Whatever

by Michel Houellebecq

  On the evening of Gérard Leverrier's death his father phoned up his work; since he was out of the office it was Véronique who took the call. The message was simply to phone his father urgently; she forgot to pass it on. So Gérard Leverrier got back home at six without knowing about the message and put a bullet in his brains. Véronique told me this the evening of the day they learnt about his death at the Assemblée Nationale; she added that it `scared the shit out of her'; those were her exact words. I imagined she was going to feel some sort of guilt, remorse; not at all; she'd already forgotten by the next morning.

  Véronique was ìn analysis', as they say; today I regret ever having met her. Generally speaking, there's nothing to be had from women in analysis. A woman fallen into the hands of the psychoanalysts becomes absolutely unfit for use, as I've discovered time and again. This phenomenon should not be taken as a secondary effect of psychoanalysis, but rather as its principal goal. Under the pretext of reconstructing the ego psychoanalysts proceed, in reality, to a scandalous destruction of the human being. Innocence, generosity, purity . . . all such things are rapidly crushed by their uncouth hands. Handsomely remunerated, pretentious and stupid, psychoanalysts reduce to absolute zero any aptitude in their so-called patients for love, be it mental or physical; in fact they behave as true enemies of mankind. A ruthless school of egoism, psychoanalysis cynically lays into decent, slightly fucked-up young women and transforms them into vile scumbags of such delirious egocentrism as to warrant nothing but well-earned contempt. On no account must any confidence be placed in a woman who's passed through the hands of the psychoanalysts. Pettiness, egoism, arrogant stupidity, complete lack of moral sense, a chronic inability to love: there you have an exhaustive portrait of the ànalysed' woman.

  Véronique, it has to be said, corresponded blow by blow to this description. I loved her - to the extent that it was within my power - which represents a lot of love. This love was poured down the drain, I now realize; I'd have done better to break both her arms. Like all depressives she doubtless always had a tendency towards egoism and a lack of feeling; but her psychoanalysis transformed her once and for all into a total shit, lacking both guts and conscience - a detritus wrapped in silver paper. I remember she had a white plastic board on which she ordinarily wrote things like

  'petits pois' or `dry cleaners'. One evening, coming back from her session, she'd noted down this phrase of Lacan's: `the viler you are, the better it will be.' I'd smiled; in this I was wrong. At this stage the phrase was still only a programme; but she was going to put it into practice, point by point.

  One evening when Véronique was out I swallowed a bottle of Largactyl. Gripped by panic, I called the emergency services straightaway. They had to take me to hospital, give me a stomach pump, etc. In fine, I only just made it. That bastard (what else can you call her?) didn't even come and see me in hospital. On getting back `home', if it can be called that, all she managed to find as words of welcome was that I was an egoist and a flake; her interpretation of the incident was that I was contriving to cause her extra worry, she `who already had enough on her plate with problems at work.' The vile bitch even claimed I was indulging in èmotional blackmail'; when I think of it now, I regret not taking a knife to her ovaries. But then this is all in the past.

  I also recall the evening she'd called the cops to get me thrown out of her place. Why `her place'? Because the apartment was in her name, and she was paying the rent more often than I was. And that's the first effect of psychoanalysis; to develop an unbelievably ridiculous avarice and pettiness in its victims. Waste of time trying to go to the café with someone who's doing analysis: he inevitably starts discussing the fine points of the bill, and that leads to problems with the waiter. In short there were these three idiot cops with their walkie-talkies and their air of knowing more about life than anybody else. I was in pyjamas and shivering from the cold; my hands were gripping the table legs, under the tablecloth; I was absolutely determined to make them take me by force. During all this my scumbag friend was showing them the rent receipts in order to establish her rights to the place; she was probably hoping they'd get their truncheons out. That same evening she'd had a `session'; her whole stock of meanness and egoism was replenished; but I didn't give in, I asked for a warrant, and those stupid policemen had to quit the premises. Anyway, I left for good the next morning.

  9

  Buccaneer Cottages

  All of a sudden it didn't bother me not being modern.

  - Roland Barthes

  Early Saturday morning I find a taxi-driver on the Place de la Gare who agrees to drive me to Les Sables-d'Olonne.

  On leaving the town we pass through successive banks of mist, then, emerging from the last, we plunge into an absolute sea of dense fog. The road and the landscape are completely inundated. Nothing can be made out, save the odd tree or cow which emerges as a fleeting blur. It is very beautiful.

  Arriving by the sea, the weather suddenly clears. There's a wind, a lot of wind, but the sky is almost blue; some clouds are scudding rapidly east. I get out of the taxi after giving the driver a tip, which earns me a `Have a nice day', uttered somewhat grudgingly it seems to me. He probably thinks I'm going fishing for crabs, something of the sort.

  For a while I actually do stroll along the beach. The sea is grey, rather choppy. I don't feel anything much. I walk for a good while.

