Platform (17 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
8
When I woke up, I was alone and I had a slight headache. I staggered out of bed and lit a cigarette. After a couple of drags, I felt a bit better. I slipped on a pair of trousers and went out onto the terrace, which was covered in sand —it must have been windy during the night. Day had only just broken; the sky seemed cloudy. I walked a few meters toward the sea and spotted Valérie. She was diving straight into the waves, swimming a few strokes, getting up, and diving again.
I stopped, pulling on my cigarette. The wind was a little chilly, and I hesitated to join her. She turned, saw me, and shouted, "Come on!" waving to me. At that moment, the sun burst from between two clouds, lighting her from the front. Light gleamed on her breasts and her hips, made the foam in her hair and her pubic hair sparkle. I stood rooted to the spot for a second or two, conscious that this was an image that I would never forget, that it would become one of those images that apparently flash before you in the few seconds that precede death.
The cigarette butt burned my fingers. I threw it onto the sand, undressed, and walked toward the sea. The water was cool and very salty; it was a rejuvenating experience. A band of sunshine glimmered on the surface of the water, running straight to the horizon; I held my breath and dived right into the sunlight.
Later, we huddled together in a towel, watching day break over the ocean. Little by little, the clouds dispersed, and the patches of light grew. Sometimes, in the morning, everything seems simple. Valérie threw down the towel, offering her body to the sun. "I don't feel the least bit like getting dressed," she said. "The least bit," I ventured. A bird glided low, scanning the surface of the water. "I really like swimming, I really like making love," she told me again. "But I don't like dancing, I don't know how to enjoy myself, and I've always hated parties. Do you think that's normal?"
I hesitated for a long time before replying. "I don't know," I said at last. "All I know is that I'm the same."
There weren't many people at the breakfast tables, but Jean-Yves was already there, sitting with a coffee in front of him, cigarette in hand. He hadn't shaved, and it looked as if he hadn't had much sleep; he gave us a little wave. We sat down opposite him.
"So, everything go well with the Italian girl?" asked Valérie, making a start on her scrambled eggs.
"Not really, no. She started telling me all about her job in marketing, her problems with her boyfriend, how that was why she'd come on vacation. She got on my nerves, so I went to bed."
"You should give the chambermaids a go." He smiled vaguely, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
"So, what are we up to today?" I asked. "I mean, well, this is supposed to be a discovery holiday."
"Oh, right." Jean-Yves wearily pulled a face. "Well, kind of. I mean, we didn't have time to get much set up. This is the first time I've worked with a socialist country, and it seems it's a bit difficult getting things arranged at the last minute in socialist countries. Anyway, this afternoon, there's something involving dolphins. . ." He stopped himself, tried to be a little more precise. "Well, if I've got it right, it's a dolphin show, and afterwards you can go swimming with them. I suppose you climb on their backs or something like that."
"Oh yeah, I know," said Valérie. "It's crap. Everyone thinks that dolphins are these sweet, friendly mammals and stuff. Actually, it's not true, they live in highly structured hierarchical groups with a dominant male and they're really aggressive. They often fight to the death among themselves. The only time I ever tried swimming with dolphins, I was bitten by a female."
"Okay, okay." Jean-Yves spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "Whatever the deal is, this afternoon there's dolphins for those who are interested. Tomorrow and the clay after we're on a two-day trip to Baracoa; that should be pretty good, or at least I hope so. And then — " He thought for a moment. "And then, that's it. Actually, no, on the last day, before we head off to the airport, there's a lobster lunch and a visit to the cemetery in Santiago."
A few seconds' silence followed this pronouncement. "Yeah," Jean-Yves continued, "I think we fucked up choosing this as our destination.
"In fact," he went on after a moment's thought, "I get the impression things aren't going too well at this resort. Well, I mean, not just from my point of view. Last night, at the disco, I didn't get the impression there were many couples getting together, even among the young people." He was silent again for a few seconds. "
Ergo
. . . ," he concluded, with a gesture of resignation.
Ergo
. . . ," he concluded, with a gesture of resignation.
"The sociologist was right," said Valérie, thoughtfully.
"What sociologist?"
"Lagarrigue. The behavioral sociologist. He was right when he said we're a far cry from the days of the sun worshippers."
Jean-Yves finished his coffee, shook his head bitterly. "Really," he said disgustedly, "I really never thought that one day I'd feel nostalgic about the days of the sun worshippers."
