Platform (7 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
Carried by the current, tufts of grass floated downriver. The birdsong started up again, rising from the light mist that swathed the jungle. Far off to the south, at the mouth of the valley, the strange contours of the Burmese mountains were silhouetted in the distance. I had seen these curved, bluish forms before, but cut through with sudden indentations. Perhaps in the landscapes of the Italian primitives, on a visit to a museum when I was in grade school. The group was not awake yet; the temperature was still pleasant at this hour. I had slept very badly.
After the disaster of the previous evening, a certain benevolence floated around the breakfast tables. Josette and René seemed to be in good form; on the other hand, the ecologists from the jura were in a terrible state, I noticed, as they shambled in. The proletariat of a previous generation, who had no hang-ups about enjoying modern comforts when they were available, proved to be much more resilient in truly uncomfortable circumstances than their offspring, who championed "ecological" principles. Éric and Sylvie clearly hadn't got a wink all night; in addition, Sylvie was completely covered in red blisters.
"Yes, the mosquitoes really got me," she confirmed bitterly.
"I've got some soothing lotion if you want. It's very good —I can go and get it."
"That would be nice, thanks; but let's have coffee first." The coffee was revolting, weak, almost undrinkable; from that point of view at least, we were living up to American standards. The young couple looked completely fucking idiotic —it almost pained me to see their "ecological paradise" crumbling before their eyes. But I had a feeling that everything was going to cause me pain today. I looked to the south again. "I'm told Burma is very beautiful," I said in a low voice, mostly to myself. Sylvie solemnly agreed: it was indeed, very beautiful, she'd also heard as much. That said, she
forbade
herself to go to Burma. It was impossible to allow one's money to support a dictatorship like that. Yes, yes, I thought, money. "Human rights are extremely important," she exclaimed almost despairingly. When people talk about "human rights," I usually get the impression that they're being sarcastic;
forbade
herself to go to Burma. It was impossible to allow one's money to support a dictatorship like that. Yes, yes, I thought, money. "Human rights are extremely important," she exclaimed almost despairingly. When people talk about "human rights," I usually get the impression that they're being sarcastic;
but that wasn't true in this case, or at least I don't think so. "Personally, I stopped going to Spain
after
the death of Franco," interrupted Robert, taking a seat at our table. I hadn't seen him arrive. He seemed to be in excellent form, his formidable ability to infuriate wellrested. He informed us that he'd gone to bed dead drunk and consequently had slept like a log. He had almost chucked himself in the river a couple of times on his way back to the cottage; but it never actually happened,
"
lnsh'allah
,"
he concluded in a booming voice.
after
the death of Franco," interrupted Robert, taking a seat at our table. I hadn't seen him arrive. He seemed to be in excellent form, his formidable ability to infuriate wellrested. He informed us that he'd gone to bed dead drunk and consequently had slept like a log. He had almost chucked himself in the river a couple of times on his way back to the cottage; but it never actually happened,
"
lnsh'allah
,"
he concluded in a booming voice.
After this parody of a breakfast, Sylvie walked back with me to my room. On the way, we met Josiane. She was serious, withdrawn, and did not even look at us —clearly far from the road to forgiveness. I discovered that she taught literature in
civvy street
(a public school), as René amusingly put it; I wasn't a bit surprised. She was exactly the kind of bitch who'd made me give up studying literature many years before.
civvy street
(a public school), as René amusingly put it; I wasn't a bit surprised. She was exactly the kind of bitch who'd made me give up studying literature many years before.
I gave Sylvie the tube of soothing lotion. "I'll bring it straight back," she said. "You can keep it, I don't think we'll come across any more mosquitoes. As far as I know, they hate the seaside." She thanked me, walked to the door, hesitated, turned around: "Surely you don't approve of the sexual exploitation of children!" she exclaimed anguishedly. I was expecting something of the kind. I shook my head and answered wearily, "There's not that much child prostitution in Thailand. No more than in Europe, in my opinion." She nodded, not really convinced, and walked out. In fact, I had access to rather more detailed information, courtesy of a strange publication called
The White Book
,
which I'd bought for my previous trip. It was apparently published —no author's or publisher's name was given —by an association called Inquisition 2000. Under the pretense of denouncing sex tourism, it offered a comprehensive list of the addresses, country by country. Each informative chapter was preceded by a short and vehement paragraph calling for respect for the Divine Plan and the reintroduction of the death penalty for sex offenders. On the question of pedophilia,
The White Book
was unequivocal: it formally advised against Thailand, which no longer had anything to recommend it, if indeed it ever had. It was much better to go to the Philippines or, better still, to Cambodia —the journey might be dangerous, but it was worth the effort.
The White Book
,
which I'd bought for my previous trip. It was apparently published —no author's or publisher's name was given —by an association called Inquisition 2000. Under the pretense of denouncing sex tourism, it offered a comprehensive list of the addresses, country by country. Each informative chapter was preceded by a short and vehement paragraph calling for respect for the Divine Plan and the reintroduction of the death penalty for sex offenders. On the question of pedophilia,
The White Book
was unequivocal: it formally advised against Thailand, which no longer had anything to recommend it, if indeed it ever had. It was much better to go to the Philippines or, better still, to Cambodia —the journey might be dangerous, but it was worth the effort.
