Ordinary Whore

by Dieter Moitzi

  Emma is nestled against her mother and sleeping, a huge white teddy bear in her arm. The peaceful child, the secret knowledge that we’re warm and sheltered while outside everything is wet and chilly—why, one would believe the atmosphere to be serene, secure, and cosy.

  That’s not the case. On the contrary, a stony silence prevails, which the frequent metallic bangs and screeches of the train only deepen. If I didn’t know her better, I would suspect Angélique to be sulking. She is leafing through a magazine, exhaling a strained, non-verbal animosity that somehow seems to be directed at me.

  I could ignore it, sit back, and relax. Make the most of the calm environment and think, for instance. Right now, I don’t lack urgent topics to mull over. The strange text messages. Jane’s revelations. My life, my future, my place in this universe. Yes, there are many things to think about. And so little willingness to tackle them. Therefore, I decide to deal with the present rather than speculate about my past or future.

  “Did Mother tell you about her plans?” I ask.

  “Yes, she did?” Angélique replies without lifting her eyes from the magazine.

  Silence. I watch the inscrutable, gloomy day outside and count the seconds. One… Two… Three…

  I try it again. “Imagine my surprise when she called me. She never did before, you know that.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  Silence again.

  One… Two… Three… Four…

  Seconds are peculiar. Weightless and blithe, they fizz by when you’re not looking. But as soon as you pay attention, as soon as counting them is all you can do—Christ, how slowly and begrudgingly they tick forward, as if they were fighting against some malignant resistance!

  “So, what do you think of that… ludicrous idea of hers?” I enquire.

  “Marc—what’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal? I can’t believe that’s all you have to say about her goddamn fucking comeback!”

  “Why, you should?” My sister still doesn’t look at me.

  I put my hand on top of the page she’s pretending to read. “What’s the matter with you? I don’t want to go there either, if that’s what bothers you. Why couldn’t she come to Paris? I mean, none of us wants to meet her husband, that degenerate bastard…” I’m using the expression Angélique coined when meeting Raph’s husband for the first time. It should allow us to build a friendly bridge.

  But it doesn’t. Angélique just gazes at me, wearily. “Marc? May I finish this article? Or are you going to pick on me the whole weekend?”

  “Pick on you?” I raise my voice. “Pick on you? I’m just trying to talk to you…”

  “Hush, Emma’s sleeping? And for your information and enlightenment, we did talk? The other day? That is, I tried to talk to you? To no avail, obviously? You know, I have news for you? Talking is a two-way thing? You can’t just go and decide what we talk about and when?”

  “What are you trying to tell me?” I hiss.

  “See? You didn’t listen?” she answers. A sad tone creeps into her voice. “Once again, you just didn’t listen?”

  “I did listen…”

  A new silence follows.

  Angélique stares at me; I stare at her. Outside, rain. Inside, frostiness. Clatter, screeches.

  “You know what she asked me to do?” I start again. “Mother, I mean. She asked me in a not so subtle way to stop doing my job and…”

  Angélique blinks then interrupts me. “I… I can’t believe it? Why are you always so full of yourself? Why can’t you see others have problems, too? Why do you always think the whole world turns around you?”

  Problems? Come on, I want to shout; you’ve got a safe home. A wonderful lover, a wonderful child, money, health, happiness. What petty problems can you possibly have? For a second, I almost blab about my own concerns.

  But I remember Jane’s warnings. I’m not to talk about anything. To anyone, not even my sisters. I don’t know why, but this seems like it’s the only relevant part of her speech.

  That’s why I don’t say anything. Instead, I acknowledge my defeat and lift my hands, powerless. “All right then. Go on. Read your fucking magazine.”

  This ghastly weekend in our sister’s Norman abode feels like a bad idea. Now more than ever.

  —68—

  A taxi drives us from Deauville to the château where Raphaëlle and her husband, the degenerate vicomte, live. The Château Les Mares Vertes, family seat of the Rochefonts. Or to be precise, of the Sarly de Beauregard de Rochefont-family.

