Hotelles (37 page)

I did not ask Sophia to join me. I wanted to look through them myself, at least the first time. Most of the pictures were of vacations from a good thirty years ago. Many were beach scenes of David and Louie, smiling little boys who seemed to be quite close: on an inflatable boat, making a sand castle, geared up to go crab fishing, brandishing a crab from its pinchers, playing Jokari . . . and so on. I figured Andre Barlet must have taken the pictures. And was it just an effect of the camera, or did David always seem to be in the foreground, so self-assured, while Louie always hung in his brother's shadow, despite the fact that he was taller? The dominant and the dominated. The cadet, sure of his future victory. And his big brother, the unhappy heir, no doubt already plotting his revenge.

“Elle? Are you okay? Do you want me to come upstairs?” Sophia called up from the ground floor.

“No, no, I'm coming down. Stay there. It's even more disgusting up here.”

“Do you want to go out for a drink? We aren't going to spend the evening hanging out with these nasty old things, are we?”

“Hmm . . . No thanks, I'm pooped. But you go out if you want,” I encouraged her. “Just take the key. I left it on the mantel in the living room.”

I heard her decisive footsteps on the floor below, and then:

“Are you sure? I think it would be good for you to go out. Clear your head.”

“No, really . . . Thanks, though.”

I could have used a little pick-me-up, but I had just come across some new treasures in the last bedroom. The container was not larger than a shoebox, but it was stuffed with Barlet family memories, including pictures of the parents, Andre and Hortensia, whom I had never seen before.

“Okay,” she said in false resignation. “I'll stay with you, then.”

“No, you should go! Have fun.”

I heard a stifled laugh, the staircase creaking under her weight, her footsteps on the landing, before she appeared at the door:

“No, I'm good. Look at the treasure I found.”

She was holding a rounded bottle covered in a thick layer of dust and two glasses, which she had taken the time to rinse and were still dripping with soapy water.

“What is it?” I asked, raising my head.

“Old Armagnac. Do you want some?”

“Why not . . .” I smiled.

She served us both and then kneeled down next to me and started digging through the pile.

“What are we looking for, exactly?”

“Anything that dates back to David's first marriage.”

But most of the photographs, we both discovered, were of a much earlier time. When the Barlet father and mother were still a happy young couple, filled with hopes and dreams.

There were several wedding pictures. I immediately recognized the Schiaparelli dress I'd tried on the other day. It fit Hortensia perfectly, better than it ever would me. That is, if I even ended up wearing it  . . .

It suddenly occurred to me that I still hadn't signed the prenup Armand had given me, and that the reasons to do so were growing fewer by the minute.

Family meals, vacations by the sea or at the mountain, Christmases in the living room at Brown Rocks . . . None of it told me anything that I didn't know already. But there was a strange absence of women in the Barlet brothers' vicinity. Even when I got to the adult photos, I didn't see any signs of fiancées or mistresses. Much less an Aurora or a Rebecca on these faded photographs and Polaroids sticking together in little piles.

Something slammed. Then a long metallic cry, strident and sinister. We jumped. The noise repeated itself a couple times. A strong wind had risen outside, enveloping the house with its panting breath. Its sea breath.

“It's nothing, it's the shutters,” Sophia assured me. “The hinges must be completely rusted with this humidity.”

A big gulp of Armagnac, like fire licking my esophagus, warming it like a hearth, quieting my nerves.

“I need to call Mom,” I suddenly remembered before straightening.

“Okay. I'll keep looking,” Sophia said absently, engrossed in the yellowed chromos.

As I made my way downstairs, I noticed through the sea-facing bay window that it was now pitch-black outside. With the exception of the Grand Jardin lighthouse and the street lamps glowing over Saint-Malo's ramparts, the horizon was blanketed in absolute darkness.

The opacity made me think of Mom.

“It's me!” I made a superhuman effort to be light.

“Hello, my girl.”

The voice she had on bad days. The voice that tried so hard to hide what she was really feeling. It fooled everyone, even Laure Chappuis, but not me.

“I received a fruit basket earlier today.”

“And have you tried them?”

“No . . . No, I'm not very hungry, you know. The treatments make me nauseous.”

My mother indifferent to treats. Now that was a bad sign.

“Are you sure you're all right, Mom? Do you want me to come over?”

“No . . . Stay where you are, darling.”

Then she cut short our conversation. Every word she spoke sounded like torture. As soon as I hung up, I dialed another number, that of Ludovic Poulain. A young man, fresh out of his residency, whom my mother had chosen to be her attending physician, out of sympathy more than anything else. Until Maude needed regular hospitalization, he was the one who took care of her; he was the one to call in case of sudden changes. Tonight, she was much worse, I could feel it.

“Dr. Poulain?”

“Yes . . . ,” grumbled the young voice on the other end. “Who is calling?”