The Khmer kingdom was at its apogee in the twelfth century, the era in which Angkor Wat was built. After that, everything went pretty much clown the tubes. Thailand's principal enemy was the Burmese. In 1351, King Ramathibodi I founded the village of Ayutthaya. In 1402, his son Ramathibodi II invaded the declining Angkor empire. Thirty-two successive sovereigns of Ayutthaya marked their reigns by building Buddhist temples and palaces. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, according to tire accounts of French and Portuguese travelers, Ayutthaya was the most magnificent city in all of Asia. The wars with the Burmese continued and Ayutthaya fell in 1767, after a siege lasting fifteen months. The Burmese looted the city, melted down the gold statues, and left nothing but ruins in their wake.
Now, it was very peaceful. A light breeze stirred up dust between the temples. Not much remained of King Ramathibodi, apart from a couple of lines in the
Michelin Guide
.
The image of the Buddha, on the other hand, was very much in evidence and had retained all of its significance. The Burmese had shipped in Thai craftsmen so that they could construct identical temples several hundred kilometers away. The will to power exists, and it manifests itself in the form of history, while it is, in itself, radically unproductive. The smile of the Buddha continued to float above the ruins. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. According to the
Michelin Guide
,
you needed to set aside three days for a complete visit, one clay for a quick tour. We had three hours; it was time to get out the camcorders. I imagined Chateaubriand with a Panasonic camcorder at the Colosseum, smoking cigarettes the whole time—Benson & Hedges probably, rather than Gauloises Lights. Faced with a religion this radical, I expect his views would have been slightly different; he would have had a lot less respect for Napoleon. I was sure that he would have been capable of writing an excellent edition
of
Genie du bouddhisme
.
Michelin Guide
.
The image of the Buddha, on the other hand, was very much in evidence and had retained all of its significance. The Burmese had shipped in Thai craftsmen so that they could construct identical temples several hundred kilometers away. The will to power exists, and it manifests itself in the form of history, while it is, in itself, radically unproductive. The smile of the Buddha continued to float above the ruins. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. According to the
Michelin Guide
,
you needed to set aside three days for a complete visit, one clay for a quick tour. We had three hours; it was time to get out the camcorders. I imagined Chateaubriand with a Panasonic camcorder at the Colosseum, smoking cigarettes the whole time—Benson & Hedges probably, rather than Gauloises Lights. Faced with a religion this radical, I expect his views would have been slightly different; he would have had a lot less respect for Napoleon. I was sure that he would have been capable of writing an excellent edition
of
Genie du bouddhisme
.
Josette and René were a bit bored during the visit; I got the impression pretty quickly that they were just going around in circles. Babette and Léa were the same. The ecologists from the Jura, on the other hand, seemed to be in their element, as did the naturopaths; an impressive array of photographic equipment was being deployed. Valérie was lost in thought, walking down the alleys, across the flagstones, through the grass. That's culture for you, I thought: it's a bit of a pain in the butt, which is fine, and ultimately everyone is returned to his original nothingness. That said, how did the sculptors of the Ayutthaya period
do
it?
How did they manage to give their statues of the Buddha such a luminous expression of understanding?
do
it?
How did they manage to give their statues of the Buddha such a luminous expression of understanding?
After the fall of Ayutthaya, the Thai kingdom entered a period of great stability. Bangkok became the capital, and the Rama dynasty began. For two centuries (in fact, up to the present day) the kingdom knew no serious foreign wars, or any civil or religious wars for that matter. It also succeeded in avoiding any form of colonization. There had been no famines, either, or great epidemics. In such circumstances, when lands are fertile and bring forth abundant harvests, when sickness seems to relax its grip, when a peaceable religion extends its laws over hearts and minds, human beings grow and multiply; in general, they live happily. Now, things were different. Thailand had become part of the "free world," meaning the market economy. For five years now it had been suffering a terrible economic crisis, which had reduced the currency to less than half its previous value and brought the most successful businesses to the brink of ruin. This was the first real tragedy to strike the country for more than two centuries.
One after another, in a silence that was pretty striking, we went back to the bus. We left at sunset, due to take the night train from Bangkok, destination Surat Thani.
9
Surat Thani — population 42,000—is distinguished, according to the guidebooks, by the fact that it is of no interest whatever. It is, and this is the only thing you can say about it, an obligatory stop on the way to the Koh Samui ferry. Nonetheless, people live here, and the
Michelin Guide
informed us that for a long time the city has been an important center of metallurgical industries—and that, more recently, it has gained a significant role in metal-based construction and assembly.
Michelin Guide
informed us that for a long time the city has been an important center of metallurgical industries—and that, more recently, it has gained a significant role in metal-based construction and assembly.
