A little calmer now, he paused on Place d’Arezzo. Parrots and parakeets were squawking, dropping excrement, and fluttering around as if nothing ever happened in this city. To think that they didn’t have mood swings! Ludo watched them with a mixture of hatred and resentment: even though he thought they were stupid, he envied their constant vitality and wondered why their lives were so uncomplicated and his exactly the opposite.
Back in his apartment, he put the finishing touches to two articles for his cultural magazine, then, relieved that he had done his duty, switched on his personal computer.
There were four responses to his ad on the dating site he had joined. How disappointing! When he’d subscribed, the promise had been that he would get about fifty responses: either he’d been swindled, or his text hadn’t attracted anyone. Only four women in a whole week?
The first insulted him: It takes a real old fossil to write something like that. If I were on a desert island, I’d rather have tortoises for company than this idiot. When you’re as bad as that, the only option is masturbation.
The second demanded that he be removed from the list: Dear Moderator, If you accept lunatics like this, decent people are going to unsubscribe.
The third took a different tack: Feel like a dirty-minded fat girl? Call Virginie.
The fourth sounded different: I’m very interested in your advertisement. I have all the faults you want: I’m antisocial, insomniac, a smoker, hysterical, not very sexual, and I’ve been depressed for years. I’ll add even more to your list: I don’t cook too well, I verge on the irrational, I know nothing about music but love it. Having said that, before I send you a tape, which would be an act of premature immodesty, I need to know more about you. What was your most recent meal? What was the most recent piece of music you listened to? What’s your star sign? If it’s Gemini or Scorpio, don’t bother replying.
The tone of the message made Ludo smile. Finally, someone who understood him . . . He looked at her name: Fiordiligi. Another point in her favor: she had chosen a character from Mozart, the heroine of Così fan tutte, as her handle.
His face felt hot. He was definitely going to contact her. Should he reply now or wait till tomorrow?
He walked around his apartment, then returned to his table. Better not try such a good woman’s patience. His quick fingers tapped on the keyboard:
Hello, Fiordiligi. From your description, you’re the ideal woman. Are you sure you aren’t making yourself sound better by investing yourself with faults? Are you lying in order to attract me? Are you really the disaster you claim to be? I’m afraid I’ll discover your qualities if I contact you. Signed: Alfonso. P.S. I’m a Sagittarius. I’ve eaten crap. I listen to Scriabin in order to cultivate my depression artistically.
No sooner had he pressed the send key than the doorbell rang. Blushing as if he had been caught mid-coitus, Ludo switched off his computer and opened the door.“Tiffany?”
“Weren’t you expecting me?”
“Er . . . No.”
“I knew it. I told the girls, ‘He’ll forget, you’ll see.’”
“Forget what?”
“Your appointment.”
“What appointment?”
“Your appointment at the See Me Institute.”
He didn’t understand.
She rolled her eyes angrily. “The massage we gave you as a birthday present!” she insisted.
Ludovic slapped his forehead in dismay: his female friends had clubbed together to buy him a massage, but since that was something he hated, he’d put the voucher away in a drawer. But the woman who owned See Me had told the girls that he hadn’t shown up. So, three days ago, Tiffany had fixed an appointment, and was coming to get him. There was no backing down now.
“You’ll see, it will do you a world of good,” Tiffany said, seeing how upset he was.
“It’s just that . . . I’ve told you so many times . . . I’m not sure I like massage.”
“How do you know if you’ve never tried it? Come on, I can’t make sure you get laid, but I can take care of this.”
For a moment, Ludo considered setting his kitchen on fire to create a diversion, but Tiffany was sticking close to his heels, so escape was no longer possible.
They walked together to Avenue Molière, where the See Me Institute flaunted its sober elegance.
They went in and Tiffany gave Ludo’s name to the receptionist, who instructed him in a honeyed voice, “This is the key to Locker No. 6, on your left past the door. In it, you’ll find towels, slippers, and a robe. Please hang up your clothes there and go to the indoor fountain to wait for the therapist.”
Ludovic wished he could run away, but Tiffany dragged him to the frosted glass door. “Go on, Ludo, enjoy the massage.”
He told himself he would hide in the changing room, then run out before the receptionist had time to stop him.
As if she had heard him hatch this plan, Tiffany said, “I’ll stay here and look at their specialties, prices, and membership packages.”
Damn! If Tiffany was going to stay in the lobby, he couldn’t escape.
Shoulders slumped, he went into the changing room. The air smelled of amber, with soft lighting creating a comfortable atmosphere. Come on, Ludo, be brave, he said to himself as he started undressing. It was a good thing there was nobody else in the room, or he would have felt inhibited. He took off his clothes, keeping his boxers on, and put on the robe, which was so large, thick, and warm that he felt as if he was disguising himself as a polar bear. Then he tried to put on the slippers, which were two pieces of sponge sewn together, and that was the last straw: the sight of his white, hairy legs was painful. They were so ugly! And his feet were even worse. Through some perversion of nature, there were hairs growing on the joints of every toe. Where else could you find anything uglier than those thin tufts of hair? Why did they have to grow there, when he was practically hairless on other parts of his body? He looked like a monkey, the embryo of a monkey, a monkey in the process of being formed, an unfinished monkey. He should have shaved before coming here. He did shave when he went swimming, but he was afraid of doing it too often because he had been assured that if you shaved too often the hairs became stronger, thicker, and rougher, in other words, acquired the vigor of a beard. That was all he needed! A beard on his feet, when he didn’t have one on his face!
