Lanzarote

by Michel Houellebecq

  At Teguise, I managed to park near the main square and I settled myself on a café terrace, leaving Rudi to wander around the stalls. It was mostly basketry, pottery and timples – a sort of tiny four-string guitar peculiar to the island, according to the hotel leaflets again. I was pretty sure that Rudi was going to buy timples for his nieces; that’s what I would have done in his position. The most interesting thing was the people visiting the market. There wasn’t a single redneck sporting a FRAM cap, nor a single backpacker from the Auvergne. There was a good crowd flocking round the stalls, mostly techno sluts and hippie chicks; you’d think you were in Goa or Bali rather than some godforsaken Spanish island in the middle of the Atlantic. In fact, most of the cafés around the market offered email facilities and cheap Internet connections. At the table next to mine, a tall bearded man in a white linen suit was studying the Bhagavad-gita. His rucksack, also white, was emblazoned with the inscriptions: ‘IMMEDIATE ENLIGHTENMENT – INFINITE LIBERATION – ETERNAL LIGHT’. I ordered an octopus salad and a beer. A young guy with long hair wearing a white T-shirt adorned with a multicoloured star came up to me with a small sheaf of leaflets. ‘No thanks,’ I said quickly in English. To my surprise, he responded in French. ‘They’re free, monsieur. It’s a series of fun questions to help you discover your true personality.’ I took a leaflet from him. Eternal Light, buried in his reading, loftily dismissed the offer. There were about ten of them handing out leaflets in the market.

  They didn’t pussyfoot about. In large letters on the front page were the words ‘AZRAELIAN RELIGION’. I’d heard about the sect before: it was run by a certain Philippe Leboeuf, an ex-hippie columnist for some local paper – La Montagne, I think, in Clermont-Ferrand. In 1973, he’d encountered extraterrestrials while visiting the crater at Puy de Dôme. The aliens called themselves Anakim; they had created the human race in a laboratory millions of years ago and followed the progress of their creation from afar. Naturally, they had a message for Philippe Leboeuf, who jacked in his job as a hippie columnist, renamed himself Azrael and founded the Azraelian movement while he was at it. One of the missions conferred upon him was to build an embassy which would serve to welcome the Anakim during their next stay on earth. And there my knowledge of the subject ended; I also knew that the sect was considered relatively dangerous, one to be carefully watched.

  The leaflet the guy had given me was perfectly anodyne at any rate. Titled ‘Calculate Your Sensual Quotient’, it was made up of questions like ‘Do you masturbate often?’ or ‘Have you ever participated in group sex?’; it was the sort of thing you might find in an issue of Elle.

  Eternal Light’s partner came back and sat with him; she’d bought some piece of wicker shit. When she noticed my cigarette, she recoiled in horror; I immediately stubbed it out. She looked like an Australian primary school teacher. Eternal Light’s mouth fell open in astonishment: engrossed in his pious book, he hadn’t even noticed I was smoking. I thought it best to make a quick exit – things could quickly deteriorate with these two jokers. Where had Rudi disappeared to? I slowly wandered around the market before spotting him deep in conversation with one of the Azraelians.

  On the way to Famara, he gave me some further information. According to Azrael, the Anakim had not only created mankind, they had also created all life on earth. ‘I don’t see why we should be grateful to them for that …’ I sniggered under my breath. It was not de facto an absurd notion; I’d come across theories on the extraterrestrial origins of life on earth before, spores filled with Martian bacteria or something like that. I didn’t know whether such theories had been proven or refuted, and to be honest, I didn’t really give a shit. The road snaked upward in hairpin bends as far as the Ermita de las Nieves before sloping down to the coast. As we arrived at the summit, I realised that the climate on the other side of the island was noticeably different. Huge grey clouds covered the sky, the wind whistled between the rocks.

  Famara offers the visitor a depressing glimpse of a failed beach resort. It is here that the Norwegian influence is most keenly felt. A number of flaxen-haired homeowners still stubbornly try to cultivate a garden aesthetic (although the sky is constantly overcast, it never rains in Famara any more than it does elsewhere on the island); they leaned on their rakes and watched as we passed. Everywhere there were little signs which read ‘Rooms to Rent’. Ours was virtually the only car on the seafront; café owners, attracted by the noise of the engine, came out and stood in their doorways, full of hope. The beach itself was, it must be said, magnificent: an immense sandy cove several kilometres long; but the sea was too grey and too choppy to be inviting to bathers and no one could be expected to spend an entire month’s holiday windsurfing. Not a sound indicated any human presence: not a telephone or a radio, nothing. Half buried in the sand, pleasure boats rusted slowly.

