Platform (30 page)

contemporary artist; I almost felt like asking her to come to an orgy some night, I was sure she'd get along well with Valerie. I realised just in time that, in my position, such a thing risked being construed as sexual harassment. I considered the contraption despondently. 'You know,' I said, 'I'm really more involved in the financial aspect of the projects. For anything to do with the aesthetics, you'd be better off making an appointment to see Mile Durry.' On a business card, I wrote down Marie-Jeanne's phone number and extension; after all, she must know a thing or two about this whole clitoris business. The girl looked a little disconcerted, but even so, handed me a small bag filled with plastic pyramids. 'I'll give you these casts,' she said, 'The factory made a lot of them.' I thanked her and walked her back to the service entrance. Before saying goodbye, I asked her if the casts were life size. Of course, she told me, it was all part of her artistic methodology.

That same evening, I examined Valerie's clitoris carefully. I had never really paid it any serious attention; whenever I had stroked or licked it, it was as part of a more overall plan, I had memorised the position, the angles, the rhythmic movement to adopt. But now I examined the tiny organ at length as it pulsed before my eyes. 'What are you doing?' she asked, surprised, after five minutes spent with her legs apart. 'It's an artistic methodology . . .' I said, giving a little lick to soothe her impatience. The girl's cast lacked the taste and the smell obviously; but otherwise there was a resemblance, it was undeniable. My examination complete,

I parted Valerie's pussy with both hands and licked her clitoris with short, precise thrusts of my tongue. "Was it the waiting that had stimulated her desire? More precise, more attentive movements on my part? The fact remains that she came almost immediately. Actually, I thought that Sandra was a pretty talented artist; her work encouraged one to see the world in a new light.

Chapter 14

As early as the beginning of December, it was clear that the Aphrodite clubs were going to be a huge success, and probably a success on a historic scale. November is traditionally the most difficult month for the tourist industry. In October, there are still a number of late-season departures; in December, the Christmas period takes over; but rare, extremely rare, are those who consider taking a holiday in November, apart from some particularly hard-nosed and cynical senior citizens. Yet, the first results which came back from the clubs were excellent: the formula had been an immediate success, you might even go so far as to talk about a deluge. I had dinner with Jean-Yves and Valerie the night the initial figures came in; he stared at me, almost bizarrely, the results had so exceeded his expectations: taken as a whole, the occupancy for the month was 95 per cent, regardless of destination. 'Ah yes, sex . . .' I said, embarrassed. 'People need sex, that's all, it's

just that they don't dare admit it.' All of this made us inclined to be contemplative, almost silent; the waiter brought the antipasti. 'The Krabi opening is going to be unbelievable . . .' Jean-Yves went on. 'Rembke phoned me, everything's been booked out for three weeks. What's even better is that there's been nothing in the press, not a line. A discreet success, as massive as it is confidential; exactly what we were aiming for.'

He had finally decided to rent a studio flat and leave his wife; he would not get the keys until January 1st, but he was a lot better, I sensed he was already more relaxed. He was relatively young, handsome and extremely rich: all of these things do not necessarily make life easier, I realised, a little alarmed; but they help, at least, in awakening desire in others. I still could not understand his ambition, the furious energy he invested in making a success of his career. It wasn't for the money I don't think: he paid high taxes and didn't have expensive tastes. Neither was it out of commitment to the company, nor from a more general altruism: it was difficult to imagine the development of global tourism as a noble cause. His ambition existed in its own right, it couldn't be pinned down to one specific source: it was probably more like the desire to build something, rather than to a taste for power or a competitive nature - I had never heard him talk about the careers of his former friends at the HEC business school, and I don't think he gave them a second thought. All in all, it was a respectable motive, not unlike the one that explains the advance of human civilisation. The social

reward bestowed on him was a large salary; under other regimes it might have taken the form of an aristocratic title, or of privileges like those accorded to the members of the nomenklatura; I didn't get the impression that it would have made much difference. In reality, Jean-Yves worked because he had a taste for work; it was something both mysterious and clear.

