Ordinary Whore

by Dieter Moitzi

  I don’t know why, but all of a sudden, I think of my shrink. I went to see him because therapy was the only fashionable item I lacked. After a dozen times I stopped seeing him, anyway.

  The shrink’s office, I remember, was spacious but so crammed with books, lamps, statuettes, African masks, and ornaments of every kind that I always felt oppressed. An imposing desk stood next to a couch, on which I was supposed to lie down. I refused, of course, preferring to sit on a chair because I wanted to see the guy I was talking to. I needed to gauge his reactions, discover the emotions he was trying to hide behind his smooth voice, serious mien, and contemplative air. He would squirm and squiggle on his chair almost imperceptibly. My gaze fazed him apparently; he was incapable of looking at me, leafing through his notes instead.

  The last time I saw him, he wanted to investigate my relationship with Father. Again. He seemed fascinated by the topic, much more than I could ever have been. So much, in fact, that I always wondered if he didn’t have daddy issues himself.

  “What do you blame your father for, Marc?” he asked me.

  “Not much,” I shrugged.

  “Come on, Marc. I think this might lead us somewhere, but I don’t sense you ready to dig deeper. This therapy won’t work if you refuse to be sincere. It’s not me you punish by hiding certain things.”

  I didn’t reply, so he changed his tack. “Speaking of punishment, don’t you think you’re trying to punish your father for something?”

  “Punish?” I laughed. “What do you mean by ‘punish’?”

  “Well… Look at your lifestyle. Do you think he would approve?”

  “What do you mean, my ‘lifestyle’? I guess you’re talking about my job. Well, I’m earning loads of money. I’m in touch with powerful and rich people. My father has always cherished cash and power. The more, the better. He ought to be rather proud of me, as it is. Don’t buy his social stance; it’s a politician’s attitude, nothing else.”

  He looked unconvinced.

  I sighed. Talking about my family is always difficult: people somehow believe they know all about them.

  “So, you think he’s proud of how you earn your living?” he enquired politely.

  “Jesus—he doesn’t care! How often do I have to tell you?”

  The shrink tried another approach. “Are you perhaps punishing yourself?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I snorted. “That’s crappy shrink talk. I don’t pay you, and handsomely so, to listen to such rubbish.”

  “Why are you behaving so aggressively towards me, then? Is it because you know, deep inside, that your… morally dubious ‘job’ is just some sort of disguised self-punishment? That you pursue your, uh, lifestyle so that you can despise yourself? Some kind of reaction where you try to mirror what you think your father is feeling for you?”

  That’s when I stood up. “I don’t need to listen to your moralistic sermons, okay? And the answer is ‘No.’ I don’t despise myself. My father doesn’t, either. To despise me would mean he cares. But he fucking doesn’t. If you can’t grasp that simple reality, I don’t see why I should come here week after week.”

  I left then, never to return. It makes no sense to talk to a wall, does it? Anyway, I’ve got walls at home; I can talk to them for far less money, and they would help me as much as that crook. Seriously—why would I seek advice from someone who is obviously smitten with his preconceptions? My shrink, like so many people, lives with the utopia of the harmonious family, supposed to be the only means to allow you to construct yourself in what they dub ‘a sane way.’ The concept of no emotional bond whatsoever between a father or mother and their offspring simply doesn’t fit in their view of the world where everything is jolly as long as Mom and Dad love you.

  Well, mine don’t. And it goes both ways. My family is just an ordinary, modern family.

  Now I’m shrinkless again. And a little bit richer for it.

  I come out of my reverie and notice a mother duck and her ducklings swimming by. They look innocent, oblivious, and therefore happy.

  A strange sensation presses upon my chest all of a sudden. It feels like nostalgia. Am I nostalgic of something I never had, something I was denied all my life? Or is it just the cheap wine?

  Without thinking, I empty the bottle into the river. The red liquid creates a bloody patch on the swirling surface before the Seine dilutes it and carries it away.