“I'm sorry to bother you so late. It's Annabelle Lorand. We've met before at my mother's house. I am Maude Lorand's daughter.”

“Yes, of course.” His voice softened.

“Doctor, I'm worried. I'm out of town right now. And I've just spoken with my mother over the phone . . . She seems much worse.”

“Hmm . . . Shall I go and see her?”

I hadn't dared ask. But despite his young age, the doctor showed a certain degree of empathy. I prayed he would not harden, at least not so long as Mom needed him.

“If you don't mind, I would really appreciate it.”

“It's no problem. I can check on her tomorrow morning, before my other appointments. My office is not far.”

“Tomorrow . . . ,” I breathed, incapable of hiding my disappointment.

“You want me to go now, is that it?”

“No . . .”

But I really meant
yes!

“Don't worry . . . I understand. I'll put my shoes on and head over. I'll call later to let you know how everything goes.”

As I hung up, a strong gust of wind, more violent than the others, shook the house to its foundation, sending a doleful moan through the entire structure. On this part of the coast, there was nothing between the villa and the sea, and the northerly wind lashed relentlessly at the building's antique ossature.

So long as I hadn't heard back from the doctor, I would not have the heart to continue my investigation.

“I'm going to stay down here for a bit,” I cried up to Sophia.

“Okay.”

No television. No radio. Not a single magazine, not even old issues. I had nothing to help me wait for the news—nothing, that is, except for the book I had grabbed as I was leaving from the stack I'd purchased at La Musardine. The first on Louie's list:
Secret Women
, by Ania Oz. At that moment, I wanted to read an erotic book about as much as I wanted to go for an icy swim in the waves I could hear smashing onto the rocks outside. The waves where Aurora had drowned.

The cover was pretty: a slender-bodied woman, a heavy cameo around her neck, bathed in a purple cloud that added to her mystery. Then, as I turned the pages, I let myself get hooked on the story. It's about a writer who gets intrigued by some recent disappearances of women, and discovers an underground world where a group of Amazons have made men into sex slaves. He becomes one. At first he's an unwilling victim, but over time, he comes to like it. I couldn't help but draw a parallel: as fascinating as this story was, it was an exact inversion of my current situation. Its male-dominated twin. And I did not believe that Louie had put this book at the top of the list by accident. In addition to the obvious correspondence with my own life, I found other messages buried in its lines, which forced me to read more carefully. Is that what he expected from me: total, unconditional submission of my body? In a way, and he knew it, he had already conquered it . . . So then what did he want?

As promised, Dr. Poulain called and tried to be reassuring. He had just prescribed something that would help Mom make it through to the wedding and her trip to Los Angeles two days later. After that . . . He couldn't make any guarantees, and like me, like her, he had to put his faith in his American colleagues.

I was about to prepare some makeshift sleeping arrangements on the beds upstairs when I heard a motor roar outside. Two little honks chimed amid the racket of the storm.

I peered out the peephole on the front door. It was raining hard, and I had trouble making out the vehicle, whose headlights were pointing at the house, blinding me. They blinked twice, to the tempo of the horn. I stepped out into the torrent and headed toward the car. After advancing a few feet, I recognized Louie's limousine. But it was Richard the Chauffeur who appeared in the beaming lights, holding a large umbrella.

“Good evening,” he grumbled, as affable as ever.

“Good evening. Can you explain what you're doing here?”

“I am to bring you where you are expected. That is all.”

“You came all the way from Paris for that?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he answered flatly, as though it were perfectly reasonable.

“And where are we going?”

“I don't know. All I have is an address.”

I could have said no. I could have fled, leaving him there and shutting myself in the house. I also could have run to the base of the garden, jumped over the wall, and dived head first into the ocean, as Aurora had done before me. I could have punished the Barlets, depriving them of their latest toy.

Instead, I simply asked:

“Can you give me five minutes to change?”

“That won't be necessary. Just take the mask you received.”

I proceeded unflinchingly, my blouse drenched and sticking to my chest, which was heaving wildly.

“Soph?” I yelled from the entry.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I'm going out.”

“You're
what
? Are you kidding me? I just asked you ten minutes ago and you said no . . .”

I didn't know what else to say but:

“It's Louie.”

No answer.

“Did you hear me?”

“Umm, yeah. But what can I do? It's your life.”

I left at once, mask in hand, under the deluge.

Louie was breaking the usual codes of our meetings. He was changing the playing field. And I figured it must mean we were bringing things to another level. What else?

The car left at a slow pace, determined to deliver its package safe and sound. I was not worth more than that at the present moment, an odious thought that I found exciting.

32

In the end, what do I have to lose? What else could possibly get between my desires and me?

My thirst for truth? I've noticed that every discovery tears me further from it. My loyalty to David? What loyalty? The word seems inappropriate, considering the man betrayed me. I'm beyond that issue. From now on, and especially tonight, my body is in charge. My body is letting itself sway in the back of the limousine. My body is taking me to my latest sexual rendezvous.

