Platform (16 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

At the end of August, the real estate agent in Cherbourg phoned to tell me he had found a buyer for my father's house. The guy wanted me to drop the price a little, but he was prepared to pay cash. I accepted immediately. Very shortly, I would, therefore, receive a little more than two million francs. At the time, I was working on a proposal for a touring exhibition in which frogs were to be released onto playing cards spread out in a mosaic-tiled enclosure—some of the tiles had been engraved with the names of great men of history, such as Dürer, Einstein, or Michelangelo. The lion's share of the budget was allocated to buying the decks of cards, since they needed to be changed fairly frequently. The frogs had to be changed too, from time to time. The artist wanted, at least for the inaugural exhibition in Paris, to use tarot cards. In the provinces, he was prepared to make do with ordinary playing cards. I decided to go to Cuba for a week with Valérie and Jean-Yves in early September. I had intended to pay my way, but she told me she would sort things out with the group.

"I won't get in the way of your work," I promised.

"We're not really going to work, you know, we'll just behave like ordinary tourists. We're not going to do anything much, but that in itself is very important. We're going to try and work out what's going wrong, why there's no atmosphere at the resort, why people don't come back thrilled from their holidays. You won't be in the way at all. On the contrary, you could be very useful."

We took the mid-afternoon flight to Santiago de Cuba on Friday, September 5. Jean-Yves hadn't been able to stop himself from bringing along his laptop, but he seemed relaxed in his pale blue polo, ready for a holiday. Shortly after takeoff, Valérie put her hand on my thigh; she relaxed, her eyes closed. "I'm not worried, I know we'll find out what's going on," she'd said to me as we were leaving.

The transfer from the airport took two and a half hours. "Negative number one," noted Valérie. "We must check and see if there's a flight into Holguín." In front of us on the bus, two little old ladies of about sixty, with blue-gray perms, twittered constantly, pointing out items of interest as we passed: men cutting sugar cane, a vulture wheeling over the fields, two cows returning to the barn . . . They had the air of ladies determined to be interested in everything, and they seemed dry and difficult. I got the impression they wouldn't be easy customers. Sure enough, when the rooms were being allocated, twitterer A doggedly insisted on having a room next door to twitterer B. This sort of demand had clearly not been anticipated. The receptionist couldn't understand at all, and the resort manager had to be sent for. He was about thirty, with a head like a ram and a stubborn air, his narrow brow furrowed with worry lines; in fact, he looked a lot like the actor Nagui. "No problem, okay," he said when the issue had been explained to him. "No problem, okay, my dear lady. This evening is not possible, but tomorrow we have some people leaving and we will change your room."

A porter took us to our ocean-view bungalow, turned on the air conditioning, and left with a dollar tip. "There we go," said Valérie, sitting down on the bed. "The meals are served buffet style. It's an all-inclusive package, including snacks and cocktails. The disco opens at eleven. There's a supplement for massages and for lighting the tennis courts at night." The aim of tourist companies is to make people happy, for a specified price, for a specified period. The task can be an easy one, or it can prove impossible —depending on the nature of the people, the services offered, and other factors. Valérie took off her trousers and her blouse. I lay down on the other twin bed. Our genitals exist as a source of permanent, accessible pleasure. The god who created all our unhappinesses, who-made us short-lived, vain, and cruel, has also provided this form of meager compensation. If we couldn't have sex from time to time, what would life be? A futile struggle against joints that stiffen, caries that form. All of which, moreover, is as uninteresting as humanly possible —the collagen that makes muscles stiffen, the appearance of microbic cavities in the gums. Valérie parted her thighs above-my mouth. She was wearing a pair of sheer Tanga briefs in purple lace. I pushed the fabric aside and wet my fingers in order to stroke her labia. For her part, she undid my trousers and took my penis in the palm of her hand. She began to massage my balls gently, unhurriedly. I grabbed a pillow so my mouth would be at the same level as her pussy. At that moment, I saw a maid sweeping the sand from the terrace. The curtains and the window were wide open. As her eyes met mine, the girl burst out laughing. Valérie sat up and motioned to her to come in. She stayed where she was, hesitant, leaning on her broom. Valérie got up, walked toward her, and held out her hands. As soon as the girl was inside, she started to open the buttons of her blouse. She was wearing nothing underneath but a pair of white cotton panties. She must have been about twenty, and her body was very brown, almost black. She had a firm little bust and finely curved buttocks. Valérie drew the curtains; I got up in turn. The girl's name was Margarita. Valérie took her hand and placed it on my penis. She burst out laughing again, but started to jerk me off. Valérie quickly took off her bra and panties, lay down on the bed, and started to stroke herself. Again, Margarita hesitated for a moment, then she took off her panties and knelt between Valerie's thighs. First she looked at her pussy, stroking it with her hand, then she brought her mouth closer and began to lick it. Valérie put her hand on Margarita's head to guide her as she continued to jerk me off with her other hand. I felt that I was going to come. I backed off and went to look for a condom in my bag. I was so excited that I had trouble finding one. As I put it on, my vision seemed almost blurred. The little black girl's ass rose and fell as she bobbed over Valerie's pubis. I penetrated her in one thrust, her pussy was open like a fruit. She moaned quietly, pushed her buttocks toward me. I started to thrust in and out of her any old how. My head was spinning, shudders of pleasure coursed through my body. It was getting dark, you could hardly see anything in the room now. From far, far away, as though from another world, I heard Valerie's rising cries. I pressed my hands hard against Margarita's ass, thrusting into her harder and harder. At the moment Valérie screamed, I came in turn. For a second or two I had the impression of weightlessness, of floating in space. Then the feeling of gravity returned, I suddenly felt exhausted. I collapsed on the bed into their arms.

