Ordinary Whore

by Dieter Moitzi

  Rachid undresses. His delightful young body glistens in the dawn’s early light. He smirks at me.

  I slap him on his buttocks, then run.

  “You’ll pay for this!” he shouts, grinning, and runs after me.

  We race into the balmy waves, gloriously naked, shrieking, splattering, two playful kids, two boys unspoiled and unsullied by life, while the sun comes up behind the horizon.

  Part Three | Ordinary Dinner

  —84—

  It’s Friday afternoon. Weekend lassitude has overcome me prematurely, engulfing my apartment, a thick and sticky sensation that holds the promise of more to come. A glass of red wine is all I find to fight the sinking feeling. With limited success.

  That’s why I muck around, rearrange the flowers on the living room table, hunt for dust that isn’t there, gaze out the bay windows at lives that don’t affect me.

  Time is a poisoned gift when you don’t know what to do with it.

  Then the telephone rings. And it’s Angélique.

  “Hey?” she says. “Hi there? How are you?”

  “What a surprise!” I answer. “I didn’t expect your call. I’m fine. And you?”

  “Well, I’m fine? And you?”

  “I’m fine, too,” I repeat.

  “How was your trip?” she asks. Her voice sounds bright. Too bright to be natural.

  “So-so,” I shrug and check my nails. “Sunny, hot. Not that I had time to enjoy the weather, though. Been too busy.”

  Angélique’s next question doesn’t register at once. Or maybe it does, and I just prefer not to hear it in case it might erase her suggestion from the record.

  She insists, however. “Why don’t you come over for dinner? Let’s say tomorrow? Evening? If you haven’t got other plans, that is? Seven o’ clockish?”

  All right, then—I haven’t misunderstood the first time. I wonder if Raphaëlle talked to her. Is this an attempt to tighten the family ties?

  Fact is, we don’t go to each other’s places, not even Angélique and I. That’s something we simply don’t do. We see each other for the odd lunch, the odd drink, an anniversary maybe. But always on neutral ground. In a bar, a café, a bistro, a restaurant maybe.

  I notice that my silence lasted an embarrassing moment too long. “Why, uh… yes, yes, that would be nice,” I pretend. “Is there a special occasion?—Gosh, have I missed a birthday?”

  “Oh, no, not at all?” Angélique sounds as sheepish as I feel. “No, it’ll be just an informal dinner? Carole and I, we’ve been wanting to, you know, do this for quite a while, you know?”

  Her lie is as transparent as the morning air. And the phrasing doesn’t make it sound more sincere. Even she doesn’t seem to believe her words.

  “Oh. Good. Nice. Really. Uhm… do you want me to bring anything? Just tell me… Dessert? Wine? Anything else?” My voice lacks the cheerfulness I want to lend it.

  “Not really?” Angélique says. “Everything’s, like, prepared?”

  “Let me bring some champagne at least. You know my tastes are special. I don’t want to gulp down some second-rate sparkling piddle.”

  “You snobbish pig?” she chuckles. “All right, bring your precious bubbly, if you insist?”

  We remain silent for a second. Finally, Angélique chirps, “Well… well well… I’d better give you our address? Don’t you think?”

  It’s settled then.

  “Well… yes. Hold on a sec, let me just grab my notepad.” I open several drawers before I find a sheet of paper. “Ready. Shoot!”

  She indicates a street in the southern suburbs of Paris. “I’m really looking forward to this?” she says. It sounds like a feeble attempt of self-persuasion.

  My conclusion turns out weak, too, “See you tomorrow, I guess… Seven o’clock, is it?”

  “Absolutely? I’m glad you’re coming?” Angélique says with forced enthusiasm. “Bye, big brother?”

  —83—

  The next morning, I’m sitting in the métro, heading towards La Défense. I can’t arrive empty-handed at my sister’s. Each time I see my niece, I bring her something. Chocolate, candy, a little toy. And this time, it’ll be a real, official dinner. So, it’ll have to be something more substantial. That’s why I googled Toys ‘R’ Us and found an outlet in the La Défense shopping-mall.