To get to the beach, we had to suffer an ambush of people hawking shitty handicrafts, but it was okay, there weren't too many, and they weren't too persistent—you could get rid of them with smiles and apologetic waves of the hand. During the day, the natives had access to the hotel beach. They don't have much to offer or to sell, Valérie explained to me, but they try, they do their best. Apparently, no one in this country could get by on just their wages. Nothing really worked: there was no gasoline for the engines or spare parts for machines. Hence the sense of a rustic Utopia, which you noticed crossing the countryside: farmers working with oxen, getting about in horses and carts . . . But this was no utopia, nor some environmentalist's reconstruction: it was the reality of a country that could no longer sustain itself in the industrial age. Cuba still manages to export some agricultural produce like coffee, cocoa, and sugar cane, but its industrial output has fallen almost to zero. It's difficult to find even the most basic consumer products: soap, paper, ballpoint pens. The only well-stocked shops sell imported products, and you have to pay in dollars. So, everyone in Cuba gets by thanks to some secondary, tourist-related work. The privileged work directly for the tourist industry, and the others try to get their hands on dollars, one way or another, through other services or through smuggling.
I lay down on the sand to think. The bronzed men and women weaving between the tourists thought of us purely as wallets on legs, there was no point in deluding oneself. But it was just the same in
every
third world country. What was particular about Cuba was this glaring problem with industrial production. I myself was completely incompetent in matters of industrial production. I was perfectly adapted to the information age —that is to say, good for nothing. Like me, Valérie and Jean-Yves knew only how to manage information and capital. They used their knowledge intelligently and competitively, while I used mine in more mundane, bureaucratic ways. But if, for example, a foreign power were to impose a blockade, not one of the three of us, nor anyone I knew, would have been capable of getting industrial production up and running again. We had not the least idea about casting metal, manufacturing parts, thermoforming plastics. Not to mention more complex objects like fiber optics or microprocessors. We lived in a world made up of objects whose manufacture, possible uses, and functions were completely alien to us. I glanced around me, panic-stricken by this realization. There was a towel, a pair of sunglasses, sunscreen, a paperback by Milan Kundera. Paper, cotton, glass; complex machines, sophisticated manufacturing processes. Valerie's swimsuit, for example. I was incapable of grasping the manufacturing process that had gone into making it: it was made of 80 percent latex, 20 percent polyurethane. I slipped two fingers under her bikini; under the artificial fiber construction, I could feel the living flesh. I slipped my fingers in a little further, felt the nipple harden. This was something I could do. that I knew how to do. Little by little the heat became sweltering. Once in the water, Valérie took off her bikini. She wrapped her legs around my waist and lay, floating on her back. Her pussy was already open. I smoothly penetrated her, thrusting inside her to the rhythm of the waves. There was no alternative. I stopped just before I came. We came back to dry ourselves in the sun.
every
third world country. What was particular about Cuba was this glaring problem with industrial production. I myself was completely incompetent in matters of industrial production. I was perfectly adapted to the information age —that is to say, good for nothing. Like me, Valérie and Jean-Yves knew only how to manage information and capital. They used their knowledge intelligently and competitively, while I used mine in more mundane, bureaucratic ways. But if, for example, a foreign power were to impose a blockade, not one of the three of us, nor anyone I knew, would have been capable of getting industrial production up and running again. We had not the least idea about casting metal, manufacturing parts, thermoforming plastics. Not to mention more complex objects like fiber optics or microprocessors. We lived in a world made up of objects whose manufacture, possible uses, and functions were completely alien to us. I glanced around me, panic-stricken by this realization. There was a towel, a pair of sunglasses, sunscreen, a paperback by Milan Kundera. Paper, cotton, glass; complex machines, sophisticated manufacturing processes. Valerie's swimsuit, for example. I was incapable of grasping the manufacturing process that had gone into making it: it was made of 80 percent latex, 20 percent polyurethane. I slipped two fingers under her bikini; under the artificial fiber construction, I could feel the living flesh. I slipped my fingers in a little further, felt the nipple harden. This was something I could do. that I knew how to do. Little by little the heat became sweltering. Once in the water, Valérie took off her bikini. She wrapped her legs around my waist and lay, floating on her back. Her pussy was already open. I smoothly penetrated her, thrusting inside her to the rhythm of the waves. There was no alternative. I stopped just before I came. We came back to dry ourselves in the sun.
A couple passed us, a big black guy and a girl with very white skin, a nervous face, and close-cropped hair, who looked at him as she talked, laughing too loudly. She was obviously American, maybe a journalist with the
New
York Times
or something like that. In fact, looking more closely, there were quite a lot of mixed couples on the beach. Further off, two big blond, slightly overweight guys with nasal accents laughed and joked with two superb girls with coppery skin.
New
York Times
or something like that. In fact, looking more closely, there were quite a lot of mixed couples on the beach. Further off, two big blond, slightly overweight guys with nasal accents laughed and joked with two superb girls with coppery skin.
"They're not allowed to bring them back to the hotel," said Valérie, following my gaze. "There are rooms you can rent in the next village over."