Later, I vaguely saw Margarita getting dressed. Valérie rummaged in her bag to give her something. They kissed on the doorstep. Outside, it was dark. "I gave her forty dollars," said Valérie, lying down again beside me. "That's the price western men pay. To her, it's a month's salary." She turned on the bedside lamp. Silhouettes passed by, formed shadow puppets against the curtains; we could hear the murmur of conversation. I placed a hand on her shoulder.

"It was great," I said in a tone of incredulous wonder. "It was really great."

"Yes, she's very sensual, that girl. She was really good when she went down on me too."

"It's strange, what sex costs," I went on. "I get the impression that it doesn't really depend on a country's standard of living. Obviously, depending on the country, what's on offer is completely different; but the basic price is always pretty much the same: the amount westerners are prepared to pay."

"Do you think that's what they call 'supply-side economies'?"

"I've no idea." I shook my head. "I've never really understood anything about economics; it's like I have a mental block."

I was very hungry, but the restaurant didn't open until eight o'clock. I drank three piña coladas at the bar while watching the predinner entertainment. The effects of the orgasm dissipated only slowly, I was a bit tipsy, and from a distance all the actors looked like Nagui. Actually, they didn't, some of them were younger, but they all had something odd about them, a shaven head, a goatee, or dreadlocks. They gave terrifying cries and from time to time grabbed members of the audience to force them onstage. Thankfully, I was too far away to be in any serious danger.

The bar manager was pretty tiresome —he was, for want of a better word, useless. Every time I needed something, he simply waved contemptuously in the direction of the waiters. He looked a bit like an elderly bullfighter, with his scars and his small, contained potbelly. His yellow swimsuit hugged his penis very precisely; he was well hung, and he was determined to let it be known. As I was heading back to my table, having obtained, with extreme difficulty, my fourth cocktail, I saw the man approach one of the neighboring tables, occupied by a compact group of fifty-something Québécoises. I had already noticed them when they arrived: they were thickset and tough, all teeth and blubber, talking incredibly loudly. It wasn't difficult to understand how they bad managed to bury their husbands so quickly. I had a feeling that it wouldn't be wise to cut in front of them in line at the buffet, or to grab a bowl of cereal that one of them had her eyes on. As the aging hunk approached the table, they shot him amorous glances, almost becoming women again for the moment. He strutted extravagantly in front of them, accentuating his coarseness at regular intervals by gestures through his swimsuit, as though to confirm the physical existence of his meat n' three. The Québécoises seemed thrilled by his suggestive company; their aged, worn-out bodies still craved sunshine. He played his part well, whispered softly into the ears of these old creatures, referring to them, Cuban fashion, as
''
mi coraz
ó
n
"
or
"
mi amor
."
Nothing more would come of this, that was clear—he was content to arouse some last quivers in their aging pussies —but perhaps that was sufficient for them to go home with the impression that they had had a wonderful holiday, and for them to recommend the resort to their girlfriends. They had at least twenty years left in them. I sketched out the plot of a socially aware pornographic film entitled
Senior Citizens on the Rampage
.
It portrayed two gangs operating in a resort, one a group of elderly Italian men, the other of pensionettes from Quebec. Armed with numchucks and ice picks, both gangs submit naked, bronzed teenagers to the most vile indecencies. Eventually, of course, they come face to face in the middle of a Club Med yacht. One after another the crew members, quickly rendered helpless, arc raped before being thrown overboard by the bloodthirsty pensionettes. The film ends with a mammoth orgy of pensioners, while the boat, having slipped its moorings, sails straight for the South Pole.