  I like to ride the métro. Even though I don’t do it often, I do like it. Really. I never tried to understand why. It must be the anonymity, I gather. The stations rush by in a blur, people dash in and hustle out, the faces change. Ugly people, beautiful people, rich people, poor people, young ones, old ones, pale skins, tanned skins, dark skins.

  And no one cares. No one expects me to smile or to be friendly or to be anything but an innominate nobody. No one needs me, no one uses me, I blend in, melt with my surroundings until reaching a state of reassuring virtual non-existence.

  Public transport users tend to just sit or stand there, indifferent and uninvolved. They read their papers and books and magazines, they blabber on their mobiles, they listen to music, they gaze outside with empty eyes, wearing masks of stone. When someone touches me, it’s because the train is crammed and not because they paid for it.

  People look at me but don’t see me. People don’t know me. People probably don’t want to know me. Everybody is too absorbed in their own universe; everybody is their own centre. Everybody is special, which means no one is. Not even I. I as a single entity disappear.

  I like to watch people in the métro, however. My observations have the delicious taste of futile snapshots, of weightless life-portions. As soon as I start to study a face, as soon as I single out someone, transforming a mere presence into a person, I’m likely to lose them faster than I could say “Hello” because that person will get off the train and disappear from my life without a trace. It’s all about flows and trajectories, possibilities, unknown destinations, about tunnels, exits, corridors.

  You move on, get somewhere, fast and faster, then leave. Nameless and unnoticed.

  At Châtelet-Les Halles, a group of middle-aged, excited Spanish tourists sweeps me into the line #1. Their eager grins and good humour shine out and set them apart from the other travellers who, judging by their obvious boredom, presumptuousness, and half-angry weariness, are pure Parisians. The Spaniards gather around the central metal bar, bowing their heads over a city map. They chat loudly, check the map, compare it with the panel where the métro-stations are printed.

  “Hay que salir ahí,” one man finally shouts and points out Concorde.

  I slip onto a folding seat and study the ads at the back of the train. “Learn to become thrifty!” one says. Another one displays a literary quote meant to uplift the intellectual level of the métro-users: “Paris is the reading room of a library through which passes the river Seine.”

  Huge billboard ads in the stations praise the merits of Bose-speakers, Russian ballets, African singers. One tries to sell the timeless charm of Enghien-les-Bains, the posh spa north of Paris: “The well-being at its source,” the ad trumpets. I’m not sure the average métro user can be considered part of the target market for that resort for the rich.

  At Concorde, the Spanish tourists leave, others come in.

  When the train departs, gaining speed in bumpy shakes and rattles and a deafening din, I notice an old lady in Chanel standing before me. She’s wearing white lace gloves and seems to have a hard time steadying herself, looking fragile, her pale, wrinkled skin as thin as porcelain and so translucent that the veins on her temples show through.

  Without hesitating, I stand up and offer her my seat.

  “No, thank you, dear,” she shouts into my ear, waving a gloved hand at me. “Don’t bother.”

  She turns to the young man sitting across from me and touches him on his shoulder.

  He must be sixteen or seventeen. His dark
complexion betrays his Algerian, Moroccan, or Tunisian origins, as do the black curls under his basketball cap. Baggy T-shirt, baggy trousers, a deep sulk. Without taking off his headphones, he nods grudgingly, stands up, and lets the old woman sit down. She beams at me as if she wanted to signal that I’m more entitled to a seat than the young boy.

  Some stations later, the train is half-empty. The young boy has sat down again beside the old woman and is looking into the void, still sulking. I don’t think he is cross with the old woman; he is just young. At that age, you always seem to be brooding.

  A gloved finger taps on his hand. He lifts a headphone and glares at the old lady.

  “You know why I made you stand up, young man, don’t you?” she starts. Even over the din, I can hear her clear voice.

  The young man doesn’t say a word. His attitude is an open invitation to leave him alone.

  The old woman remains oblivious. She belongs to that category of people who are so self-sufficient that the reality around them doesn’t touch them. She starts to sermon the youngster about manners and young people and respect and how things used to be in the olden times.