On December 15, two weeks before the opening, he received an anxious phone call from TUI. A German tourist had just been kidnapped with a Thai girl; the kidnapping had taken place in Hat Yai, in the extreme south of the country. The local police had received a confused message, written in an approximate English, which expressed no demands - but indicated that the two young people would be executed for behaviour in contravention of Islamic law. For some months there had indeed been an increase in the activities of Islamic movements, supported by Libya, in the border area with Malaysia; but this was the first time that they had attacked people.

On December 18, the naked, mutilated bodies of the young people were thrown from a van, right in the middle of the main square of the town. The young girl had been stoned to death, she had been beaten with extraordinary violence; everywhere her skin was ripped open, her body was little more than a swelling, barely recognisable. The German's throat had been cut and he had been castrated, his penis and testicles had been stuffed into his mouth. This time, the entire German press picked up the story, there were even some brief articles in France. The papers had decided not to publish photographs of the victims, but they quickly became available on the usual internet sites. Jean-Yves telephoned TUI every day: up until now, the situation was not alarming; there had been few cancellations, people stuck to their holiday plans. The prime minister of Thailand made repeated reassurances: it was undoubtedly an isolated incident, all known terrorist groups condemned the kidnapping and the executions.

As soon as we arrived in Bangkok, however, I felt a certain tension, especially around the Sukhumvit area where most of the Middle-Eastern tourists stayed. They came mainly from Turkey or Egypt, but sometimes also from more hard-line Muslim countries such as Saudi Arabia or Pakistan. When they walked through the crowds, I could feel the hostile stares directed towards them. At the entrance to most of the hostess bars, I saw signs: 'No Muslims Here'; the owner of a bar in Patpong had even clarified his line of reasoning, writing in a decorative hand the following message: 'We respect your Muslim faith: we don't want you to drink whisky and enjoy Thai girls.' The poor things were hardly to blame, in fact it was obvious that in case of a terrorist attack, they would be the first to be targeted. On my first visit to Thailand, I had been surprised by the presence of people from Arab countries, in fact, they came for exactly the same reasons as Westerners, with one slight difference: they threw themselves into debauchery with much more enthusiasm. Often, in the hotel bars you'd find them around a bottle of whisky at ten in the morning; and they were first to arrive as soon as the massage parlours opened. In clear breach of Islamic law and probably feeling guilty about it, they were, for the most part, courteous and charming.

Bangkok was as polluted, noisy, stifling as always; but I was just happy to be back. Jean-Yves had two or three meetings with bankers, or at some ministry, anyway, I only vaguely followed what was going on. After two days, he informed us that his meetings had been very conclusive: the local authorities were as obliging as possible, they were prepared to do anything to attract the smallest amount of Western investment. For a number of years, Thailand had been unable to alleviate its economic crisis, the stock exchange and the currency were at historic lows, government debt had reached 70 per cent of the gross domestic product. 'They're so deep in shit that they're not even corrupt any more . . .'Jean-Yves told us. 'I had to grease a few palms, but not many, nothing at all compared to what was going on five years ago.'

On the morning of December 31, we took the plane to Krabi. As we got out of the minibus, I ran into Lionel, who had arrived the previous evening. He was delighted, he told me, absolutely delighted; I had a bit of trouble stemming his torrent of gratitude. But, as I arrived at my chalet, I too was struck by the beauty of the landscape. The beach was immense, immaculate, the sand as fine as powder. Over a distance of thirty metres, the ocean veered from azure to turquoise, from turquoise to emerald. Vast chalk crags covered with lush green forests rose out of the water as far as the horizon, losing themselves in the light and the distance, giving the bay a depth that seemed unreal, cosmic.

'Isn't this the place where they filmed The Beach?' Valerie asked me.

'No, I think that was at Ko Phi Phi; but I haven't seen the film.'

