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 (9 page)

"I bought some presents for my family," she said. "I found some beautiful shells." The boat sped through the turquoise waters, between chalk crags covered with thick jungle; it was exactly how I imagined the scenery of
Treasure Island
.
"When all's said and done, nature is, well . . . ," I said. Valérie turned an attentive face toward me; she had tied her hair up in a chignon, but a couple of stray curls fluttered in the wind on either side of her face. "In the end, nature sometimes . . . ," I went on, discouraged. There should be "conversation classes," the way there are ballroom dancing classes; I'd probably spent too much time doing accounting, I had lost the knack. "You realize that it's December 31," she observed, unruffled. I looked around on all sides at the endless azure, the turquoise ocean. No, I really hadn't realized. Human beings must have had a lot of courage to colonize cold regions.

Sôn stood up to address the group: "We now approaching Ko Phi Phi. I tell you before, here cannot go. You put swimsuit on, go now? Walk, not deep, walk. Walk in water. Not take luggage, luggage later." The pilot rounded a cape and cut the engine, and the boat continued to drift into a small cove that carved a curve into the heart of a set of cliffs shrouded in jungle. The clear green water broke on a beach of white sand so perfect it seemed unreal. In the middle of the jungle, before the first slopes, you could make out wooden huts built on stilts, their roofs thatched with palm leaves. The group fell silent for a moment. "Heaven on earth," said Sylvie softly, choked up with genuine emotion. It was hardly an exaggeration. That said, she was no Eve. I was no Adam either.

One by one the group members got up and stepped over the edge of the boat. I helped Josette clown to her waiting husband. She had hitched her skirt up to her waist and was having trouble getting over the side, but she was thrilled, she was virtually wetting herself with excitement. I turned around to see the Thai boatman waiting, leaning on his oar, for all the passengers to disembark. Valérie sat with her hands crossed in her lap; she shot me a sidelong glance and smiled in embarrassment. "I forgot to put on my swimsuit," she said at last. I lifted my hands slowly in a gesture of helplessness. "I can go," I said stupidly. She bit her lips in irritation, got up, took off her trousers in a single movement. She was wearing lace panties, very sheer, not at all in the spirit of the trip. Her pubic hair peeked out at the sides, it was quite thick, very black. I didn't turn away, that would have been stupid, but nor was my gaze insistent. I got out of the boat on the left-hand side, offered her my arm to help her down, and she jumped down from the boat. We were up to our waists in the water.

Before going to the beach, Valérie looked again at the shell necklaces she was taking back for her nieces. Immediately after graduation, her brother had got a job as a research engineer with Elf. After a few months of on-site training, he had left for Venezuela —his first assignment. A year later, he married a local girl. Valérie had the impression lie hadn't had much previous sexual experience. At least, he had never brought girls home. That's often the way with boys who study engineering—they haven't got time to go out, to have girlfriends. They spend their free time on trivial hobbies, complex role-playing games or chess on the Internet. They get their degrees, find themselves their first jobs, and discover everything at once: money, professional responsibility, sex. If they are posted to a tropical country, it's rare for them to resist. Bertrand had married a very dark mixed-race girl with a superb body; several times when they were on vacation at her parents', on the beach at Saint-Quay-Portrieux, Valérie had felt a violent surge of desire for her sister-in-law. She found it difficult to imagine her brother making love. Still, they had two children now and seemed to be a happy couple. It wasn't difficult to buy presents for Juana; she adored jewelry, and pale stones stood out beautifully against her dark skin. On the other hand, she hadn't found anything for Bertrand. When men have no vices, she thought, it's very difficult to guess what might make them happy.

I was leafing through a copy
of
Phuket Weekly
I'd found in the hotel lobby when I saw Valérie walking along the beach. Further along, a group of Germans were swimming in the nude. She hesitated for a moment, then walked toward me. The sun was dazzling; it was about midday. One way or another, I would have to learn to play the game. Babette and Léa walked past wearing shoulder bags but otherwise they too were completely naked. I registered this information without reacting. By contrast, Valerie's eyes followed them for a while with shameless curiosity. They settled themselves not far from the Germans. "I think I'll go for a swim," I said. "I'll go in later," she replied. I entered the water effortlessly. It was warm, translucent, and deliciously calm. Tiny, silver-colored fish swam close to the surface. The slope was very gentle; I could still touch bottom a hundred meters from shore. I slipped my cock out of my trunks, closed my eyes, and visualized Valerie's snatch as I had seen it that morning, half-exposed through her lace panties. I was hard, that in itself was something; it could be considered motive enough in itself. Besides, you have to live, you have to relate to other people. I was generally too uptight, and had been so for far too long. Perhaps I should have taken up some hobby in the evenings—badminton, choral singing, or something. Even so, the only women I was still able to remember were the ones I'd fucked. That's not nothing either; we build up memories so that we will feel less alone at the moment of death. But I shouldn't think like that. "Think positive," I murmured in English to myself, panicked. "Think different." I made my way back to the beach, stopping every ten strokes, breathing deeply to try and calm myself. The first thing I noticed as I stepped onto the sand was that Valérie had taken off her bikini top. At that moment, she was lying on her stomach, but she would turn over, it was as ineluctable as the movement of the planets. Where was I in this situation exactly? I sat down on my towel, hunched over slightly. "Think different," I reminded myself. I had seen breasts before, I had stroked them, licked them: nonetheless, I found myself in a state of shock. I had already been certain that she had magnificent breasts; but it was worse than I had imagined. I couldn't tear my eyes from the nipples, the areolas. It was impossible for her not to notice me staring —even so, she said nothing for what seemed to me several long seconds. What exactly does go on in women's heads? They adapt to the rules of the game so easily. Sometimes, when they look at themselves naked in a full-length mirror, you can see a sort of realism in their eyes, a dispassionate assessment of their personal powers of seduction that no man could ever achieve. I was the first to lower my eyes.

