Platform (7 page)

I saw my father once again, confined to his bed, struck down by sudden depression - a terrifying thing in such an active man; his mountaineering friends stood around awkwardly, powerless in the face of the disease. The reason he played so much sport, he told me once, was to stupefy himself, to stop himself thinking. He had succeeded: I was convinced that he had managed to go through his whole life without ever really questioning the human condition.

Chapter 7

On the bus, Son continued her commentary. The border region which we were about to enter was partly populated by Burmese refugees of Karen origin, but this should present no problems. Karen tribe good, deemed Son, 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; according to her, we weren't missing much. 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 activity. Akhas bad, Son stressed forcefully: apart 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 her consummate ability to summarise. 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 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, which was the product of a wonderful human adventure: that of Bertrand Le Moal, backpacker avant la lettre who, having fallen in love with this place, had 'laid down his pack' here at the end of the 60s. 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 the place was superb. Small, beautifully sculpted chalets made of teak 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 on to 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; he gave a short call. You could feel he was fretful, anxious to rejoin his group.

I went back into the room, 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, which you could melt; it seemed to me a worthwhile precaution.

When I came down to dinner, it was completely dark; garlands of multicoloured 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 could be heard.

Human groups of more than three people have a tendency, apparently, to split into two hostile sub-groups. 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 former 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 emphasise 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 neighbour from the plane, who also had the neighbouring chalet, 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 (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. Rene 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 former pork-butchers; whereas this way, we were really only balancing out the table numbers.

Babette and Lea arrived shortly after and without a second thought sat at the neighbouring table.

Quite some time later — our first courses had already been served — Valerie 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 Lea. 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 excessive. She also hesitated for a moment, then came and sat opposite Valerie.

Robert arrived last, a little unsteady. He'd probably been boozing before the meal; I'd seen him with a bottle of Mekong earlier. He dropped heavily on to the bench next to Valerie. A short but fearful cry went up from somewhere close by in the jungle; perhaps some small mammal had just breathed its last.

Son moved between the tables to check that everything was okay, that we had all settled in nicely. She was having dinner elsewhere, with the driver - a less than democratic arrangement which 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 civilisation, the essential values, etc. 'Yeah, it's top,' confirmed Lea. 'And y'know, we're really bang 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; it must 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 . . .' Rene 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, Valerie came to Rene's defence. 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 the Chinese restaurants that had so multiplied in Paris just recently. Valerie 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 colour, flavoured 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 which I didn't think boded well. It was scandalous, but it was hardly surprising; 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.

'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 grimace. '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 back into the fray with renewed energy.

'It's absolutely shameful that fat yobs 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 yob 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.' Valerie turned and looked at me, surprised. 'You paid a bit over the odds . . .' 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 kid!'

'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 in the end I think it was only fear that stopped her. Robert looked at her with the most serious expression, the muscles under his polo-neck 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 towards the chalets.

'Tsk . . .' he said softly.

Valerie was stuck between him and me; he stood up gracefully, walked around the table and sat where Josiane had been sitting, in case Valerie, too, wished to leave the table. She, however, did nothing; at that moment, the waiter brought the coffees. After she had taken two sips, Valerie turned to me again. 'So is it true you've paid for girls? . . .' she asked gently. Her tone was intrigued, but without 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 Rene dreamily.

'Ah, monsieur!' exclaimed Robert, deliberately grandiloquent, but, it seemed to me, basically sincere, 'they are marvellous, positively marvellous! 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; 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 for all tastes: homosexuals, heterosexuals, transvestites . . . It's Sodom and Gomorrah combined. Actually, it's better, because they've got lesbians, too.'

'Aaah, aaah . . .' the former 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 well-travelled, monsieur, I have travelled for pleasure and I have no hesitation in telling you: in my opinion, Thai girls are the best lovers in the world.'

Sitting opposite, Valerie listened to him earnestly. She disappeared shortly after, followed by Josette and Rene. 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; unless, of course, he was a relativist, which always gives one the impression of complexity and subtlety. In front of, my chalet, I said good night to Lionel. The atmosphere was heavy with the buzzing of insects; I was more or less sure that I wouldn't get a wink of sleep.