  Around eleven people begin arriving with their kids and dogs. I turn in the opposite direction.

  At the end of the beach at Les Sables-d'Olonne, in the prolongation of the jetty that seals off the port, there are a few old houses and a Romanesque church. Nothing overly spectacular: these are edifices of robust coarse stone built to withstand the storms, and which have withstood the storms for hundreds of years. You can readily imagine the ancient way of life of the Sables fishermen, with Sunday mass in the little church, communion for the faithful, while the wind howls outside and the ocean pounds against the rocky coast. It was a life without distraction and without incident, dominated by a tough and dangerous job of work. A simple and rustic life, full of nobility. An extremely stupid way of life, too.

  Not far from these houses are some modern white residences meant for holidaymakers. There's a whole bunch of these apartment blocks, of a height varying between ten and twenty floors. The blocks are laid out on a multi-level promenade, the lower level being arranged as a parking lot. I walked for a long time from one block to the other, which permits me to affirm that the bulk of the apartments must, by virtue of various architectural ploys, have a view of the sea. At this time of year everything was deserted, and the whistling of the wind swirling between the concrete structures had something truly sinister about it.

  I then made for a more recent and luxurious residence, this time situated just a few metres from the sea. It bore the name `Buccaneer Cottages'. The ground floor was made up of a supermarket, a pizzeria and a discothèque; all three of them shut. A placard extended an invitation to visit the show flat.

  This time an unpleasant sensation began taking hold of me. To imagine a family of holidaymakers returning to their Buccaneer Cottage before going to scoff their escalope of veal in pirate sauce, and that their youngest daughter might go and get laid in a `Ye Olde Cape-Horner'-style nightspot, was all becoming a bit too much; but there was nothing I could do about it.

  By now I was hungry. I hooked up with a dentist at a waffle-seller's stand. In fact

  `hooked up' is stretching it a bit; let's just say we exchanged a few words while waiting for the vendor to come back. I don't know why he thought it necessary to inform me that he was a dentist. In general I hate dentists; I take them to be exceedingly venal creatures whose only goal in life is to wrench out the most teeth possible and buy themselves a Mercedes with a sun-roof. And this one didn't have the air of being any exception to the rule.

  Somewhat absurdly I thought it necessary to justify my presence one more time and spun him a whole line about how I had the intention of buying a
n apartment in Buccaneer Cottages. His interest was awakened right away, and with waffle in hand he weighed up the pros and cons for a while before finally concluding that the investment `seemed wise to him'. I ought to have guessed.

  10

  The Port of Call

  Ah yes, to have values! . . .

  When I got back to La Roche-sur-Yon I bought a steak knife in the Unico; I was beginning to perceive the rudiments of a plan.

  Sunday was non-existent; Monday particularly dreary. I sensed, without needing to ask him, that Tisserand had had a lousy weekend; this didn't surprise me in the least. It was already 22 December. The following evening we went to eat in a pizzeria. The waiter had the air of actually being Italian; one imagined him to be both hairy and charming; he deeply disgusted me. On top of that he hurriedly set down our respective spaghettis without due care. Ah, if we'd been wearing slit skirts that would have been different! . . .

  Tisserand was knocking back huge glasses of wine; I was evoking different tendencies within contemporary dance music. He wasn't responding; in fact I don't think he was even listening. Nevertheless, when I briefly described the timehonoured alternation of fast and slow records, so as to underline the ritual character it had lent to the procedures of seduction, his interest was re-awakened (had he already had occasion, personally, to dance to a slow number? It was by no means certain). I went on to the offensive:

  -I suppose you're doing something for Christmas. With the folks, no doubt ...

  -We do nothing at Christmas, I'm Jewish, he informed me with a touch of pride. At least, my parents are Jewish, he added in an undertone.

  This revelation shut me up for a few seconds. But after all, Jewish or not, did that really change anything? If so, I couldn’t see what. I pressed on.

  -What about doing something on the 24th? I know a club in Les Sables, The Port of Call. Very friendly ...

  I had the feeling my words were ringing false; I was ashamed of myself. But Tisserand was no longer in any state to pay attention to such subtleties. `Do you think there'll be lots of people? I get the impression the 24th is very "family",' that was his feeble, pathetic objection. I conceded that of course the 31st would be much better: `Girls really like to sleep around on the 31st,' I asserted with authority. But for all that the 24th wasn't to be dismissed: `Girls eat oysters with the parents and the grandmother, receive their presents. But after midnight they go clubbing,' I was getting excited, believing my own story; Tisserand proved easy to convince, just as I'd predicted.

  The following evening he took three hours to get ready. I waited for him while playing dominoes in the hotel lounge; I played both hands at once, it was really boring; all the same I was rather anxious.

  He showed up dressed in a black suit and a gold tie; his hair must have taken him a good while; they make gels now that give the most surprising results. In the end a black outfit was what suited him best; poor schmuck.