After that, an indeterminate period of time elapsed. The sun was still directly overhead, the light extremely bright. I was staring at the white, powdery sand. "Michel . . . , ' ' she said softly. I looked up quickly as though I'd been struck. Her exceptionally brown eyes stared deeply into mine. "What have Thai girls got that western women don't?" she asked plainly. Yet again I was unable to hold her gaze. Her chest rose and fell to the rhythm of her breathing; I thought I saw her nipples harden. Right there, right then, I wanted to reply: "Nothing." Then I had an idea; not a very good idea.

"There's an article in English about it in here, sort of an advertorial": I handed her the copy
of
Phuket Weekly
."
'Find your longlife companion . . . Well educated Thai ladies,' that one?" "Yes, a bit further on there's an interview." Cham Sawanasee, smiling, black suit and dark tie, answered the "Ten Questions You Could Ask" on the working of the Heart to Heart agency, which he managed.

"There seems to be," noted Mr. Sawanasee, "a near-perfect match between the western men, who are unappreciated and get no respect in their own countries, and the Thai women, who would be happy to find someone who simply does his job and hopes to come home to a pleasant family life after work. Most western women do not want such a boring husband.

"One easy way to see this," he went on, "is to look at any publication containing 'personal' ads. The western woman wants someone who looks a certain way, and who has certain 'social skills,' such as dancing and clever conversation, someone who is interesting and exciting and seductive. Now go to my catalogue, and look at what the girls say they want. It's all pretty simple, really. Over and over they state that they are happy to settle down FOREVER with a man who is willing to hold down a steady job and be a loving and understanding HUSBAND and FATHER. That will get you exactly nowhere with an American girl!

"As western women do not appreciate men," he concluded, not without a certain smugness, "as they do not value traditional family life, marriage is not the right thing for them. I'm helping modern western women to avoid what they despise."

"What he's saying makes sense," Valérie remarked sadly. "There's a market there, all right." She put down the magazine, still thoughtful. At that moment Robert passed in front of us; he was walking along the beach, hands clasped behind his back, looking serious. Valérie abruptly turned to look the other way.

"I don't like that guy," she whispered angrily.

"He's not stupid." I made a rather noncommittal gesture.

"He's not stupid, but I don't like him. He goes out of his way to shock people, to make himself unpleasant; I don't like that. At least you try to fit in."

"Really?" I shot her a surprised look.

"Yes. It's obvious you don't find it easy, you're not cut out for this kind of holiday; but at least you make an effort. Deep down, I think you're rather a nice boy."

At that moment I could have, and I should have, taken her in my arms, stroked her breasts, kissed her lips; stupidly, I didn't. The afternoon dragged on, the sun moved over the palms. We said nothing of any significance.

For dinner on New Year's Eve, Valérie wore a long dress of sinuous, slightly transparent green material, the top of which was a bustier that showed off her breasts. After dessert, there was a band out
on
the terrace. A weird old singer did Muzak Bob Dylan covers in a nasal whine. Babette and Léa had apparently joined the German group; I heard shouts coming from their end. Josette and René danced together in a tender embrace like the nice little proles they were. The night was hot; emerald moths clustered around the multicolored paper lanterns that hung from the balustrade. I felt suffocated; I drank whiskey after whiskey.

"What that guy was saying, the interview in the magazine .. ."

"Yes?" Valérie looked up at me; we were sitting side by side on a rattan bench. Under her bustier, her breasts were more rounded, as though they were being offered in their own little shells. She had put on makeup; her long hair was free and floated about her shoulders.

"It's mostly true of American women, I think. For Europeans, it's less clear-cut.''

She pulled a face, clearly unconvinced, and said nothing. Obviously, I should have just asked her to dance. I drank another whiskey, leaned back on the bench, and took a deep breath.

