Platform (14 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
5
Valérie was again overwhelmed with work in the last two weeks of June; the problem with working with a number of countries is that with the time differences you could almost be working twenty-four hours a day. The weather became warmer, heralding a magnificent summer, though for the moment, we had had little opportunity to take advantage of it. After work, I liked to go and wander around the Tang Frères Asian-food warehouse. I even made an attempt to take up eastern cooking. But it was too complicated for me; there was a completely new balance to understand among the ingredients, a special way of chopping vegetables, it was practically a different mind-set. In the end I settled for Italian, something that was much more my level. I would never have believed that one clay I would lake pleasure in cooking. Love sanctifies.
In his fiftieth sociology lesson, Auguste Comte tackles that "strange metaphysical aberration" that conceives of the family as the template for society. "Founded chiefly upon attachment and gratitude, the domestic union satisfies, by its mere existence, all our sympathetic instincts quite apart from all idea of active and continuous cooperation toward any end unless it be that of its own institution. When, unhappily, the coordination of employments remains the only principle of connection, the domestic union degenerates into mere association, and in most cases will soon dissolve altogether." At the office I continued to do the bare minimum. Nevertheless, I organized two or three important exhibitions without any difficulty. Office work isn't very difficult—you simply have to be reasonably meticulous, then decisive.
I
had rapidly realized that you did not necessarily have to make the
right
decision, it was sufficient, in most cases, to make
any old decision
,
as long as you made it quickly—if you work in the public sector, at least. I dumped some projects and green-lighted others, and I did all of this based on insufficient information. In ten years, not once had I asked for additional information when I needed it, and, in general, I didn't feel the slightest remorse. Deep clown, I had little respect for the contemporary art scene. Most of the artists I knew behaved exactly like entrepreneurs: they carefully reconnoitered emerging markets, then tried to get in fast. Just like entrepreneurs, they had been at the same few colleges, they were cast from the same mold. There were some differences, however: in the art market, innovation was at a greater premium than in most other professional sectors. Moreover, artists often worked in packs or networks, in contrast to entrepreneurs, who were solitary beings surrounded by enemies—shareholders ready to drop them at a moment's notice, executives always ready to betray them. But in the artists' proposals I dealt with, it was rare for me to come across a sense of genuine inner desire. At the end of June, however, there was the Bertrand Bredane exhibition, which I had passionately supported from the outset —to the great surprise of Marie-Jeanne, who had become accustomed to my meek indifference and was herself deeply repulsed by works of this nature. Bredane was not exactly a young artist; he was already forty-three and, physically, he was a wreck —he looked a little like the alcoholic poet in
Le Gendarme de Saint-Tropez
.
He was chiefly famous for leaving rotting meat in young girls' panties, or breeding flies in his own excrement and then releasing them into the galleries. He had never been really successful, as he didn't have the right connections, and he stubbornly persisted in a rather dated "trash" aesthetic. I sensed in him a certain authenticity, but maybe it was simply the authenticity of failure. He seemed a little unbalanced. His most recent project was even worse —or better, depending on one's point of view—than his earlier work. He had made a video following the fate of the bodies people donate to medical science after their death —being used for dissection practice in medical schools, for example. A number of genuine medical students, dressed in normal clothing, were to mingle with the viewing audience and, from time to time, flash severed hands or eyeballs that had been gouged out —to play, in fact, the kind of practical jokes of which medical students are apparently quite fond. I made the mistake of taking Valérie to the opening, even though she'd had an exhausting day. To my surprise, it was pretty well attended, and the crowd included a number of major celebrities: could it be that Bertrand Bredane's moment had arrived? After about half an hour, Valérie had had enough and asked me if we could leave. A medical student rushed up to her holding a severed dick in his hand, the testicles still fringed with hair. She turned her head away, sickened, and led me to the exit. We sought refuge in the Café Beaubourg.