  —96—

  Having returned to the church square, I stand under a chestnut tree, munching a peppermint chewing gum and waiting for the service to end.

  The mayor is the first person to come out of the church. He recognises me, walks over, and eagerly shakes my hand. “My sincere condolences,” he says with a graveyard voice.

  I mumble something even I don’t understand.

  The rest of the mourning stars, the media crowd, and other ghouls spill out of the old building in slow, ceremonious waves.

  My two sisters frame our mother, conducting her carefully. They stop some metres from where I’m standing.

  “My son! Where’s my son? I need my son!” Mother whines suddenly. Her stupid veil trembles. “Where’s my son?”

  Too bad that Mother lacks talent. She sounds pissed to her tits, too. Pills? Booze? Weed? The three at once? She’s plain pathetic, as always.

  I decide I had better ignore her. God knows what I would say if I replied right now.

  But the mayor nudges me. “Shouldn’t you go and join her?” he says.

  Why doesn’t he piss off!

  I snap, “She’s just decided to be a total pain in the ass today, that’s all!”

  The mayor stares at me, nonplussed. “I think your mother needs you—this must be a very painful moment for her,” he stresses, his steely voice betraying what he thinks of me.

  “Fuck she does,” I murmur. Yet I move to my mother’s side.

  Relieved, my sisters let go of her.

  As soon as the woman in black senses my presence, she clutches my arm without looking and cries out once more, “My son! Here he is!” Then, she turns to glance at me, her eyes unfocused. “My… son!” she repeats, although something seems to bother her. She stares at me some more, as if not recognizing me. “My… son?” she mumbles again, making it sound like a question.

  Maybe she pulls off that fuss because she doesn’t remember my first name? I’m sure now: too many pills, too much whiskey. And probably the odd joint to smooth things out.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  The funeral procession slowly leaves the square, the black car with the coffin in front, then the family, then the celebrity hoi polloi.

  The woman by my side stumbles along for a while. When it becomes too much for me, I ask between gritted teeth, “Can’t you fucking behave for once?”

  This makes her stop on the spot. Eyes wide open, which even the thick veil can’t hide, she asks me blandly, “Who are you?”

  “The person you’ve been so desperately wailing for,” I reply. “Your son. Marc, in case you’ve forgotten. And keep walking, for Chrissake!”

  “Don’t be silly. How could I forget my son’s name? But do I know you?”

  Jesus Christ, she gives me the creeps! Even with her muzzy head, she seems almost clear-sighted. She is probably realising that she doesn’t know me at all, although I’m her son.

  “Shut up and walk on,” I hiss. “People are staring. Play your part; show the photographers you’re a mourning widow. And let’s get it over with.”

  Secretly I’m thinking that she is right; she really doesn’t know who I am. I reckon even I don’t.

  Our slow steps follow the rhythm of Chopin’s Funeral March—left, right, left, right, left, right—as we follow the coffin to the cemetery.

  —95—

  The next morning, Raphaëlle drives me to the railway station. While
we’re waiting for the train, an awkward silence stands between us like a hedge. A soft wind sweeps over the empty platform with unseasonal heat.

  Finally, I break the silence. “How long will you stay?”

  “No longer than absolutely necessary,” my sister answers. She doesn’t sound like herself; rather subdued; tired maybe? “I think Maître Chambard will want to see us next week to talk about Father’s will.”

  “Father still dealt with that old weasel? I’m going to miss the real party, then. Too bad.”

  “I could do without it, too, believe me.”

  “I’ve signed all the papers, haven’t I? Power to sign and stuff? Or do you need anything else?

  “No, we checked everything.”

  “And Angie? Will she stay with you?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Do try and be nice with her, okay?”

  “Don’t worry. I shall remember my good manners.”

  I detect a trace of my sister’s old sarcasm. “Good manners might not be enough this time, and you know it. She’s our sister, after all.” I smile. “I mean it. You two are my only family. We should try to, you know, care for each other.”

