Ordinary Whore

by Dieter Moitzi

  There’s a moment of silence.

  “Cheers!” My sister waves her glass at me. “Good to see you.”

  “Good to see you, too. Here’s to family,” I reply.

  We glare at each other for a second. Then we can’t help it and giggle nervously.

  —101—

  In the afternoon, Angélique joins us in the Salon Bleu. The girls make an effort, and our conversation remains on a superficial, painfully polite level. But some half-nasty things are uttered nonetheless and fall like poison drops into the wine goblets of a Borgia banquet.

  On the surface, however, we seem to get along well, chatting about nothings while inoffensive baroque music babbles us towards dinner.

  At half past seven, we proceed to the dining room and sit down in its stilted decor: dark wooden panelling on the lower parts of the walls, Jouy wall coverings on the upper halves, mouldings and gilded decoration, crystal candleholders, dishes made of Sèvres porcelain. The three of us, my sisters and I, remain by ourselves; our mother doesn’t join us. In fact, I haven’t seen her since I arrived. She has kept to her room, ignoring our presence. “Madame is resting,” the butler told me.

  Sure. I heard sitcom telly laughter when I passed by her door. And ice cubes tinkling in a tumbler.

  I don’t complain. She might fancy making a show of herself, and I really don’t want to witness one of her melodramatic scenes. I know her by heart. The current situation gives her an opportunity to play an important role again. As usual, she’ll overplay it and will be pure pain. We’re all better off without her.

  The first course is served in silence: œufs cocotte Valentine. A polite but heavy atmosphere lies in the air.

  I choose an innocent subject and ask Angélique, “How’s our little Emma?”

  Bad choice of topic. Raphaëlle winces, which in return makes Angélique glare at her.

  Luckily, we’ve already finished our eggs, and our mother’s butler walks in to clear the table and serve the duck and roast potatoes. That provides us a moment of respite. He refills our glasses, bows with dignity, tiptoes out of the room.

  When he has closed the door, Angélique finally answers. “Emma’s fine, thanks. She’s so sweet? We taught her, you know, last weekend? We taught her to make almond cookies?” Once again, at the end of her sentences, she seems to wonder whether she’s telling us the truth or not.

  “How sweet indeed,” Raphaëlle mutters.

  I shoot her a warning look before turning back to Angélique. “And Carole? Still working for that pharmaceutical company?”

  “Yes, and still very busy? I hardly ever see her? She seems to be on the road all the time, you know, what with all her business trips? This week, for instance, she’s left for Tokyo?” The deep breath she takes betrays her anger. Only a second later, she snaps, “And don’t you roll your eyes, Raph? You think I don’t see you? I know you don’t approve? But can you just, for the sake of a nice family meal, exhibit your disgust less openly?”

  “I beg your pardon? I haven’t said a word.” Raphaëlle seems unsure whether to stop or to continue. Her character gets the better of her. With icy determination, her words razor-sharp knives, she sneers, “Anyway, I’m perfectly entitled to think whatever I choose of my sister living, and worse: raising a girl, together with that… dyke.”

  “Raph! Please!” I beg. I’m hungry, the meal smells wonderful, I would like to dine in peace.

  Too late. The duck will taste of war.

  “I can’t believe it? I’ve got news for you, sister: you’re currently? Like, right now? Sharing your dinner with another filthy dyke?” Angélique spits. “Got a problem with that?”

  “You know my values. I’m a conservative,” Raphaëlle declares. She throws her silverware on the white damask tablecloth, where they leave a greasy stain. “You want to live with those women? You want to spoil a child’s life with that unhealthy environment you have the guts to call a family? Go ahead! It’s your choice, after all. But don’t expect me to find it sane or even remotely right that you indulge in such an unnatural way of living!”

  That does it. Angélique goes berserk. Spittle flying from her mouth, she screams, “Fuck you! You tell me what’s sane and what is not? You want me to remind you of New York? Huh? Drugs and an abortion? And who, tell me, married that bastard vicomte everyone secretly loathes?”