  None of this affected my good mood in the least; it was at that point that I realised that I was growing to love this island. Rudi, on the other hand, seemed terribly disappointed, almost in tears. ‘Oh, well …’ I felt obliged to say, ‘I suppose it’s hardly surprising there aren’t many people. When it’s cloudy like this and the sea is too rough, people get bored.’ By mutual agreement, we headed back towards the volcanoes.

  The further south we drove, the more spectacular the landscapes became. Just past the Tinajo intersection, Rudi suggested that we stop. I joined him on the hard shoulder which overlooked a sheer drop. He stood there, his gaze fixed, as though hypnotised. We looked out over a barren desert. In front of us, a huge fissure, several metres wide, snaked as far as the horizon, cutting through the grey surface of the earth’s crust. The silence was absolute. This, I thought, is what the world will look like when it dies.

  Later, perhaps, there might be a resurrection. The wind and the sea would assail the rocks, breaking them down into dust and sand; little by little soil would form. Plants would appear – and, somewhat later, animals. Right now, however, there was nothing but rock – and a road carved out by man.

  In the car, Rudi explained why the Azraelians were here on the island. Philippe Leboeuf had first thought to build the embassy which would welcome the aliens in Switzerland, or perhaps the Bahamas – in short, his thinking had been guided by economic factors. Then, a fortuitous holiday to Lanzarote had put him back on the right track. First contact had taken place in the scorched mountains of Sinai; the second in an extinct crater at Puy de Dôme. The third would take place here, in the midst of the volcanoes, in the land of the ancient peoples of Atlantis.

  I considered this information for a while. It was true that if aliens were to appear one day, this would be an ideal backdrop to the CNN report; all the same, I was having a bit of trouble swallowing it.

  The sun was setting as we reached Geria. A steep valley, it wends its way between hills of rocks and gravel which ranged in colour from dark purple to black. Over the centuries, the people of the island had built low semicircular walls with these stones; within the shelter of these low walls they had dug deep holes in the gravel. Into each hole, sheltered from the wind, they planted a vine. Volcanic rock makes an excellent soil and there is good sun; the grapes harvested here make a heady, fragrant muscat. The determination needed to undertake the work was impressive. Lanzarote was born out of an utter geological catastrophe; but here, in the few square kilometres of this valley, we were witnessing an abstract terrain, recreated to man’s purposes.

  I suggested to Rudi that we take a picture; but, no, the idea didn’t seem to interest him. In fact, nothing seemed to interest him; he seemed to me to be in a bad way. None the less, he agreed to stop for a wine tasting.

  ‘Tomorrow, we could ask the German girls to come with us …’ I suggested, a glass of muscat in hand.

  ‘Which German girls?’

  ‘Pam and Barbara.’

  He thought hard, his brows knitted; clearly, he couldn’t really remember.

  ‘Why not …’ he said finally. ‘But they’re dykes, aren’t they?’ he asked after a mome
nt.

  ‘So what?’ I said petulantly. ‘Dykes are nice … well, sometimes they’re nice.’

  He shrugged his shoulders as though he couldn’t care less. When we got back to the hotel, it was dark. Rudi went to bed straight away; he wasn’t hungry, he told me. He apologised, he was sorry, maybe it was just that he was a bit tired, whatever … So I went into the restaurant to look for Pam and Barbara alone.

  7

  AS I EXPECTED, they enthusiastically agreed; but they had ideas of their own about how the day would be spent. They wanted to go to the nudist beach at Papagayo. You have to take the Germans as you find them, I said to Rudi the following morning, but if you go along with their little idiosyncrasies, you’re generally rewarded, for the most part they’re decent girls. Still, I insisted we make a short detour to the beach at El Golfo where a huge jagged rock rises out of the sea, a whole lot of strange colours – anyway, it’s very beautiful. In the event, everyone agreed and Rudi, who was much more cheerful now, took at least thirty photos. We had lunch in a bar at Playa Blanca: tapas and white wine. By now a little enthusiastic, Pam took us into her confidence. Yes, they were lesbian, but not exclusively lesbian. Heh heh! I thought. Then she wanted to know if we were queers. ‘Eh … no,’ I said. Rudi was having difficulty finishing his octopus. He stabbed the last piece with a toothpick, looked up and answered absent-mindedly: ‘No, no, me neither … Not as far as I’m aware.’