  He just keeps staring at her, expressionless but for his apparently natural frown and disgusted pout.

  After a while, he utters a question, however. “Eh—why do you talk to me, Madame?”

  “I’m trying to explain life to you, young man!” The old lady sounds petulant and annoyed.

  “I haven’t asked you to,” the young man states.

  “Well, that may be so, but…”

  “Hey, listen!” The youngster’s voice rings through the train. “I don’t want you to talk to me, okay?”

  —82—

  In the Toys ‘R’ Us-shop, I’m undecided. What should I buy? Sometimes, having too much choice can prevent you from making a decision. What could a little girl possibly want?

  I spot a saleswoman in one of the aisles and ask her.

  “Well, you have all those Hello Kitty items,” the saleswoman says. “They sell very well; little girls love them.”

  She shows me a white plastic case with a strange, serious-looking kitty on it. Inside, it’s disappointingly empty apart from a mirror. A shiny, charmless, useless trinket. But it costs more than I would have thought.

  “Little girls really dig this?” I ask.

  “Oh yes, sir, very much!”

  “Why? Why would girls love that stuff? It’s plastic, it’s empty, it’s ugly!”

  The woman frowns and shoots me a black stare that says “difficult client”; I’m sure she usually deals with parents who leave their sense of ethics and aesthetics at the store entrance. Then she shrugs. “Good question. I don’t know. They just do, sir.”

  I opt for a sigh. “All right then, you’re the expert. But I don’t want that silly case. Show me something else, please. Even more Hello Kitty stuff, if you want.”

  A gruesome half hour later, after digging through cuddy toys, kiddy bags, sacks, roller skates, bicycles, games, fill-out drawings, and other rubbish with the little white, mouthless pussycat on it, I make up my mind. Rather by elimination than by conviction. A Hello Kitty wigwam ought to do the job. It’s red, sports some big, white dots, and they’ve printed the world-famous heroine four times on it. The kitty is still as off-puttingly stylish as before, but at least the thing looks fun. Emma will have to crawl through a round tunnel to reach the womb-like interior.

  Maybe she’ll even allow me to come inside with her. That would be neat.

  —81—

  In the taxi that drives me back home, I receive a text message:

  planning to shag

  in a wigwam? bad

  idea…

  I don’t know what to make of it. Someone seems to be well informed. But then? What does it mean?

  And do I want to know?

  —80—

  Faster than expected the evening springs upon me. I call one of the major taxi companies to order a ride. The métro is out of the question as there are too many things I have to transport to my sister’s: six bottles of champagne, the wigwam, two huge bouquets, a small bag, and myself.

  A southern May wind breathes strange heat gusts through the street when the taxi picks me up. The driver is a surly, nonsyllabic guy in his fifties. He’s wearing a disdainful frown that wrinkles his forehead; his puckered lips seem to express he tasted that dish called life and found it nauseating. Not my dream company for such a splendid evening: the sun is lingering on the horizon, painting the buildings orange, red, and golden, and only a few innocent clouds float in the dark blue sky. At least, he doesn’t bore me with his views on politics, sports, and life in general, even though he keeps eyeing me suspiciously in his rear-view mirror.

  When we reach Bagneux, the sleepy suburb my sister lives in, I’m thankful the ride is over. That man’s almost accusing silence has plunged the car into deeper frost than his air conditioning. He hasn’t even bothered to turn on the radio.

  I pay him, unload my gifts, and walk the last metres to the front gate of Angélique’s property.

  With its low villas, dusty streets, and half-withered roses this part of Bagneux looks as if recently abandoned. The small front gardens are empty but for the odd deckchair or the odd forgotten gardening tool. Through several half-open windows comes the sound of the TV news. I hear the noise of cars driving down the main road and the muffled murmur of the faraway Boulevard Périphérique. It feels as if, at sunset, some higher force had ordered people to neatly fold the sidewalks in an upright position, store away cars and dogs and children, shut themselves into their homes, and settle in front of their tellies.