And where would we be without metal construction? Iron ore is mined in obscure regions of the country and transported here by freighter. Machine tools are then produced, mostly under the supervision of Japanese companies. Further assembly takes place in cities like Surat Thani, resulting in buses, train carriages, ferries, all produced under license from NEC, General Motors, or Mitsubishi. The products serve in part to transport western tourists, such as Babette and Léa.
I was entitled to speak to them, I was a member of the same tour. I couldn't possibly pretend to be a potential lover, which limited conversation options, but I had, nevertheless, purchased the same "outbound ticket." I was therefore at liberty, to some extent, to make contact. Babette and Léa, it turned out, worked for the same PR agency; for the most part, they organized events. Events? Yes. For institutions or private companies keen to develop their corporate sponsorship programs. There was certainly money to be made there, I thought. Yes and no. Nowadays, companies were more "human rights"—focused, so there had been a slowdown in investment. But it was still pretty okay. I inquired about their salaries: pretty good. They could have been better, but still pretty good. About twenty-five times the salary of a metalworker in Surat Thani. Economics is a mystery.
After we arrived at the hotel, the group broke up, or at least t suppose it did. I didn't feel much like eating with the others. I was a bit fed up with the others. I drew the curtains and lay down. Curiously, I fell asleep immediately and dreamed of an Arab girl dancing in a subway car. She didn't look anything like Aïcha, or at least I don't think so. She was standing against the pole in the middle of the car like the girls in go-go bars. Her breasts were covered by a minuscule strip of cotton, which she was slowly lifting. With a smile, she freed her breasts completely; they were swollen, round, copper-colored, magnificent. She licked her fingers and stroked her nipples. Then she put her hand on my trousers, eased down my fly, took out my penis, and began to jerk me off. People crowded past us, got off at their stations. She got on all fours on the floor and lifted up her miniskirt. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. Her vulva was welcoming, surrounded by black hair, like a gift. I started to penetrate her. The car was half-full, but no one paid any attention to us. Such things could never happen under any normal circumstances. It was the dream of a starving man, the ludicrous dream of man already grown old.
I woke up at about five o'clock and saw that the sheets were completely covered in semen. A
nocturnal emission
. . .
very touching. I noticed, too, to my great surprise, that I still had a hard-on. Must be the weather. A cockroach lay on its back in the middle of the bedside table, and you could easily make out the detail of its legs. This one didn't have to worry anymore, as my father would have said. My father, for his part, had died late in the year 2000, which was appropriate enough, since this enclosed his existence entirely within the twentieth century, of which he was a hideously representative element. I myself had survived in middling condition. I was in my forties—well, in my
early
forties; after all, I was only forty. So I was about halfway there. My father's death gave me a certain freedom; I hadn't had my last word yet,
nocturnal emission
. . .
very touching. I noticed, too, to my great surprise, that I still had a hard-on. Must be the weather. A cockroach lay on its back in the middle of the bedside table, and you could easily make out the detail of its legs. This one didn't have to worry anymore, as my father would have said. My father, for his part, had died late in the year 2000, which was appropriate enough, since this enclosed his existence entirely within the twentieth century, of which he was a hideously representative element. I myself had survived in middling condition. I was in my forties—well, in my
early
forties; after all, I was only forty. So I was about halfway there. My father's death gave me a certain freedom; I hadn't had my last word yet,
Situated on the east coast of Ko Samui, the hotel perfectly evoked the sort of "tropical paradise" you see in travel agents' brochures. The hills surrounding it were covered by thick jungle. The low-rise buildings, bordered by greenery, sloped down to an immense oval swimming pool with a Jacuzzi at each end. You could swim up to the bar, which was on an island in the middle of the pool. A few yards further on was a beach of white sand, then the sea. I looked around warily at my surroundings. From where I was, I recognized Lionel in the distance, splashing in the waves like a handicapped dolphin. Then I turned back and headed for the bar along a narrow bridge overlooking the pool. With studied casualness, I familiarized myself with the cocktail menu;
happy hour
*
had just begun.
happy hour
*
had just begun.
I had just ordered a Singapore Sling when Babette made her appearance. "Well, well," I said. She was wearing a generously cut two-piece bathing suit, figure-hugging shorts, and a wide wraparound top in a symphony of light and dark blue. The fabric seemed to be exceptionally sheer; it was a swimsuit that clearly only came into its own when wet. "Are you not going to swim?" she asked. "Urn .. .," I said. Léa appeared in turn, more classically sexy in a bright red vinyl one-piece, with black zippers open to reveal her skin (one of them ran across her left breast, giving a glimpse of nipple) and cut very high on the thighs. She nodded to me before joining Babette at the water's edge, and when she turned around, I was in a position to observe that she had perfect buttocks. The girls had been suspicious of me at the beginning, but since I had spoken to them on the ferry they had come to the conclusion that I was a harmless human being and moderately amusing. They were right: that was about it.