I
had rapidly realized that you did not necessarily have to make the
right
decision, it was sufficient, in most cases, to make
any old decision
,
as long as you made it quickly—if you work in the public sector, at least. I dumped some projects and green-lighted others, and I did all of this based on insufficient information. In ten years, not once had I asked for additional information when I needed it, and, in general, I didn't feel the slightest remorse. Deep clown, I had little respect for the contemporary art scene. Most of the artists I knew behaved exactly like entrepreneurs: they carefully reconnoitered emerging markets, then tried to get in fast. Just like entrepreneurs, they had been at the same few colleges, they were cast from the same mold. There were some differences, however: in the art market, innovation was at a greater premium than in most other professional sectors. Moreover, artists often worked in packs or networks, in contrast to entrepreneurs, who were solitary beings surrounded by enemies—shareholders ready to drop them at a moment's notice, executives always ready to betray them. But in the artists' proposals I dealt with, it was rare for me to come across a sense of genuine inner desire. At the end of June, however, there was the Bertrand Bredane exhibition, which I had passionately supported from the outset —to the great surprise of Marie-Jeanne, who had become accustomed to my meek indifference and was herself deeply repulsed by works of this nature. Bredane was not exactly a young artist; he was already forty-three and, physically, he was a wreck —he looked a little like the alcoholic poet in
Le Gendarme de Saint-Tropez
.
He was chiefly famous for leaving rotting meat in young girls' panties, or breeding flies in his own excrement and then releasing them into the galleries. He had never been really successful, as he didn't have the right connections, and he stubbornly persisted in a rather dated "trash" aesthetic. I sensed in him a certain authenticity, but maybe it was simply the authenticity of failure. He seemed a little unbalanced. His most recent project was even worse —or better, depending on one's point of view—than his earlier work. He had made a video following the fate of the bodies people donate to medical science after their death —being used for dissection practice in medical schools, for example. A number of genuine medical students, dressed in normal clothing, were to mingle with the viewing audience and, from time to time, flash severed hands or eyeballs that had been gouged out —to play, in fact, the kind of practical jokes of which medical students are apparently quite fond. I made the mistake of taking Valérie to the opening, even though she'd had an exhausting day. To my surprise, it was pretty well attended, and the crowd included a number of major celebrities: could it be that Bertrand Bredane's moment had arrived? After about half an hour, Valérie had had enough and asked me if we could leave. A medical student rushed up to her holding a severed dick in his hand, the testicles still fringed with hair. She turned her head away, sickened, and led me to the exit. We sought refuge in the Café Beaubourg.
Half an hour later, Bertrand Bredane made his entrance, accompanied by two or three girls and some other people, among whom I recognized the director of sponsorship at a major venture capital firm. They took the table next to us. I couldn't not go and say hello to them. Bredane was visibly pleased to see me, and it was true that that evening I'd given him a particularly warm handshake. The conversation dragged on, and Valérie came and sat with us. I don't know who suggested we go for a drink at Bar-Bar—probably Bredane himself. I made the mistake of accepting., Most of the partner-swapping clubs that had tried to introduce an S&M night had failed. Bar-Bar, on the other hand, had specialized in sadomasochistic practices since it opened, and, though it didn't have a particularly strict
dress code
* —
except on certain nights —had been packed from the start. As far as I was aware, the S&M scene was a pretty particular milieu, made up of people who were no longer really interested in ordinary sexual practices and consequently disliked going to regular orgy clubs.
dress code
* —
except on certain nights —had been packed from the start. As far as I was aware, the S&M scene was a pretty particular milieu, made up of people who were no longer really interested in ordinary sexual practices and consequently disliked going to regular orgy clubs.
