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

Platform (21 page)

One evening, I ran into Lionel as I was leaving work. I hadn't seen him since the Thai Tropic trip almost a year earlier, yet, curiously enough, I recognized him at once. I was a little surprised that he had made such a strong impression on me; I couldn't remember having said a word to him at the time.

Things were going well, he told me. A large cotton disk covered his right eye. He'd had an accident at work, something had exploded; but it was okay, they'd managed to treat him in time, he would recover 50 percent of the sight in his eye. I invited him for a drink in a cafe near the Palais-Royal. I wondered whether I would recognize Robert or Josiane or the other members of the group as easily—yes, probably. It was a slightly distressing thought, that my memory was constantly filling up with information that was almost completely useless. As a human being, I was particularly proficient in the recognition and storage of images of other humans.
Nothing is more useful to man than man himself
.
The reason I had invited Lionel was not particularly clear to me; there was every indication that the conversation would drag. To keep it going, I asked whether he'd had the opportunity to go back to Thailand. No, and it wasn't for lack of wanting, but unfortunately the trip was rather expensive. Had he seen any of the other members of the group again? No, none of them. Then I told him I had seen Valérie, whom he might perhaps remember, and that we were now living together. He seemed happy at this news; we had clearly made a good impression on him. He didn't get the chance to travel much, he told me, and that holiday in Thailand in particular was one of his fondest memories. I started to feel moved by his simplicity, his naive longing for happiness. It was at that point that I did something that, thinking back on it even today, I'm tempted to describe as "good." On the whole, I am not good, it is not one of my character traits. Humanitarians disgust me, the fate of others is generally a matter of indifference to me, nor have I any memory of ever having felt any sense of "solidarity" with other human beings. The fact remains that, that evening, I explained to Lionel that Valérie worked in the tourist industry, that her company was about to open a new club in Krabi, and that I could easily get him a weeklong stay at a 50 percent discount. Obviously, this was pure invention, but I had decided to pay the difference. Maybe, to a degree, I was trying to
show off
;
but it seems to me that I also felt a genuine desire for him to be able, even if only for a week of his life, to once again feel pleasure at the expert hands of young Thai prostitutes.

When I told her about the meeting, Valérie looked at me, somewhat perplexed; she herself had no memory of Lionel. That really was the problem with the boy; he wasn't a bad guy, but he had no personality. He was too shy, too humble, it was difficult to remember anything at all about him. "But it's fine," she said. "I mean, if it makes you happy. In fact, he doesn't even have to pay the 50 percent. I was going to talk to you about this. I'm going to get invitations for the week of the opening, which will be on January 1." I called Lionel the following day to tell him that his trip would be free. This was too much, he couldn't believe me. I even had a bit of trouble getting him to accept.

The same day, I received a visit from a young artist who had come to show me her work. Her name was Sandra Heksjtovoian, something like that, in any case some name that I was never going to remember. If I'd been her agent, I would have advised her to call herself Sandra Hallyday. She was a very young girl, wearing trousers and a T-shirt, fairly unremarkable, with a roundish face and short, curly hair; she had graduated from the Beaux Arts in Caen. She worked entirely on her body, she explained to me. As she opened her portfolio I looked at her anxiously, hoping she wasn't going to show me photos of plastic surgery on her toes or anything like that— I'd had it up to here with things like that. But no, she simply handed me some postcards that she had had made, with the imprint of her pussy dipped in different colors of paint. I chose a turquoise and a mauve, a little sorry I hadn't brought photos of my prick to return the favor. It was all very pleasant, but, well, as far as I could remember, Yves Klein had already done something similar more than forty years ago. I was going to have trouble championing her cause. Of course, of course, she agreed, you had to take it as an
exercice de style
.
She then took a more complex piece out of its cardboard packaging: it consisted of two wheels of unequal sizes linked by a thin strip of rubber, with a handle to operate the contraption. The strip of rubber was covered with small plastic protuberances that were more or less pyramid-shaped. I turned the handle and ran my finger along the moving ribbon. It produced a sort of friction that was not unpleasant to the touch. "They're casts of my clitoris," the girl explained. I immediately removed my finger. "While it was erect, I took photos using an endoscope, and put it all on a computer. Using 3-D software I reproduced the volume, modeling everything with 'ray tracing,' then I sent the coordinates to the factory." I got the feeling she was obsessing a little over the technical considerations. I turned the handle again, more or less unconsciously. "It cries out to be touched, doesn't it?" she went on with satisfaction. "I had thought of connecting it to a resistor so it could power a bulb. What do you think?" To be honest, I wasn't in favor of the idea. It seemed to detract from the simplicity of the object. She was quite sweet, this girl, for a contemporary artist. I almost felt like asking her to come to an orgy some night, I was sure she'd get along well with Valérie. I realized just in lime that, in my position, such a thing risked being construed as sexual harassment. I considered the contraption despondently. "You know," I said, "I'm really more involved in the financial aspects of the projects. For anything to do with the aesthetics, you'd be better off making an appointment to see Mlle. Durry." On a business card, I wrote down Marie-Jeanne's phone number and extension; after all, she must know a thing or two about this whole clitoris business. The girl looked a little disconcerted, but even so. she handed me a small bag filled with plastic pyramids. "I'll give you these casts," she said. "The factory made a lot of them." I thanked her and walked her back to the service entrance. Before saying goodbye, I asked her if the casts were life-size. Of course, she told me, it was all part of her artistic methodology.

