Ordinary Whore

by Dieter Moitzi

  Rachid blanches. “How… I… this is…,” he stutters.

  I simply gaze at him.

  The poor boy shakes his head, looking defeated. “There’ve never been any complaints,” he croaks before clearing his voice. “I’ve never ever molested or forced anyone, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Relax,” I say. “I’m not implying anything. And I’m not here to accuse you of anything, either. Quite the contrary. You’ve been chosen because of these rumours.” I smile encouragingly. “They prove that your talents are diverse. And that you know what the word ‘discretion’ means.”

  Rachid still looks a bit shaken but smiles now, too. “I don’t think I understand,” he says.

  “I think you do.” My own grin becomes conspiratorial. “I’m sure you’ll do a very good job here. Let’s talk business, okay?”

  He crosses his legs and relaxes at last. “Was this some sort of test?” he asks. Good; he’s a bright boy. Explanations won’t take long.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I need to explain some things first. This is going to be a special hotel, all right? A hotel where your special talents will come in handy. You’ll be able to make good money in addition to your salary, which you’ll find more than decent, too. You might have to start right after this interview, though. We’re in need of professional and dedicated staff members. But before I explain the particular philosophy of this place, you’ll have to sign some papers. Let’s start with these.” I hand him the Confidentiality Agreement, the Transparency Agreement, and the Satisfaction Agreement.

  “I’m not sure…”

  Seeing him hesitate, I tell him how much he’ll be paid.

  His eyes grow big. “You must be joking!” he gasps.

  “Sign,” I say. “Unless you sign, I can’t tell you more. But trust me: you’ll understand very quickly. You’re a smart boy. And good-looking,” I add as an afterthought. “You’ll see—you’ll make loads of money…”

  —89—

  Habib deserves his good reputation. Out of fifteen candidates, I only have to send home one. When Habib preselected her, she was single. But she has married in the meantime. A stupid move, but part of the imponderables. I tell her a shaky lie then lead her out. Her file lands in my state-of-the-art Philippe Starck waste bin. There are candidates aplenty, and I cannot afford to show emotions like regret or, God forbid, remorse. I don’t have time.

  Five minutes into the next interview, the girl is history.

  At last, today’s recruiting session is done. I close the files and glance out the window. The long and contorted shadows of the palm trees tell me it’s almost time to start the revelries again. The drinking and eating and being gay and falsely alive and positively seductive. People must be showering right now, getting dressed, applying perfume, fixing jewellery and complacent smirks, working themselves into a state of anticipatory excitement.

  I remind myself of the pay cheque Alessandra will hand over at the end of the ordeal to keep myself from sighing.

  Then I phone Michele in his room. “They’re waiting for you. Fourteen. The massage and sports teams are complete. I’ve sent them to the staff meeting room.”

  “Do I have to speak to them?” he whines, sounding like a spoilt young man. I can hear the fake moans of a porn movie in the background.

  “You know I’m not good at speeches,” I answer. “I’ve told them the basics. The rest is up to you. You are their boss, after all. Plus, I really need a shower right now.”

  Michele gives in. “Okay. I guess you deserve a break. Don’t forget the pre-dinner cocktail, though.”

  “I won’t.” A sigh slips out. “In half an hour. See you then.”

  I close the window, store the remaining files in the drawer under the desk, and lock the office on its fourteen newly sealed careers.

  —88—

  Ice-cold water runs over my body. Eyes closed, I lean against the tiles, feeling nothing. Thinking of nothing. Not smiling, not talking, just sensing my skin turn cooler and cooler.

  A first shiver followed by goosebumps. I’m alive. What a relief.

  When I feel clean enough, I step out on the balcony, naked and in a meditative mood. The glory of the dying sun sinking into the orange-red waves soothes my weariness. I let the soft evening breeze dry my skin.

