The Carousel of Desire

by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt

  He had moved to Place d’Arezzo a year earlier and had been greeted by the neighborhood like manna from heaven, since human beings always believe that beauty is a gift of the gods. His clear, luminous, almost mother-of-pearl skin, made to seem even paler by the contrast of his deep mahogany hair, gave the impression that it had been painted that very morning by some deity.

  Although he was handsome, he avoided all the caricatures his beauty might suggest: although his mane of hair looked “romantic,” he had neither the bearing nor the egocentricity of a “romantic”; although he dressed tastefully, it was not through choice but because he couldn’t help himself. Although he had an androgynous charm, feminine in the eyes, mouth, hairstyle, and hands, masculine in the torso, hips, and nose, he didn’t cultivate this ambiguity but was content to just be. In other words, all ages and sexes liked Victor. Even the word “liked” requires qualification: it wasn’t sexual desire he aroused, but rather a deep feeling of warmth, as well as the pleasure of seeing such a harmonious creature. There was no smugness about him; on the contrary, there was a certain reserve, a vulnerability, a sense of anxiety, even a fragility. People thought they knew the reason for this ever since a little vixen of a girl at the university had spread the news that Victor was an orphan. The rumor was neither confirmed nor denied, since Victor’s modesty demanded respect.

  Absorbed in his thoughts, he reached the bakery. The assistant, an amateur bodybuilder wearing a T-shirt to emphasize his sculpted torso, scowled when he saw him. “Yes, Victor, what do you want?”

  “A raisin loaf, please.”

  To this militant advocate for exercise, Victor was a dismaying case. Even though Victor wasn’t muscular, everyone found him attractive, including the bodybuilder. He had often pictured Victor with broader shoulders, prominent pectorals, well-developed buttock and adductor muscles; sadly, though, he had to admit that this wouldn’t have improved him but made him ordinary or, worse still, inconsistent. Victor was a contradiction to his religion of the biceps.

  Unaware of the debate he triggered in the assistant, Victor returned to Place d’Arezzo with his raisin loaf.

  The walk had done him good. There was no need to panic. Nobody was claiming authorship of the message—and that gave him time. If, eventually, an identity was revealed, he would be able to decline. After all, he’d always managed to avoid involvement so far.

  He entered the Art Deco building, climbed the stairs, walked along the top corridor, heard his friends’ loud chatter, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  “You certainly took your time!”

  “Stop complaining and look what I brought.”

  A round of applause greeted the appearance of the raisin loaf.

  Photocopies of coursework were pushed aside, law textbooks stacked up, and the young people stopped revising in order to pay homage to the delicacy, also helping themselves to more coffee. While some of his companions evoked childhood memories, others gave their recipes for raisin loaf, and still others pointed out the difference between a raisin loaf and a sugar brioche—in the latter, the raisins are replaced with pieces of sugar—Victor watched them, wondering if the author of the note was among them.

  Was it Régine or Pascal? Probably not, since they were going out together. Everybody knew that Louison was with David, a medical student. Coline had just started a relationship with Tristan. So the only ones left were Julie, Salomé, and Gildas.

  However sharp his antennae, Victor was unable to sense anything. As far as he could see, there was an atmosphere of honest camaraderie in the room, uncontaminated by sex.

  “Are you all right, Victor? Something on your mind?”

  Régine was leaning toward him. What to do? Flush out the culprit?

  “It’s the mail.”

  Everyone stopped talking.

  “What?”

  “Bad news?”

  “Come on, tell us.”

  Alarmed by the group’s intense interest, Victor immediately backtracked. “No . . . I’m expecting a letter to tell me whether or not my scholarship’s being renewed, and . . . it hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Gildas said. “I’m in the same boat, and I know it won’t arrive for another two weeks. If you’re already feeling down, you’re going to have two weeks of hell.”

  “Oh, OK, thanks.”

  Everyone laughed with relief, and the chatter resumed.

  Victor looked closely at his companions. Had anyone changed since he had mentioned the mail? Was any of the girls seeking him with her eyes?

  He wondered if he should take the investigation a stage further by leaving the letter lying around where it could easily be seen.

  Getting to his feet on the pretext of making more coffee, he took it out of his pocket and put it down next to the sink. That way, he was sure that when people came to wash their hands, they would see it.

  They started revising again. The nine students asked each other questions, checking the extent and accuracy of their knowledge of International Law. Victor’s anxiety slowly subsided. He was fond of his friends, enjoyed spending time with them, and was glad to know there was no ambiguity among them.

  By around noon, they had assimilated the coursework and arranged to meet up again the following day.

  Victor kissed everyone, opened the window to cool down the room, which had warmed up under the pressure of all those seething brains, and collected the mugs. As he put them in the sink, he noticed that the letter had disappeared.

  He looked everywhere. The kitchen was no bigger than a cupboard and it took him five seconds to conclude that somebody had taken the letter away.

  That must mean one of those present had sent it. She had meant to prove it by taking possession of it. What would follow was self-evident: she would reveal her identity, and the problems would start for Victor.