  Since Emma has woken up, Angélique and I try to maintain a fake cheerful ambience. The girl doesn’t notice that we only address each other through her.

  Normandy is capricious weather-wise. Today, this means that after the downpour that accompanied us on our train ride, we are welcomed by some half-hearted drizzle. Then, the rain stops, and the clouds are currently opening up, billowing and building whitish-grey dreamcastles above the sea in the distance. A nice sun gazes good-naturedly onto the softly rolling grassy hills and the lush forests of the hinterland we’re passing through.

  “Look, Emma!” I point at what I’ve just glimpsed outside. “There’s a rainbow—over there!”

  “Oh neat!” she cheers.

  “And look, sugar! Look at those cows! There are plenty of them in the meadows, right there!”

  “Neat!” Emma cheers again and claps her hands.

  “Know what? I’m sure there’s a farm near your aunt’s house. I’ll ask her to drive us there, okay? You’d like to go and visit the animals of the farm?”

  “Oh yes, tonton, let’s!” Emma shrieks with glee.

  The taxi driver smiles.

  Even Angélique’s lips curl up unintentionally. She starts to act in a more appeased way. Perhaps she was just worried about the train ride after all?

  “The taxi will be my treat,” I propose and lay my hand on hers.

  “No, Marc?” she says at once.

  “No discussion, please. We’ve argued enough for today, don’t you think?”

  “You’ve argued, tonton?” Emma asks, eyes wide.

  “No, darling. It was nothing?” Angélique says hurriedly, shooting me a stern glance. “Nothing at all? We just didn’t agree on a silly subject? But everything’s all right now?’

  My eyes ask “Is it?”

  And Angélique, reading the message, inclines her head to say “Yes.” It could also mean “For now.”

  “Anyway,” I insist, “I somehow managed to irritate you. Let me pay for this, please.”

  “You shouldn’t?” Angélique says. “And I’m sorry to have been so… you know? So harsh? In the train? It’s just that…” She doesn’t finish her sentence.

  I understand that she won’t discuss the matter in Emma’s presence. “Yeah, we’ll talk about it later,” I say. “And I’ll pay; end of discussion. I don’t want my little sister to be cross with me, whatever the reason.”

  “Okay?” she replies. “You win?” That sounds a bit tired. However, her mood has changed like the weather. That’s fine with me. I prefer sunshine to rain, and who wouldn’t?

  —67—

  I’ve stored the memories of the Château Les Mares Vertes in a remote and dusty drawer of my mind, and that drawer reopens when I catch a first glimpse of it. It hasn’t changed, or hardly. Last time I saw it, it resembled an English manor rather than a French castle. It still does, of course. The only difference is that it looks smaller, less impressive. My rediscovery turns out to be anticlimactic; that seems to touch all things from our childhood.

  When we approach, I notice what hasn’t changed at all, however: the uneasy feeling that almost makes me choke.

  The castle is a bulky building, two storeys high, made of light-coloured, yellowish stone; reddish bricks lend a touch of warmth to the casings of the high windows and the corner
s of the protruding main part. Ivy, green and red, twines around the ground floor and extends a few branches up to the second floor. A dark slate roof with four slim chimneys majestically crowns it all. The shadowy parkway we’re driving down opens up in front of the entrance—there’s the circle of white gravel that seems to crunch even when nobody walks on it; the oval double stairs with the two ridiculous, anachronistic pseudo-Greek statues standing watch at each side; the massive wooden door with the round brass doorknocker.

  Raphaëlle is already waiting for us. Dressed in what looks like Chanel, she welcomes us with distant affection. “I’m so glad you could come!” are her stiff first words before she draws each of us into a ceremonial hug. With a sigh of relief, we learn that her husband has urgent business in the capital and won’t bother us before tomorrow.

  That’s good news. The castle seems less menacing all of a sudden.