  The clinks and clangs of glasses drift up from the reception room; voices are humming through the empty air as if sending me a message. I try to ignore them, try to concentrate on the last rays. For a second, I toy with the idea of walking down to the beach, away from the gathering of shallow vanities. How nice it would be to feel the fine-grained sand under my toes and follow the haphazard movements of the sea! To feast on my solitude! To dream up even lonelier shores, non-existent isles! But I can’t.

  While I get dressed, I watch the TV news. Fifteen people, they say, have been killed in the Marrakech bombing. The Café Argana seems to be totally destroyed. I pray that no one else has tuned in on the news. Otherwise, Alessandra will tire me to death with her rages and worries.

  As far as our Tunisian resort is concerned, I don’t feel unsafe. I’m sure Michele has intensified the security measures. Even a slight scratch on one of our guests’ expensively restored faces would mean the end of Alessandra’s high-brow project.

  Before leaving the room, I check my mobile. Two other text messages have arrived.

  The first comes from Raphaëlle.

  where are you? we’ve seen

  maître chambard. there are things

  we need to discuss. call me for the

  details asap. Hugs, R.

  The second message is even shorter. And anonymous.

  we know all about your

  djerba whorehouse.

  How weird is that?

  While I’m staring at the words, the mobile starts to vibrate. It’s Alessandra. I don’t want to answer her call but have to, despite myself.

  “We’re waiting,” she says then hangs up. Even on the phone, I can hear that she is smiling to one of the merry-making money bags downstairs. Yet she manages to give her voice the steely ring of a commander not amused by my running late.

  She somehow is my commander. My current boss, date, hook-up, and pimp all in one. Sometimes I even think of her as a friend.

  I examine my reflection in the mirror before leaving. I’ve tanned a bit. The sunglasses keep my half-long hair out of my face and look as if they belonged there. A black V-neck-sweater reveals smooth pectorals. Black linen trousers wrap up the more intimate goodies.

  I send my reflection a faux-seductive smile. I’ve always been unable to assess myself or to understand the fuss women and men make about my looks. I don’t find myself handsome. Anyway, it’s probably my unfathomable availability that makes people so crazy about me.

  Or whatever.

  I step out of my room, ready to be twiddled and pawed, bracing myself to get bored to death by intellectually anaemic conversation.

  Sartre was right. Sometimes, often, pretty much always, hell is other people.

  —87—

  It’s way after midnight. People have finished their umpteenth glasses, stammered their last toxic observations, and stumbled back to their rooms, alone or accompanied. The soulless muzak has been switched off, too. And Alessandra has had too much champagne. I have to half carry her to her room.

  I’ve remained sober, knowing she would require my presence before allowing me to retire to my own room. An essential, unwritten rule in the moral contract that binds us.

  When I help her over the threshold, I notice that the mess we’ve left behind this morning has been cleaned up; even the black hole in front of the TV has disappeared.

  I switch on the little lamp on the nightstand before letting Alessandra slip onto her bed. Then, I open the little fridge. Humming softly to myself, I pour myself a vodka on the rocks. The
balcony door has been left open; the smell of sand and salt and the memory of heat hover in the air.

  When I hear the click of a lighter, I turn around.

  Alessandra is lifting another of her slim cigarettes to her mouth. She must be really wasted for it looks as if she were fighting against invisible forces. A billowing cloud veils her face. She yawns.

  “Do you think that perhaps, one day, you could love me, tesoro?” she suddenly asks, sounding nonchalant, almost uninterested.

  For a second, I’m lost. She could be my mother, age-wise. She is the mother of one of my school acquaintances. She is Alessandra, for Christ’s sake.

  “I don’t know if I’m able to love anyone,” I reply at last. “But you know I like you. Very much.” I turn the heavy crystal glass in my hands. Its frosted surface stings my fingers.

  “To like someone is not the same thing as to love them,” she murmurs.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lounging on the bed, a perverse glimmer on her face. She is gazing at me with a mock pout while stroking the pillows with one hand. The heavy bracelets around her wrist tinkle.