"I thought Americans weren't allowed to come to Cuba."
"They're not, in theory, but they travel via Canada or Mexico. In fact, they're furious that they've lost Cuba. You can see why," she said pensively. "If ever there was a country in need of sex tourism, it's theirs. But for the moment, American companies are subject to the blockade, and they're simply not allowed to invest. In any case, the country will end up becoming capitalist again, it's just a matter of years. But until then, the field is open for Europeans. That's why Aurore doesn't want to give up on it, even though the resort is having problems. Now's the time to get an edge on the competition. Cuba represents a unique opportunity in the Caribbean-West Indies zone.
"Yep," she went on cheerfully after a moment's silence. "That's how we talk in my line of work—in the world of the global economy."
9
The minibus to Baracoa left at eight in the morning. There were about fifteen people on board. They had already had an opportunity to get to know each other and were full of enthusiasm for the dolphins. The retirees (the majority), the two speech therapists who took their holidays together, and the student couple, naturally, expressed their enthusiasm in slightly different lexical registers, but all would have felt able to agree on the following: "a unique experience."
Afterwards, the conversation turned to the features of the resort. I shot a glance at Jean-Yves sitting alone in the middle of the minibus. He had placed a notepad and a pen on the seat next to him. Leaning forward a little, his eyes half-closed, he was concentrating on getting down everything that was said. It was at this stage, obviously, that he hoped to glean a generous harvest of useful observations and impressions.
On the subject of the resort, too, there seemed to be a consensus of opinion among the members. The reps were unanimously considered "nice," but the activities themselves were not very interesting. The rooms were good, except those close to the sound system, which were too noisy. As for the food, it was pretty awful.
None of those present had taken part in the early morning aerobics, or the salsa or Spanish lessons. In the end, what they liked best was the beach; all the more so because it was quiet. "Activities and sound levels considered irritating," noted Jean-Yves on his pad.
The bungalows received general approval, especially as they were far from the disco. "Next time, we'll insist on a bungalow!" a heavyset retired man said emphatically. He was in the prime of life and evidently used to giving orders; in fact, he had spent his entire career marketing the wines of Bordeaux. The two students were of the same opinion. "Disco unnecessary," noted Jean-Yves, thinking despondently of all the wasted investment.
After the Cayo Saetia junction, the road got steadily worse. There were potholes and cracks, sometimes covering half the road surface. The driver was forced to zigzag continuously. We rattled around in our seats, pitched from left to right. The passengers reacted with shouts and laughter. "It's okay, they're good-natured," Valérie said to me quietly. "That's the great thing about Discovery Tours: you can subject them to horrible conditions. To them, it's all part of the adventure. In this case, it's our fault: for this kind of trip, you need four-wheel-drive."
Just before Moa, the driver swerved to the right to avoid an enormous rut. The vehicle skidded slowly and came to a halt in a muddy hole. The driver restarted the engine and revved hard. The wheels spun in the brownish mud, and the minibus did not move. Desperately he tried several times, to no effect. "Well," said the wine merchant, folding his arms in a jovial manner, "we'll have to get out and push."
We got out of the vehicle. Before us stretched a vast plain encrusted with cracked brown mud, which looked unsanitary. Pools of stagnant water, which appeared almost black, were surrounded by tall grasses, withered and bleached. In the background, a huge factory of dark brick dominated the landscape, its twin smokestacks spewing out thick fumes. Rusted pipes ran from the factory and appeared to zigzag aimlessly through the middle of the plain. On the hard shoulder, a metal sign depicting Che Guevara exhorting the workers to the revolutionary development of the forces of production was itself beginning to rust. The air was pervaded by an appalling stench that seemed to rise from the mud itself rather than the pools of water.
The rut was not too deep, and our concerted efforts easily got the minibus back on the road. Everyone boarded the bus again, congratulating themselves. A little later we had lunch in a seafood restaurant. Jean-Yves consulted his notebook with a worried air. He hadn't touched his meal.
"With the discovery holidays," he concluded after considerable reflection, "I think we're off to a good start. But with the standard resort, I really don't see what we can do."
Valérie observed him calmly, sipping her iced coffee. She looked as though she didn't give a fuck.
"Obviously," he continued, "we could just fire the team of reps, which would reduce our total wage bill."
"That would be a good start, yes."
"You don't think it's a bit radical as an idea?" he asked anxiously.
"Don't worry about that. Being a rep at a holiday club village is no education for young people. It makes them stupid and lazy, and anyway it leads nowhere. The only thing they're fit for afterwards is to be a resort manager—or a TV announcer."
"Okay, then, I reduce the overall wage bill. But then again, they're not all that well paid. I'd be surprised if it saved us enough to be competitive with the German clubs. Anyway, I'll run up a spreadsheet this evening, but I'm not convinced."