  After our stop at Playa Blanca, we drove along the coast road for about ten minutes, then we turned left towards the Punta de Papagayo. Everything was fine for the first couple of kilometres, then the road suddenly deteriorated before turning into a dirt track. I stopped the car and suggested that Rudi take the wheel. We had a 4x4, but I’ve always hated four-wheel drives, off-road driving and that kind of thing. I’ve never been fascinated by anti-skid mechanisms or anti-lock brakes. Give me a motorway and a good Mercedes and I’m a happy man. The first thing that occurs to me when I have the misfortune to take the wheel of a four-wheel drive, is to heave the fucking thing into a ravine and continue on foot.

  The track wound slowly, in wide meanders, up the steep hill. It was a difficult climb, we couldn’t get the car above five kilometres an hour and clouds of ochre dust swirled around us. I glanced over my shoulder: Pam and Barbara didn’t seem in the least bit bothered by the route, they bobbed gently on their plastic seats.

  At the summit, there was a surprise waiting for us. A small booth, like a customs post, with a sign above it reading ‘PROTECTED AREA’, blocked the path. ‘Here we go,’ I thought. To go any further, we had to pay an entrance fee of 1,000 pesetas, in exchange for which we received a little brochure warning that this was a world ecological reserve and listing a number of prohibitions. I read in disbelief that there was a fine of 20,000 pesetas and up to six months’ imprisonment just for picking up a pebble. As for plants, don’t even think about it; in any case, there weren’t any plants. In fact, the landscape didn’t seem particularly remarkable; actually, it was a lot less beautiful than what we had seen the previous day. We clubbed together to pay the entrance fee. ‘They’ve got it sussed …’ I whispered to Rudi. ‘Pick any old spot in the middle of nowhere, let the road go to hell and stick up a “PROTECTED AREA” sign and people are bound to come. Then all you’ve got to do is set up a toll booth and you’re in business.’

  A few hundred metres further on, an intersection fanned out like a starburst, with five or six paths. Playa Colorada, Playa del Gato, Playa Graciosa, Playa Mujeres … there was no point trying to choose between them. ‘Take the one in the middle,’ I said to Rudi. A little further there was another junction, and then a third. Suddenly, we could see the sea. Here, at the southernmost tip of the island, it was a perfect blue. In the distance, through the heat haze, we could just make out the sandy shores of Fuertaventura. We rounded two sharp bends and the track came to a halt on a deserted cove. Black rocks framed a sandy slope which plunged steeply towards the sea.

  I immediately went for a swim with Pam and Barbara. Though they were a few metres away, I didn’t really feel excluded from their games. I thought it might be worth my while to stay in the water a little longer. I was right, when I came out to dry myself, they were already entwined on their towels. Pam had placed her hand on Barbara’s pubis. Barbara parted her thighs a little. Rudi was sitting a few metres away looking sullen; he still had his shorts on. I spread my towel about a metre from Barbara’s. She leaned towards me. ‘You can come closer …’ she said in English. I moved closer. Pam crouched over Barbara’s face, offering her pussy to be licked. She had a pretty little shaven pussy, with a well-shaped slit, not too long. I stroked Barbara’s breasts lightly. Their roundness was so pleasant to the touch that I closed my eyes for a long moment. I opened them again, moved my hand to her stomach. Her pussy was very different, blonde and bushy with a fat clitoris. The sun was high. Pam was close to coming, she gave strange little cries, the sort you’d imagine a mouse might make. Blood rushed suddenly to her breasts and she came in a growl of ecstasy. Then she took a deep breath and sat back on the sand.

  ‘Did you enjoy that?’ she asked, though with a hint of irony.

  ‘Very much. Honestly, very much.’

  ‘I can see …’ I still had a hard-on. She took my cock in her hand and began to jerk me off with a friendly to-and-fro action. ‘I don’t really do penetration any more, but Barbara does.’