According to her, I hadn't missed much; apart from the landscapes it had nothing to recommend it. I vaguely remembered the book, which tells the story of a bunch of backpackers in search of an unspoiled island; the only clue they have is a map drawn for them by an old traveller in a shitty hotel on Khao San Road, just before he commits suicide. First, they go to Ko Samui - much too touristy; from there they go to a neighbouring island, but there are still too many people for their liking. In the end, by bribing a sailor, they finally arrive on their island, situated in a nature reserve and therefore, in theory, inaccessible. It's at this point that things start to go wrong. The early chapters of the book perfectly illustrate the curse of the tourist, caught up in a frenetic search for places which are 'not touristy', which his very presence undermines, forever forced to move on, following a plan whose very fulfilment, little by little, renders it futile. This hopeless situation, comparable to a man trying to escape his own shadow, was common knowledge in the tourist industry, Valerie informed me: in sociological terms it was known as the double bind paradox.

The holidaymakers who had chosen the Krabi Eldorador Aphrodite, at any rate, did not look ready to succumb to the double bind paradox: although the beach was huge, they had all chosen more or less the same area. As far as I had been able to make out, they seemed to conform to the expected breakdown of clientele. Valerie had the precise figures: 80 per cent Germans, mostly senior executives or professionals, 10 per cent Italians, 5 per cent Spaniards and 5 per cent French. The surprise was that there were a lot of couples. They looked pretty much like the sort of swinging couples that you might have run into on the Cap d'Agde: most of the women had silicone-enhanced breasts, a lot of them wore a gold chain around their waists or ankles. I also noticed that almost everyone swam in the nude. All of this made me fairly confident; you never have any trouble from people like that. In contrast to a 'backpackers' paradise', a resort dedicated to wife-swapping, which only comes into its own when visitor numbers are high, is not paradoxical by definition. In a world where the greatest of luxuries is acquiring the wherewithal to avoid other people, the good-natured sociability of middle-class German wife-swappers constitutes a form of particularly subversion, I said to Valerie, just as she was taking off her bra and panties. Immediately after undressing, I was a little embarrassed to discover that I had a hard on, and I lay down on my stomach beside her. She parted her thighs, serenely baring her sex to the sun. A few metres to our right was a group of German women who seemed to be discussing an article

from Der Spiegel. One of them had shaved her public hair, you could easily make out her slender, delicate slit. 'I really go for that type of pussy . . .' Valerie said in a low voice. 'It makes you feel like slipping a finger inside.' I really went for them too; but to our left was a Spanish couple where the woman, by contrast, had a really thick, black, curly pubic bush; I could really go for that too. As she lay down, I could make out the thick, plump lips of her pussy. She was a young woman, no more than twenty-five, but her breasts were heavy, with large, prominent areolas. 'Come on, turn over on to your back . . .' Valerie whispered into my ear. I did as I was told, kept my eyes closed, as though somehow the fact that I could see nothing diminished the enormity of what we were doing. I felt my cock stand up, the glans emerging from its sheath of protective skin; concentrating purely on the sensation, the warmth of the sun on the mucous membranes was immensely pleasurable. I did not open my eyes when I felt a thread of suntan lotion trickle on to my torso, then on to my stomach. Valerie's fingers moved in short, light touches. The fragrance of coconut filled the air. At the point when she began to rub oil into my penis, I opened my eyes suddenly: she was kneeling by my side, facing the Spanish woman who had propped herself up on her elbows to watch. I threw my head back, staring at the blue of the sky. Valerie placed the palm of one hand on my balls, slipped her index finger into my anus; with her other hand she continued to jerk me off steadily. Turning my head to the left, I saw that the Spaniard was busying herself with her own guy's penis; I turned back to stare at the azure. At the point when I heard footsteps approaching across the sand, I closed my eyes again. First there was the sound of a kiss, then I heard whispering. I no longer knew how many hands or fingers stroked and wrapped around my prick; the sound of the backwash was very gentle.

After the beach, we made a tour of the leisure centre; it was getting dark, the multicoloured signs of the go-go bars lit up one by one. Around a dozen bars arranged around in a circular piazza surrounded a huge massage parlour. In front of the entrance, we met Jean-Yves, who was just leaving, escorted to the door by a girl wearing a long dress. She had large breasts, pale skin and looked a little Chinese. 'Is it nice inside?' Valerie asked him.