There was only one way that the French woman might be allowed to stay in Abdelsaid’s house. Abdelsaid argued with his three wives for what seemed like hours. Finally, they agreed. Upon this condition, the French whore could live with them indefinitely. But Abdelsaid had to provide the Black Lily from his private stock. He assured his wives that there was more than enough Black Lily to accomplish the task.
The third wife returned to Amelia, bringing food. Amelia’s memories of the incident were vague at best, but she felt an overwhelming sense of worry and of emotional need, and a desire to make love to the woman, to make everything all right. Amelia reached out, but the woman resisted. Finally, she gave in and allowed Amelia to kiss her, but her lips were stern and unmoving.
Amelia finally let the woman go, accepting the food. After the long hours of unknowing worry, she was famished. She ate greedily. In addition to the usual food, there were several large, dark flowers. The third wife plucked off the petals and encouraged Amelia to eat them. Amelia sniffed at them, unsure, but finally let the woman put the petals in her mouth. The taste was thick and sweet. It was some sort of dessert. But not a terribly exciting one. Amelia swallowed each of the petals, and the wife looked satisfied.
Amelia tried to kiss the woman again. But the woman pulled away and Amelia was left in the darkness, lonely and filled with a terrifying desire.
She slept more deeply that night than ever before.
In the morning, the first wife came to her with food and the black flowers. Amelia ate first the food and then the flower petals, wondering. It seemed more savory to her this time. Again the woman refused to kiss Amelia after the flowers had been eaten. Amelia lapsed back into sleep. She did not know how many times she awakened and ate and drank. The taste and smell of the flower seemed to fill her consciousness.
When Abdelsaid came to her, many meals later, her need was intense. Abdelsaid kissed her, deeply, for a long time before he unfastened her robe and helped her out of it. He touched her chest, feeling the thin hair growing there between her breasts, toying with each of her nipples. Slowly he drew his other hand over Amelia’s thigh. His hand came to rest in the hollow between her legs, seeking, more clinical than erotic. Amelia felt a curious absence of sensation, though her desire was still overwhelming, perhaps more than before. Abdelsaid seemed satisfied, and left Amelia with no more than a kiss.
Amelia was not disappointed, only curious. Why had he not wanted to make love this time?
The hair of her loins had begun to fall out, scattering across the mat like leaves in Autumn.
He was aware of the woman, upon him. He could not recall how he came to be there, or what his name was, or even whether he had ever existed. Encompassed in her caresses, the insistent mouth and breasts of the woman, guided by her demanding movements, he came to want her. A curious sensation came over him as the woman sank down upon his body, pressing his cock deep inside her. Had he been here before, thrusting up into the woman’s naked body while she whispered soothing luxuries to him? He found, after a time, that he could understand her words. When the sensations exploded inside him, he felt an intense pain, as if his body were being torn in half.
Later, much later, he became aware of another woman. But the first was still there. There was a warm touch upon his cock, the taste of her tongue, the texture of female flesh under his hands. There was the warmth, the muscled figure of the man behind him, penetrating him while the three women took their turns using their mouths and hands upon his shaft, their bodies sprawled underneath his kneeling form, pressed as it was against the man. He knew, somehow, that he belonged to these four people, the man and the women. They were as one being with five bodies.
He tried, shortly after the moment of his orgasm, to remember his name. It was only then that he understood. He did not have a name, and never had.
Abdelsaid was optimistic. The trade in Black Lily was increasing. The decadent palaces of the French, it seemed, couldn’t get enough of the flower. And it was indeed rare. It grew only in the mirage oases in the southern part of the country, and the plants would not take root anywhere else. And Abdelsaid was one of the few traffickers who could find the flowers in the wild, and lead the caravans out again.
While the colonial government had declared an official crackdown on sale of the substance, and promised brutal retribution against all traffickers, the soldiers and policemen preferred to line their pockets rather than interfere with the rights of free trade.
The locals mostly smoked the drug. The Europeans indulged alternately. It was only those who ate the drug who experienced its most extreme effects. Regardless, once the substance was taken out of the desert, it lost some of its secondary properties, and served primarily as a hallucinogenic. Certain of Abdelsaid’s business partners were discussing the possibility of establishing an export trade through European shipping companies, of smuggling the substance to a country where it could be sold legally.