  —66—

  An hour after our arrival, Raphaëlle and I are sitting in the garden behind the château, drinking coffee and iced lemonade. The sky has opened into a deep, precocious summer blue, the wind has died down to a conspiratorial murmur that breathes through the cypresses and over the lawn. Insects are humming around with their self-satisfied lack of interest in us, two humans who don’t seem to know what to do with each other. Whatever link existed after Father’s funeral was erased by our last days and weeks. Each of us has had time to stack up crumbs of life we somehow choose to ignore.

  Thank God Emma is here. She’s running around with genuine enthusiasm, cheering at the mere sight of roses and bushes and trees, closely followed by her mother. The little girl’s lively presence allows Raphaëlle and me to watch her and to bear the silence as if it weren’t standing between us like a stone wall.

  “Amazing how fast kids grow,” my sister utters finally. She fiddles with the pearls around her neck. “She’s so lucky to have her. But then, Angélique has always been the lucky one.”

  “Has she?” I don’t want to go into this, but hearing the resentment in Raphaëlle’s voice, what choice do I have?

  “Well, for one thing, she gets regular phone calls from her brother.” Raphaëlle looks daggers at me. “Others don’t have that privilege. Even if they specifically ask to be called.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what to say. She’s right, after all.

  “And she succeeds in dining with her brother,” Raphaëlle insists.

  “How do you know?”

  “She told me.”

  “She called you?”

  “No, I called her. That’s not forbidden, you know. We’re family, in case you forgot.”

  “Of course. It’s just…”

  “Well, listen, you fuckhead.” My sister’s voice remains level, which lends an additional sharpness to her words. “We’ve got serious things to discuss, all right? That’s the reason I’ve invited you, amongst other things. Both of you. And that’s the only reason I don’t yell at you or slap your face. Believe me, I’d really love to.”

  “What serious things?” I ask. When I look at her, I notice her eyes are dangerous slits.

  She pauses and takes a deep breath before declaring, “You’re just so… not living in the real world, Marc.”

  “Beg your pardon? I don’t understand a word.”

  “I can see that, all right. For starters, our father died. Then, we saw Maître Chambard. Angélique and I, that is. Because Mother preferred to take to her room, possibly drowning what she takes for grief in vodka and tranquillisers and God knows what else. And because our brother dearest preferred to shag some Italian cunt in Tunisia.” This flows out in a slow, calm, matter-of-factly way, with merely a trace of weariness.

  “Oh, yes, Maître Chambard. How was it?” I feign detached interest, trying not to feel hurt by her choice of words.

  “Fucking ghastly, what do you think?” she hisses. “He told us everything about Father’s will.”

  “Ah.”

  “And that’s why we have to talk. Because we need to clarify some things. Urgently.”

  “Of course,” I say. “You’re right. I should have been there. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, Marc, when you’ve heard me out, you’ll be even sorrier! But not now. Emma’s coming back.”

  Raphaëlle sets up a jaunty expression, “Hey, sweetie! Would you like some lemonade? You must be thirsty. And you, Angélique—how about a cup of coffee?”

  —65—

  I must have been ten or eleven when I came to this place for the first time. The old vicomte, father of my sister’s loathsome husband, was one of our father’s long-standing acquaintances. He had invited us over for the weekend.

  I remember the long and dull drive in Father’s black limousine, with his chauffeur driving. My father was sitting by my side reading newspapers. Mother had preferred to stay in Paris. Raphaëlle was already living in New York back then, and Angélique visiting one of her friends. I would have preferred to stay away, too, but that was out of the question. The old vicomte’s son was supposed to be there. And Father wanted to show how much of a family man he was, so I had to come with him, despite my protests. He brought me along like a bouquet.

  For good measure, it was raining the whole weekend.

  I remember how vast the place seemed. Vast, high, empty, and out of place in our century, a leftover trapped in a time warp. I remember the ticking of ornate grandfather clocks. I remember the smell of old things and dust, the slow rotting of syrupy minutes and hours.