They dived in together. I turned around to ogle a bit. The guy at the next table was the spitting image of the Communist politician Robert Hue. When wet, Babette's swimsuit really was spectacular—you could easily make out her nipples and the crack of her butt. You could even see the slight swelling of her pubic hair, even though she had opted to cut it quite short. Meanwhile, people were working, making useful commodities, or sometimes useless commodities. They were productive. What had I produced in the forty years of my existence? To tell the truth, not very much. I had managed information, facilitated access to it, and disseminated it. Sometimes, too, I had carried out bank transfers (on a modest scale; I was generally happy to pay the smaller invoices). In a word, I had worked in the
service sector.
It would be easy to get by without people like me. Still, my ineffectuality was less flamboyant than that of Babette and Léa; a moderate parasite, I had never been
a
star in my field
,
and had never felt the need to pretend to be one.
service sector.
It would be easy to get by without people like me. Still, my ineffectuality was less flamboyant than that of Babette and Léa; a moderate parasite, I had never been
a
star in my field
,
and had never felt the need to pretend to be one.
After dark, I went back to the hotel lobby, where I ran into Lionel. He was sunburned from head to toe and delighted with his day. He had done a lot of swimming; he'd never dared dream of somewhere like this. "I had to save pretty hard to pay for the trip," he said, "but I don't regret it." He sat on the edge of a sofa: he was thinking about his daily life. He worked for the gas company in the southeastern suburbs of Paris and lived in Juvisy. He often had to call on people who were very poor, elderly people whose systems weren't up to standard. If they didn't have the money to pay for the necessary modifications, he was forced to cut off their gas. "There are people who live in conditions," he said, "you can't imagine.
"You see the craziest things sometimes," he went on, shaking his head. As for himself, things were okay. The area he lived in wasn't great; actually it was downright dangerous. "There are spots that are best avoided," he said. Rut in general, things weren't too bad. "We're on vacation," he concluded before heading off to the dining room. I picked up a couple of brochures and went off to my room to read them. I still didn't feel like eating with the others. It is in our relations with other people that we gain a sense of ourselves; it's that, pretty much, that makes relations with other people unbearable.
I'd found out from Léa that Ko Samui wasn't just a tropical paradise, it was also pretty
dope.
Every night at the full moon there was a massive
rave
on the tiny neighboring island of Ko Pha-Ngan; people came from Australia and Germany to attend. "A bit like Goa," I said. "Much better than Goa," she interrupted. Goa was completely
over;
if you were looking for a decent rave now, you had to go to Ko Samui or to Lombok.
dope.
Every night at the full moon there was a massive
rave
on the tiny neighboring island of Ko Pha-Ngan; people came from Australia and Germany to attend. "A bit like Goa," I said. "Much better than Goa," she interrupted. Goa was completely
over;
if you were looking for a decent rave now, you had to go to Ko Samui or to Lombok.
I didn't require as much. All I wanted right now was a decent
body massage
*
followed by a blow job and a good fuck. Nothing too complicated on the face of it, but looking through the brochures I realized, with a feeling of profound melancholy, that this didn't at all seem to be the specialty of the place. There was a lot of stuff like acupuncture, massage with essential oils, vegetarian food, or tai-chi; but
of
body massages
or
go-go bars* nada
.
On top of everything, the place had a painfully American, even Californian, feel about it, focused on "healthy living" and "meditation activities." I glanced through a letter to
What's On Samui
from a Guy Hopkins, a self-confessed "health addict" who had been coming to the island regularly for twenty years. "The aura that backpackers spread on the island is unlikely to be erased quickly by upmarket tourists," he concluded. It was depressing. I couldn't even set off in search of adventure since the hotel was miles from anywhere. In fact, everything was miles from anywhere, since there was nothing here. The map of the island indicated no identifiable town center; rather, a number of cottage resorts like ours, set on tranquil beaches. It was then that I remembered with horror that the island had had a very good writeup in the
Guide du Routard
,
which listed it as a place that had managed to avoid a certain moral slide. I was caught like a rat in a trap. Even so, I felt a vague satisfaction, however theoretical, at the notion that I actually felt up to fucking. Halfheartedly, I picked up
The Firm
again, skipped forward two hundred pages,skipped back fifty. By chance I happened on a sex scene. The plot had developed a fair bit. Tom Cruise was now in the Cayman Islands, in the process of setting up some kind of money-laundering scheme, or in the process of unmasking it, it wasn't too clear. Whatever the deal was, he was getting to know a stunning mixed-race girl, Eilene, who wasn't exactly backward in coming forward: "She unsnapped something and removed her skirt, leaving nothing but a string around her waist and a string running between her legs." I unzipped my trousers. This was followed by a weird passage that was difficult to grasp psychologically: "Something said run. Throw the beer bottle in the ocean. Throw the skirt in the sand. And run like hell. Run to the condo. Lock the door. Lock the windows. Run. Run. Run." Thankfully, Eilene didn't see things quite that way: "In slow motion, she reached behind her neck. She unhooked her bikini top, and it fell off, very slowly. Her breasts, much larger now, lay on his left forearm. She handed it to him. Hold this for me.' It was soft and white and weighed less than a millionth of an ounce." I was jerking off in earnest now, trying to visualize mixed-race girls wearing tiny swimsuits in the dark. I ejaculated between two pages with a groan of satisfaction. They were going to stick together; didn't matter, it wasn't the kind of book you read twice.
body massage
*
followed by a blow job and a good fuck. Nothing too complicated on the face of it, but looking through the brochures I realized, with a feeling of profound melancholy, that this didn't at all seem to be the specialty of the place. There was a lot of stuff like acupuncture, massage with essential oils, vegetarian food, or tai-chi; but
of
body massages
or
go-go bars* nada
.
