Platform (13 page)

'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 cheek, '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 . . .' Valerie 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. Valerie 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, 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, Valerie wore a long dress of sinuous, slightly transparent green material, the top of which was a bustier which showed off her breasts. After dessert, there was a band out on the terrace. A weird old singer did slow-rock cover versions of Bob Dylan songs in a nasal whine. Babette and Lea had apparently joined the German group; I heard shouts coming from their end. Josette and Rene danced together in a tender embrace like the nice little proles they were. The night was hot; emerald moths clustered around the multi-coloured paper lanterns which hung from the balustrade. I felt suffocated; I drank whisky after whisky.

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

'Yes? . . .' Valerie 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 whisky, 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, half-heartedly accompanied by the drummer; no one was listening any more.

The Germans had disappeared, but Babette and Lea were deep in conversation with two Italians who had appeared from who knows where. Valerie 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 Teheran, five in the morning in Tokyo. Humanity in all its different forms was entering this millennium; for my part, I had pretty much blown the entrance.

Chapter 12

I went back to my cabin, mortally ashamed; laughter was coming from the garden. I came across a small grey toad, sitting stock still in the middle of the sandy path. It did not hop away, it had no defensive reflex. 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 a unit of that sort: 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; 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 mini-market to buy pistachios and some bottles of Mekong. I couldn't face running into Valerie 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 comes down to.

On the afternoon of January 2nd, I found a Nouvelles Frontieres 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 3rd, I packed my suitcase. When she saw me on the boat, Valerie suppressed an exclamation; I looked away. Son said her goodbyes 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 which is safe, attenuated, one which fully complies with international standards of commerce. For the traveller 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 Valerie a couple of metres 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. I was paying, I said to Valerie in a rather pitiful tone of voice: 'It's for a colleague at work . . .' She gave me a strange look as though she were in 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 done their shopping. I stopped, took a long breath, turned to Valerie.

'We could see each other in Paris . . .' I said finally.

'You think so?' she said 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.

Valerie looked around, saw Babette and Lea 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, and turned and rejoined the group. I glanced at the piece of paper before pocketing it: it was a mobile phone number.

Part Two

Competitive Advantage

Chapter 1

The plane landed at Roissy at eleven o'clock; I was one of the first to collect my luggage. By half-past twelve I was home. It was Saturday; I could go out and do some shopping, buy some ornaments for the house, etc. An icy wind swept down the Rue Mouffetard and nothing really seemed worth the effort. Animal rights militants were selling yellow stickers. After Christmas, there's always a slight fall-off in domestic food consumption. I bought a roast chicken, two bottles of Graves and the latest copy of Hot Video. It was hardly an ambitious selection for my weekend, but it was all I deserved. I devoured half the chicken, the skin was charred and greasy, slightly revolting. Shortly after three o'clock I phoned Valerie. She answered on the second ring. Yes, she was free this evening; for dinner, yes. I could collect her at eight; she lived on the Avenue Reille, near the Pare Montsouris. She answered the door wearing a pair of white tracksuit bottoms and a short tee-shirt. 'I'm not ready . . .' she said, pulling her hair back. The movement raised her breasts; she wasn't wearing a bra. I put my hands on her waist, leaned my face closer to hers. She parted her lips, immediately slid her tongue into my mouth. A wave of violent excitement shuddered through me; I almost fainted, immediately got a hard on. Without moving her pubis from mine, she pushed the front door, which closed with a dull thud.

The room, lit by a single lamp, seemed huge. Valerie took me by the waist and, feeling her way, led me to her bedroom. By the bed, she kissed me again. I lifted her tee-shirt to stroke her breasts; she whispered something I didn't catch. I knelt in front of her, slipping down her tracksuit bottoms and her panties, then pressed my face to her sex. The slit was damp, the labia parted, she smelled good. She let out a moan and fell back on the bed. 1 undressed quickly and entered her. My penis was on fire, spasms of intense pleasure coursed though it. 'Valerie,' I said, 'I'm not going to be able to hold out for long, I'm too excited.' She pulled me to her and whispered in my ear: 'Come . . .'At that moment, I felt the walls of her pussy close on my penis. I felt as though I was disappearing into space, only my penis was alive, a wave of extraordinarily intense pleasure coursing through it. I ejaculated lengthily several times; right at the end, I realised I was screaming. I could have died for such a moment.

Blue and yellow fish were swimming around me. I was landing in the water, balancing a few metres beneath the sunlit surface. Valerie was a little way off; she too was standing, a coral reef in front of her, she had her back to me. We were both naked. I knew that this weightlessness was due to a change in the density of the ocean, but I was surprised to discover that I could breathe. In a few short strokes I was beside her. The reef was stippled with star-shaped organisms of phosphorescent silver. I placed a hand on her breasts, the other on her lower abdomen. She arched herself, her buttocks brushed against my penis.

I awoke precisely in that position; it was still dark. Gently, I parted Valerie's thighs so I could penetrate her. At the same time, I wet my fingers so I could rub her clitoris. I realised she was awake when she began to moan. She pushed herself on to her knees on the bed. I started to push into her harder and harder - I could tell she was about to come, her breaths came faster and faster. At the moment of orgasm she jerked and let out a heart-rending cry; then she was still, as though exhausted. I withdrew and lay beside her. She relaxed and wrapped herself around me; we were bathed in sweat. 'It's nice to be woken by pleasure . . .' she said, putting a hand on my chest.

When I woke again, it was daylight; I was alone in the bed. I got up and crossed the room. The other room was as vast as I had imagined, with a high ceiling. Above the sofa, bookshelves ran along a mezzanine. Valerie had gone out; on the kitchen table she had left some bread, cheese, butter and jam. I poured myself a coffee and went back to lie down. She returned ten minutes later with croissants and pains au chocolat and carried a tray into the bedroom. 'It's really cold out . . .' she said, getting undressed. I thought about Thailand.

'Valerie,' I said hesitantly, 'what do you see in me? I'm not particularly handsome, I'm not funny; I find it difficult to understand why anyone would find me attractive.' She looked at me and said nothing; she was almost naked, she had kept only her panties on. 'It's a serious question,' I insisted. 'Here I am, some washed-up guy, not very sociable, more or less resigned to his boring life. And you come to me, you're friendly, you're affectionate and you give me so much pleasure. I don't understand. It seems to me you're looking for something in me that isn't there. You're bound to be disappointed.' She smiled, I got the impression she was about to say something; then she put her hand on my balls, brought her face towards me. Immediately I was hard again. She wound a lock of hair around the base of my penis, then started to jerk me off with her fingertips.

'I don't know . . .' she said, without stopping what she was doing. 'It's nice that you're unsure of yourself. I wanted you so badly when we were on the trip. It was awful, I thought about it every day.' She pressed harder against my balls, enveloping them in the palm of her hand. With her other hand she took some raspberry jam and spread it on my penis; then she began conscientiously to lick it off with wide sweeps of her tongue. The pleasure was becoming more and more intense, I parted my legs in a desperate effort to hold myself back. As though it was a game, she started to jerk me off more quickly, pressing my cock to her mouth. When her tongue touched the tip of the glans, I ejaculated violently into her half-open mouth. She swallowed with a little moan, then wrapped her lips around the head of my penis to get the last drops. I was flooded with unbelievable serenity, like a wave coursing through each of my veins. She took her mouth away and lay down beside me, coiling herself around me.