“Hello, am I disturbing you?”
He gave a start.
A stunning young blonde had just looked into the changing room. “Sorry,” she said in a soft voice. “I did knock several times but you didn’t respond.”
“I’m Ludovic.”
“Please come with me, Ludovic. My name’s Dorothea, and I’m your therapist.”
Irritated, Ludovic wanted to shoot back, “Therapist?” How pretentious was that? Couldn’t she just say, “Masseuse”? No stratum of society being spared linguistic inflation, nobody called professions by their names anymore. Here was a manipulator of flesh giving herself an academic title to convince you she’d been to medical school. He suppressed his indignation and simply followed her with short, clumsy steps, since the soft slippers rendered movement dangerous. This place felt so alien that the prospect of making a scene struck him as utopian.
Having descended to the floor below, Dorothea admitted him to a small room with a high couch.
“I’ll let you lie down here.”
She gave him a tiny plastic bag containing a piece of fabric with an elastic going through it.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a G-string. You can put it on if you like, but nudity doesn’t bother me.”
Ludo felt faint. “G-string,” “nudity.” They were going in a direction he hated . . . He was about to cry out that he wanted to leave, but she had already disappeared and closed the door behind her.
Furious, he put away his robe and lay on his stomach, keepin
g on his boxers and adjusting them to protect his modesty. Then he calmed down, thinking that he was about to inflict on that poor girl the worst ordeal of her life: never before could she have touched such an ugly body. She was about to massage a tubercle.
There was a gentle knock at the door, and the therapist came in and, in a mouselike voice, asked him about his health and medical history. Ludo assured her that he was in excellent health, a detail that made him want to cry.
At last, the therapist announced that she was starting her “treatment” and placed her hands on various parts of his body, applying a still, constant pressure.
Even though he didn’t enjoy it, Ludovic had to admit that it wasn’t unbearable. So he took the time to look around. It was a cellar! He was stuck in a cellar. Above him stood a five-story building that could come crashing down. If it did, nobody would find him or his “therapist.” How stupid! And they were trying to persuade him that it was pleasant? What was pleasant about shutting yourself up in a windowless hole? What was pleasant about knowing you were occupying the space usually occupied by a boiler, even if the paint, the ceramic tiles, the sound of running water, and the Indian music were trying to conceal the fact by creating an atmosphere of luxury and relaxation?
The mouse asked him if he was all right. “Would you like more pressure? Or less?”
“It’s perfect,” Ludo murmured in order to dismiss the problem.
Should I admit to her that I can’t stand being touched? She’ll be offended. Or think I’m crazy. Which I probably am. But that’s nobody’s business but my own.
The mouse announced that she was about to use oil.
So now I’m going to get all sticky!
“Do you have to?”
“Of course. They’re Ayurvedic oils. Their scents and properties enhance the treatment. Are you familiar with Indian medicine?”
“Yes, of course.”
The mouse is totally into her delusion that she’s a therapist. It’s only natural she lives in a cellar. Mice have been living in them for thousands of years.
He almost laughed but at that very moment, something greasy landed on his back. He shuddered with disgust. The stickiness persevered and moved about. She was in the process of making him mucky from his shoulders down to his lower back. It was horrible!
Ludovic felt that if this carried on, he would go mad. The oil repelled him, being covered in it made him feel sick, and this fanatic was using him to give credibility to her nonsense. He tried to calm himself with humor. She’s preparing me like a roast. All I need is a clove of garlic up my ass and I’m ready for the oven. He flushed because the word “oven” reminded him of his grandparents, the Zilbersteins, who had died in Nazi extermination camps, and that brought on a wave of remorse. He was truly pathetic! His ancestors had been slaughtered after endless suffering while he, who had everything, who lived in a peaceful world, who was being pampered in a luxury establishment, couldn’t even be happy. Shame on him . . .
How could he ask the girl to stop? How could he avoid her increasingly broad and emphatic gestures? Ludo felt as if he was going to faint. His head was spinning. Should he say something?
Suddenly, he straightened, got up on all fours on the couch, and cried out.
Taken aback, the girl screamed and stepped back.
Ludovic threw up.
He threw up for a long time, in several spasms.
There in front of him, on the towel, appeared the cheeseburger, the fries, the chocolate melt, all in insufficiently chewed pieces and drowned in Coca-Cola.
Phew! He was breathing more easily. The massage was over, and he was spared.
Half an hour later, back home, Ludo felt like the happiest of men, returning to his apartment as if he had just spent six months in jail. The expedition had had the advantage of making him even more attached to his own den and his own habits.
Why was it that he couldn’t stand being touched? He didn’t know. But it was a fact that his skin didn’t like coming in contact with a stranger’s skin. In addition, he felt the need to be in control, and allowing yourself to be caressed or massaged meant letting go. No, thanks.