On top of everything, the place had a painfully American, even Californian, feel about it, focused on "healthy living" and "meditation activities." I glanced through a letter to
What's On Samui
from a Guy Hopkins, a self-confessed "health addict" who had been coming to the island regularly for twenty years. "The aura that backpackers spread on the island is unlikely to be erased quickly by upmarket tourists," he concluded. It was depressing. I couldn't even set off in search of adventure since the hotel was miles from anywhere. In fact, everything was miles from anywhere, since there was nothing here. The map of the island indicated no identifiable town center; rather, a number of cottage resorts like ours, set on tranquil beaches. It was then that I remembered with horror that the island had had a very good writeup in the
Guide du Routard
,
which listed it as a place that had managed to avoid a certain moral slide. I was caught like a rat in a trap. Even so, I felt a vague satisfaction, however theoretical, at the notion that I actually felt up to fucking. Halfheartedly, I picked up
The Firm
again, skipped forward two hundred pages,skipped back fifty. By chance I happened on a sex scene. The plot had developed a fair bit. Tom Cruise was now in the Cayman Islands, in the process of setting up some kind of money-laundering scheme, or in the process of unmasking it, it wasn't too clear. Whatever the deal was, he was getting to know a stunning mixed-race girl, Eilene, who wasn't exactly backward in coming forward: "She unsnapped something and removed her skirt, leaving nothing but a string around her waist and a string running between her legs." I unzipped my trousers. This was followed by a weird passage that was difficult to grasp psychologically: "Something said run. Throw the beer bottle in the ocean. Throw the skirt in the sand. And run like hell. Run to the condo. Lock the door. Lock the windows. Run. Run. Run." Thankfully, Eilene didn't see things quite that way: "In slow motion, she reached behind her neck. She unhooked her bikini top, and it fell off, very slowly. Her breasts, much larger now, lay on his left forearm. She handed it to him. Hold this for me.' It was soft and white and weighed less than a millionth of an ounce." I was jerking off in earnest now, trying to visualize mixed-race girls wearing tiny swimsuits in the dark. I ejaculated between two pages with a groan of satisfaction. They were going to stick together; didn't matter, it wasn't the kind of book you read twice.
In the morning, the beach was deserted. I went for a swim just after breakfast. The air was warm. The sun would soon begin its ascent across the sky, increasing the risk of skin cancer in individuals of Caucasian descent. I intended to stay long enough for the maids to make up my room, then I would head back, lie beneath the sheets, and put the air conditioning on full blast; with the greatest serenity I contemplated this "free day."
Tom Cruise, on the other hand, was still plagued with worries about his affair with the mixed-race girl. He even considered telling his wife (who, and this was the problem, was not content simply to be loved, she wanted to be the sexiest, most desirable woman in the world). The idiot behaved as though the future of his marriage was at stake. "If she was cool and showed a trace of compassion, he would tell her he was sorry, so very sorry, and that it would never happen again. If she fell all to pieces, he would beg, literally beg for forgiveness and swear on the Bible that it was a mistake and would never happen again." Obviously, either course of action came to much the same thing. Eventually, the hero's unremitting remorse, though it was of no interest whatsoever, began to interfere with the plot—which was thickening by the page: we had a bunch of extremely nasty Mafiosi, the FBI, maybe even the Russians. It was enough to make you angry, and it wound up making you sick.