  Raphaëlle clinches her napkin so hard that the knuckles stand out, gleaming white under the tightly stretched skin. “I’ve changed,” she whispers as if she wanted to persuade herself. “I’ve found God.”

  Is it me, or does she sound sad?

  “Damn it, you hypocrite!” Angélique shouts. “Don’t tell me your God wants you to, you know, treat your sister like some yucky freak! Why do you always pick on me, anyway? And Marc? Your oh-so-perfect brother? Why does his way of living never revolt you the same, huh? You still think he’s a fucking saint? You still believe he’s a bloody tourism consultant? You really bought that?”

  “Angélique!” I growl.

  But she won’t listen. “Our adorable brother is no better than a whore? Not that I would care? He’s always been like that? And I’ve always loved him, nonetheless? So, stop treating him like precious china, and me like a piece of filth? You hear me?”

  “What do you mean, he’s no better than a whore?” Raphaëlle asks, her voice toneless.

  “Come one? Like, wake up? You can’t be as naïve as that?” Angélique snorts. “You really believe those fat, old oil tycoons from the Middle East and those pink-haired American widows pay to see the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre? Marc sells his company? His good looks? His body? Don’t tell me you’re surprised?”

  Raphaëlle turns on me now, tears of anger in her eyes. “When I asked you, you told me the rumours were wrong!” she yells. “And I believed you! How dare you lie to me? How dare you…”

  “Fuck it! I haven’t come here to go through this shit!” I flare up. Both my sisters look ready to pounce on me with joint forces, but I stop them, giving my voice a sharp, cynical edge. “Stop it right now! Look at the three of us. Look at how we behave, how we treat each other! Don’t you think Father would be SO proud to see us right now?”

  That definitely shuts them up.

  The ensuing silence is almost harder to bear than the violent row we’ve just had. It feels like defeat.

  —100—

  Three a.m. I’m lying in bed. My sisters and I have made up over three bottles of Château Latour plus a so-so bottle of Dom Pérignon. Therefore, I’m wasted. But sleep seems to play hide-and-seek with me.

  Out of the blue, a memory comes back to me. The day when Mother showed up in Gstaad. I must have been fifteen or sixteen.

  In fact, Father had decided to send me to that obscenely posh boarding school. One in a series of many. Obviously, I was bored to tears, feeling out of place amidst the luxury, amongst the beautiful, young, and wealthy, despising all those South American heirs, Oriental princes, stinking-rich daddy’s boys. And despite their undeniable beauty, the mountains weighed down on me, day after day, like prison walls.

  To my surprise, I soon discovered that my contempt, my distance, my coldness not only made me popular, but transformed me into an object of desire. Many boys were desperate to become my friends. They offered me gifts, they offered me cash. A lot of cash, too.

  In return, I offered my friendship—very rarely—and more often than not erotic favours. I didn’t see the difference, anyway.

  Then, the administration got wind of my dealings. I think that British cunt, Milton, gave me away. He was a shapeless, colourless boy, as stiff and bland as the manner classes they gave us. Of course, he was jealous of my success.

  Anyway, the school principal, a Baron von Arschloch or other, was afraid of a possible sex scandal, so he decided to throw me out. Father was touring the French West Indies with the prime minister at tha
t time. Therefore, Mother answered the summons to come and pick me up.

  Before we left, Baron von Arschloch insisted on receiving us in his office. It was the first time ever I saw my mother without make-up. She must have wiped it off before entering the school building; I could detect faint mascara smudges under her eyes and traces of foundation behind her ear when she air kissed me. Her hair was artfully tousled as if to create the impression of a loving mother rushing to her son’s rescue. To rub it in, she was wearing old blue jeans, trainers, and a T-shirt with, I swear to God, two holes in it. I couldn’t help wondering from whom she had snitched it—her gardener? Father’s bodyguard?

  Anyway, we were served tea in Baron von Arschloch’s office, a room as huge and welcoming as a railway station waiting hall. Everything reeked of musty-dusty, superannuated Germanic schooling.