She nodded in indifferent assent, something like "Go ahead and simulate, it can't do any harm." She was really surprising me at this point, I thought she was cool. It's true we were fucking quite a lot, and there's no doubt that fucking is calming: it puts things in perspective. For his part, Jean-Yves looked ready to rush to his spreadsheet. I even wondered whether he was going to ask the driver to get his laptop out of the trunk. "Don't worry, we'll find a solution," Valérie said to him, shaking him affectionately by the shoulder. That seemed to calm him for a while he quietly went back and took his seat on the minibus.
On the last leg of the journey, the passengers talked mostly about Baracoa, our final destination. They already seemed to know pretty much everything about the city. On October 28, 1492, Christopher Columbus dropped anchor in the bay, impressed by its flawlessly circular form. "This is the most beautiful land human eyes have ever seen," he noted in his logbook. At the time, the region was solely inhabited by the Taino Indians. In 1511, Diego Velázquez founded the city of Baracoa, making it the first Spanish city in the Americas. Accessible only by boat, for more than four centuries it remained isolated from the rest of the island. In 1963, the construction of the Farola viaduct made it possible to establish a road link with Guántanamo.
We arrived at about three o'clock. The city stretched along the bay, which did indeed form an almost perfect circle. The satisfaction of the group was universal and was expressed in appreciative exclamations. In the end, what all lovers of journeys of discovery seek is
confirmation
of what they've already read in their guidebooks. All in all, they were a dream audience: Baracoa, with its modest one star in the
Michelin Guide
,
was unlikely to disappoint them. The El Castillo Hotel, situated in a former Spanish fortress, dominated the city. Viewed from above, it seemed magnificent—though, to be honest, no more so than other cities. In truth it was even quite nondescript, with its seedy tower blocks of blackened gray, so squalid that they looked uninhabited. I decided to stay by the pool, as did Valérie. There were about thirty rooms, all occupied by tourists from northern Europe, who all seemed to have come for much the same reasons. I first noticed two rather plump English women in their forties; one of them wore glasses. They were accompanied by two easygoing mixed-race guys, who were twenty-five, tops. They seemed comfortable with the situation, talked and joked with the fatties, held their hands, slipped their arms around their waists. For my part, I would have been completely incapable of doing this kind of work; I wondered if they had some kind of trick, something they could think about when they needed to get an erection. At some point, the English women went up to their rooms, while the two guys stayed and chatted by the pool. If I were truly interested in human nature, I would have struck up a conversation, tried to find out a bit more. Still, maybe you just had to jerk off properly; an erection could probably be a purely mechanical reflex. Biographies of male prostitutes would undoubtedly have enlightened me on this point, but the only thing I had at my disposal was
A
Discourse on Positive Thinking
.
As I was leafing through the subsection headed "Popular politics, ever social, must above all become moral,'" I noticed a young German girl coming out of her room, accompanied by a big black guy. She looked exactly the way we all imagine German girls: long, blonde hair, blue eyes, a firm, pleasing body, big breasts. As a physical type, it's very attractive. The problem is, it doesn't last—by the age of thirty there's work to be done, liposuction, silicone. Anyway, for the time being, things were fine; in fact, she looked positively sexy—her suitor had been very lucky. I wondered whether she paid as much as the English women did, if there was a going rate for men as there was for women; here again, research needed to be done, inquiries made. It was too exhausting for me. I decided to go up to the room. I ordered a cocktail, which I sipped slowly on the balcony. Valérie was sunning herself, taking a dip in the pool from time to time. I noticed she'd struck up a conversation with the German girl.
confirmation
of what they've already read in their guidebooks. All in all, they were a dream audience: Baracoa, with its modest one star in the
Michelin Guide
,
was unlikely to disappoint them. The El Castillo Hotel, situated in a former Spanish fortress, dominated the city. Viewed from above, it seemed magnificent—though, to be honest, no more so than other cities. In truth it was even quite nondescript, with its seedy tower blocks of blackened gray, so squalid that they looked uninhabited. I decided to stay by the pool, as did Valérie. There were about thirty rooms, all occupied by tourists from northern Europe, who all seemed to have come for much the same reasons. I first noticed two rather plump English women in their forties; one of them wore glasses. They were accompanied by two easygoing mixed-race guys, who were twenty-five, tops. They seemed comfortable with the situation, talked and joked with the fatties, held their hands, slipped their arms around their waists. For my part, I would have been completely incapable of doing this kind of work; I wondered if they had some kind of trick, something they could think about when they needed to get an erection. At some point, the English women went up to their rooms, while the two guys stayed and chatted by the pool. If I were truly interested in human nature, I would have struck up a conversation, tried to find out a bit more. Still, maybe you just had to jerk off properly; an erection could probably be a purely mechanical reflex. Biographies of male prostitutes would undoubtedly have enlightened me on this point, but the only thing I had at my disposal was
A
Discourse on Positive Thinking
.