Eventually, Valérie joined me. She was wearing makeup and a short, white, see-through dress; I still wanted her. We found Jean-Yves at the buffet. He seemed relaxed, almost languid, and desultorily informed us of his first impressions. His room was acceptable, though the entertainment seemed a little intrusive. He had just been up by the sound system, and it was almost unbearable. The food wasn't up to snuff, he added, staring bitterly at his piece of stewed chicken. All the same, everyone seemed to be helping themselves generously, coming back to the buffet again and again; the retirees in particular were astonishingly rapacious—you'd almost have thought they had spent the afternoon exhausting themselves at water sports and beach volleyball. "They eat and eat," Jean-Yves observed wearily. "What else do you expect them to do?"

After dinner, there was a show in which audience participation was once again called for. A woman of about fifty launched into a karaoke version of "Bang Bang" by Sheila. It was pretty brave of her; there was a smattering of applause. For the most part, however, the show was run by the reps. Jean-Yves looked as though he was ready to fall asleep. Valérie calmly sipped on her cocktail. I looked at the next table over. The people gave the impression that they were a little bored, but they applauded politely at the end of each number. Customer dissatisfaction with resorts didn't seem to me too difficult to understand —it appeared to be staring us in the face. The clientele was made up of retirees, or people "of a certain age," and the reps seemed to be trying to doing their utmost to take them to heights of pleasure they could no longer attain, at least not that way. Valérie and Jean-Yves, even I myself, in some sense, still had professional responsibilities in the "real world." We were sober, respectable employees, each exhausted by routine worries, not to mention taxes, health concerns, and the like. Most of the people sitting at these tables were in the same position: they were managers, teachers, doctors, engineers, accountants, or retired people who had once been employed in those professions. I couldn't understand how the reps could possibly expect us to launch ourselves enthusiastically into icebreakers or singing contests. I couldn't work out how at our age, in our position, we were supposed to have kept alive our sense of fun. At its best, the entertainment had been designed to amuse the under-fourteens.

I tried to let Valérie know my thoughts, but the rep had started speaking again. He was holding the microphone too close, and it made a terrible racket. Now they were performing an improvisation inspired by Lagaf, or maybe by Laurent Baffie. Whichever it was, they were sauntering around carrying palm fronds while a girl dressed as a penguin followed them, laughing at everything they said. The show ended with the resort's anthem and some silly dances. A few people in the front row moved about halfheartedly. Standing beside me, Jean-Yves stifled a yawn. "Shall we go check out the disco?" he suggested.

There were about fifty people, but the reps were pretty much the only ones dancing. The DJ played a mix of techno and salsa. Eventually, a number of middle-aged couples tried a salsa. The organizer with the palm fronds wandered between the couples on the dance floor, clapping his hands and shouting,
"
Caliente! Caliente
!
"
I got the impression they found him more embarrassing than anything else. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a piña colada. Two cocktails later, Valérie nudged me with her elbow, pointing to Jean-Yves. "I think maybe we can leave him to it," she whispered into my ear. He was talking to a very pretty girl of about thirty, probably Italian. They were very close, shoulder to shoulder, their faces inches from one other.

The night was hot, muggy
.
Valérie took me by the arm. The rhythm of the disco died away. We could hear the drone of walkie-talkies as guards patrolled the inside of the compound. Past the pool, we turned left toward the ocean. The beach was deserted. Waves gently licked the sand a few feet from us, and we could no longer hear a sound. Arriving at the bungalow, I undressed and lay down on the bed to wait for Valérie. She brushed her teeth, undressed in turn, and came to join me. I pressed myself against her naked body. I placed one hand on her breasts, the other in the hollow of her belly. It was sweet.

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