I had a go with another American best-seller,
Total Control
,
by David Baldacci, but that was even worse. This time, the hero wasn't a lawyer but a young computer genius who worked 110 hours a week. His wife, on the other hand,
was
a lawyer and worked 90 hours a week. They had a kid. This time the bad guys were a "European" company that had resorted to fraudulent practices in order to corner a market. Said market should have been the territory of the American company for which our hero was working. During a conversation with the bad guys from the European company, said bad guys —"without the least compunction" — had the audacity to smoke several cigarettes. The atmosphere literally stank of them, but the hero managed to survive. I made a small hole in the sand to bury the two books. The problem now was that I had to find something to read. Not having anything around to read is dangerous: you have to content yourself with life itself, and that can lead you to take risks. At the age of fourteen, one afternoon when the fog was particularly dense, I got lost while skiing, and I had to make my way across some avalanche corridors. What I remember most were the leaden clouds, hanging very low, the utter silence on the mountain. I knew the drifts of snow could shear away at any moment if I made a sudden movement, or even for no apparent reason, some slight rise in temperature, a breath of wind. If they did I would be carried with them, dragged hundreds of meters onto the rocky ridges below, and I would die, probably on impact. Despite this, I wasn't in the least afraid. I was annoyed that things had turned out this way, annoyed for myself and for everyone else. I would have preferred a more conventional death, more official in a way, with an illness, a funeral, tears. Most of all, I regretted never having known a wife's body. During the winter months, my father rented out the first floor of his house, and that year, the tenants were a couple of architects. Their daughter, Sylvie, was also fourteen. She seemed to be attracted to me, or at least she did her best to have me around. She was slender, graceful, her hair was black and curly. Was her pubic hair black and curly too? These were the thoughts that flitted through my mind as I plodded across the mountainside. I've often wondered about that, since. Faced with danger, even death, I don't feel anything in particular, no rush of adrenaline. I had searched in vain for the sensations that attract "extreme sports" fanatics. I am not remotely brave —I run away from danger if at all possible—but if push comes to shove, I greet it with the placidity of a cow. There's probably no point in searching for meaning in this, it's just a technical matter, a question of hormone levels; other human beings, apparently similar to me, seem to feel nothing in the presence of a woman's body, something that—at fourteen and still now —plunges me into a state of agitation I can't control. In most circumstances in my life, I have had about as much freedom as has a vacuum cleaner.
Total Control
,
by David Baldacci, but that was even worse. This time, the hero wasn't a lawyer but a young computer genius who worked 110 hours a week. His wife, on the other hand,
was
a lawyer and worked 90 hours a week. They had a kid. This time the bad guys were a "European" company that had resorted to fraudulent practices in order to corner a market. Said market should have been the territory of the American company for which our hero was working. During a conversation with the bad guys from the European company, said bad guys —"without the least compunction" — had the audacity to smoke several cigarettes. The atmosphere literally stank of them, but the hero managed to survive. I made a small hole in the sand to bury the two books. The problem now was that I had to find something to read. Not having anything around to read is dangerous: you have to content yourself with life itself, and that can lead you to take risks. At the age of fourteen, one afternoon when the fog was particularly dense, I got lost while skiing, and I had to make my way across some avalanche corridors. What I remember most were the leaden clouds, hanging very low, the utter silence on the mountain. I knew the drifts of snow could shear away at any moment if I made a sudden movement, or even for no apparent reason, some slight rise in temperature, a breath of wind. If they did I would be carried with them, dragged hundreds of meters onto the rocky ridges below, and I would die, probably on impact. Despite this, I wasn't in the least afraid. I was annoyed that things had turned out this way, annoyed for myself and for everyone else. I would have preferred a more conventional death, more official in a way, with an illness, a funeral, tears. Most of all, I regretted never having known a wife's body. During the winter months, my father rented out the first floor of his house, and that year, the tenants were a couple of architects. Their daughter, Sylvie, was also fourteen. She seemed to be attracted to me, or at least she did her best to have me around. She was slender, graceful, her hair was black and curly. Was her pubic hair black and curly too? These were the thoughts that flitted through my mind as I plodded across the mountainside. I've often wondered about that, since. Faced with danger, even death, I don't feel anything in particular, no rush of adrenaline. I had searched in vain for the sensations that attract "extreme sports" fanatics. I am not remotely brave —I run away from danger if at all possible—but if push comes to shove, I greet it with the placidity of a cow. There's probably no point in searching for meaning in this, it's just a technical matter, a question of hormone levels; other human beings, apparently similar to me, seem to feel nothing in the presence of a woman's body, something that—at fourteen and still now —plunges me into a state of agitation I can't control. In most circumstances in my life, I have had about as much freedom as has a vacuum cleaner.
The sun was beginning to get hot. I noticed that Babette and Léa had arrived on the beach; they had settled themselves about ten meters away from me. Today, they were topless and dressed simply, identically, in white thongs. Apparently they'd met some boys, but I didn't think they were going to sleep with them. The guys weren't bad, reasonably muscular, but not that great either—all in all, pretty average.
I got up and gathered my things. Babette had put her copy of
Elle
next to her towel. I glanced toward the sea. They were swimming and laughing with the boys. I stooped quickly and stuffed the magazine into my bag, then moved further along the beach.
Elle
next to her towel. I glanced toward the sea. They were swimming and laughing with the boys. I stooped quickly and stuffed the magazine into my bag, then moved further along the beach.
The sea was calm; the view stretched out to the east. Cambodia was probably on the other side, or maybe Vietnam. There was a yacht, midway to the horizon. There must be millionaires who spend their time sailing back and forth across the oceans of the world, a life at once monotonous and romantic.
Valérie approached, walking along the water's edge, amusing herself by taking a sidestep now and then to avoid a stronger wave. I quickly propped myself up on my elbows, becoming painfully conscious that she had a magnificent body and was very attractive in her rather sensible two-piece swimsuit. Her breasts filled out the bikini top perfectly. I gave a little wave, thinking that she hadn't seen me, but in fact she was already looking in my direction. It's not easy to one-up a woman.
"You're reading
Elle
?"
she asked, a little surprised, quietly ironic.
