Platform (6 page)

At the time of the sale, Valerie was fourteen, she was just starting to wear makeup; in the bathroom mirror she watched her breasts as they gradually swelled. The night before they moved out, she spent a long time walking around the farm buildings. There were still a dozen pigs in the main sty, which came up to her grunting softly. They were being picked up that night by a wholesaler and would be slaughtered in a few days time.

The summer that followed was a strange period. Compared to Tremeven, Saint-Quay-Portrieux was almost a small town. When she walked out of her door, she couldn't lie on the grass, letting her thoughts float with the clouds, flow with the river. Among the holiday-makers there were boys, who turned to look at her as she passed; she never really managed to relax. Towards the end of August, she met Berenice, a girl from the secondary school at Saint-Brieuc. Berenice was a year older than she, she already wore makeup and designer skirts; she had a pretty, angular face and very long hair which was an extraordinary strawberry blond. They got into the habit of going to the beach at Saint-Marguerite together; they would get changed in Valerie's room before they set off. One afternoon, as she was taking off her bra, Valerie noticed Berenice staring at her breasts. She knew that she had superb breasts, round and high, so swollen and firm that they looked artificial. Berenice stretched out her hand, traced the curve and the nipple. Valerie opened her mouth and closed her eyes as Berenice's lips approached her own; she abandoned herself completely to the kiss. She was already wet when Berenice slipped a hand into her panties. Impatiently she took them off, fell back on the bed and parted her thighs. Berenice knelt in front of her, placed her mouth over her pussy. Her stomach quivered with warm spasms, she felt her mind floating in the endless space of the sky; she had never imagined pleasure like this could exist.

Every day until they went back to school, they did it again. Once in the afternoon, before they went to the beach; then they would lie side by side in the sunshine. Little by little, Valerie would feel desire mounting in her skin, she would take off her top so that Berenice could see her breasts. They would practically run back to the bedroom and make love a second time.

From their first week back at school, Berenice began to distance herself from Valerie, avoided walking back from school with her; shortly afterwards she started going out with a boy. Valerie accepted the separation without any real sorrow - that's the way things go. She had taken to masturbating every morning when she woke up. Each time, in a few short minutes, she would reach orgasm; it was something marvellous, something simple happening within her and which began her day with joy. About boys she had more reservations; having bought a couple of issues of Hot Video at the station kiosk, she knew what to expect from their anatomy, their organs, various sexual practices; but she felt a slight repugnance for their body hair, their muscles; their skin looked thick and not at all soft. The brownish, wrinkled skin of their balls, the brutally anatomical look of the glans when the foreskin was retracted, red, shiny . . . none of these things was especially attractive. In the end, however, she slept with a boy in his final year, a tall blond guy, after spending the night in a club in Paimpol; she did not find it particularly pleasurable. She tried again several times with others while she was in her last couple of years at school. It was easy to seduce boys: all you had to do was wear a short skirt, cross your legs, wear a low-cut or a see-through blouse that showed off your breasts. None of these experiences proved especially conclusive. Intellectually, she could understand the triumphant yet gende feeling some girls experienced when they felt a cock pushing deep into their pussies; but she herself felt nothing of the sort. It had to be said that condoms didn't help; the sound the latex made, flaccid and repetitive, constantly brought her down to earth, prevented her from drifting into the nebulous infinity of sensual pleasure. By the time she sat her bac, she had more or less given up.

Ten years later, she still hadn't really started again, she thought sadly as she woke in the bedroom of the Bangkok Palace. It was not quite daylight. She turned on the overhead light and contemplated her body in the mirror. Her breasts were as firm as ever, they hadn't changed since she was seventeen. Her arse was amazingly round too, without a trace of fat; unquestionably she had a very beautiful body. Nonetheless, she slipped on a baggy sweatshirt and a shapeless pair of shorts before going downstairs to breakfast. Before she closed the door, she glanced at herself one last time in the mirror: her face was very average, a little rounded, nice but nothing more than that; the same was true of her limp, black hair which fell untidily on her shoulders; and her brown eyes weren't much of an asset either. No doubt she could have made more of herself, a bit of makeup, a different hairstyle, a trip to the beauty salon. Most women her age spent at least a couple of hours a week there; she didn't think it would make much difference in her case. What she was lacking, essentially, was the desire to seduce.