The night is unfolding around us, echoing with maritime sounds and brusque gusts of wind. But I'm not paying attention to all that. It does not even surprise me when the car stops in the middle of an industrial zone, just outside of Saint-Malo. The deserted road is flanked with ominous hangars. The area does not look like a place of pleasure. I am starting to think this may be a hoax when Richard the Chauffeur parks in front of a bathroom wholesaler's spartan window. He opens the partition that separates us and gestures into the rearview mirror. Apparently, I am expected on the opposing sidewalk.

The entrance of the Brigantine, “sauna-hammam-relaxation,” looks like a beach shack grafted onto a sheet metal building. It is identical to all the neighboring rectangular structures. Holding my mask, I step inside. It reminds me of the entrance to a swimming pool. Clean, white, hygienic. A bodybuilder guy, shaved head and pectorals popping through his white T-shirt, addresses me as though we've already met:

“You're Elle. Here's a robe and your towel. The changing rooms are directly on your right.”

“But don't I owe you . . . ?”

“Nothing. Everything is already paid for.”

The overwhelming smell of chlorine does not lend itself to lovemaking. Two men as well built as the greeter are sitting on little benches and undressing. I am suddenly filled with uncertainty. The two men aren't paying any attention to me, even though I've started taking off my clothes as well, turning so they see my rounded rump as opposed to my breasts and bush.
I have always been
embarrassed of the abundance of hair in that precise area.
They don't seem the least bit interested in my backside, and are already stroking each other's members. Their eyes are curious, hungry. And I can tell their touching will soon grow more explicit, more direct.

When I follow them into another room, my mask covering my eyes, my robe half open over my heavy breasts, my doubts are confirmed: The Brigantine is a place where men, and only men, come to meet. I am the only woman. Perhaps even the first ever to set foot here. This room is reserved for flirtation. A few dozen men with towels around their waists eye each other. Some of their hands probe; others explore more openly. They kiss with varying degrees of ardor. One of them spots me and takes me firmly by the hand:

“Come . . . It gets interesting over here.”

Much like the colossus at the entry, this man seems to have been alerted to my presence. In fact, none of the men appear surprised to see me. They all tolerate me.

He leads me through a dimly lit corridor, lined with tiny red ceiling lamps, to a dark and cramped alcove. After my eyes adjust, there is just enough light to make out the number of people present and their respective postures. There are fifteen men.

A swell of sighs greets me as I step through a set of saloon doors. The air is permeated with noise and smells. A mix of sweat, different colognes—musky, marine, floral—and a more acrid, unmistakable aroma. Most are coupled off, missionary or doggy-style, but some are gathered in groups of three or four, and it is impossible to tell who is sucking whom, who is penetrating whom. Little by little, my embarrassment dissipates, and I decide to take advantage of what's on offer: I am the only woman, and I can watch without having to participate. I am astonished by the way a beautiful young man sucks his partner's huge member. It's more than effort or greed. In fact, he seems to be enjoying it more than the man around whom his fresh lips, now frothy with seminal liquid, are wrapped. When the other man ejaculates in his throat, he lets out a groan that almost sounds like an orgasm, and not at all like he's being suffocated, as it had appeared to me.

An active body emerges from the masses all of a sudden and faces me. Fine. Muscly. Tight. I can't take my eyes off him. Something about his shape, the contours of his sculpted chest, is familiar. I do not dare look at his face. I'm so scared I'll recognize him . . . But Louie's ghost disappears. The man staring at me is darker—ethnic, I realize, when he happens across a stronger ray of light. I don't know if I'm relieved or disappointed.

I wonder about the meaning of this new step in our relationship. Why this? I only see one possible answer: he wants me to have a taste of this raw beauty. No taboos, no barriers. These direct and sometimes rough embraces are pure and stripped of all baggage. No one is beautiful, no one ugly; no one rich, no one poor; no good lays, no bad lays.
No small dicks, no big dicks.
Just desiring, hungry cocks and asses. Erogenous zones colliding into one another, against one another, in perfect anonymity. Nothing but desire.

“Here, this is for you.”

My guide reappears with an alarmingly big dildo. I cannot see myself putting such a monster inside me. Much less in front of them, no matter how occupied they may be. So, instead, with my back against the wall, I widen my legs a little and insert two fingers into my sopping cleft. I have not felt this wet in a long time. My vagina sucks them up like an avid mouth. My pelvis rocks slowly, gently, back and forth, over my digits. My moans accentuate theirs. I am their diva. I am their soloist. And when at last I explode, a long and plaintive note, my eyes glued to their shining cocks, I could swear I hear them applauding me.

I have explored the unknown.

 

Handwritten note by me, 6/15/2009