Authors: Michel Houellebecq
A porter took us to our ocean-view chalet, turned on the air conditioning and left with a dollar tip. 'There we go . . .' said Valerie sitting down on the bed. 'The meals are served buffet style. It's an all-in 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. Valerie took off her trousers and her blouse. I lay down on the other twin bed. A source of permanent, accessible pleasure, our genitals exist. The god who created our misfortune, who made us short-lived, vain and cruel, has also provided this form of meagre 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 which makes muscles stiffen, the appearance of microbic cavities in the gums. Valerie 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. Valerie sat up and motioned to her to come in. She stayed where she was, hesitant, leaning on her broom. Valerie got up, walked towards 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, her body was very brown, almost black, she had a firm little bust and finely curved buttocks. Valerie drew the curtains; I got up in turn. The girl's name was Margarita. Valerie took her hand and placed it on my penis. She burst out laughing again, but started to jerk me off. Valerie 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. Valerie 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 wash 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 arse 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 towards 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 arse, thrusting into her harder and harder. At the moment Valerie 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. Valerie rummaged in her bag to give her something. They kissed on the doorstep; outside, it was dark. 'I gave her forty dollars . . .' said Valerie 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 economics?'
'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 pina coladas at the bar while watching the pre-dinner entertainment. The effects of orgasm dissipated only slowly, I was a bit tipsy and from a distance all the reps 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 pot belly. 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 neighbouring tables, occupied by a compact group of fifty-something quebecoises. 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 had managed to bury their husbands so quickly. I had a feeling that it wouldn't be wise to let them go in front of you in the queue at the self-service, or to grab a bowl of cereal that one of them had her eyes on. As the ageing hunk approached the table, they shot him amorous glances, almost becoming women again in the process. 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 and two veg. The fifty-something quebecoises 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 corazon' or 'mi amor'. Nothing more would come of this, that was clear: he was content to arouse some last quivers in their ageing pussies; but perhaps that was sufficient for them to go home with the impression that they had had a wonderful holiday. For them to recommend the holiday club to their girlfriends. I sketched out the plot of a socially aware pornographic film entitled Senior Citizens on the Rampage. It portrayed two gangs operating in a holiday club, one a group of elderly Italian men, the other of pensionettes from Quebec. Armed with nunchakus 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 help-less, are 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, Valerie joined me: she was wearing make-up 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, 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 much, he added, staring bitterly at his piece of boiled chicken. All the same, everyone seemed to be helping themselves generously, coming back to the buffet again and again; the OAPs 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, they eat . . .' Jean-Yves observed wearily; 'What else do you expect them to do?'
After dinner, there was a show where 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; Valerie calmly sipped on her cocktail. I looked at the next table: the people gave the impression that they were a little bored but they applauded politely at the end of each song. Customer dissatisfaction with holiday clubs didn't seem to me too difficult to understand; it appeared to be staring us in the face. The clientele was made up of OAPs 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. Valerie 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, and suchlike. 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 get-to-know-you evenings or song 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 best, the entertainment had been designed to amuse the under-fourteens.
I tried to let Valerie know my thoughts, but the holiday rep had started speaking again; he was holding the microphone too close and it made a terrible row. 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 club anthem and some silly dances; a few people in the front row moved about half-heartedly. 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 organiser 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 pina colada. Two cocktails later, Valerie 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. Valerie took me by the arm. The rhythm of the disco died away; we could hear the drone of walkie-talkies, guards patrolled the inside of the compound. Past the pool, we turned left towards the ocean. The beach was deserted. Waves gently licked the sand a few feet from us; we could no longer hear a sound. Arriving at the chalet, I undressed and lay down on the bed to wait for Valerie. 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 the belly. It was sweet.
Chapter 8
When I woke up I was alone and I had a slight headache. I staggered out of bed, lit a cigarette; after a couple of drags, I felt a bit better. I slipped on a pair of trousers, went out on to the terrace, which was covered in sand — it must have been windy during the night. Day had only just broken; the sky seemed cloudy. I walked a few metres towards the sea, and spotted Valerie. She was diving straight into the waves, swimming a few strokes, getting up and diving again.
I stopped, pulling on my cigarette; the wind was a little chilly, I hesitated to join her. She turned, saw me and shouted: 'Come on!' waving to me. At that moment, the sun burst from between two clouds, lighting her from the front. Light gleamed on her breasts and her hips, made the foam in her hair and her pubic hair sparkle. I stood rooted to the spot for a second or two, conscious that this was an image that I would never forget, that it would become one of those images which apparently flash before you in the few seconds which precede death.
The cigarette butt burned my fingers, I threw it on to the sand, undressed and walked towards the sea. The water was cool, very salty; it was a rejuvenating experience. A band of sunshine glimmered on the surface of the water, running straight to the horizon; I held my breath and dived into the sunlight.
Later, we huddled together in a towel, watching day break over the ocean. Little by little, the clouds dispersed and the patches of light grew. Sometimes, in the morning, everything seems simple. Valerie threw down the towel, offering her body to the sun. 'I don't feel like getting dressed . . .' she said. 'A bit. . .' I ventured. A bird glided low, scanning the surface of the water. 'I really like swimming, I really like making love . . .' she told me again. 'But I don't like dancing, I don't know how to enjoy myself, and I've always hated parties. Do you think that's normal?' j I hesitated for a long time before replying. 'I don't know . . .' I said at last. 'All I know is that I'm the same.'
There weren't many people at the breakfast tables, but Jean-Yves was already there, sitting with a coffee in front of him, cigarette in hand. He hadn't shaved, and it looked as if he hadn't had much sleep; he gave us a little wave. We sat down opposite him.
'So, everything go well with the Italian girl?' asked Valerie, making a start on her scrambled eggs.