We left the hotel at seven; the traffic was already heavy. Valerie gave me a little nod and took a seat in the same row on the other side of the aisle. No one in the bus was talking. Slowly, the grey megalopolis woke up; mopeds carrying couples, sometimes with a baby in the mother's arms, weaved between the crowded buses. A light haze still hung in some of the alleys by the river. Soon the sun would burst through the morning clouds, it would start to get hot.

At Nonthaburi, the urban fabric began to fray and we could see the first rice fields. Buffalo standing motionless in the mud followed the bus with their eyes exactly as cows would do. The ecologists from the Jura seemed a bit restless; they'd probably wanted to take a couple of pictures of the buffalo.

The first stop was Kanchanaburi, which all the guide books agree is a lively, animated city. To the Michelin, it's a 'marvellous starting point from which to explore the surrounding region'; the Guide du Routard, on the other hand, considers it a 'good base camp'. The tour programme indicated a journey of several miles along the 'railway of death' which snaked alongside the River Kwai. I'd never really got to the bottom of this River Kwai story, so I tried to pay attention to what the guide was saying. Luckily Rene, Michelin Guide in hand, was following the story, always ready to correct this point or that. In short, after they entered the war in 1941, the Japanese decided to build a railway connecting Singapore and Burma, with the long-term objective of invading India. This railway had to cross Malaysia and Thailand. Come to think of it, what were the Thais doing during the Second World War? Well, now you come to mention it, not a lot. They were 'neutral', Son informed me diplomatically. In reality, Rene explained, they'd signed a military pact with the Japanese without actually declaring war on the Allies. That was the way of wisdom. Demonstrating, once again, the celebrated 'subtlety of mind' which had made it possible for them to spend two centuries caught in a vice-like grip between the colonial powers of France and England without actually surrendering to either, and to remain the only country in South-East Asia never to have been colonised.

Be that as it may, by 1942 work had begun on the section along the River Kwai, marshalling sixty thousand English, Australian, New Zealand and American prisoners of war, as well as 'countless' Asian forced labourers. In October 1943, the railway was completed, but sixteen thousand of POW's had died - from a variety of causes including lack of food, the hostile climate and the innate viciousness of the Japanese. Shortly afterwards, an allied bombing raid destroyed the bridge over the River Kwai, a crucial element of the infrastructure - thereby rendering the railway completely useless. In short, a lot of people copped it for very little. Things have changed little since then - it is still impossible to get a decent rail connection between Singapore and Delhi.

It was in a state of mild distress that I began the visit to the JEATH Museum, built to commemorate the appalling suffering of the allied POWs. Certainly, I thought, what had happened was thoroughly regrettable; but, let's face it, worse things happened during the Second World War. I couldn't help thinking that if the prisoners had been Polish or Russian there would have been a lot less fuss.

A little later, we were required to endure a visit to the cemetery for the allied prisoners of war - those who had, in a manner of speaking, made the ultimate sacrifice. There were white crosses in neat rows, all identical; the place radiated a profound monotony. It reminded me of Omaha Beach, which hadn't really moved me either, had actually reminded me, in fact, of a contemporary art installation. 'In this place,' I said to myself, with a feeling of sadness which I felt was somewhat inadequate, 'In this place, a bunch of morons died for the sake of democracy.' That said, the cemetery at the River Kwai was much smaller, you could even imagine counting the graves; actually, I gave up pretty quickly. 'There can't be sixteen thousand graves . . .' I concluded aloud. 'You're quite right,' Rene informed me, still armed with his Michelin Guide. 'The number of dead is estimated at sixteen thousand; but the cemetery contains only five hundred and eighty-two graves. They are considered to be (he read, running his finger under the words) the five hundred and eighty-two martyrs to democracy.'