That same evening, I examined Valerie's clitoris carefully. I had never really paid it any serious attention; whenever I had stroked or licked it, it was as part of a more overall plan, I had memorized the position, the angles, the rhythmic movement to adopt. But now I examined the tiny organ at length as it pulsed before my eyes. "What are you doing?" she asked, surprised, after five minutes spent with her legs apart. "It's an artistic methodology," I said, giving a little lick to soothe her impatience. The girl's cast lacked the taste and the smell, naturally, but otherwise there was an undeniable resemblance. My examination complete, I parted Valerie's pussy with both hands and licked her clitoris with short, precise thrusts of my tongue. Was it the waiting that had stimulated her desire? More precise, more attentive movements on my part? The fact remains that she came almost immediately. Actually, I decided, Sandra was a pretty talented artist; her work encouraged one to
see the world in a new light
.

As early as the beginning of December, it was clear that the Aphrodite clubs were going to be a huge success, and probably a success on a
historic
scale. November is traditionally the most difficult month for the tourist industry. In October, there are still a number of late-season departures; in December, the Christmas period takes over; but rare, extremely rare, are those who consider taking a holiday in November, apart from some particularly hard-nosed and savvy senior citizens. Yet, the first results to come back from the clubs were excellent. The formula had been an immediate success, people were going so far as to talk about a deluge. I had dinner with Jean-Yves and Valérie the night the initial figures came in. He stared at me, almost bizarrely, the results had so exceeded his expectations: taken as
a
whole, the occupancy for the month was 95 percent, regardless of destination. "Ah yes, sex," I said, embarrassed. "People need sex, that's all, it's just that they don't dare admit it." All of this made us inclined to be contemplative, almost silent; the waiter brought the antipasti. "The Krabi opening is going to be unbelievable," Jean-Yves went on. "Rembke phoned me, everything is entirely booked up for three weeks. What's even better is that there's been nothing in the press, not a line. A discreet success, as massive as it is confidential; exactly what we were aiming for."

He had finally decided to rent a studio flat and leave his wife. He would not get the keys until January 1, but he was a lot better, I sensed he was already more relaxed. He was relatively young, handsome, and extremely rich—all things, I realized, a little alarmed, that do not necessarily make life easier; but they help, at least, in awakening desire in others. I still could not understand his ambition, the furious energy he invested in making a success of his career. It wasn't for the money, I don't think: he paid high taxes and didn't have expensive tastes. Nor was it out of commitment to the company, or from a more general altruism, as it would be difficult to imagine the development of global tourism as a noble cause. His ambition existed in its own right, it couldn't be pinned down to one specific source: it was probably more like the desire to build something, rather than a taste for power or a competitive nature —I had never heard him talk about the careers of his former friends at the HEC business school, and I don't think he gave them a second thought. All in all, it was a respectable motive, not unlike the one that explains the very advance of human civilization. The social reward bestowed on him was a large salary; under other regimes it might have taken the form of an aristocratic title, or of privileges like those accorded to the members of the
nomenklatura;
I didn't get the impression that it would have made much difference. In reality, Jean-Yves worked because he had a taste for work; it was something both mysterious and clear.

