Platform (6 page)

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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

7
On the bus. Sôn continued her commentary. The border region we were about to enter was partly populated by Burmese refugees of Karen origin, but this should present no problems. Karen tribe good, deemed Sôn, brave, children good study in school, no problem. Nothing like some of the northern tribes, which we would not have the opportunity to meet on our tour, and according to her, we weren't missing much there. Particularly in the case of the Akha tribe, which she seemed to have something against. In spite of the government's best efforts, the Akhas seemed incapable of giving up growing opium poppies, their traditional calling. Akhas bad, Sôn stressed forcefully: apart from grow poppy and pick fruit, know how to do nothing. Children not good study in school. Many money spend for them, no result. They are completely useless, she concluded, demonstrating a consummate ability to summarize.
So, as we arrived at the hotel, I watched these famous "Karens" curiously as they busied themselves by the river's edge. Seen close-up, I mean without machine guns, they didn't seem particularly nasty. The most obvious thing about them was that they clearly adored their elephants. Bathing them in the river, scrubbing the backs of their elephants seemed to be their greatest pleasure. It's true that these weren't "Karen rebels" but "ordinary Karens" —those who had fled the combat zone because they were sick of the whole thing and who were more or less indifferent to the cause of Karen independence.
A brochure in my hotel room gave me some information about the history of the
resort
.*
This was the product of the magnificent human adventure of Bertrand Le Moal, backpacker
avant la lettre
,
who fell in love with this place and "laid down his pack" here at the end of the sixties. With furious energy, and the help of his Karen friends, little by little he had built this "ecological paradise," which an international clientele could now enjoy.
It's true that the place was superb. Small, beautifully sculpted cottages, made of teak and connected by a pathway decked with flowers, overhung the river, which you could feel pulse under your feet. The hotel was situated at the bottom of a steep valley, the sides of which were shrouded in dense jungle. When I stepped out onto the terrace there was a profound silence. It took me a moment or two to understand why: all at once, every bird had stopped singing. It was the hour when the jungle readies itself for night. What sort of large predators would there be in a jungle like that? Not many, probably. Two or three leopards. But there was probably no shortage of snakes and spiders. The light was fading fast. On the far bank, a lone monkey leaped from tree to tree. His short call sounded fretful, as though he were anxious to rejoin his group.
I went back into the room and lit the candles. The furniture was minimal: a teak table, two rustic wooden bedsteads, sleeping bags and mats. I spent a quarter of an hour methodically rubbing myself with Cinq sur Cinq insect repellent. Rivers are all very well, but you know what they're like: they attract mosquitoes. There was a bar of citronella, too, that you could melt. This seemed to me a worthwhile precaution.
When I came down to dinner, it was completely dark; garlands of multicolored lights were strung between the houses. So there was electricity in the village, I noted, they simply hadn't thought it necessary to install it in the rooms. I stopped for a moment and leaned on the guardrail to look down at the river; the moon was up and shimmered on the water. Opposite, you could vaguely make out the dark mass of the jungle; from time to time, the raucous cry of a nocturnal bird emanated from its depths.
Human groups of more than three people have a tendency, apparently spontaneous, to split into two hostile subgroups. Dinner was served on a pontoon in the middle of the river; this time, the tables had been laid for eight. The ecologists and the naturopaths were already installed at one table; the ex-pork butchers were currently all alone at the second. What could have brought about the rift? Maybe the massage discussion at lunch, which, let's face it, hadn't gone too well. In addition, that morning, Suzanne, soberly dressed in a white linen tunic and trousers — nicely cut to emphasize her angular features —had burst out laughing when she saw Josette's flower-print dress. Whatever the reason, the divisions had begun. In a rather cowardly move, I slowed my pace so as to let Lionel, my neighbor from the plane, who also had the neighboring cottage, overtake me. He made his choice quickly, barely aware of doing so. I didn't even get the impression it was a choice based on elective affinity, more a sort
of class
solidarity, or rather (since he worked at Gaz de France and was therefore a civil servant, while the others had been small shopkeepers) a solidarity based on level of education. René welcomed us with evident relief. In any case, our decision was not critical at this stage of the game: had we joined the others we would have forcefully confirmed the isolation of the ex-pork butchers, whereas this way, we were really only balancing out the table numbers.
Babette and Léa arrived shortly after and without a second thought sat at the other table.
Quite some time later—our first courses had already been served — Valérie appeared on the edge of.the pontoon; she looked around her uncertainly. At the other table, there were still two empty places beside Babette and Léa. She hesitated a little longer, made a little start, and came and sat on my left.
