me a condom. With her other hand, she continued to masturbate the woman's clitoris. I penetrated the woman in one swift thrust. She was already wide open; she bent forward a little further. I was thrusting in and out of her when I felt Valerie's hand slip between my thighs, then close over my balls. Then she leaned forward and began licking the woman's pussy. With each thrust, I could feel my cock rubbing against her tongue. I desperately tensed my pelvic muscles at the point when the women came, in a series of long, contented moans, then slowly I pulled out. My whole body was sweating, I was panting involuntarily. I felt a little faint and had to sit down on a bench. The clouds of steam continued to undulate through the air. I heard the sound of a kiss and I looked up: they were entwined, breast to breast.
I noticed that she was boarding the same shuttle bus for the thalassotherapy center, but not so Valérie: she even struck up a conversation with her about the various treatments. For myself, I've never really worked out the respective merits of mud baths, high-pressure showers, and seaweed wraps. The following day, I was happy just to mess around in the pool. I was floating on my back, vaguely aware of the underwater currents supposedly massaging my back, when Valérie joined me. "Our neighbor from the train," she said, all excited, "she came on to me in the Jacuzzi." I registered the information without reacting. "Right now she's alone in the
hammam
,"
she added. I followed her at once, wrapping myself in a bathrobe. Near the entrance to the hammam, I took off my swimming trunks; my erection was visible beneath the terry-cloth robe. I followed Valérie in, letting her make her way through steam so dense you couldn't see two feet ahead of you. The air was saturated with a strong, almost intoxicating scent of eucalyptus. I stopped and stood still in the hot, whitish emptiness, then I heard a moan coming from the far end of the room. I untied the belt of my robe and walked toward the sound. Beads of perspiration formed on the surface of my skin. Kneeling in front of the woman, hands placed on her buttocks, Valérie was slowly licking her pussy. She really was a very beautiful woman, with perfectly rounded, silicone-enhanced breasts, a harmonious face, a wide, sensual mouth. Unsurprised, she turned to look at me and closed her hand around my penis. I came a little closer, went behind her, and stroked her breasts, rubbing my penis against her buttocks. She opened her thighs and bent forward, leaning on the wall for support. Valérie rummaged in the pocket of her robe and handed me a condom. With her other hand, she continued to masturbate the woman's clitoris. I penetrated the woman in one swift thrust. She was already wide open; she bent forward a little further. I was thrusting in and out of her when I felt Valerie's hand slip between my thighs, then close over my balls. Then she leaned forward and began licking the woman's pussy. With each thrust, I could feel my cock rubbing against her tongue. I desperately tensed my pelvic muscles at the point when the women came, in a series of long, contented moans, then slowly I pulled out. My whole body was sweating, I was panting involuntarily. I felt a little faint and had to sit down on a bench. The clouds of steam continued to undulate through the air. I heard the sound of a kiss and I looked up: they were entwined, breast to breast.
We made love a little later, in the late afternoon, again that evening, and once more the following morning. Such frenzy was a little unusual; we were both conscious of the fact that we were about to enter a difficult time, when Valérie would once more be stupefied with work, problems, and calculations. The sky was an immaculate blue, the weather almost warm. It was probably one of the last fine weekends before the autumn. After making love on Sunday morning, we took a long stroll on the beach. I looked in surprise at the neoclassical, slightly kitschy hotel buildings. When we arrived at the far end of the beach, we sat down on the rocks.
"I suppose it was important, that meeting with the German," I said. "I suppose it's the beginning of a new
challenge
."
challenge
."
"This will be the last time, Michel. If this is a success, we'll be set up for a long time."
I shot her a doubtful and slightly sad look. I didn't believe in that line of reasoning—it reminded me of history books in which politicians declared that this would be the "war to end all wars," the sort that was supposed to lead to a permanent peace.
"It was you who told me," I said gently, "that capitalism, by its very nature, is a permanent state of war, a constant struggle that can never end."
"That's true," she agreed without hesitation. "But it's not always the same people doing the fighting."
A gull took off, gained altitude, and headed out to the ocean. We were almost alone at this end of the beach. Dinard was clearly a very quiet resort, at least at this time of year. A Labrador retriever came up and sniffed us, then turned tail. I couldn't see its owners.
"I promise you," she insisted, "if this works as well as we hope, we can roll out the concept in lots of countries. In Latin America alone, there's Brazil, Venezuela, Costa Rica. Apart from that we can easily open clubs in Cameroon, Mozambique, Madagascar, the Seychelles. In Asia, too, there are obvious possibilities: China, Vietnam, Cambodia. In two or three years, we can become an uncontested market leader, and no one will dare invest in the same market. This time we'll get it, our competitive advantage."
I didn't reply, I couldn't think of anything to say. After all, it had originally been my idea. The tide was coming in. Waves crashed onto the beach and died at our feet.
"On top of that,'' she went on, "this time we're going to insist on a decent share package. If it's a success, they can't possibly refuse. And when you're a shareholder, you don't have to fight anymore. Other people do the fighting for you."
She stopped, looked at me, hesitant. It made sense, what she was saying, it had a certain logic. The wind was getting up a bit; I was starting to feel hungry. The restaurant at the hotel was excellent: they had impeccably fresh shellfish, and delicious, delicate fish dishes. We headed back, walking across the wet sand.
"I have money," I said suddenly. "Don't forget that I have money." She stopped and looked at me in surprise. I myself hadn't expected to say these words.
"I know it's not the done thing to be a kept woman," I went on, a little embarrassed, "but there's nothing forcing us to do things the way everybody else does."
She stared calmly into my eyes. "When you've got the money from the house, at best it'll come out to three million francs, maximum,
-
' she said.
-
' she said.
"Yes. That's right, something like that."
"It's not enough, at least not quite. We need just a little more." She began walking again and said nothing for a long moment. "Trust me," she said, as we stepped under the glass roof of the restaurant.
After the meal, just before heading to the station, we paid a visit to Valerie's parents. She was about to be submerged by work again, she explained; she probably wouldn't be able to visit again before Christmas. Her father looked at her with a resigned smile. She was a good daughter, I thought, an attentive and caring daughter; she was also a sensual lover, affectionate and audacious; and, if need be, she would no doubt be a wise and loving mother.
Her feet are of fine gold, her legs like the columns of the temple of Jerusalem
.
I continued to wonder what exactly I had done to deserve a woman like Valérie. Nothing, probably. I observe the world as it unfurls, I thought. Proceeding empirically, in good faith,
Her feet are of fine gold, her legs like the columns of the temple of Jerusalem
.
I continued to wonder what exactly I had done to deserve a woman like Valérie. Nothing, probably. I observe the world as it unfurls, I thought. Proceeding empirically, in good faith,
I observe it. I can do no more than observe.
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