  My sister chews on that for a while before she mumbles, “I do care for her. It’s not always easy to see, but in my own way, I do. You can’t ask for more, given the circumstances.”

  “I know.” I hug her briefly, and the sudden movement—or the emotion behind it—makes her flinch. She pulls away, and we glare at each other sheepishly.

  Raphaëlle’s hand brushes over my black shirt. “Let’s keep in touch?” Her request sounds like a question.

  “Don’t we always?” I ask back.

  “We do. But let’s try… harder? I don’t know.”

  “Okay. Let’s try. I’ll call you.”

  The train appears in the distance. Its brakes screech, a piercing, metallic cry of pain.

  “What are you going to do now?” Raphaëlle asks.

  I could enquire what she means, but I don’t; I guess I understand. So, I just shrug. “Same as usual. Get on with my life. Do my job. I’ll be in Tunisia next week.”

  “You’re not going to change, then?”

  “No. I can’t see why I should.”

  The train comes to a halt with an exhausted wheeze.

  Raphaëlle walks me to one of the doors. “You don’t have to prove anything,” she says. “Not anymore. He’s dead now, you know.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  She sends me a puzzled look.

  “Don’t you have the feeling that he’s still alive, somehow?” I say. “He still seems to be there, you know. In each one of us, isn’t he?”

  Raphaëlle just stares at me.

  I kiss her on the cheek. “Chin up, Big One,” I say softly. I invented that nickname years ago. It resurfaces like a fond memory and brings a shiny glance to her eyes.

  That’s the last thing I see before the door closes on me.

  Part Two | Ordinary Meeting

  —94—

  “This meeting is extremely important,” Alessandra says. She drags on a slim Davidoff Lights without taking her eyes off herself.

  I’m not sure she is talking to me. But there’s no one else around, so I nod approvingly.

  She stares at her reflection in the mirror. Then she turns to face me. “What do you think, Marcuzzo? How do I look?”

  “You look fabulous,” I say, holding out the crystal ashtray.

  She doesn’t pay attention, and I’m slightly irritated when ash floats down to the carpet. I make a mental note to call the cleaner afterwards.

  Alessandra does look fabulous. Her natural carelessness and frivolity can be annoying, all right. But as to her looks, I really don’t have to lie. She is still beautiful, and her true age doesn’t show. Nobody wears those Italian Haute Couture garments and huge jewels more casually than she, either. Other women would resemble an overloaded Christmas tree from Tiffany’s, not to mention that most wouldn’t be able to squeeze their extra kilos into those clothes. Alessandra, however, remains her old, slender, classy self even in Armani’s newest. Perhaps a bit affected, snobbish, the make-up too showy. But perfection is not of this world, right?

  At last, she notices the ashtray I’m still extending. “Thank you, tesoro,” she purrs before stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette. She turns back to her reflection in the mirror, flicks away an invisible speck of ash, sighs and grabs her silver cigarette case.

  When she lifts another cigarette to her carmine-red mouth, I state the obvious. “You seem nervous, Sandra. What’s the matter?”

  Alessandra lights the cigarette, throws back her long, black hair, and blows a fat, grey cloud to the ceiling. “I told you,” she says in a strained voice, vowels stretched, “R”s cracking. “This meeting is important. It has to be a total success, otherwise…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, transfixed by her own reflection.

  “It will be,” I affirm. “I can’t believe you still have doubts.”

  I know my role by heart. This is what I’m meant to say because it’s what she needs to hear. Since I’ve started to work for her, we often go through the same motions.

  “You were great yesterday, Sandra. I mean, look at what you achieved! Ghrabouzi agreed to all your terms and conditions…”

  “The meeting today will be different.” Alessandra walks over to the balcony door and leans against the frame.

  I follow her, ashtray still in hand.