When I woke, the room was almost empty. The singer was still humming in Thai, halfheartedly accompanied by the drummer. No one was listening anymore. The Germans had disappeared, but Babette and Léa were deep in conversation with two Italians who had appeared from who knows where. Valérie had left. It was three in the morning local time; 2001 had just begun. In Paris, it would officially begin in three hours' time; it was exactly midnight in Tehran, five in the morning in Tokyo. Humanity in all its different forms was creeping into the third millennium; for my part, I had pretty much blown my entrance.

I went back to my cabin, mortally ashamed. Laughter was coming from the garden. I came across a small gray toad, sitting stock-still in the middle of the sandy path. It did not hop away, it had no defense mechanisms whatsoever. Sooner or later someone would accidentally step on it; its spinal column would snap, its pulped flesh would seep into the sand. The walker would feel something soft beneath his foot, utter a blunt curse, wipe off his shoes, rubbing them on the ground. I pushed the toad forward with my foot: unhurried, he made his way to the edge of the path. I pushed him again: he regained the relative safety of the lawn. I had probably prolonged his survival by a few hours. I felt I was barely better off than he was: I hadn't grown up sheltered by the cocoon of a family, nor by anything that might have concerned itself with my fate, supported me in times of misery, enthused about my adventures and my successes. Nor had I established such an entity for myself: I was single, childless; no one would have thought to come and seek support on my shoulder. Like an animal, I had lived and I would die alone. For several minutes I wallowed in gratuitous self-pity.

From another point of view, I was a compact, resilient object, of a larger size than the average animal. My life expectancy was comparable to that of an elephant, or of a crow, and I was much more difficult to destroy than a small batrachian.

For the two days that followed, I remained holed up in my cabin. From time to time I went out, hugging the walls, as far as the minimarket to buy pistachios and some bottles of Mekong. I couldn't face running into Valérie again at the breakfast buffet or on the beach. There are some things that one can do, others that seem too difficult. Gradually, everything becomes too difficult: that's what life conies down to.

On the afternoon of January
2,
I found a Nouvelles Frontières customer satisfaction questionnaire slipped under my door. I filled it out scrupulously, generally ticking the boxes marked "Good." It was true, in some sense, that everything had been good. My holiday had "gone smoothly." The tour had been "cool" but with a hint of adventure; it lived up to the description in the brochure. In the "Personal Comments" section, I wrote the following quatrain:

Shortly after waking, I feel myself transported
   To a different universe, its contours ruled and picked
   I know about this life, its details are all sorted
   It's very like a questionnaire, with boxes to be ticked

On the morning of January 3, I packed my suitcase. When she saw me on the boat, Valérie suppressed an exclamation; I looked away. Sôn said her good-byes at Phuket airport. We were early; the plane would not leave for three hours. After the check-in formalities, I wandered around the shopping arcade. Even though the departures hall was completely roofed over, the shops were built in the form of huts, with teak uprights and roofs thatched with palm leaves. The choice of products ranged from international standards (scarves by Hermes, perfumes by Yves Saint-Laurent, bags by Vuitton) to local products (shells, ornaments, Thai silk ties); every item had a barcode. All in all, airport shops still form part of the national culture; but a part that is safe, attenuated, and wholly adapted to global consumption. For the traveler at the end of his journey, it is a halfway house, less interesting and less frightening than the rest of the country. I had an inkling that, more and more, the whole world would come to resemble an airport.

Passing the Coral Emporium, I suddenly had the urge to buy a present for Marie-Jeanne; after all, she was all I had in the world. A necklace, a brooch? I was rummaging in a tray when I noticed Valérie a couple of meters away from me.

"I'm trying to choose a necklace," I said hesitantly.

"For a brunette or a blonde?" There was a trace of bitterness in her voice.

"Blonde, blue eyes."

"In that case, you'd be better off with a pale coral."

I handed my boarding card to the girl at the counter. As I was paying, I said to Valérie in a rather pitiful tone of voice: "It's for a colleague at work." She gave me a strange look as though she were of two minds, whether to slap me or burst out laughing; but she walked a little way with me to the shop entrance. Most of the group were sitting on benches in the hall; apparently they had finished their shopping. I stopped, took a long breath, and turned to Valérie.

"We could see each other in Paris," I said finally.

"You think so?" she returned, scathingly.

I didn't reply, I simply looked at her again. At one point I intended to say, "It would be a pity," but I'm not sure whether I actually uttered the words.

Valérie looked around, saw Babette and Léa on the nearest bench, and turned away in irritation. Then she took a notepad out of her bag, tore off a page, and quickly wrote something on it. As she gave me the piece of paper, she started to say something, gave up, turned, and rejoined the group. I glanced at the piece of paper before pocketing it: it was a cell-phone number.

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