As I was leafing through the subsection headed "Popular politics, ever social, must above all become moral,'" I noticed a young German girl coming out of her room, accompanied by a big black guy. She looked exactly the way we all imagine German girls: long, blonde hair, blue eyes, a firm, pleasing body, big breasts. As a physical type, it's very attractive. The problem is, it doesn't last—by the age of thirty there's work to be done, liposuction, silicone. Anyway, for the time being, things were fine; in fact, she looked positively sexy—her suitor had been very lucky. I wondered whether she paid as much as the English women did, if there was a going rate for men as there was for women; here again, research needed to be done, inquiries made. It was too exhausting for me. I decided to go up to the room. I ordered a cocktail, which I sipped slowly on the balcony. Valérie was sunning herself, taking a dip in the pool from time to time. I noticed she'd struck up a conversation with the German girl.
She came up to see me at about six. I'd fallen asleep with my book. She took off her swimsuit, showered, and came to me, a towel wrapped around her waist; her hair was slightly damp.
"You're going to think I'm obsessed with this, but I asked the German girl what black guys have that white guys don't. It's true, though: white women clearly prefer to sleep with Africans and white men with Asians. It's pretty obvious after a while. I need to know why, it's very important for my work."
"There are white men who like black women," I observed.
"It's not as common. Sex tourism is much rarer in Africa than it is in Asia. Of course, tourism in general is rarer, to be honest."
"What was her answer?"
"Standard stuff: black guys are laid-back, virile, they have a sense of fun; they know how to enjoy themselves without getting hung up on things, you never have any trouble with them."
The German girl's reply was banal, true, but it provided the basis for a workable theory: all things considered, white men were repressed Negroes searching for some lost sexual innocence. Obviously it in no way explained the mysterious attraction that Asian women seemed to wield, nor the sexual prestige that, by all accounts, white men enjoyed in black Africa. I sketched out the basis of a more complex, more questionable theory: generally speaking, white people want to be tanned and to dance like Negroes; blacks want to lighten their skin and straighten their hair. All humanity instinctively tends toward miscegenation, a generalized, undifferentiated state, and it does so first and foremost through the elementary means of sexuality. The only person, however, to have pushed the process to its logical conclusion is Michael Jackson, who is neither black nor white anymore, neither young nor old, and, in a sense, neither man nor woman. Nobody can really imagine his private life. Having grasped the categories of everyday humanity, he has done his utmost to go beyond them. This is why he can be considered a star, possibly the greatest—and, in fact, the first—in the history of the world. All the others —Rudolph Valentino, Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Humphrey Bogart —could at best be considered talented artists. They did no more than imitate the human condition, having aesthetically transposed it. Michael Jackson was the first to have tried to go a little further.
It was an appealing theory, and Valérie listened attentively as I explained it. I, on the other hand, was not entirely convinced. Did this mean that the first cyborg, the first individual to accept having elements of artificial, extrahuman intelligence implanted into his brain, would immediately become a star? Probably, yes. But that actually had very little bearing on the subject. Michael Jackson might well be a star, but he was certainly not a sex symbol. If you wanted to encourage the sort of mass tourism that would warrant heavy investment, yon had to turn to more basic forces of attraction.
A little later, Jean-Yves and the others returned from their tour of the city. The local history museum was chiefly devoted to the customs of the Tainos, the first inhabitants of the region. It appeared that they had led a peaceable existence, dedicated to agriculture and fishing; conflicts between neighboring tribes were practically nonexistent. The Spanish had had not the slightest difficulty exterminating these creatures, who were ill-prepared for combat. Today, nothing of them remains, apart from some minimal genetic traces in the physiognomy of a handful of individuals. Their culture has completely disappeared —it might just as well have never existed. In a number of drawings made by the missionaries, who had attempted —more often than not in vain —to sensitize them to the message of the Gospel, they can be seen plowing, or busying themselves cooking at the fire; bare-breasted women suckle their children. All of this gave the impression, if not of Eden, then at least of a slow pace of history. The arrival of the Spanish had speeded things up significantly. After the classic conflicts between the colonial powers who led the field at the time, Cuba gained its independence in 1898, only to fall immediately under American control. Early in 1959, after a civil war lasting many years, the revolutionary forces led by Fidel Castro overthrew the regular army, forcing Batista to flee. Considering that the whole world was forcibly divided into two camps at the time, Cuba had been quickly compelled to make overtures to the Soviet bloc and establish a Marxist-style regime. Deprived of logistical support after the collapse of the Soviet Union, now that regime was drawing to a close. Valérie slipped on a short skirt slit up one side and a little black lace top. We had time for a cocktail before dinner.
