Emmanuelle (20 page)

Emmanuelle made a gesture as though to signify that she granted all tastes an equal right to exist. One thought was troubling her, although she did not know exactly what obscure motives made her attach more importance to that one “law” of Mario’s than to the others. She picked up the subject again:

“You may talk about dividing or subtracting myself, but what you’re really suggesting is that I should give myself to a lot of people! This part of me to one, that part to another.”

“And why shouldn’t you let many lovers, an enormous number of lovers, share a body that’s capable of taking pleasure from all of them? What objection do you have to that?”

“And why
should
I do it?”

“I’ve told you—for the sake of eroticism. Because eroticism needs
number
. There’s no greater pleasure for a woman than to keep count of her lovers—as a child, on her ten fingers; as a young girl, in terms of school months and vacation months; as a wife, in the secrecy of her diary, marking with a mysterious sign each day when a new name has been added to the list. ‘What? Nearly a month since the last one?’ Or false remorse: ‘This is terrible! Two in the same week . . .’ Until she reaches the acceptance of triumph, the paean of pride: ‘I’ve done it! A different one every day this week!’ And whispered conversations with her best friend: ‘Are you over a hundred?’ ‘Not yet. And you?’ ‘Yes.’ Oh, pleasure, pleasure! Your body can contain a thousand, ten thousand other bodies! You’ll regret only the lovers you didn’t have. Remember the definition of eroticism that I gave you—it’s the pleasure of excess.”

Emmanuelle shook her head.

“You can’t deny it,” protested Mario, “since the law of numbers, if you look at it closely, is only a corollary of another law that I’m sure you’ve accepted—that you must avoid satisfaction. It’s easy to understand why a plurality of amorous resources is essential to pleasure; lest your senses compromise and admit that they’re satiated, don’t give yourself to a man unless you’re sure that after him there’s another one ready to take you.”

“But there’s no reason why that should ever end!” exclaimed Emmanuelle. “After the second one there would have to be a third, and then still another in reserve.”

“Why not? That’s exactly what you have to strive for.”

She laughed good-naturedly. “There are limits to human endurance.”

“Unfortunately,” he admitted somberly. “But the mind can go beyond them. What matters is that the mind must never be satisfied.”

“The surest way to keep it alert, if I understand you correctly, would be to make love without ever stopping.”

“Not necessarily,” he said impatiently. “Making love isn’t what counts, it’s how you do it. The sex act in itself, even if it were repeated infinitely, could never be enough to create an erotic quality. If you give yourself to ten or twenty men in a row, it may bring you ineffable bliss—or sheer boredom. It all depends on the moment, on what occurred before and what you expect afterward. That’s why, although there are laws, there are no rules. To reach erotic perfection you’ll one day give yourself to twenty men in the same way, reproducing their flesh in you as if you were on a treadmill, letting them succeed each other in your body without even trying to tell them apart; another day you’ll insist on taking your pleasure from each of the twenty in a different way.”

“The thirty-two positions?” she asked sardonically.

“Absurd! Eroticism isn’t a question of postures. It arises from
situations
. The only positions that matter are those of the convolutions of your brain. Make love with your head! Populate it with more organs and more voluptuous sensations than all the men on earth could give you. Let each of your embraces contain and announce all others. It’s the presence, within the act, of past and future sex acts, of acts committed by others or with others, that will confer erotic value on it. And when a man takes you, it mustn’t be he who gives the moment its charm; let it be the man beside you who’s holding your hand or reading a page of Homer to you.”

Emmanuelle burst out laughing, but she was more deeply impressed than she was willing to admit. “When my husband wants to make love with me, should I say to him, ‘Impossible, there are only two of us’?”

“That would be a sensible attitude,” Mario said seriously. “But, as I’ve told you, when the third party can’t be there physically, it’s your brain’s duty to conjure him up.”

This pleased Emmanuelle. Yes, really, she thought, it was the greatest pleasure she had known till now—that imaginary transfer to the arms of another man, chosen to suit her fancy, as soon as Jean penetrated her. She reflected that it was the first erotic discovery she had made on her own, and she had made it in the early days of their love, perhaps the fourth or fifth time he had taken her. At first she had granted herself that “extra” sparingly, at long intervals, as an exceptional reward. Then more often. Now, she told herself, practically every night. It was so good! Its frequency was a source of enjoyment in itself. She was always eager for Jean to make love, not only because of physical desire, but also because another man, the one she wanted at the moment, appeared immediately and she did not need to overcome any embarrassment, shame, principle, or convention in order to give him her most intimate and dissolute favors, to do with him in imagination what she might not have dared to do in reality. Since her pleasure was increased tenfold, so was Jean’s, and thus she did not deceive him; on the contrary, each day she was a more ardent and sensual mistress for him. She promised herself that from now on she would systematically make love in that way, she would always evoke the “third partner” who was required for the observance of the law of asymmetry. She was so impatient at the thought of that refined pleasure that she wished Jean would take her at that very moment, so she could make love with another man. “With whom?” she wondered. Obviously not with Mario, that would be no fun. With Quentin.

“I’ll have to be careful not to call two phantoms into my bed at once,” she mocked. “That would make an even number and ruin the whole thing!”

Mario smiled. “No, it wouldn’t. There would still be asymmetry, because the even number would be unevenly divided. It’s true that I’ll never encourage you to make love in a foursome, if it consists in coupling two by two, even in the same bed. There’s nothing more insipid, more domestic. Leave that game to deserving bourgeois couples who like to indulge in it after vespers. But it would be unfortunate to conclude that the number four must be banished. It offers interesting possibilities, as long as you redeem it from the banality of the square and divide it, for example, into three and one. The same is true of eight, despite its evenness, because it can mean six men and two women, a very elegant combination which enables each woman to be served by three men at the beginning, and allows the two groups thus formed to be joined at the end.”