  We gaze out into the bright, flat morning. Below us, where the deep blue sea meets the sparkling, sandy beach, complicated foam structures form. They make me think of momentary meringues that wither away as soon as the waves retreat, only to be reshaped a moment later. The sound of their relentless ssssswash-ssssswash-ssssswash has something entrancing.

  After a minute of silence, I say, “You certainly had him wrapped around your finger. Ghrabouzi didn’t show much resistance.”

  “It was almost too easy,” Alessandra concedes. “He needs us desperately. Did you know this hotel hasn’t had a single client since he opened it? It’s been empty, completely empty, for more than two months now.”

  “Yes, you told me. Too bad he opened the day the revolution broke out,” I say, still watching the way the waves dance over the untouched sand. They hungrily, obstinately lick the beach, never winning their battle, always forced to retreat, but never giving up either. “Who could have predicted something like that, after all those years.”

  “That’s life. Sad for some, excellent for others.” Alessandra laughs a dry, ironic laugh. “I’ve never seen a better situation. I mean, a brand-new hotel, unbeatable rates, no staff to sack, no long explanations—what else could I’ve asked for? So simple. ‘This is what we want, here is where you sign.’ That’s what I call freedom, huh?”

  “I don’t think they’ve been fighting for that kind of freedom,” I murmur, lost in my thoughts and the perpetual movement before my eyes.

  Alessandra doesn’t hear me. “How much time left?” she asks.

  I check the Rolex she offered me yesterday. “Half an hour,” I say

  She steps back into the room and glances at the mirror again. “Be a doll, call the reception, per favore!” she says. “I’d love to have another cup of coffee.”

  “Certo, cara mia.” I walk over to the phone and place the order.

  After the room service has delivered the coffee, I remove the tie from the bedside table where I threw it before breakfast. “Let’s get ready,” I say.

  “Come here, bello, let me help you.” She steps closer and starts tying it up.

  I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself, but Alessandra is the one who pays, so Alessandra commands.

  “Sei meraviglioso, amore,” she says and scratches my cheek with a long fingernail painted so dark that it looks almost b
lack. “You’re stunning! I think the ladies will adore you. As will some of the gentlemen.” She winks at me, and for the first time, the lines of a barely-there smile show around her mouth. Her forehead and eyes remain wrinkleless thanks to a recent administration of Botox, I gather.

  The phone rings.

  “Can you answer it, Marcuzzo?” Alessandra turns back to gaze at her mirror image.

  “Signora Di Forzone’s room,” I say into the mouthpiece. “Her, uhm, her assistant speaking.”

  It’s her son Michele. “Ciao Marco,” he hisses. “Switch on the telly. Shit has happened. There’s been a bombing in Morocco.”

  “Fuck,” I swear while fumbling for the remote control. “That’s bloody bad timing.”

  —93—

  We’re standing in the circular driveway, the palm trees around us swaying irresolutely in the warm breeze. Thick, white clusters of jasmine overflow the rough stonewalls that lead up to the hotel’s reception area. Their sickeningly sweet smell wafts through the air. The sky bulges out above our heads, its insane blue so unchanged and unchanging that it feels like a menace.

  When our guests arrive, Alessandra’s face appears set, her mood level, her professional smile as bright and fierce as the sun. She welcomes everyone warmly, a hug here, an air kiss there, chirping “So glad you could come!,” and “It’s been too long, cara!,” and “My, you look so young—what is your secret, tesoro?”

  No one would have guessed that only minutes ago, she showed a much less innocuous image of herself, raging and wailing that everything is utterly fucked and swearing in Italian and insulting the Moroccan authorities, who have done everything in their might to spoil the meeting. Right now, while she is cooing with calculated efficiency over this gathering of self-aware, ageing socialites, a cleaner must be vacuuming the suite, removing the results of her fury. Or so I hope. When I led her downstairs, the remains of the crystal ashtray made a crunching sound under my loafers, and I noticed she had managed to grind out a cigarette on the carpet. I closed the door on a black hole in front of the TV set.

  I take advantage of the general greeting to drag Michele aside.