Near the entrance, a chubby-faced woman of fifty-something, gagged and handcuffed, swung in a cage. Looking more closely, I discovered she was shackled, her heels attached to the bars of the cage with metal chains; she was wearing nothing but a leatherette corset onto which spilled her large sagging breasts. She was, as was the custom of the place, a slave whose master was going to auction her off for the evening. She didn't seem to find it terribly amusing. I noticed that she turned this way and that, trying to hide her ass, which was completely riddled with cellulite; but it was impossible —the cage was open on all four sides. Maybe she did this for a living; I knew it was possible to make between one and two thousand francs a night by renting yourself out as a slave. My impression was that she was a lower-level white-collar worker, maybe a switchboard operator for the National Health Service, who was doing this to make ends meet.
There was only one table free, near the entrance to the first torture chamber. Immediately after we sat down, a bald, potbellied middle manager in a three-piece suit came by on a leash, led by a black, bare-assed dominatrix. She stopped at our table and ordered him to strip to the waist. He obeyed. She took a pair of metal clamps from her bag. For a man, his breasts were pretty fat and flabby. She closed the clamps on his red and distended nipples. He winced in pain. She tugged on his leash. He returned to all fours and followed her as best he could. The pasty folds of his belly wobbled in the dim light. I ordered a whiskey, Valérie an orange juice. She stared stubbornly at the table, not watching what was going on around her, or taking part in the conversation. In contrast, Marjorie and Géraldine, the two girls I knew from the Plastic Arts Delegation, seemed to be very excited. "It's tame tonight, very tame," muttered Bredane, disappointed. He went on to explain to us that, some nights, customers had needles pushed through their balls or the heads of their cocks; once he'd even seen a guy whose dominatrix had torn out a fingernail with a pair of pliers. Valérie flinched in revulsion.
"I find the whole thing completely disgusting," she said, unable to contain herself any longer.
"Why 'disgusting'?" Géraldine protested. "As long as the participants are freely consenting, I don't see the problem. It's a contract, that's all."
"I don't believe you can 'freely consent' to humiliation and suffering. And even if you can, I don't think it's reason enough."
Valérie was really angry. For a moment I thought about moving the conversation on to the Arab-Israeli war, then I realized that I didn't give a shit what these girls thought—if they never phoned me again, it would simply reduce my workload. "Yeah, I find these people a little disgusting..."I upped the ante:"And I find you disgusting too,"I said more quietly.
Géraldine didn't hear, or she pretended not to hear. "If I'm a consenting adult," she went on, "and my fantasy is to suffer, to explore the masochistic part of my sexuality, I don't see any reason why anyone should try and stop me. We are living in a democracy . . ." She was getting angry too; I could sense that it wouldn't be long before she mentioned
human rights
.
At the word "democracy," Bredane shot her a slightly contemptuous look; he turned to Valérie. "You're quite right," he said gravely. "It's completely disgusting. When I see a man agree to have his nails torn out with a pair of pliers, then have someone shit on him, and eat his torturer's shit, I find that disgusting. But it's precisely what is disgusting in the human animal that interests me."
human rights
.
At the word "democracy," Bredane shot her a slightly contemptuous look; he turned to Valérie. "You're quite right," he said gravely. "It's completely disgusting. When I see a man agree to have his nails torn out with a pair of pliers, then have someone shit on him, and eat his torturer's shit, I find that disgusting. But it's precisely what is disgusting in the human animal that interests me."
After a few seconds, Valérie asked in an agonized voice: "Why?"
"I don't know," Bredane answered simply. "I don't believe we have a 'dark side,' because I don't believe in any form of damnation, or in benediction for that matter. But I have a feeling that as we get closer to suffering and cruelty, to domination and servility, we hit on the essential, the most intimate nature of sexuality. Don't you think so?" He was talking to me now. No, actually, I didn't think so. Cruelty is a primordial part of the human, and it is found in the most primitive peoples. In the earliest tribal wars, the victors were careful to spare the lives of some of their prisoners in order to let them die later, suffering hideous tortures. This tendency persisted, it is constant throughout history, it remains true today: as soon as a foreign or civil war begins to erase ordinary moral constraints, you find human beings—regardless of race, people, culture —eager to launch themselves into the joys of barbarism and massacre. This is attested, unchanging, indisputable, but it has nothing whatever to do with the quest for sexual pleasure —equally primordial, equally strong. So, all in all, I didn't agree, though I was aware, as always, that the discussion was pointless.