Elle
?"
she asked, a little surprised, quietly ironic.
"Well...," I said.
"May I?" she sat down beside me. Easily, with the familiarity of a regular reader, she skimmed through the magazine: a quick look at the fashion pages, another at the front pages.
"
Elle
reads," "
Elle
goes out" .. .
"
Elle
reads," "
Elle
goes out" .. .
"Did you go to another massage parlor last night?" she asked, with a sidelong glance.
"Um, no, I couldn't find one."
She nodded briefly and went back to reading the cover story: "Are You Programmed to Love Him Forever?"
"Is it any good?" I asked after a silence.
"I haven't got a lover," she replied soberly. This girl completely unsettled me.
"I don't really understand this magazine," she continued without a pause. "All it talks about is fashion and 'new trends': what you should see, what you should read, the causes you should campaign for, new topics of conversation . . . The readers couldn't possibly wear the same clothes as the models, and why on earth would they be interested in new trends? They're mostly older women."
"You think so?" "I'm sure of it. My mother reads it."
"Maybe the writers simply write about the things they're interested in, not what interests their readers."
"Economically, that shouldn't be viable. Normally things are done to satisfy the customer's tastes."
"Maybe it does satisfy the customer's tastes."
She pondered. "Maybe," she replied hesitantly.
"You think when you're sixty you won't be interested in new trends anymore?" I insisted.
"I certainly hope not," she said sincerely.
I lit a cigarette. "If I'm going to stay, I'll have to put on sunscreen," I said in a melancholy voice.
"We're going for a swim! You can put on sunscreen after." In a flash she was on her feet and pulling me toward the shore.
She was a good swimmer. Personally, I can't say that I know how to swim. I can float on my back for a bit, but I get tired quickly. "You get tired too fast," she said. "It's because you smoke too much. You should play some sports. I'm going to sort you out." She twisted my bicep. Oh no, I thought, no. She eventually calmed clown and went back to sunning herself after she'd vigorously dried her hair. She was pretty like that, with her long black hair all tousled. She didn't take off her top, which was a pity; I would have really liked her to take off her top. I would have liked to see her breasts, here, now.
She caught me looking at her breasts and smiled quickly. "Michel,'' she said after a moment's silence. I flinched at the use of my first name. "Why do you feel so old?" she asked, looking me straight in the eyes.
It was a good question; I choked a little.
"You don't have to answer right away," she said gently. "I've got a book for you," she went on, taking it from her bag. I was surprised to recognize the yellow cover of the "Masque" series, and a title by Agatha Christie,
The Hollow
.
The Hollow
.
"Agatha Christie?" I said, bewildered.
"Read it anyway. I think you'll find it interesting."
I nodded like an idiot. "Are you not coming to lunch?" she asked after a moment. "It's one o'clock already."
"No . . . No, I don't think so."
"You don't much like being in a group?" There was no point in answering, so I smiled. We picked up our things and left together. On the way, we met Lionel, who was wandering around like a lost soul. He gave us a friendly wave, but already it seemed as if he wasn't having so much fun. It isn't for nothing that single men are so rare at resorts. You'll find them, nervous, on the periphery of the recreational activities. Most often, they turn and leave. Sometimes they launch into them, and participate. I left Valérie in front of the restaurant tables.
In every Sherlock Holmes story you immediately recognize a number of basic characteristics of the hero. However, each story also never fails to introduce some new peculiarity (the cocaine, the violin, the existence of his older brother, Mycroft, the taste for Italian opera, certain services rendered long ago to the crowned heads of Europe, the first case Sherlock Holmes ever solved when he was still an adolescent). Each new detail that is revealed casts new areas of shadow, creating a truly fascinating character. Thus, Conan Doyle succeeded in creating a perfect mixture of the
pleasure of discovery
and the
pleasure of recognition
.
I always felt that Agatha Christie, on the other hand, placed too much emphasis on the pleasure of recognition. In her initial descriptions of Poirot, she has a tendency to limit herself to a couple of stock phrases, restricting description to her character's most obvious traits (his mania for symmetry, his patent-leather boots, the care he lavishes on his mustaches). In the more mediocre books, you get the impression that the phrases have been copied directly from one novel to another.
pleasure of discovery
and the
pleasure of recognition
.
I always felt that Agatha Christie, on the other hand, placed too much emphasis on the pleasure of recognition. In her initial descriptions of Poirot, she has a tendency to limit herself to a couple of stock phrases, restricting description to her character's most obvious traits (his mania for symmetry, his patent-leather boots, the care he lavishes on his mustaches). In the more mediocre books, you get the impression that the phrases have been copied directly from one novel to another.
That said,
The Hollow
was different, and this was largely due to the ambitious character of Henrietta, the sculptor, in whom Agatha Christie tried to portray not only the agony of creation (the scene where she destroys a statue just after laboring to finish it because she senses that it is lacking
something
),
but that suffering that is particular to being an artist, an inability to be
truly
happy or unhappy, to
truly
feel hatred, despair, ecstasy, or love —the sort of aesthetic filter that separates, mercilessly, the artist from the world. The author had put much of herself into her character, and her candor was evident. Unfortunately, this isolation causes the artist to experience her surroundings in only a vague, ambiguous, and consequently less intense manner, making her a less interesting character.