Now that he had Breton to lead the caravan, Abdelsaid was able to devote his attention to these more complex matters of business. Breton had learned the trade, had learned to speak and understand Arabic. He had proved an excellent guide. Breton’s knowledge of French had suffered, however, as he learned Arabic. Abdelsaid supposed it had to be a heretofore unknown side effect of the Black Lily. There was nothing to be done about it.
And it was such a small price to pay. Any price was small, for Abdelsaid had kept the Frenchwoman he desired, albeit in a somewhat different form. But the love of the Black Lily knows no boundaries. Abdelsaid told himself this whenever he looked with pride at the Frenchman. Whenever he shared him with his wives.
It was enough, to have this small bit of luxury in this cruel world, thought Abdelsaid. For any amount of luxury is preferred to none, and some is preferred to very little. And no one can stop the wind, nor make the sun stand motionless in the sky.
Breton guided the caravan endlessly, from Abdelsaid’s town to the oasis many miles across the phantom sand. He was one with the desert.
Breton knew he was from another place. But he also knew that place no longer existed.
Breton knew that he had been sent here, to guide the caravan through the endless desert. Perhaps he had been sent by the gods of his tribe, cast out. Perhaps to bring a blessing to Abdelsaid and his family, for Abdelsaid was infertile. Breton would be the father of Abdelsaid’s children. Already Aouicha was with child, and Mimouna suspected also she might be pregnant. Breton imagined these children, in a sense, were a gift from a merciful deity, perhaps a gift from the Black Lily. Breton thought of the sons or daughters as a gift from the universe to Abdelsaid.
Perhaps these gifts were like the visions Breton saw as he slept or daydreamed. The sensations that flowed over him in his dreams. The intimate knowledge of a woman quite unlike Aouicha or Mimouna or Outka. She was more like a boy than a girl, and a mournful boy at that. She was English, he thought, or possibly French. He wondered if perhaps he had loved this woman at some point. He felt sure that he had not, that his union with her had been a matter of convenience.
Breton released his thoughts of the strange woman as he guided the camel train into the oasis, knowing he must turn his thoughts to practical matters of trade and the highest possible price for the blossoms of the Black Lily. He let his memories of the strange woman fly away on the wind, scattering like grains of sand through his fingers. He knew the woman was gone now. It was over.
LEONE or the buffet of the Gare de Lyon
Régine Deforges
Translated by Maxim Jakubowski
IT ALL BEGAN in the Train Bleu, the restaurant of the Gare de Lyon.
The Christmas holidays had just begun. The railway station was surrounded by busy crowds, rushing, laden with cases, bags and skis. Leone, having delivered her mother and children, was settling up with the grumpy cab driver moaning about the traffic jams he’d just driven through.
“And they still complain about the price of petrol, even at ten francs per litre, shouldn’
t be allowed to drive damn cars . . . Christ, retirement won’t ever come too early.”
Leone gave him a good tip, to calm him down and watched a faint smile transform his weary face.
“That’s very kind of you, madam. Have a nice journey.”
Her mother had managed to find a porter, the two kids were waiting quietly, pacified by the promise of dinner in the restaurant before they boarded the sleeping car. Their behaviour was particularly impressive seeing they were so excited by the coming disruption to their everyday life.
They followed the porter to the lift that went up to the restaurant. Passing under the great clock, her son remembered an episode from Tardi’s ADELE BLANSEC that had greatly impressed him. The children were agog at the baroque decor of the place. The abundance of gold, the walls and ceilings so full of colourful paintings, the warm nudes, the heavy silver trolleys laden with roasts, and in particular those bearing an impressive stack of patisseries which made their mouths water.
The maitre d’ found them a comfortable corner and brought the menus. Sophie, full of the assurance of her lone five years, declared peremptorily that she would not have soup but snails.
“That’s very heavy for an evening meal,” the grandmother said.
“It doesn’t matter, mother,” Leone said. “It’s the holidays.”
A grateful Sophie winked at her mum. Jacques, older, chose sausage and andouillette “with really a lot of chips” he added. Leone and her mother, less ambitiously, selected a consomme and grilled meat with a decent Bordeaux wine.
Once they had ordered, and the wine was promptly delivered to the table as requested, Leone chose to relax and lit up a cigarette while slowly sipping a glass of wine.