"Let's take a look around," said Bredane after he'd finished his beer. I followed him, along with the others, into the first torture chamber. It was a vaulted cellar, the brickwork exposed. The atmospheric music consisted of a series of very deep chords on an organ, overlaid with the shrieks of the damned. I noticed that the bass speakers were huge; there were red spotlights all over the place, masks and torture implements hung from iron racks; the renovations must have cost them a fortune. In an alcove, a bald, almost fleshless guy was chained by all four limbs, his feet trapped in a wooden contraption that kept him about a foot off the ground, his arms were raised by a pair of handcuffs attached to the ceiling. A booted, gloved dominatrix, dressed completely in black latex, circled him armed with a whip of fine lashes encrusted with precious stones. First, and for a long time, she thrashed his buttocks with heavy strokes. The guy was facing us, completely naked. He screamed in pain. A small crowd gathered around the couple. "She must be at level 2," Bredane whispered to me. "Level 1 is where you stop when you see first blood." The guy's cock and balls hung down, stretched and almost contorted. The dominatrix circled around him, rummaged in a bag on her belt, and took out a number of hooks that she stuck into his scrotum; a little blood beaded on the surface. Then, more gently, she began to whip his genitals. It was a very close thing: if one of the lashes caught on a hook, the skin of the scrotum could rip. Valérie turned her head and pressed herself against me. "Let's go,' she said, her voice pleading; "let's go, I'll explain later." We went back to the bar. The others were so fascinated by the spectacle that they didn't notice us leave. "The girl who was whipping that guy," she told me quietly, "I recognized her. I've only ever seen her once before, but I'm sure it's her. It's Audrey, Jean-Yves's wife."
We left immediately. In the taxi Valérie was silent, devastated. She remained silent in the elevator and until we reached the apartment. It was only when the door closed behind us that she turned to me.
"Michel, you don't think I'm too conventional?"
"No, I hate that stuff too."
"I can understand that torturers exist: I find it disgusting, but I know there are people who take pleasure in torturing others; what I don't understand is that victims exist. It's beyond me that a human being could come to prefer pain to pleasure. I don't know —they need to be reeducated, to be loved, to be taught what pleasure is."
I shrugged my shoulders as if to suggest that the subject was beyond me —something that now happened in almost every aspect of my life. The things people do, the things they are prepared to endure . . . there was nothing to be made of all this, no overall conclusion, no meaning. I undressed in silence. Valérie sat on the bed beside me. I sensed that she was still tense, preoccupied by the subject.
"What scares me about it all," she said, "is that there's no physical contact. Everyone wears gloves, uses equipment. Skin never touches skin, there's never a kiss, a touch, or a caress. For me, it's the very antithesis of sexuality."
She was right, but I suppose that S&M enthusiasts would have seen their practices as the apotheosis of sexuality, its ultimate form. Each person remains trapped in his skin, completely given over to his feelings of individuality. It was one way of looking at things. What was certain, in any case, was that that kind of place was increasingly fashionable. I could easily imagine girls like Marjorie and Géraldine going to them, for example. Although I had trouble imagining them being able to abandon themselves sufficiently for penetration, or indeed any kind of sexual scenario.
"It's more straightforward than you might think," I said finally. "There's the sexuality of those who love each other, and the sexuality of those who don't love each other. When there's no longer any possibility of identifying with the other, the only thing left is suffering—and cruelty."
Valérie snuggled up to me. "We live in a strange world," she said. In a sense, she was still innocent, protected from human reality by her insane working hours, which left her barely enough time to do the shopping, sleep, start again. She added: "I don't like the world we live in."
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