On December 15, two weeks before the opening, he received an anxious phone call from TUI. A German tourist had just been kidnapped with a Thai girl. The kidnapping had taken place in Hat Yai, in the extreme south of the country. The local police had received a confused message, written in bad English, that expressed no demands but indicated that the two young people would be executed for behavior in contravention of Islamic law. For some months there had indeed been an increase in the activities of Islamic movements, supported by Libya, in the border area with Malaysia; but this was the first time that they had attacked people.

On December 18, the naked, mutilated bodies of the young people were thrown from a van, right in the middle of the main square of the town. The young girl had been stoned to death, she had been beaten with extraordinary violence; everywhere her skin was ripped open, her body was little more than a giant blister, barely recognizable. The German's throat had been cut and he had been castrated. His penis and testicles had been stuffed into his mouth. This time, the entire German press picked up the story, and there were even some brief articles in France. The papers had decided not to publish photographs of the victims, but they quickly became available on the usual Internet sites. Jean-Yves telephoned TUI every day, though so far, the situation was not alarming —there had been few cancellations, people stuck to their holiday plans. The prime minister of Thailand made repeated reassurances: it was undoubtedly an isolated incident, all known terrorist groups condemned the kidnapping and the executions.

As soon as we arrived in Bangkok, however, I felt a certain tension, especially around the Sukhumvit area, where most of the Middle Eastern tourists stayed. They came mainly from Turkey or Egypt, but sometimes also from more hard-line Muslim countries such as Saudi Arabia or Pakistan. When they walked through the crowds, I could feel the hostile stares directed toward them. At the entrances to most of the hostess bars, I saw signs:
No
Muslims Here
;*
the owner of a bar in Patpong had even clarified his line of reasoning, writing in a decorative hand the following message:
We respect your Muslim faith: we don't want you to drink whiskey and enjoy Thai girls
.
The poor things were hardly to blame, since it was obvious that in the event of a terrorist attack, they would be the first to be targeted. On my first visit to Thailand, I had been surprised by the presence of people from Arab countries. In fact, they came for exactly the same reasons as westerners, with one slight difference: they threw themselves into debauchery with much more enthusiasm. Often, in the hotel bars you'd find them around a bottle of whiskey at ten in the morning, and they were first to arrive as soon as the massage parlors opened. In clear breach of Islamic law and probably feeling guilty about it, they were, for the most part, courteous and charming.

Bangkok was as polluted, noisy, and stifling as always, but I was just happy to be back. Jean-Yves had two or three meetings with bankers, or at some ministry; anyway, I only vaguely followed what was going on. After two days, he informed us that his meetings had been very conclusive: the local authorities were as obliging as possible and were prepared to do anything to attract the smallest amount of western investment. For a number of years, Thailand had been unable to alleviate its economic crisis. The stock exchange and the currency were at historic lows, government debt had reached 70 percent of the gross domestic product. "They're so deep in shit that they're not even corrupt anymore," Jean-Yves told us. "I had to grease a few palms, but not many, nothing at all compared to what was going on five years ago."

On the morning of December 31, we took the plane to Krabi. As we got out of the minibus, I ran into Lionel, who had arrived the previous evening. He was delighted, he told me, absolutely delighted. I had a bit of trouble stemming his torrent of gratitude. But, as I arrived at my chalet, I too was struck by the beauty of the landscape. The beach was immense, immaculate, the sand as fine as powder. Over a distance of thirty meters, the ocean veered from azure to turquoise, from turquoise to emerald. Vast chalk crags covered with lush green forests rose out of the water as far as the horizon, losing themselves in the light and the distance, giving the bay a depth that seemed unreal, cosmic.

"Isn't this the place where they filmed
The Beach
?"
Valérie asked me.

"No, I think that was at Ko Phi Phi; but I haven't seen the film."