Automatically, Ludo switched on his computer. His heart beat faster when he noticed that there was a new message waiting for him. Fiordiligi had replied.
Dear Alfonso, Sagittarius is my favorite sign. I stuff myself with chips. This morning, I listened to some Schumann, which, if you want to keep feeling sad, is as good a prescription as Scriabin, don’t you think? I would very much like to correspond with you. A Fiordiligi used to bad luck and surprised to glimpse a lucky star.
Ludo began a long letter. He was enchanted with this Fiordiligi. He was particularly touched by her last confession: if, like him, she attracted problems, then they were made for each other.
8
Diane had been tied to her bed for eight hours, blindfolded and gagged, without food or drink. Cooler air was coming into the bedroom from the window, mottling her naked skin with shivers. Her knees, chafed by the floorboards, were starting to hurt from bearing her whole weight.
Shortly after her visitor had left, she had waited to see what he would do next to free her. After all, the stranger had behaved like a gentleman, giving her some rare sensations. In her fertile imagination, she had pictured several possibilities, two of which seemed exciting . . . In the first, the stranger called the firefighters, claiming there was a fire in the apartment. They kicked the door down and discovered her, naked and handcuffed—they might even be turned on by the sight. In the second, the crueler of the two, the stranger told the police that he had heard screams coming from the fourth floor. The police came, freed her, and, because she didn’t answer their questions, took her into custody, where she finally told them everything: a delicious prospect, a refined twist on the kind of sado-masochistic situations she enjoyed.
Eight hours later, she decided that she had idealized her stranger. He had simply run away, period, without planning any second act for this scenario.
And now, with her joints inflamed, she was trying, in spite of her hands still being tied to the bed, to find a less painful position. This really was sadism! But boring, pointless sadism: she was just hurting, that’s all, with no pleasure involved.
At seven in the evening, her husband Jean-Noël came back from work. After calling her from the hallway, he went from room to room and discovered her in the bedroom. He immediately tore off her mask and gag.
“Please hurry up and remove the handcuffs,” Diane cried. “I can’t wait any longer: I’m bursting to take a leak!”
Luckily, the visitor had put the keys in plain sight on the night table. Freed, Diane got stiffly to her feet, moaned a few times, and ran to the toilet.
By the time she came back into the living room, Jean-Noël had prepared two martinis. She slipped on her silk robe and sat down with a sigh. “What a day!”
Jean-Noël laughed and collapsed into an armchair. “I think you may have quite a story to tell me.”
They clinked glasses and, rubbing her sore wrists, Diane recounted her experience of that morning. Aware that her husband was captivated, she went into increasing detail, analyzing her many sensations, turning the episode into an epic.
Jean-Noël listened, mouth ajar, eyes gleaming with fascination.
“Anyway,” she concluded prosaically, “with all that, I didn’t have time to buy or cook anything, so you’re going to have to take me out to dinner.”
Jean-Noël did as he was told. Aroused by the adventure, he felt desire for Diane, but knew only too well how she would react to him: with disdain. “What, like this? In bed, Ma-and-Pa style? Oh, no, for pity’s sake, we’ve done that, it’s boring.”
Diane loved inventive sex. In truth, Jean-Noël wondered if she liked inventiveness more than actual sex, seeing how much pleasure she got out of coming up with novel situations and staging them. Going t
o bed with Jean-Noël in a legal, middle-class, repetitive way bored her, and she made no attempt to conceal it. He was sometimes surprised and had even complained. But Diane wouldn’t listen. “Oh, no, don’t start on that again, you’ll make me depressed. I didn’t marry you to have dreary sex but to try the impossible. What’s marriage for if it doesn’t allow you to try out hundreds of ways to come? For pity’s sake! As far as I’m concerned, conjugal life should be a stimulant, not a sleeping pill.”
She meant it. In her loose, hippieish youth, she had ended up with a baby whose father she despised, and had devoted herself to bringing it up while doing all kinds of insecure jobs and living through some extreme adventures. Once her daughter had settled in the United States—on the pretext of finishing her studies, although Diane proudly claimed that it was really to get away from her unstable mother—she had remembered that, although she was blessed with a superb body, time wasn’t on her side and that she would eventually become less irresistible, and so she had chosen Jean-Noël—a recently divorced, high-flying engineer—attracted by his comfortable financial position and glistening eyes.
He was forty at the time and had expected this to be just one more affair, but Diane had forced him to follow her into a world of sexual escapades: she had taken him to swingers’ clubs, invited him to unusual parties, had given herself to other men in front of him, and had involved him in various sado-masochistic scenarios.
To Jean-Noël, this voyage of exploration had been an eye-opener. Although he was wary of women, considering them cunning and self-interested, he put all his trust in Diane, who was so different. She had conquered him and her victory was all the more complete in that she hadn’t used any of the weapons of her peers, such as modesty, fidelity, tenderness, moderation, security. On the contrary, she was crude, dominating, outrageous, crazy, a lover of the unexpected, hungry for danger, and had set free the anti-conformist he had kept imprisoned in order to achieve success.
The Carousel of Desire Page 19