  He was suddenly overcome with anger, and felt like smashing everything. But at the last moment he remembered that everything in this apartment had been a gift. Without hesitation, he grabbed his phone and called his uncle. “Baptiste, I think I’m going to leave.”

  “Again? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to leave Brussels.”

  “Why?”

  “Do I need a reason? I’m leaving Brussels.”

  “What are you disappointed in, Victor? Brussels or your university course?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Only yesterday, you were telling Joséphine you loved living here.”

  “That was yesterday.”

  “So what happened today?”

  “I want to leave.”

  12

  For the third time, she reread the page of Nietzsche. Even when she got a foothold on the first sentence, her attention would falter at the second one, and tumble before the end of the paragraph; it was as if the text was a steep staircase she was trying to go down but which gave way beneath her, causing her to fall; each time, dejected, she became aware of her failure only after regaining consciousness, and realized she had to start all over again.

  “What’s the matter, Nietzsche, dear? You’re not as entertaining as usual,” she moaned, rubbing her lower abdomen under her kimono with her left hand to make sure her waxing was perfect.

  Diane smiled at the spring, which she welcomed as if it were already summer. Lying on a deck chair in the middle of her roof terrace, facing the parrot-laden trees, shielded from the other residents’ eyes by strategically placed flowerpots, she offered her face and her plunging neckline to the warm rays of the sun. Lifting her chin so that her neck would be as tanned as the rest, she raised the book—Ecce Homo—higher and carried on reading.

  The preaching of chastity is a public incitement against nature. Contempt for sexuality, tainting it with any idea of impurity, is a veritable crime against life—the true sin against life’s Holy Ghost
.

  Footsteps on the sidewalk! She sat up impatiently. “No cheating,” she said out loud. “No looking. I promised.”

  It was tempting, though. All she had to do was lean over slightly to see the man. Quivering, she tensed her neck, tightened her grip on the armrests, and stopped herself.

  The footsteps continued, entering the narrow passage leading to their house.

  “No, not even a glance! Play the game properly.”

  She quivered with joy. She refrained not so much out of respect for her promise as out of the pleasure she got from it. Any other woman would have tried to make out the person she would probably be going to bed with in the next few minutes. Not Diane.

  She held her breath, waiting for the intercom to ring.

  Instead, she heard the heavy front door open and close. A neighbor . . . Just as well I didn’t look, she thought, trying to conceal her disappointment.

  Unable to carry on reading, she put down the Nietzsche and read again the incomprehensible message she had received—Just a note to tell you I love you. Signed: You know who—concluded that whoever was playing this stupid practical joke on her would soon reveal himself, and decided to keep the sheet of paper as a bookmark in Ecce Homo.

  Then she half-opened her robe and studied her body. There was nothing feminine in her gesture or her gaze: she was like a man stripping a woman he is about to enjoy.

  “Not bad . . . ” was the verdict.

  She always marveled at how smooth and firm her flesh was, in spite of her slender figure. I actually have the advantage of a pudgy, even plump woman’s skin, even though I don’t weigh even one pound too much. I’m so lucky! While so many people complained about their bodies, tolerating them or mistreating them, Diane loved hers. She thanked nature, her parents, or whoever else it was that had given her a supple, sensuous femininity that, apart from anything else, didn’t show the ravages of time. At forty, she considered herself to be a gift to herself and to others. And now he, the stranger, was about to enjoy her.

  “Not bad at all!” she confirmed, and closed her robe.

  A bell rang through the apartment. She panicked. How could the stranger be ringing the bell without first being let in through the front door of the building? She ran to the door of the apartment. “Yes?”

  “It’s me,” said a voice she didn’t know, a deep, hot, rough voice, the voice of a horny-handed giant.

  “You’ve come to the right place,” Diane whispered.

  “Have you got your mask on?”

  “I’m putting it on now.”

  “Very good. Open the door.”

  Diane smiled: not only did she like the voice—it sounded as if it had been through a lot—but the harsh, commanding “Very good” seemed like a good omen, promising a strict master who would appreciate the docility of the woman who submitted to him.

  She took out the black crepe blindfold she had ready in the pocket of her kimono and tied it over her eyes. Thus blinded, she unbolted the door.

  “Welcome,” she said into the void.

  “Don’t talk crap.”

  A hand took her chin and lifted it. Cold lips pressed against hers. A tongue bored into her mouth, filling it with an imperious, all-consuming need; there and then, Diane knew she was going to have a delightful time.

  When she tried to cling to the man’s shoulders, he broke away, pushed her into the middle of the hallway, and slammed the door behind him.

  “I have my gear. Where are we going?”

  “What gear?”

  “I asked you a question!”

  “We’re going to my bedroom.”

  “Take me there.”

  She was annoyed with herself for not having had the foresight to practice the route with her eyes closed. She had to grope her way to her bedroom. Confirming that she must look stupid, the man heaved an irritable sigh.

  As soon as she managed to make out the correct corridor, she moved more quickly, brushing her fingers along the wall to her door.