  While the headmaster was droning on about the school’s high standards, the importance of propriety, and morality in general—a starchy and opaque sermon—I was looking at his trousers’ creases, which were so sharply ironed and neat and regular that they felt like a symbol of Swiss boredom and accuracy to me.

  I only snapped out of my daydream when the creep concluded, “I shall not vant to go into ze details of vhat has brought about ze decision of our education board.” He was sitting there with a half-assed smile, uptight, spine straight, holding his cup of tea before his chest like a shield. “Suffice it to say zat zis institution cannot tolerate ze behaviour you have shown, young man.”

  “What happened?” my mother cried, throwing out her arms in a theatrical gesture.

  “I vill beg you, dear Madam, to discuss zis matter wiz your son,” the coward sleekly shunned her inquiry. Then he asked me if I had anything to add.

  I looked him straight in the eyes. “Yes, sir. Screw you.” A stupid reaction but one that felt good.

  Mother suddenly burst into quite convincing show-tears. I almost bought it until I saw something blink under the hankie with which she dubbed her eyes. I understood it had to be a bottle of glycerine.

  How embarrassing she was! Writhing on her chair, sobbing and whining. “I don’t understand! I can’t believe it!,” complaining that she had given me all her love, that she was so worried about me, and what was I to become? Baron von Arschloch’s eyes started to moisten. Objectively speaking, it was a performance forcing admiration. But above all, she made me want to slap her.

  “Is this how I raised you, Marc?” she sniffed at one moment.

  “It would seem so… Mother!” I answered uncharitably.

  I lie in the darkness, smiling fondly. I’m still proud of my answer.

  Just for the record: Mother never even asked me why I had been expelled.

  —99—

  Breakfast, next morning, is a hasty and silent affair. The good news is that Mother prefers to have her coffee in her room.

  When we hear the distant din of the church bells, we reluctantly proceed to Angélique’s car.

  The day turns out brightly lit, sun-blue, splendid. I’m not surprised. Even from his coffin, Father seems to conduct things masterfully, as if his penchant for perfection had survived him. This is clearly ideal weather for photographers and cameramen.

  When we reach the huge square in front of the dark grey church, Raphaëlle murmurs something rather un-Catholic. “Holy shit!” I think is what we hear. I share her feelings. We knew there would be quite a buzz, but none of us expected so many people to turn up.

  Black limousines are parked everywhere; government members, and députés, and sénateurs, and show-biz celebrities, and square-shouldered security goons, and policemen, and media people are milling around. The square hums with subdued blabbering; famous and wannabe-famous people in black hang out in the early springtime sunshine, happy to beam their glory into each other’s faces, happy to see and be seen. Father has never been a very popular politician; but he remains influential beyond his demise.

  We park the car in a small side street. As we approach, I spot an eons-old show-celeb smiling at all and sunder, her short, white hair gleaming in the sun. Back in the day Father helped her kick-start an AIDS-fundraiser broadcast on TV at a time when most people were still studiously ignoring the issue. Father always had a seventh sense for press-worthy matters. A world-famous actress is standing next to the old woman, her face Botox-frozen into eternal impassivity. By their side I recognise another famous actor, who, by the looks of it, had the excellent idea of attending the funeral in an advanced state of ebriety. He literally sways like a poplar in autumn. I immediately envy him.

  “I don’t want to go there?” Angélique declares all of a sudden, grabbing our arms. “I don’t feel, you know, like I’m part of it?”

  “For heaven’s sake—pull yourself together!” Raphaëlle snaps. Her voice softens a bit when she continues. “Leave the scandals to Mother, there’s a darling. Now let’s go and say hi to the government. Come on!”

  She drags us towards the church. While we exchange the appropriate piffles with the prime minister and his wife, I have time to study the other ministers. Some are chatting and exchanging jokes; Justice is reading his text messages with an eager expression; Interior is doing his nails with a blank look; Foreign Affairs is yawning and checking her watch none too discreetly. When the politicians let us go, we get cornered by the photographers. They insist on a session where we have to display sham-mournful grimaces. It’s long, it’s boring, I have only one wish: that this nightmare ends sooner rather than later.