  I would like to laugh her questions away. But thinking of the check she is due to sign, I force myself to remain tender. “Oh, Sandra.” I put down my glass, step closer, raise her chin with a finger. “Listen. I’ve never lied to you, have I? Everything has been clear between us, true?”

  She nods and wets her lips, waiting like a serpent before it attacks.

  “We’ve talked about this, too.” I sigh to show how embarrassed I want to appear. “We’ve agreed that we’d have a simple customer-provider-relationship. I promised you that, whenever you called, I’d answer. Whenever you want me to be with you, I show up. Whenever you need advice, I’m there for you. That’s something very precious, isn’t it? And I’ve never let you down, have I?”

  Her head says, “No you haven’t,” but her eyes betray her. I can see that she would have preferred other words. A confession, an avowal? Or something else altogether?

  Come on, I think, you don’t need me in your life. Is this just your newest game?

  I sit down beside her, take her face between my hands, and kiss her lips. She tastes of wine and lipstick and cigarette smoke.

  I do like her, I reckon. Somehow.

  “Don’t spoil it,” I whisper. “There’s only so much you can ask of me. I don’t think I’m ready to give more. To anyone.”

  I kiss her again.

  She closes her eyes, smokes when I release her lips.

  A strange silence stands in the room, reaches out for us, fingers us clumsily. It feels like a question mark.

  I stand up, walk over to the small desk, and finish the iced vodka in a single gulp.

  Alessandra rises, too. “I just wanted to tease you, amore,” she says, her voice slurred and smoky. She sways a little. “Playing mind games. Wondering how it would be to become Madame Forgeron… Settle down… Leave all this behind…” She shrugs and laughs drily as if to show me how silly her musings really were. “Don’t take me serious, Marcuzzo. I guess I’m a teensy bit tipsy, too.”

  I take her cigarette and throw it into the empty vodka glass. Then, I pull her into my arms and kiss her again.

  Her mouth opens, her tongue flickers in and out.

  My tongue answers dutifully.

  She pushes me away almost violently. With one hand, she reaches behind to open the zipper of her dress. With the other, she switches off the light. I watch her shadow undress in a tinkle-tankle-glang-glang. Her naked body shimmers in the moonlight; her jewels sparkle, tiny spots jumping up and down, to and fro, as she makes her panties glide to the floor. Or at least, that’s what I guess she is doing.

  Then, she waves me over. “Come here,” she whispers. “Show me how much you… like me.”

  She laughs at her own pun, a rich and carefree and self-content laugh that fills me with relief. For a fleeting moment, I’d thought she was dead serious.

  Madame Forgeron, indeed.

  —86—

  When it’s done and over, I leave Alessandra and slip to my own room. I’m deadly tired. But sleep won’t come. For a long while, I sit on the balcony in my underwear, looking into the darkness. My thoughts travel through vague, abstract territories. I become night, gripped by the slight despair I often experience when I can’t sleep.

  Strange how things feel heavier, more powerful, more meaningful in the early morning hours. They seem to win an unfathomable significance of their own. I tell myself they don’t; yet they resist and insist, like the waves fighting the beach down below.

  The moon has gone to bed. Faintly sparkling diamonds are embedded in the black velvet sky. Things, shapes, expanses have disappeared, smudged into a great evenness, a deep-shade blur. The night levels out distinctions, distances, concreteness. Despite my fatigue and despair, I don’t feel too bad.

  Slightly, ever so slightly, the sky diamonds grow fainter and fainter. Black becomes grey, dark grey becomes less dark grey. Half light starts to spread. Timid colour spots emerge in the vast uniformity.

  I slip back into my empty room, discarding my boxer shorts in the process. Stark naked, I step out into the corridor, then glide down the emergency stairs that are lit by a tiny, gloomy lamp.

  Downstairs, I meet one of the security guys.

  “Good morning, sir,” he whispers when he recognises me, ogling my nudeness with undisguised surprise.

  “Good morning,” I answer. “Can you inform your colleagues that I’d love to have some privacy at the beach, please?”