  And yet, the windows seem to stare at me, seem to follow my movements, and the houses seem to lean closer as if to listen to my footsteps and my heartbeat. Feeling out of place, like a dark blot on a white tablecloth, I hasten to open the front gate to Angélique’s garden. I walk up to the front door, put down my heavy packs, and ring the bell.

  Jane opens almost immediately as if she had been waiting for me behind the door.

  My sister and her girlfriend share a house with another lesbian couple. Two women I must’ve seen twice, maybe three times before. Jane, a butch-looking, sixtyish American, owns the property. She lives downstairs with her German lover Kerstin. I remember she speaks French with a slight accent and in a style one could call spicy. When I first met her, she presented herself as a “Jewish Big Apple Dyke.” Tonight, she’s clad in an ample, sleeveless black T-shirt, with visibly no bra, and baggy old Adidas tracksuit trousers. Pierced nose, head shaved to a stubble, with only two long, grey strands of hair dangling before her ears like an impromptu version of payots. She holds a paperback in her hand; Julia Kristeva, I decipher; La haine et le pardon—Pouvoirs et limites de la psychanalyse III. The faint sound of a Melissa Etheridge song doodles in the background.

  “Hi Jane,” I say and extend my hand to avoid a possible faux-pas—maybe she doesn’t like our French tradition of kissing each other on the cheeks. “A good read?” I nod at the book.

  “Marc,” Jane says in her husky voice. She looks at the book, shrugs and says, “I don’t think you would consider it a good read. Fairly interesting, though.” She frowns at the flowers. “What’s that?”

  “Uhm—flowers?” I hand her one of the bouquets. “These are for you. I hope you like carnations.”

  Her frown deepens. Only now do I reconsider offering flowers; when interpreted by a Lesbian slash radical feminist activist, it’s maybe not really PC? Not that I’m an expert in that field.

  I hasten to add, “Sorry. They offered me a second bouquet for free when I bought the first one. I thought I might as well give it to you…” Immediately, I despise myself. Why am I apologizing for being polite?

  Anyway, I seem to have found the right words. She chuckles and takes the carnations. “A tad chauvinistic,” she observes. Then she wi
nks at me, “I’m only joking! It’s very thoughtful of you, Marc. Come on in, mate. Unless you prefer to stay outside?” She tosses the flowers and the book on a dresser in the corridor. Then we drag in the parcel containing the wigwam and the box with the bottles. “Gawd, have you come to visit your sis, or are you moving in?” Jane says.

  I grin at her. “Kerstin not here?”

  “Nope. Feminist forum in Berlin. I’m a grass widow this weekend.”

  “You join us for dinner then?”

  “No can do. Gotta, uhm, finish that Kristeva book.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, it was nice seeing you again.”

  She holds me back. “Wanna share a last drink and a joint before leaving?”

  “Jeez, hey, why not?”

  “Just knock on the door of my living room,” she says. “Back there, at the end of the corridor. Don’t forget, mate, okay? Even if it’s late. I’ll be up and waiting for you. Got a thing or two to tell ya, son.”

  I don’t have the slightest idea what she might want to tell me. Yet I accept without hesitating. I rather like that woman. With her physical appearance, her intelligence, and her way of expressing herself, she scares me a bit, I admit. But I do like her.

  —79—

  “Tontoooon!3”

  No sooner have I knocked on the door upstairs than it’s flung open, and a tiny whirlwind in pink stomps around me, shrieking with glee: Emma in a neon-coloured tutu, apparently and audibly happy to see me. She looks like a midget ballet dancer, or a Disney version of one. Her fluffy curls jump gaily with each movement, her eyes sparkle.

  I sweep her up to plant a kiss on her cheek, which makes her scream and giggle and wriggle.

  Angélique appears at the far end of the corridor. “Emma!” she shouts. “Give your uncle a break? And stop kicking him in the shins?”

  I place the kid back on the ground and look around. Through the two windows, I can see the deserted street and the motionless houses, which from here look as if ready to pounce on any unsuspecting passer-by. Only the lawns, flowers, and trees remind me there’s life around.