  I remember other smells, other sounds and nasty impressions… none of which I want to recall. Many of them have been waiting behind the blackout door of my mind for years, dark spectres with billowing shapes looking for a gap, a porthole, a crack through which they could creep back in and make my defence works come crumbling down.

  The evenings were among the worst moments. I had to sit still and listen to the adults’ mind-numbing small talk. The vicomte’s son was nowhere to be seen. Now and again, the old vicomte would ask me a polite, cold question about school and my plans for the future.

  I would answer a few cautious words, noticing how raptly he was staring at me, as if I were an apparition, his tiny, bloodshot eyes calculating under heavy lids. He wasn’t listening at all, just staring.

  My father was listening, though. What I had to say didn’t interest him; I guessed he was just afraid I would make a blunder. But no, I didn’t tell the vicomte to go fuck himself. I remained well-behaved. Unsmiling but smooth and courteous, God knows why. For I loathed myself for each chiselled, well-chosen word I uttered.

  During the day, I kept to my room most of the time. I tried to read Proust. The inextricable labyrinth of long and tortuous sentences bored me to death, as did the sound of the never-ceasing downpour and the nervous urgency of being a pre-teenager. From time to time, when I couldn’t bear the sight of the stiff furniture anymore, I would sneak outside and roam the dense woods around the park.

  I still remember the sensation of icy raindrops dripping from the branches into my collar and running down my spine, making me feel conscious and alive, while the rain-splash was rushing in irregular tidal waves on the trees around me. When I stopped running, I heard a steady drip-drip-drop on the padded forest ground; it sounded as if an army of stealthy creatures were stalking me.

  During one of these excursions into the woods I realised I was alone. Genuinely alone in this uncaring universe. I remember the feeling of relief and understanding that overcame me when this ultimate truth dawned upon me. So, that was it! Alone and lonely, I had to deal with all of it on my own: the estranged world, the odd behaviour of the people around me, my own moods and fancies and despair. Life, in short. Life in this place called “present.”

  Other, sadder sensations followed. I suddenly felt like a dog whose master had left forever. I realised that there was only one certainty. The ultimate one. At the end of our solitary journey, death wa
s waiting for us, deep and essential and black.

  That was a truth I had to master all alone, too. No one nor nothing could help me. I would have to fight my frailty to prevent it from sucking away my life force, my substance.

  I promised myself, then and there, that I would stop caring. For anything, for anyone. I would stop being curious. I would stop asking questions to avoid answers that could hurt me.

  Today, I have to admit I haven’t succeeded entirely. I’m still working on it, however.

  And I promised myself something else: I would stick to black clothes from then on. That promise I’ve kept. Black has become my colour.

  —64—

  Only a moment ago, we were living out a bucolic scene of harmony, our group of four—three adults, one child—improvising a late lunch, nibbling sausage and cheese and gherkins and fresh baguette on a blanket spread upon the lawn. Homemade lemonade for Emma, a fine bottle of Bourgogne wine for us adults. Deep red in our crystal glasses, and green around us, and blue high above, and our eyes and teeth white, and the fluffy clouds in the sky light grey. The spring perfumes of grass and roses. Larks and bees in the air. Laughs and friendly teasing and comments on the nice weather and other innocent nothings. We could have been posing for a Laura Ashley ad, symbolising a moment of sheer perfection meant for glossy paper.

  Perfection, when it’s not an illusion, only exists fleetingly.

  Because an instant later (or so it seems), I’m on my own. Once we finished lunch and tidied up the place where we had been picnicking, the sky blackened, and it started to rain again. Normandy and its whimsical weather. Angélique and Emma retired to their room for the girl’s afternoon nap. Then, Raphaëlle informed me in brisk terms that she ought to attend a meeting in the little town nearby. A parish meeting, I reckoned.

  So, I was left to my own devices and am now roaming the ground floor of the semi-dark château. Alone with memories and boredom, while raindrops are swishing on grass and ivy, splashing on old stones and windowpanes, washing up those long-hidden ghosts I would prefer to shove back into their dusty corners.