Emmanuelle tried to visualize this arrangement.

“I admit,” Mario said with a grin, “that simplicity also has its charms for a woman. The most delectable way of making love will always be, as you noted just now, to give herself to two men simultaneously.” Emmanuelle raised her eyebrows, astounded at being credited with the idea. “There are few experiences more perfect and harmonious, and it’s easy to understand why it’s the favorite treat of any woman of taste. Between being taken by one man and being taken by two, there’s the same gulf as between rice wine and Marc de Champagne.”

He lifted the magnum and poured some of it into her glass. She took a sip of the bronze-colored liquid with a feeling of vague uneasiness. He kept his eyes on her.

“In the arms of a single man, a woman is already half forsaken. All the approaches to your senses have equal virtues and equal rights to be loved. And since one man can’t be both at your beginning and at your end, let the two of them solve the dilemma of your body together. When their twin pleasure quenches the thirst of your ambiguous mouth, you know in its fullness the reason for being a woman, and its beauty.” He asked courteously, “Do you like that?”

She looked down at the glistening sphere of her glass and coughed. He insisted, mercilessly: “I mean, do you like to make love with two men at the same time? Not just in imagination . . .”

She chose to be frank. “I don’t know.”

“Why not?” he asked with restrained surprise.

“I’ve never done it.”

“Really? Why?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Do you object to that practice?” he asked with a touch of sarcasm.

Her face took on a series of expressions that were difficult to interpret precisely. He let the silence continue, and this increased her discomfort. She felt that she was on trial, guilty of some inexpiable sin against the mind.

“Why did you get married?” he asked abruptly.

At first, she did not know what to answer. She had the sensation of having been taken by the shoulders and spun around, as in a game of blindman’s buff. Blindfolded, hands outstretched, she did not dare to step in any direction, for fear of falling into a trap. She did not want to admit to Mario that she had married Jean simply because she loved him—or even for the pleasure of making love with him. Then a more challenging idea occurred to her.

“I’m a lesbian,” she said.

Mario blinked his eyes. “Good!” he said appreciatively. Then, suspiciously, “But are you still truly a lesbian, or was it only in your childhood?”

“I still am.” As she said this, she was submerged by an unexpected wave of distress. Was she telling the truth? Would she ever be able to hold a woman’s body in her arms again? In losing Bee, she had lost everything . . .

“Does your husband know about your tastes?”

“Naturally. So does everyone else. It’s no secret. I’m proud to like pretty girls, and to be liked by them.” She now felt a need to trumpet words of defiance. Yet they hurt no one but herself.

Mario stood up and paced the floor. He seemed enraptured. He came back to Emmanuelle, took her by the hand, sat her down on the sofa and knelt at her feet. To her surprise, he kissed her knees lightly, then put his arms around her legs.

“‘All women are beautiful,’” he said with a fervor made striking by his deep voice. “‘Only women know how to love. Stay with us, Bilitis! Stay! And if you have an ardent soul, you will see beauty as in a mirror on the bodies of your mistresses.’”

Emmanuelle thought with melancholy irony that it was just her luck to fall in love with a woman who looked down on lesbianism, and with a man who thought too highly of it!

Meanwhile he had already recovered his nonchalance. “Have you had many mistresses?”

“Yes, many!” She would not let the memory of Bee spoil that evening for her. “I like to change them often.”

“And do you find as many as you want?”

“It’s not hard. All I have to do is ask them.”

“None refuse?”

“Very few!” she answered, but at the same time she was beginning to tire of putting up a bold front; she wanted to regain her simplicity and frankness. She corrected herself with a cheerful laugh. “There are some girls, it’s true, who won’t let themselves be conquered. But that’s their misfortune!”

“Exactly,” agreed Mario. “And you? Are you easy to conquer?”

“Oh, yes! I love to give in!” She smiled at her admission and added, “But only if my admirers are really pretty. I can’t stand any girl who’s not very beautiful.”

“An excellent attitude,” Mario complimented her. He then returned to a point which apparently fascinated him. “You say your husband knows about your feminine loves. But does he approve of them?”

“He even encourages them. Since I married him, I’ve had more mistresses than ever.”

“He’s not afraid that their caresses may turn you away from him?”

“What an idea! Making love with a woman and making love with a man are two different things. One doesn’t replace the other; you need both. It’s as sad to be purely a lesbian as it is not to be a lesbian at all.”

This time Emmanuelle’s opinion seemed categorical and her self-assurance appeared to impress even Mario.

“I assume that your husband also avails himself of your mistresses’ charms,” he said with respect.

She smiled roguishly. “Mainly it’s my mistresses who dream of that.”

“You’re not jealous?”

“That would be too ridiculous!”

“You’re right; sharing can only add to your pleasure.” He nodded, apparently evoking delightful images.

Emmanuelle, for her part, pictured the bare bodies of her mistresses, so naked, so soft to touch, so beautiful! It was not certain that she had heard Mario’s last comment.

“And what about him?” he asked, after a moment of silence.

She opened her eyes wide. “Him?”

“Yes, your husband. Does he procure many men for you?”

“What?” she said, profoundly shocked. “Of course not!” She felt herself blushing.

“Not even since your marriage?” he asked imperturbably.

She could not hold back a movement of indignation.

“In that case,” he declared coldly, “I don’t see what interest either of you has in being married.” He sipped his brandy, savored it, and asked disdainfully, “Does he forbid you to make love with other men?”

“No,” she hastened to answer, “not at all.” Inwardly, she was not sure that she was not embellishing the truth.