According to her, I hadn't missed much; apart from the landscapes, it had nothing to recommend it. I vaguely remembered the book, which tells the story of a bunch of backpackers in search of an unspoiled island. The only clue they have is a map drawn for them by an old traveler in a shitty hotel on Khao San Road, just before he commits suicide. First, they go to Ko Samui—much too touristy; from there they go to a neighboring island, but there are still too many people for their liking. In the end, by bribing a sailor, they finally arrive on their island, situated in a nature reserve and therefore, in theory, inaccessible. It's at this point that things start to go wrong. The early chapters of the book perfectly illustrate the curse of the tourist, caught up in a frenetic search for places that are "not touristy," which his very presence undermines, forever forced to move on, following a plan whose very fulfillment, little by little, renders it futile. This hopeless situation, comparable to a man trying to escape his own shadow, was common knowledge in the tourist industry, Valérie informed me: in sociological terms it was known as the "double-bind paradox."

The vacationers who had chosen the Krabi Eldorador Aphrodite, at any rate, did not look ready to succumb to the double-bind paradox: although the beach was huge, they had all chosen more or less the same area. As far as I had been able to make out, they seemed to conform to the expected breakdown of clientele: lots of Germans, usually senior executives or people in liberal professions. Valérie had the precise figures: 80 percent Germans, 10 percent Italians, 5 percent Spaniards, and 5 percent French. The surprise was that there were a lot of couples. They looked pretty much like the sort of swinging couples that you might have run into on the Cap d'Agde. Most of the women had silicone-enhanced breasts; a lot of them wore a gold chain around their waists or ankles. I also noticed that almost everyone swam in the nude. All of this made me fairly confident; you never have any trouble from people like that. In contrast to a "backpackers' paradise," a resort dedicated to wife-swapping, which only comes into its own when visitor numbers are high, is not paradoxical by definition. In a world where the greatest of luxuries is acquiring the wherewithal to avoid other people, the good-natured sociability of middle-class German wife-swappers constitutes a form of particularly subtle subversion, I said to Valérie, just as she was taking off her bra and panties. Immediately after undressing, I was a little embarrassed to discover that I had a hard-on, and I lay down on my stomach beside her. She parted her thighs, serenely baring her sex to the sun. A few meters to our right was a group of German women who seemed to be discussing an article from
Der Spiegel
.
One of them had shaved her pubic hair, so that you could easily make out
her slender, delicate slit. "I really go for that type of pussy," Valérie said in a low voice. "It makes you feel like slipping a finger inside." I agreed, but to our left was a Spanish couple where the woman, by contrast, had a really thick, black, curly pubic bush; I could really go for that too. As she lay down, I could make out the thick, plump lips of her pussy. She was a young woman, no more than twenty-five, but her breasts were heavy, with large, prominent areolas. "Come on, turn over onto your back," Valérie whispered into my ear. I did as I was told, keeping my eyes closed, as though somehow the fact that I could see nothing diminished the enormity of what we were doing. I felt my cock stand up, the glans emerging from its sheath of protective skin. By the end of about a minute I had stopped thinking entirely, concentrating purely on the sensation, and the warmth of the sun on the mucous membranes was immensely pleasurable. I did not open my eyes when I felt a thread of suntan lotion trickle onto my torso, then onto my stomach. Valerie's fingers moved in short, light touches. The fragrance of coconut filled the air. At the point when she began to rub oil into my penis. I opened my eyes suddenly: she was kneeling by my side, facing the Spanish woman, who had propped herself up on her elbows to watch. I threw my head back, staring at the blue of the sky. Valérie placed the palm of one hand on my balls and slipped her index finger into my anus; with her other hand she continued to jerk me off steadily. Turning my head to the left, I saw that the Spaniard was busying herself with her own guy's penis. I turned back to stare at the azure. At the point when I heard footsteps approaching across the sand, I closed my eyes again. First there was the sound of a kiss, then I heard whispering. After a time I no longer knew how many hands or fingers stroked and wrapped around my prick; the sound of the surf was very gentle.

After the beach, we toured the leisure center. It was getting dark, and the multicolored signs of the
go-go
bars
*
lit up one by one. A dozen bars in a circular piazza surrounded a huge massage parlor. In front of the entrance, we met Jean-Yves, who was just being escorted to the door by a girl wearing a long dress. She had large breasts and pale skin; she looked a little Chinese. "Is it nice inside?" Valérie asked him.