  Finally, we’re allowed to slip away to the edge of the throng, where we wait for the ordeal to start. The three of us are sporting sunglasses and disgusted pouts anyone could mistake for grief. The difference is minimal.

  That’s when a huge, black limousine stops a mere metre from where we’re standing. A liveried chauffeur gets out, walks around the car, and opens the back door.

  A thin leg in black tights appears, a shiny black stiletto shoe is set on the cobblestones.

  Then, the second leg is placed neatly beside the first one.

  Legs and staging leave no doubt.

  Mother.

  La Diva emerges slowly, relishing the fact that everybody’s gawking.

  And—oh Mother! When I discover her rig-out, I’m torn between admiration, hilarity, and resentment.

  Mother is wearing a tight, black number that underlines her still fabulous body. It’s just too short, way too short for her age and for the occasion. A black Hermès scarf is wrapped around her throat, revealing rather than covering up her tanned bosom. She is also wearing long black silk gloves and an enormous black hat with—ohmygosh!—a dramatic veil.

  Her personal idea of a photogenic widow.

  As much as I’m aghast, I have to concede that she has chosen outfit and time of arrival wisely. The photographers run towards her, jostling and pushing each other and yelling, “Madame Forgeron! Madame Forgeron!” Some even shout stupidly, “Monie! Monie!”

  That’s all she needs. She starts to turn and pose as if attending the Cannes Festival instead of her late husband’s funeral. The bzzt-bzzt-flash-flash of the cameras and Mother hungrily sucking up the photographers’ attention make me want to vanish into the balmy spring air.

  “This is too much,” I murmur into Raphaëlle’s ear. “You two go ahead. I can’t.”

  “But…”

  “I’ll join you after the service, don’t worry. The press will get splendid photos of the whole family. But this goes too far.”

  Raphaëlle nods in silence, fighting back tears. Whether they’re tears of sadness, grief, or anger, I can’t say. On a whim, I peck her cheek and gently squeeze Angélique’s shoulder.

  Then, I’m off.

  —98—

  I hurriedly walk down a narrow lane. When I reach the Market Hall, I slow down. Two old women are standing at the entrance, wicker baskets and plastic bags at their feet. I hea
r one say to the other, “Would you believe it! What a ballyhoo! Journalists, and cameras, and politicians, and whathaveyounots! Almost like the funeral of some movie star!”

  “Crazy, right?” The other woman nods. “There was less ado when they buried Annie Girardot2 last month. You know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these days they told us we paid for this rumpus with our tax money!”

  “I certainly hope not!” the first woman fiercely replies. Then, she crosses herself. “One shan’t talk bad about the dead, but honestly, I’ve never liked that sleek eel; I surely don’t want to pay for his funeral, y’know, now he’s gone!”

  “He would’ve liked it, though. Called himself a socialist, but he was quite a money-grabber, one hears.”

  They notice my presence, take in my mourning attire, and shut up at once, grabbing their baskets and shopping bags and scuffling away, almost vexed.

  On a whim, I enter the Market Hall, find a stall where they sell booze, and choose a random bottle of red wine.

  It costs five euros.

  —97—

  In the middle of the Seine lies the Isle Olive, which I reach by crossing two bridges. I stroll around for a while, cradling the bottle of wine under my arm, glad that nobody else is here. Finally, I sit down under a weeping willow. Thousands of young leaves whisper in its branches, which behind me graze the lawn, in front of me drag in the water, forming a homely curtain, a cosy security cocoon.

  I manage to open the bottle, take a sip of wine, and cogitate. An exercise I always do clumsily, like a fledgling, proceeding with the utmost approximation. The Seine flows noisily around the island, but that doesn’t bother me; the river already made the same noise, caused the same tub, went in the same direction when King Henry IV met his mistress in secret, not far from here on the shore, in the famous Renaissance pavilion. It’s reassuring to know that, as far as the river is concerned, little has changed.

  The water swirls, the wind whispers in the leaves, birds are singing. In the distance, the church bells toll. I feel like a spectator who hears but is silent, sees but remains invisible, feels without stirring up feelings himself.