Josiane had taken even longer than usual getting ready. She must have had trouble putting on her makeup by candlelight. Her black velvet dress wasn't bad, a bit low-cut, but not excessively so. She also hesitated for a moment, then came and sat opposite Valérie.
Robert arrived last, a little unsteady. He'd probably been boozing it up before the meal —I'd seen him with a bottle of Mekong earlier. He dropped heavily onto the bench next to Valérie. A short but fearful cry went up from somewhere close by in the jungle; probably some small mammal had just breathed its last.
Sôn moved between the tables to check that everything was okay and that we had all settled in nicely. She was having dinner elsewhere, with the driver—a less-than-democratic arrangement that had already earned Josiane's disapproval at lunchtime. But, basically, I think it suited her just fine, even if she had nothing against us. Despite her best efforts, she seemed to find long discussions in French a bit tiring.
At the next table the conversation purred happily, discussing the beauty of the location, the joy of being at one with nature, far from civilization, the essential values, etc. "Yeah, it's awesome," confirmed Léa. "And y'know, we're really smack in the middle of jungle. I can't believe it."
Our table was having a little more difficulty finding common ground. Opposite me, Lionel was eating placidly, making no effort whatsoever. I glanced nervously from side to side. At one point I saw a big bearded guy coming out of the kitchens and shouting angrily at the waiters. This had to be none other than the famous Bertrand Le Moal. To my mind, his greatest achievement so far was to have taught the Karens the recipe for gratin dauphinois. It was delicious, and the roast pork was perfectly done, crisp but tender. "All we're missing is a drop of wine," René said sadly. Josiane pursed her lips scornfully. One didn't need to ask what she thought about French tourists who couldn't leave the country without their drop of wine. A little awkwardly, Valérie came to Rene's defense. With Thai food, she said, you never felt the need; but right now, a little wine would be rather appropriate. In any case, she herself only drank water.
"If you go abroad," Josiane barked, "it is in order to eat the
local
food and to observe
local
customs! If not, you might as well stay at home."
"I agree!" shouted Robert. She paused, cut off in midflow, and looked at him hatefully.
"Sometimes I find it a bit too spicy," confessed Josette timidly, 'it doesn't seem to bother you," she said, addressing me, probably to ease the tension.
"No, no, I love it. The spicier it is, the better I like it. Even in Paris I eat Chinese all the time," I hastily responded. And so the conversation was able to move on to Chinese restaurants, which had multiplied in Paris just recently. Valérie liked to have lunch in them; they were very reasonable, much better than eating fast food, and probably much healthier too. Josiane had nothing to say on the subject; she had a staff cafeteria. As for Robert, he probably thought the subject was beneath him. In short, everything proceeded more or less peacefully until dessert.
It all came to a head over the sticky rice. It was a light golden color, flavored with cinnamon —I think the recipe was original. Taking the bull by the horns, Josiane decided to tackle the question of "sex tourism" head on. For her, it was absolutely disgusting, there was no other word for it. It was a scandal that the Thai government tolerated such things. The international community had to do something. Robert listened to her with a half smile that I didn't think boded well. It was scandalous, but it was hardly surprising, and it was obvious that most of these places
(brothels,
that was the only word for them) were owned by
generals:
that told you what kind of protection they had.
"Hey, watch it,
I'm
a general," interrupted Robert. She was speechless; her lower jaw dropped miserably. "No, no, I'm only joking," he said with a slight grin. "I've never even been in the army."
She did not find this funny in the least. She took a moment to pull herself together, then launched herself back into the fray with renewed energy.
"It's absolutely shameful that fat assholes can just come over here and take advantage of these girls' poverty with impunity. Of course you know they all come from the north and the northeast, the poorest regions of the whole country."
"Not all of them," he objected. "Some of them are from Bangkok."
"It's sexual slavery!" screamed Josiane, who hadn't heard. "There's no other way to describe it!"
I yawned a little. She shot me a black look, but went on, calling on the others to give their verdict: "Don't you think it's disgraceful that any fat old asshole can come over here and have it off with these kids for next to nothing?"
"It's hardly next to nothing," I protested modestly. "I paid three thousand baht, which is about what you'd pay in France." Valérie turned and looked at me, surprised.
"You paid a bit much," observed Robert. "Still, if the girl was worth it . . ."