Everyone was gathered around the swimming pool, watching the sun set over the bay. Near the shore, the wreck of a freighter slowly rusted. Other, smaller boats floated, almost motionless, on the waters; it all exuded a powerful sense of decline. Not a sound drifted up from the streets of the city down below. A few streetlights flickered hesitantly into life. At Jean-Yves's table sat a man of about sixty, his face gaunt and exhausted, his expression gloomy, and another, much younger man — no more than thirty—whom I recognized as the hotel manager. I had seen him several times that afternoon, moving nervously among the tables to make sure that everyone was happy—his face seemed to be ravaged by constant, prevailing worry. Seeing us approach, he got up quickly, brought two chairs over, called a waiter, ensured that the latter arrived without delay, then hurried to the kitchens. The old man at his side shot a cynical look at the swimming pool, the couples sitting at tables, and, apparently, at the world at large. "The poor people of Cuba," he said after a long silence. "They've nothing left to sell except their bodies." Jean-Yves explained that this man lived nearby and was in fact the hotel manager's father. More than forty years before, he had taken part in the revolution as a member of one of the first companies of soldiers to rally to the Castro uprising. After the war, he had worked in the nickel works at Moa, at first as a worker, then as a foreman, eventually—after he had gone back to university—as an engineer. His status as a revolutionary hero had made it possible for his son to obtain an important position in the tourist industry.
"We have failed," he said in a dull voice. "And we deserved to fail. We had great leaders —exceptional, idealistic men who put the good of the country before their own personal gain. I remember
Comandante
Che Guevara, on the day he came to open the cocoa-processing plant in our village. I can still remember his noble, honest face. No one could ever say that the
comandante
had lined his pockets, or that he tried to get favors for himself or his family. Nor could it be said of Camilo Cienfuegos, or any of the revolutionary leaders, not even of Fidel. It's true Fidel likes power, he wants to keep an eye on everything, but he is disinterested, he has no magnificent properties, no Swiss bank accounts. So, anyway, Che was there. He inaugurated the factory, making a speech in which he urged the people of Cuba to win peace through production, after the war for independence. It was just before he went to the Congo. We could easily have won such a battle. The land here is fertile, the earth is rich and well irrigated, everything grows in abundance: coffee, cocoa, sugar cane, tropical fruit of every kind. The subsoil is rich in nickel ore. We had an ultramodern factory, built with help from the Russians. In less than six months, production had fallen to half its normal level. All the factory workers stole chocolate, raw or in bars, gave it to their families, sold it to strangers. It was the same in all the factories, all over the country. If the workers couldn't find anything to steal, they worked badly, they were lazy, they were always sick, they were absent for the slightest reason. I spent years trying to talk to them, to persuade them to try a little harder for the sake of their country: I met with nothing but disappointment and failure."
Comandante
Che Guevara, on the day he came to open the cocoa-processing plant in our village. I can still remember his noble, honest face. No one could ever say that the
comandante
had lined his pockets, or that he tried to get favors for himself or his family. Nor could it be said of Camilo Cienfuegos, or any of the revolutionary leaders, not even of Fidel. It's true Fidel likes power, he wants to keep an eye on everything, but he is disinterested, he has no magnificent properties, no Swiss bank accounts. So, anyway, Che was there. He inaugurated the factory, making a speech in which he urged the people of Cuba to win peace through production, after the war for independence. It was just before he went to the Congo. We could easily have won such a battle. The land here is fertile, the earth is rich and well irrigated, everything grows in abundance: coffee, cocoa, sugar cane, tropical fruit of every kind. The subsoil is rich in nickel ore. We had an ultramodern factory, built with help from the Russians. In less than six months, production had fallen to half its normal level. All the factory workers stole chocolate, raw or in bars, gave it to their families, sold it to strangers. It was the same in all the factories, all over the country. If the workers couldn't find anything to steal, they worked badly, they were lazy, they were always sick, they were absent for the slightest reason. I spent years trying to talk to them, to persuade them to try a little harder for the sake of their country: I met with nothing but disappointment and failure."