"It's amazing. A bit kitschy, but very lush. There are fountains, tropical plants, waterfalls. They've even put up statues of Greek goddesses."

We settled ourselves on a deep sofa upholstered with gold threads before choosing two girls. The massage was very pleasant, the hot water and the liquid soap dissolved all traces of suntan oil from our skin. The girls moved gracefully. To soap us, they used their breasts, their buttocks, their inner thighs. Immediately, Valérie started to moan. Once again I marveled at the richness of a woman's erogenous zones.

After drying ourselves, we lay down on a large, circular bed, two-thirds of its circumference encircled by mirrors. One of the girls licked Valérie, easily bringing her to orgasm. I knelt over her face, and the other girl caressed my balls, jerking me off in her mouth. At the point when she felt I was about to come, Valérie motioned to the girls to come closer. While the first girl licked my balls, the other kissed Valérie on the mouth; I ejaculated over their half-joined lips.

The guests for the New Year's Eve party were mostly Thais connected in one way or another with the tourist industry. None of the directors of Aurore had come. The head of TUI had also been unable to get away, but he had sent a subordinate who clearly had no power whatever but seemed thrilled at the opportunity. The buffet was an exquisite mixture of Thai and Chinese cuisine. There were crispy little
nems
with basil and lemongrass, deep-fried puffs of water spinach, shrimp curry with coconut milk, fried rice with cashew nuts and almonds, an unbelievable Peking duck that melted in the mouth. French wines had been imported for the occasion. I chatted for a while with Lionel, who seemed to be basking in contentment. He was accompanied by a ravishing girl from Chiang Mai whose name was Kim. He had met her in a
topless
*
bar on the first night and they had been together ever since. I could easily see what this big, slightly clumsy boy saw in the fragile creature, so delicate she seemed almost unreal—he could never have found such a girl in his own country. They were a godsend, these little Thai whores, I thought; a gift from heaven, nothing less. Kim spoke a little French. She had been to France once, Lionel marveled. Her sister had married a Frenchman.

''Really?" I inquired. "What does he do for a living?"

"He's a doctor." His face clouded a little. "Obviously, with me it wouldn't be the same kind of life.''

"You've got job security," I said optimistically.

"Everyone in Thailand dreams of being a civil servant." He looked at me, a little doubtful. It was true, though: the public sector fascinated the Thais. It's true that in Thailand civil servants are corrupt; not only do they have job security, they're rich too and have everything they want. ''Well, I wish you a lovely evening," I said, making my way toward the bar. "Thank you,'' he said, blushing. I don't know what possessed me to play the "man of the world" at that moment. Decidedly, I was getting old. I did have some doubts about the girl. Thai girls from the north are usually very beautiful, but sometimes they're a bit too conscious of the fact. They spend their time staring at themselves in the mirror, keenly aware that their beauty alone constitutes a crucial economic advantage, and as a result they become useless, capricious creatures. On the other hand, unlike some cool western chick, Kim was not in a position to realize that Lionel himself was a bore. The principal criteria for physical beauty are youth, absence of handicaps, and a general conformity to the norms of the species; they are quite clearly universal. The ancillary criteria —vaguer and more relative —were more difficult for a young girl from a different culture to appreciate. For Lionel, the exotic was a wise choice, possibly even the only choice. Anyway, I thought, I've done my best to help him.

A glass of Saint-Estèphe in hand, I sat on a bench to look at the stars. The year 2002 would mark France's introduction to the euro —among other things: there would also be the World Cup, the presidential elections, various high-profile media events. The rocky crags of the bay were lit up by the moon. I knew there would be a fireworks display at midnight. A few minutes later, Valérie came and sat beside me. I took her in my arms, put my head on her shoulder. I could barely make out the features of her face, but I recognized the scent, the texture of her skin. At the moment when the first rocket exploded, I noticed that her green, almost transparent dress was the same one she had worn a year before at the New Year's Eve party on Ko Phi Phi; when she pressed her lips against mine, I felt something strange, as though the very order of things had been upturned. Strangely, and without in the least deserving it, I had been given a second chance. It is very rare, in life, to have a second chance; it goes against all the rules. I hugged her fiercely to me, overwhelmed by a sudden desire to weep.

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