Josiane's whole body was trembling; she was starting to unsettle me a little. "Well!" she shrieked in a very shrill voice. "It makes me sick, that any fat pig can pay to shove his cock into a child!"
"Nobody's forcing you to come with me, madam," Robert replied calmly.
She got up, trembling, her plate of rice in her hand. All conversation at the next table had stopped. I really thought she was going to chuck the plate in his face, and I think it was only fear that stopped her. Robert looked at her with the most serious expression, the muscles under his polo tense. He didn't look like the sort of person to let himself be pushed around; I could well imagine him punching her. She viciously slammed down her plate, which broke into three pieces, turned on her heel, and vanished into the darkness, walking quickly toward the cottages.
"Tsk," he said softly.
Valérie was stuck between him and me; he stood up gracefully, walked around the table, and sat where Josiane had been sitting, in case Valérie, too, wished to leave the table. She, however, did nothing; at that moment, the waiter brought the coffees. After she had taken two sips, Valérie turned to me again. "So is it true you've paid for girls?" she asked gently. Her tone was intrigued, devoid of any real reproach.
"They're not as poor as all that, these girls," added Robert. "They can afford mopeds and clothes, some of them even have their tits done. It's not cheap getting your tits done. It's true they help their parents out, too," he concluded thoughtfully.
At the next table, after a few whispered comments, everyone quickly left —doubtless out of solidarity. We remained the sole masters of the place, in a sense. The moon now bathed the whole pontoon, which gleamed a little. "Are they that good, those little masseuses?" asked René dreamily. "Ah, monsieur!" exclaimed Robert, deliberately grandiloquent, but, it seemed to me, basically sincere. "They are marvelous, positively marvelous! And you haven't been to Pattaya yet. It's a resort on the east coast," he went on, "completely dedicated to lust and debauchery. The Americans were the first to go there, during the Vietnam War, and after that, a lot of English and Germans; now, you get a lot of Russians and Poles. There, they have something for everyone, they cater to all tastes: homosexuals, heterosexuals, transvestites . . . It's Sodom and Gomorrah combined. Actually, it's better, because they've got lesbians, too."
"Aaah, aaah .. . ," the ex-pork butcher seemed thoughtful. His wife yawned placidly, excused herself, and turned to her husband. She clearly wanted to go to bed.
"In Thailand,'' Robert concluded, "everyone can have what they desire, and everyone can have something good. People will talk to you about Brazilian girls, or about Cubans. I'm welltraveled, monsieur, I have traveled for pleasure and I have no hesitation in telling you: in my opinion, Thai girls are the best lovers in the world."
Sitting opposite, Valérie listened to him earnestly. She disappeared shortly after, followed by Josette and René. Lionel, who hadn't said a word all evening, also got to his feet. I did likewise. I didn't really feel like pursuing a conversation with Robert. So I left him alone in the dark, a picture of apparent sobriety, ordering a second cognac. He seemed to have a sophisticated and subtle intelligence. He was at the very least a relativist, a position that always gives one the impression of complexity and subtlety. In front of my cottage, I said good night to Lionel. The atmosphere was heavy with the buzzing of insects, and I was more or less sure that I wouldn't get a wink of sleep.
I pushed the door and lit the candle again, more or less resigned to continue reading
The Firm
.
Mosquitoes flew close, some of them charred their wings in the flame, their bodies sank into the melted wax; not one of them settled on me. Despite the fact that I was filled to the dermis with nutritious, delicious blood, they automatically turned tail, unable to break through the olfactory barrier of carbonic dimethyl-peroxide. Roche-Nicholas Laboratories, the creators of Cinq sur Cinq Tropic, were to be congratulated. I blew out the candle and relit it, watching the ever more teeming ballet of these sordid little flying machines. Through the wall I could hear Lionel snoring gently through the night. I got up, put another block of citronella on to melt, then went for a piss. A round hole had been made in the floor of the bathroom; it flowed straight into the river. You could hear the lapping of the water and the sound of fins; I tried not to think about what might be down there. Just as I was going back to bed, Lionel let out a long series of farts. "Too right, my boy!" I commended him enthusiastically. "As Martin Luther said, there's nothing like farting in your sleeping bag!" My voice resounded strangely in the dark, above the murmuring of the river and the persistent drone of the insects. Simply being able to hear the real world was a torment. "The kingdom of heaven is like unto a cotton bud!" I roared again into the night. "Let he who has ears to hear, hear!" In his bed, Lionel turned over and moaned gently without waking. I didn't have much in the way of choice: I'd have to take a sleeping pill.

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