  ‘I’d love to …’ I felt like a complete fool. ‘But I haven’t got any condoms.’

  She burst out laughing and said something in German to Barbara. ‘It doesn’t matter …’ she said, getting to her feet enthusiastically, ‘I’m sure we’ll think of some way of dealing with you. Let’s go for a swim.’

  As I got up, I noticed that Rudi had disappeared. His towel was still where he had left it. I hesitated for a moment, then thought: Am I my brother’s keeper? In any case, he couldn’t have gone far. ‘Your friend looks sad …’ Barbara said to me in English when we were in the water. ‘Yes … his life is not funny.’ That was the least you could say. She looked at me affectionately; I racked my brains but couldn’t think of anything else to say. I’ve always had problems with English, after three sentences I’m completely lost, but what can I do? In any case, Barbara didn’t seem any better with the language. When I dried off, I laid my towel next to hers and just went for it.

  ‘You look a good girl. May I lick your pussy?’

  ‘Ja, ja!’ the words might not have been exactly right but she’d clearly got the gist of it.

  She got up and squatted over my face – it was obviously a position she was familiar with. First, I lightly caressed the outer labia with my tongue, then I pushed two fingers inside her – to no great effect: she was clearly very clitoral. I gave her little nub a quick flick of my tongue; she breathed more heavily. She had a wonderful musky taste, only slightly masked by the taste of salt. Her large breasts hung above my face. I had just begun to speed up the pace of my tongue-flicks when I felt her stiffen; she straightened up slightly. I turned my head: Rudi was standing a couple of metres away, melancholy and pot-bellied.

  ‘Come!’ Barbara called cheerfully. ‘Come with us!’

  He shook his head, I thought I heard him mumble something like: ‘No, no, it’s not that …’ then he sat down heavily on the sand. After a moment of embarrassment, Barbara parted her thighs again, bringing her sex to my mouth. I placed my hands on her buttocks and once again began to lick with mounting passion; after a while I closed my eyes to savour the taste. Shortly afterwards, I felt Pam’s small mouth close over the head of my cock. The sun was still very hot; it was divine. Pam had a very particular way of sucking, almost without moving her lips, running her tongue around the glans, sometimes very quickly, sometimes exquisitely slowly.

  Barbara’s excitement continued to mount, her cries were becoming really loud. At the moment of orgasm, she arched her back violently and let out a long scream. I opened my eyes: her head back, her hair loose, her breasts po
inting skyward, she had the imposing beauty of a goddess. I myself felt myself close to coming in Pam’s mouth.

  ‘Pam, stop …’ I begged.

  ‘Don’t you want to come now?’

  Barbara lay down on her back, her breathing laboured. ‘OK, go on …’ I said finally to Pam. She signalled for me to come closer to Barbara and put her hand on my cock again, then said something in German to her friend. ‘She says you lick pretty well, for a man …’ she said before placing her other hand on my balls. I groaned softly. She pointed my cock towards Barbara’s chest and began to jerk me off with short, staccato strokes, her fingers forming a ring at the base of the glans. Barbara looked at me and smiled; just as she pressed her hands against the sides of her breasts, accentuating their roundness, I ejaculated violently over her chest. I was in a sort of trance, my eyes blurred, I watched as through a mist as Pam spread my come over her partner’s breasts. I lay back on the sand, exhausted; my vision seemed increasingly blurred. Pam began to lick the come off Barbara’s breasts. It was an infinitely touching gesture; tears welled up in my eyes. I fell asleep right there, my arm around Barbara’s waist, crying tears of joy.

  Pam shook me awake. I opened my eyes again. The sun was setting over the sea. ‘We should head back …’ she said, ‘We have to go back, Mr Frenchman.’ I got dressed automatically, in a mood of happy relaxation. ‘What a beautiful afternoon …’ I said quietly as we walked back to the car. She nodded. ‘We could buy some condoms,’ I added, ‘I saw a chemist’s at Playa Blanca.’ ‘If it makes you happy …’ she said gently.

  Rudi and Barbara were waiting for us by the car. Pam sat in the front. In the twilight, the ochre of the plateau veered towards something warmer, almost orange. We drove in silence for several kilometres, then Pam said to Rudi: ‘I hope we didn’t shock you back there.’