When I got my third gold star at the age of ten, I went to a patisserie to stuff my face with crepes aux Grand Marnier. It was a little private party; I had no friends with whom I could share my joy. I was staying with my father in Chamonix, as I did every year at that time. He was an alpine guide and a committed mountaineer. His friends were like him, men who were brave and manly; I never felt comfortable around them. I've never really felt comfortable around men. I was eleven the first time a girl ever showed me her pussy; I was immediately filled with wonder, I adored this small, strange, cleft organ. She didn't have much pubic hair, she was about the same age as me; her name was Martine. For a long time, she stood with her thighs apart, holding her knickers to one side so I could look; but when I tried to move my hand towards it, she got scared, she ran off. It all seemed very recent to me; I didn't feel that I had changed much. My enthusiasm for pussy had not waned, in fact I saw in it one of my few remaining recognisable, fully human qualities; as for the rest, I didn't really know anymore.

A short while after we had boarded the coach again, Son spoke. We were now heading towards our accommodation for the night, which, she was keen to emphasise, was of exceptional quality. No TV, no video. No electricity, candles. No bathroom, the river. No mattresses, mats. Absolutely back to nature. Back to nature, I mentally noted, seemed to consist principally of privations; the ecologists from the Jura - who, I had discovered on the train - against my will - were called Eric and Sylvie — were drooling with excitement. 'French cuisine tonight,' concluded Son for no apparent reason. 'We now eat Thai. Small restaurant too, beside river.'

The place was charming. Trees shaded the tables. Near the entrance was a sunlit pool full of turtles and frogs. I watched the frogs for a long time; once again, I was struck by the extraordinary abundance of life in the tropics. White fish swam between two pools. On the surface were water-lilies and water-fleas. Insects continuously settled on the water-lilies. Turtles observed all this with a placidity characteristic of their species.

Son came to let me know that the meal had begun. I walked towards the dining room by the river. They had laid two tables for six; all the places were taken. I glanced around me, a little panicked, but Rene quickly came to my rescue. 'No problem! Come and join our table!' he called generously, 'We can add another place on the end.' So I sat at what was apparently the established couples table: the ecologists from the Jura, the naturopaths - who, I now discovered, answered to the names of Albert and Suzanne — and the two senior citizens and former pork-butchers. This arrangement, I quickly came to believe, was not based on any real affinity but on the urgent situation which presented itself when they were shown to the tables; the couples had instinctively banded together; all in all, lunch was nothing more than an observation round.

The conversation first moved to the subject of massage, a subject which seemed dear to the naturopaths. The previous evening, Albert and Suzanne, forsaking traditional dance, had enjoyed an excellent back massage. Rene smiled a lewd smile; Albert's expression quickly let him know that his attitude was completely inappropriate. Traditional Thai massage, he thundered, had nothing whatever to do with who knows what kind of practices; it was the expression of a centuries-old, perhaps millennia-old, civilisation and, as it happened, was completely consistent with Chinese teachings on the points of acupuncture. They practised it themselves at their surgery in Montbeliard, without, naturally, attaining the dexterity of Thai practitioners; the night before, they had had, he concluded, an excellent lesson. Eric and Sylvie listened, fascinated. Rene coughed slightly in embarrassment; it was true that the Montbeliard couple did not, in fact, exude even the slightest impression of lewdness. Who could possibly have proposed the idea that France was the country of debauchery and libertinage. France was a sinister country, utterly sinister and bureaucratic.

'I had a back massage too, but the girl finished on my balls . . .' I interrupted without much conviction. Since I was chewing cashew nuts at the time, no one heard, with the exception of Sylvie who shot me a horrified look. I took a mouthful of beer and looked her straight in the eyes, not in the least embarrassed: was this girl even capable of correctly handling a cock? That remained to be seen. In the meantime, I waited for my coffee.

'It's true they're cute, the little girls . . .' commented Josette, taking a slice of papaya and adding to the general unease. The coffee was slow in coming. What do you do at the end of a meal if you're not allowed to smoke? I sat quietly as the boredom increased. We concluded the conversation, not without difficulty, with some remarks about the weather.