  We still had almost an hour to kill; there was no point in going clubbing before eleven-thirty, I was categorical about that. After a brief discussion we went to have a look-see at the midnight mass; the priest was speaking of an immense hope rising in the hearts of men; I found nothing to object to in that. Tisserand was getting bored, was thinking of other things; I began to feel somewhat disgusted, but I had to go through with it. I'd placed the steak knife in a plastic bag in the front of the car.

  I found The Port of Call again without difficulty; I'd passed many a dull evening there, it has to be said. This was going back more than ten years; but unpleasant memories are erased less quickly than one thinks.

  The club was half-full: mainly of twenty-five-year-olds, which immediately did for the modest chances of Tisserand. A lot of miniskirts, low-cut bustiers; in short, fresh meat. I saw his eyes suddenly pop out on taking in the dance floor; I left to order a bourbon at the bar. On my return he was already standing nervously at the edge of the clutch of dancers. I vaguely murmured Ì'll rejoin you in a minute', and made off towards a table whose slightly prominent position would afford me an excellent view of the theatre of operations.

  To begin with Tisserand appeared to be interested in a twenty-something brunette, a secretary most like. I was highly inclined to approve of his choice. On the one hand the girl was no great beauty, and would doubtless be a pushover; her breasts, though good-sized, were already a bit slack, and her buttocks appeared flaccid; in a few years, one felt, all this would sag completely. On the other hand her somewhat audacious get-up unambiguously underlined her intention to find a sexual partner: her thin taffeta dress twirled with every movement, revealing a suspender belt and minuscule g-string in black lace which left her buttocks completely naked. To be sure, her serious, even slightly obstinate face seemed to indicate a prudent character; here was a girl who must surely carry condoms in her bag.

  For a few minutes Tisserand danced not far from her, thrusting his arms forward energetically to indicate the enthusiasm the music caused in him. On two or three occasions he even clapped his hands to the beat; but the girl didn't seem to notice him in the least. Profiting from a short break between records he took the initiative and addressed a few words to her. She turned, threw him a scornful glance and took off across the dance floor to get away from him. That was that.

  Everything was going as planned. I left to order a second bourbon at the bar.

  On my return I sensed that something new was in the offing. A girl was sitting at the table next to mine, alone. She was much younger than Véronique, she might have been seventeen; that aside, she horribly resembled her. Her extremely simple, rather ample dress of beige did not really show off the contours of her body; they scarcely had need of it. The wide hips, the firm and smooth buttocks; the suppleness of the waist which leads the hands up to a pair of round, ample and soft breasts; the hands which rest confidently on the waist, espousing the noble rotundity of the hips. I knew it all; all I had to do was close my eyes to remember. Up to the face, full and candid, expressing the calm seduction of the natural woman, confident of her beauty. The calm serenity of the young filly, still frisky, eager to try out her limbs in a short gallop. The calm tranquillity of Eve, in love with her own nakedness, knowing herself to be obviously and eternally desirable. I realized that two years of separation had changed nothing; I knocked back my bourbon in one. This was the moment Tisserand chose to return; he was perspiring slightly; he spoke to me; I think he wished to know if I intended trying something with the girl. I didn't reply; I was starting to feel like vomiting, and I had a hard-on; things were at a pretty pass. I said Èxcuse me a moment,' and crossed the discothèque in the direction of the toilets. Once inside I put two fingers down my throat, but the amount of vomit proved feeble and disappointing. Then I masturbated with altogether greater success: I began thinking of Véronique a bit, of course, but then I concentrated on vaginas in general and that did the trick. Ejaculation came after a couple of minutes; it brought me a feeling of confidence and certainty.

  On my return I saw that Tisserand had engaged in conversation with the pseudoVéronique; she was regarding him calmly and without contempt. I knew deep down that this young girl was a marvel; but it was no big deal, I'd done my masturbating. From the amorous point of view Véronique belonged, as we all do, to a sacrificed generation. She had certainly been capable of love; she wished to still be capable it, I'll say that for her; but it was no longer possible. A scarce, artificial and belated phenomenon, love can only blossom under certain mental conditions, rarely conjoined, and totally opposed to the freedom of morals which characterizes the modern era. Véronique had known too many discothèques, too many lovers; such a way of life impoverishes a human being, inflicting sometimes serious and always irreversible damage. Love as a kind of innocence and as a capacity for illusion, as an aptitude for epitomizing the whole of the other sex in a single loved being rarely resists a year of sexual immorality, and never two. In reality the successive sexual experiences accumulated during adolescence undermine and rapidly dest
roy all possibility of projection of an emotional and romantic sort; progressively, and in fact extremely quickly, one becomes as capable of love as an old slag. And so one leads, obviously, a slag's life; in ageing one becomes less seductive, and on that account bitter. One is jealous of the younger, and so one hates them. Condemned to remain unvowable, this hatred festers and becomes increasingly fervent; then it dies down and fades away, just as everything fades away. All that remains is resentment and disgust, sickness and the anticipation of death.