He fell silent. The last of the day floated above the Yunque, a mountain peak mysteriously truncated in the form of a table, which towered over the hills and which long ago had made a considerable impression on Christopher Columbus. The sound of clattering cutlery emanated from the dining room. What could possibly incite human beings to undertake tedious, tiresome tasks? This seemed to me the only political question worth posing. The old factory worker's evidence was damning: in his opinion, the only answer was the need for money; in any case, the revolution had obviously failed to create a
new man
,
one driven by more altruistic motives. And so, like all societies, Cuba was nothing more than a system painstakingly rigged to allow some people to avoid tedious and tiresome tasks. Except that the system had failed, no one was fooled any longer, no one was sustained anymore by the hope of one day rejoicing in communal labor. The result was that nothing functioned, no one worked or produced the slightest thing any longer, and Cuban society had become incapable of ensuring the survival of its own members.
new man
,
one driven by more altruistic motives. And so, like all societies, Cuba was nothing more than a system painstakingly rigged to allow some people to avoid tedious and tiresome tasks. Except that the system had failed, no one was fooled any longer, no one was sustained anymore by the hope of one day rejoicing in communal labor. The result was that nothing functioned, no one worked or produced the slightest thing any longer, and Cuban society had become incapable of ensuring the survival of its own members.
The other members of the tour got up and headed toward the tables. I racked my brain desperately for something optimistic to say to the old man, some vague message of hope, but no, there was nothing. As he so bitterly foresaw, Cuba would soon become a capitalist country again, and nothing would remain of the revolutionary hopes he had nurtured —only a sense of failure, futility, and shame. No one would respect or follow his example, his life would, in fact, become an object of revulsion to future generations. He would have fought, and afterwards worked his whole life, completely in vain.
During the meal, I drank quite a bit and, by the end, I found I was completely smashed. Valérie looked at me a little anxiously. The salsa dancers, wearing pleated skirts and multicolored sheaths, were getting ready for their show. We took our seats on the terrace. I knew more or less what I wanted to say to Jean-Yves; was this the right time? I felt that he was a little distraught, but relaxed. I ordered one last cocktail and lit a cigar before turning to him.
"You really want to find a new formula that would save your resorts?"
"Of course I do, that's why I'm here."
"Offer a club where the people get to fuck. That's what they're missing more than anything. If they haven't had their little holiday romance, they go home unsatisfied. They wouldn't dare admit it, they might not even realize it, but the next time they go on vacation, they go with a different company."
"They can fuck all they like, everything has been set up to encourage them to; that's the basic principle of holiday clubs. Why they don't actually fuck, I haven't the faintest idea."
I swept the objection aside with a wave of my hand. "I don't know either, but that's not the problem. There's no point trying to find out the causes of this phenomenon, assuming the phrase actually means something. Something is definitely happening that's making westerners stop sleeping with each other. Maybe it's something to do with narcissism, or individualism, the cult of success, it doesn't matter. The fact is that from about the age of twenty-five or thirty, people find it very difficult to meet new sexual partners. Yet they still feel the need to do so, it's a need that fades very slowly. So they end up spending the next thirty years, almost the entirety of their adult lives, suffering permanent withdrawal."
Halfway along the path to inebriation, just before mindlessness ensues, one sometimes experiences moments of heightened lucidity. The decline of western sexuality was undoubtedly a major sociological phenomenon that it would be futile to attempt to explain by such and such psychological factor; glancing at Jean-Yves, I realized, however, that he perfectly illustrated my thesis, so much so that it was almost embarrassing. Not only did he not fuck anymore and not have the time to go looking, but he no longer really wanted to, and, worse still, he felt this decay written on his flesh —he was beginning to stink of death. "But still," he objected after a long moment of hesitation, "I've heard wifeswapping clubs are quite successful."
"No, actually, they're doing less and less well. There are a lot of clubs opening up, but they close almost immediately because they haven't got the customers. As a matter of fact, there are only two clubs making a go of it in Paris, Chris et Manu and 2 + 2, and even they are only full on Saturday night. For a city often million people, that's not much, and it's a lot less than at the beginning of the 1990s. Wife-swapping clubs are a nice idea, but they're seen as more and more passé because people don't want to swap anything anymore —it doesn't suit modern sensibilities. In my opinion, wife-swapping has as much chance of surviving today as hitchhiking did in the 1970s. The only thing that is doing any business at the moment is S&M." At that point, Valérie shot mc a panicked look; she even gave me a kick in the shins. I looked at her, surprised. It took me a few seconds to understand: no, of course I wasn't going to mention Audrey; I gave her a reassuring little nod. Jean-Yves hadn't noticed the interruption.
"Therefore," I went on, "you have several hundred million westerners who have everything they could want but no longer manage to obtain sexual satisfaction. They spend their lives looking without finding it, and they are completely miserable. On the other hand, you have several billion people who have nothing, who are starving, who die young, who live in conditions unfit for human habitation, and who have nothing left to sell except their bodies and their unspoiled sexuality. It's simple, really simple to understand: it's an ideal trading opportunity. The money you could make is almost unimaginable, vastly more than from computers or biotechnology, more than the media industry; there isn't a single economic sector that is comparable.''