  They went into the room. Before she had had time to do anything at all, she was standing naked before him, the stranger’s fingers having slid her kimono off her as if by magic.

  She felt a cool wind on her shoulders.

  She thought to hide her private parts, but stopped herself. On the contrary, she boldly arched her back.

  He said nothing.

  Diane’s breasts hardened. She loved this moment, the moment when she was on offer, like goods for sale, to a perfect stranger. And she liked this one because so far he had demonstrated a pleasant mixture of gentleness and roughness.

  A minute passed, long, rich, and tense.

  She knew he was admiring her, devouring her with his eyes. The silence was the measure of his growing desire. Above all, she mustn’t ask him if he liked her, or come out with anything else equally inappropriate.

  He still hadn’t spoken. She savored her victory. The more silent he kept, the more he worshipped her.

  If she were just any old piece of meat, he would already have given her an order. But nothing stirred in the room.

  She quivered at the thought of being so beautiful and revered. Shivers ran up and down her skin as the stranger’s eyes caressed her. Without there having been any contact, she was already on the way to climax.

  As if the man had sensed this and feared that his partner’s orgasm would diminish his power over her, he interrupted the scene with an order. “Get down on your knees. I’m going to see to you.”

  She knelt. She heard the sound of a metal briefcase opening near her. What was he up to?

  A pair of rough hands grabbed hers and she felt something cold and rather unpleasant around her wrists, then the man pulled her to the bed and stretched her arms in front of her. She heard a click.

  Handcuffs.

  Diane giggled.

  She loved role-playing, so this was right up her alley. She shuddered with pleasure . . . It was great to be so passive . . .

  He went back to his briefcase and fiddled with a number of metal objects. What was he going to do to her now?

  The sounds continued. Was he hesitating? That wasn’t his style. So what was he preparing to do? There was no reason to delay . . .

  Diane suddenly panicked. She had just recognized the sound of a knife blade! A knife with a long, wide blade . . . a butcher’s knife . . . a knife for cutting meat! She was sure of it! He was sharpening the edge.

  Her chest and temples grew hot with fear. A series of frightening, increasingly menacing thoughts ran through her mind. What if he was crazy? What if he had only pretended to appreciate erotic refinement in order to satisfy another impulse: murder? What if she had let in a psycho? Nobody knew he was here. She moaned. There was no way she could move, since she was handcuffed.

  In a second, Diane was bathed in sweat. Her perspiration must have spread a sharp smell through the room because the man sneered, “Oh, scared all of a sudden, are we? Wondering what’s going to happen? Well done, darling, you never can tell with me.”

  She would have liked to reassure herself by saying something cheeky in response, but didn’t have time. A rubber ball was rammed into her mouth, attached to an elastic band.

  “This way, if you suddenly feel like calling for help, you can’t,” the voice said smugly.

  She moaned. Of course, gagging her like that was a traditional part of S&M games, but it might also mean that her partner wanted to stop her screaming for help so that he could butcher her.

  “Stop fidgeting!”

  She wasn’t moving, she was shaking.

  Something liquid and icy was suddenly placed on her back. Surprised, she wondered what it was. Strange . . . It went up and down. Slowly. Because of her terror, it took her a few seconds to work out that it was the blade of the knife.

  She felt an intense sense of relief: so he was playin
g, after all! He was a partner, not a killer.

  She focused on the sensations he was giving her. The blade was following the curves of her body, leaving the flat area of her back to explore the contours and crevasses. Things were turning dangerous again. It was imperative that she not move.

  She followed the journey of the knife, shuddering at being explored in this way. She realized that the situation was now reversed: he was the one at her service, the master had become the slave’s slave by doing his best to surprise her, intimidate her, make her quiver.

  She was particularly aroused when the blade ran along her breasts and her neck.

  Behind her, she felt the man’s breathing growing both faster and heavier. Was he feeling pleasure?

  Once again, as if he had read her thoughts, he drew away.

  She grunted to let him know she wanted him to come back.

  He deliberately didn’t react. He must be a real sadist, the kind who doesn’t want to serve his victim.

  As for Diane, she was going from role to role, like a true adventurer of her own pleasure. Regretting having expressed a demand, and afraid he would doubt her versatility, she transformed herself back into the submissive.

  After several intolerable minutes, she felt a strange tickling sensation. She recognized a feather duster. So he had decided to give her a real hot and cold shower, following the blade with the feather! She shuddered, knowing there was nothing more irritating than being tickled, which could drive her to the verge of madness.

  Clearly, he was good at this game.

  Something new all of a sudden. What was it? The man’s finger? A tool? His tongue? She didn’t know. Whatever it was, it came between her legs and brought her to orgasm in thirty seconds.

  She knelt there dazed for a moment.

  Then she realized that the man was putting his gear back into his briefcase.

  “Bye, beautiful. I’m leaving you the handcuffs as a memento.”

  She barely had time to whine and struggle. He was already crossing the apartment and closing the door behind him.

  The bastard had left her there alone, naked, blind, dumb, on her knees, handcuffed to the bed.