The Hollow
was different, and this was largely due to the ambitious character of Henrietta, the sculptor, in whom Agatha Christie tried to portray not only the agony of creation (the scene where she destroys a statue just after laboring to finish it because she senses that it is lacking
something
),
but that suffering that is particular to being an artist, an inability to be
truly
happy or unhappy, to
truly
feel hatred, despair, ecstasy, or love —the sort of aesthetic filter that separates, mercilessly, the artist from the world. The author had put much of herself into her character, and her candor was evident. Unfortunately, this isolation causes the artist to experience her surroundings in only a vague, ambiguous, and consequently less intense manner, making her a less interesting character.
Fundamentally conservative, and hostile to any idea of the social redistribution of wealth, Agatha Christie promulgated many deep-seated ideological positions throughout her career as a writer. In practice, this radical theoretical engagement nonetheless made it possible for her to be frequently cruel in her descriptions of the English aristocracy, whose privileges she so staunchly defended. Lady Angkatell is a burlesque character, only barely credible and often almost terrifying. The author is clearly fascinated with her creation, who has clearly forgotten, even those rules that apply to all human beings. She must have enjoyed writing sentences like "But then one doesn't exactly
introduce
people —not when somebody had just been killed" —but her sympathies did not lie with Lady Angkatell. On the other hand, she paints a warm portrait of Midge, forced to work as a salesgirl during the week, and who spends her weekends among people who haven't the faintest idea of what work really is. Spirited, lively. Midge loves Edward hopelessly. Edward, for his part, thinks himself a failure. He hasn't succeeded at anything in his life,
not even at becoming a writer
:
he writes short stories of disenchanted irony for obscure journals read only by confirmed bibliophiles. Three times he proposes marriage to Henrietta, without success. Henrietta is John's mistress, and she admires his strength and his radiant personality, but John is married. His murder shatters the delicate balance of unfulfilled desire between the characters. Edward finally realizes that Henrietta will never want him, and that he can never measure up to John. Nor can he bring himself closer to Midge; thus, his life seems to be completely ruined. It is at this point that
The Hollow
becomes a strange, poignant book, as these are deep waters, with powerful under-currents. In the scene in which Midge saves Edward from committing suicide, and in which he proposes to her, Agatha Christie achieves something beautiful, a sort of Dickensian sense of wonder.
introduce
people —not when somebody had just been killed" —but her sympathies did not lie with Lady Angkatell. On the other hand, she paints a warm portrait of Midge, forced to work as a salesgirl during the week, and who spends her weekends among people who haven't the faintest idea of what work really is. Spirited, lively. Midge loves Edward hopelessly. Edward, for his part, thinks himself a failure. He hasn't succeeded at anything in his life,
not even at becoming a writer
:
he writes short stories of disenchanted irony for obscure journals read only by confirmed bibliophiles. Three times he proposes marriage to Henrietta, without success. Henrietta is John's mistress, and she admires his strength and his radiant personality, but John is married. His murder shatters the delicate balance of unfulfilled desire between the characters. Edward finally realizes that Henrietta will never want him, and that he can never measure up to John. Nor can he bring himself closer to Midge; thus, his life seems to be completely ruined. It is at this point that
The Hollow
becomes a strange, poignant book, as these are deep waters, with powerful under-currents. In the scene in which Midge saves Edward from committing suicide, and in which he proposes to her, Agatha Christie achieves something beautiful, a sort of Dickensian sense of wonder.
Her arms closed round him firmly. He smiled at her, murmuring:
"You're so warm. Midge—you're so warm."
Yes, she thought, that was what despair was. A cold thing, a thing of infinite coldness and loneliness. She'd never understood until now that despair was a cold thing. She had always thought of it as something hot and passionate, something violent, a hot-blooded desperation. But that was not so. This was despair—this utter outer darkness of coldness and loneliness. And the sin of despair, that priests talked of, was a cold sin, the sin of cutting oneself off from all warm and living human contacts.
I finished reading at about nine o'clock and walked to the window. The sea was calm, myriads of luminous specks danced on the surface. A delicate halo surrounded the circular face of the moon. I knew there was a
full-moon rave party
*
tonight at Ko Pha-Nghan. Babette and Léa would probably go, with a good many other guests. Giving up on life, putting one's own life to one side, is the easiest thing a person can do. As preparations for the evening continued, as taxis pulled up at the hotel, as everyone began to bustle in the corridors, I felt nothing more than a sad sense of relief.
full-moon rave party
*
tonight at Ko Pha-Nghan. Babette and Léa would probably go, with a good many other guests. Giving up on life, putting one's own life to one side, is the easiest thing a person can do. As preparations for the evening continued, as taxis pulled up at the hotel, as everyone began to bustle in the corridors, I felt nothing more than a sad sense of relief.
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