Jean-Yves didn't say anything. At that moment, the band began the first number. The dancers were pretty and smiling, their pleated skirts whirled, amply revealing their tanned thighs. They illustrated my point perfectly. For a moment, I thought he wouldn't say anything, that he would simply digest the idea. However, after about five minutes, he said, "It doesn't really work in Muslim countries, your idea ..."
"No problem, you just leave them with their Eldorador Discovery. You could even steer them toward something much tougher, with trekking and environmental activities, a survivor kind of thing maybe, that you could call Eldorador Adventure. It would sell really well in France and in Anglo-Saxon countries. On the other hand, the sex-oriented clubs could do well in Germany and the Mediterranean countries."
This time, he smiled broadly. 'You should have been in business," he said half seriously. "You're an ideas man."
"Ideas, yeah." My head was spinning a little, I could no longer make out the dancers, I finished my cocktail in one gulp. "I might have ideas, but I wouldn't be able to throw myself into balance sheet or budget forecasts. So, yeah, I'm an ideas man . . . "
I don't remember much about the rest of the evening —I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, I was lying on my bed. Valérie lay naked beside me, breathing gently. I woke her as I moved to reach for a pack of cigarettes.
"You were pretty drunk back there."
"Yes, but I was serious about what I was saying to Jean-Yves."
"I think he took it seriously." She stroked my belly with her fingertips. "And actually, I think you're right. Sexual liberation in the west is over."
"You know why?" "No — " she hesitated, then went on: "No, actually, not really." I lit a cigarette, propped myself up on the pillows, and said, "Suck me." She looked at me, surprised, but placed her hand on my balls and brought her mouth toward me. "There!" I exclaimed triumphantly. She stopped what she was doing and looked at me in surprise. "You see, I say 'Suck me' and you suck me. When actually, you didn't feel the desire to do so."
"No, I hadn't thought of it, but I enjoy doing it."
"That's precisely what's so extraordinary about you: you enjoy giving pleasure. Offering your body as an object of pleasure, giving pleasure unselfishly: that's what westerners don't know how to do anymore. They've completely lost the sense of giving. Try as they might, they no longer feel sex as something
natural
.
Not only are they ashamed of their own bodies, which aren't up to porn standards, but for the same reasons they no longer feel truly attracted to the body of the other. It's impossible to make love without a certain abandon, without accepting, at least temporarily, the state of being in a state of dependency, of weakness. Sentimental adulation and sexual obsession have the same roots, both proceed from some degree of selflessness; it's not a domain in which you can find fulfillment without losing yourself. We have become cold, rational, acutely conscious of our individual existence and our rights; more than anything, we want to avoid alienation and dependence; on top of that, we're obsessed with health and hygiene. These are hardly ideal conditions in which to make love. The way things stand, the commercialization of sexuality in the east has become inevitable. Obviously, there's S&M too. It's a purely cerebral world with clear-cut rules and a preestablished contract. Masochists are just interested in their own sensations, they try to see how far they can plunge into pain, a bit like people who do extreme sports. Sadists are something else, they will take things as far as they possibly can regardless —it's a very ancient human propensity: if they can mutilate or kill, they will do so."
natural
.
Not only are they ashamed of their own bodies, which aren't up to porn standards, but for the same reasons they no longer feel truly attracted to the body of the other. It's impossible to make love without a certain abandon, without accepting, at least temporarily, the state of being in a state of dependency, of weakness. Sentimental adulation and sexual obsession have the same roots, both proceed from some degree of selflessness; it's not a domain in which you can find fulfillment without losing yourself. We have become cold, rational, acutely conscious of our individual existence and our rights; more than anything, we want to avoid alienation and dependence; on top of that, we're obsessed with health and hygiene. These are hardly ideal conditions in which to make love. The way things stand, the commercialization of sexuality in the east has become inevitable. Obviously, there's S&M too. It's a purely cerebral world with clear-cut rules and a preestablished contract. Masochists are just interested in their own sensations, they try to see how far they can plunge into pain, a bit like people who do extreme sports. Sadists are something else, they will take things as far as they possibly can regardless —it's a very ancient human propensity: if they can mutilate or kill, they will do so."
"I really don't want to think about it again,'' she said, shivering. "It really disgusts me."
"That's because you've remained sexual, animal. You're normal, in fact, you're not much like westerners. Organized S&M with its rules could only exist among overcultured, cerebral people for whom sex has lost all attraction. For everyone else, there's only one possible solution: pornography featuring professionals; and if you want to have real sex, third world countries."
"Okay." She smiled. "Is it okay if I go back to sucking you off?"
I leaned back on the pillows and let it happen. I was vaguely conscious at that moment of being at the beginning of something. From an economic point of view, I knew I was right. I estimated that potential clients might run to 80 percent of western adults. But I knew that people sometimes find it difficult, strangely, to accept simple ideas.
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