  “No problem, sir.”

  When I walk away, I hear him murmur something into his walkie-talkie.

  A crackling sound answers.

  —85—

  The still black water accepts me like an old friend. It feels warm and cosy.

  Afterwards, I sit on the beach, shaking with cold while the scarce wind dries my skin. How alive and peaceful that makes me feel!

  My teeth clatter so much that I don’t hear the discrete footsteps in the sand. I leap up with a start when someone drapes a bath towel over my shoulders.

  Rachid, the young man I recruited some hours ago, stands behind me. He is dressed in white.

  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you. But I saw you shivering, so I thought you might need this,” he says sheepishly. He picks up the towel, which has slipped down when I jumped to my feet. He drapes it over me again and rubs my arms.

  I step back to look at him, dazed. “It’s all right,” I finally say. “You did frighten me. But it’s all right now. And thank you for the towel.” I let myself fall down on the ground again.

  Rachid looks at me, not knowing what to do.

  “Come on,” I pat the sand beside me. “Sit down.”

  “I thought you wanted to be alone.”

  “Even if you stay with me, I’ll feel alone,” I murmur. Then, louder, “I don’t mind your company. Come on, sit.”

  He obeys.

  We gaze into the distance above the sea where the faint morning light increases almost imperceptibly. A comfortable silence settles down between us.

  He breaks it after a moment. “You’re still cold,” he whispers. “Don’t you want to get dressed?”

  “My clothes are in my room,” I whisper back, careful not to destroy the magic of the early hour.

  Rachid considers this. “Do you want us to… to make love?” he asks. “It will warm you.”

  Caught unawares, I stare at him. Then it dawns on me. Of course, this is what he is meant to propose. “No,” I say. “No, I don’t want to… how did you call it? Make love? No, definitely, no.” I smile. “Thank you, though.”

  “You shouldn’t stay here,” Rachid murmurs. He starts to dig one hand into the sand, then lifts it. The fine grains run smoothly down between his slender, tanned fingers.

 
“What?” I ask. For a second, I believe this is another of the strange warnings I’ve been getting.

  “You shouldn’t stay here. You’ll catch a cold,” he explains.

  “Hm,” I say. “Come here.” I pull him closer. “Put your arm around me. That’ll warm me.”

  He snuggles up and wraps his arm around me. I sense his body heat, his breath on my neck. The hug feels good, almost motherly.

  “Sir?” Rachid asks. “I was wondering…”

  “Call me Marc. What is it?”

  “Oh, no. I can’t ask you that.”

  “Yes, you can. Don’t be afraid.”

  “But… you’re my boss.”

  “Good Lord, no! Michele is your boss. Maybe you consider me a bit higher up in the food chain, but I don’t think I am. We’re colleagues, somehow. So, go ahead, shoot.”

  He ponders this. Then, “I thought you were Madame Di Forzone’s… husband?”

  I stifle a laugh. “Not at all! She pays me for my… uhm, services. Just like you’ll get paid, you see?”

  “Really? But with your looks, you don’t need… I mean, why do you do it?”

  “You need money to live. I do, too.”

  “But… but you’re French. Surely there are other jobs for you in France.” Rachid shakes his head, unbelieving.

  “Surely, yes. But this suits me.”

  “How did you… get involved in all this?”

  “Chance. Life. I had the choice: whore, or criminal, or politician. Which is more or less the same anyway. My father was a politician, you know, and I never wanted to become like him.”

  “Okay. I see,” Rachid lies. He gazes at me, a vulnerable young guy who looks like Kate Bush’s Man with the Child in His Eyes.

  “Hey,” I propose. “Let’s go for a swim, shall we?” I jump up again. The towel slides to the ground like a veil. Anything is better than to discuss my lot. Worse, Rachid has shown me the unharmed, innocent part of him. I don’t want to be touched by his vulnerable eyes, his pertinent questions. “Come on.” I help him stand up. “And get out of these!” I playfully tug at his clothes.