Two young men, in their early thirties, looking merry, both rather handsome and weighed down by luggage, came to sit across from them, picked up their menu and ordered. Then, like Leone, they each lit up a cigarette and looked around them. They noticed her simultaneously and smiled pleasingly, impressed by the spectacle of the unknown woman. Leone demurely smiled back. She knew she was pretty, draped in the soft, black wool outfit that showed off her pale complexion and her ash blonde hair. She looked away but still felt the men’s gaze on her. Her son also noticed their interest and, with a distinct sense of ownership, remarked:
“Why are those two guys looking at you like that?”
“It’s because they think mummy is very pretty,” said Sophie, cuddling up to her mother, to demonstrate that Leone was hers and hers alone. Which provoked Jacques to stand up and come over to kiss his mother. She held them both tight against her, laughing, pleased with the proximity of their warm young bodies.
“Those are indeed very lucky kids,” one of the men whispered rather loudly.
It was trite, but the sound of his voice was pleasing to Leone.
The waiters brought the dishes. Jacques sat down again and laid siege to his sausage with gluttony, while Sophie struggled with the snail tongs. For a few moments, they ate in silence.
From time to time, Leone would look up and across to the nearby table. On each occasion, she would catch the eyes of one or the other of the friends. Soon, she felt herself become increasingly uneasy. “What a pity I’m not alone . . . they’re both rather handsome. I’d find it difficult to choose between them . . . but, why choose? . . . Oh, what a fool I am, anyway, they’ll soon be leaving . . . I’d like to leave, too . . . How it would be nice to be alone in Paris for a few days . . . Strange how these men attract me . . . It’s reciprocal, they both like me too . . . what should I do? . . . I’d like to see them again . . . know where they live . . . I just can’t speak to them, not in front of mother and the children . . . Oh, how life can be awkward!”
She pulled out a cigarette from the pack. A flame was struck. One of the men was offering it to her. She lit up her cigarette and thanked him with a nod.
The plates were cleared away and the meat was brought on. Increasingly disturbed, she was rather tersely answering the children’s questions. Sophie pulled her by the sleeve.
“You’re not even listening to me. What are you thinking of?”
Leone kissed the child.
“I was thinking how bored I will be without you around.”
She tried to feign interest in her own mother’s discourse: she was worried how her daughter would spend the holidays. Heard Jacques asking whether he would be having the same instructor as the previous year, and if he could still go to the movies in the afternoon.
Once again, her eyes met the gaze of the two men. This time, she didn’t break the contact. She could read their desire, it was the same as hers, brutal and transparent. She felt her face go all red and looked away. There was something obsessive about their presence, her heartbeat quickened, her hands were becoming clammy, the bottom half of her body turning to lead. Shards of lucidity kept on telling her she was mad, ill, a sexual pervert. She took another cigarette and broke three matches in a row in a futile attempt to light it. The man who had offered her the flame earlier stood up, his light shivering slightly as he approached it. Leone took hold of the young man’s hand to bring it to the level of her cigarette. This brief contact caused her turmoil. The lighter’s flame went out under her breath.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking up.
Her emotion reached its pinnacle as she witnessed the pale and stirring face of the man. He switched the lighter back on. Leone breathed the smoke in deeply with great relief.
“Thank you.”
He returned to his seat, said a few words to his friend who was smiling back at him. The arrival of the dessert trolley was a welcome diversion. The children wanted a taste of each single one: the chocolate mousse, the rum baba, the egg cream, the raspberry pie, the blackcurrant sorbet, the chocolate cake, the iced meringues, the tarte tatin, their eyes were all over the place. The two men chose their desserts under the admiring gaze of the kids. Leone took only a coffee, which provoked some witty remarks among the men about how women knew to protect their waistline. Even though it was all rather banal, Leone laughed along with them, pleased by this fortuitous contact which would very soon come to an end on the station platform.
The time was nearing, Leone requested the bill and a porter. They offered to carry her luggage, but gave up smiling when they saw how many she had.
“Where are you going?” one of them asked.
“Morzine,” Sophie said.
“What a coincidence, so are we,” they said together in such harmony that all three burst out laughing.
Her mother watched Leone with disapproval while the children looked jealous. They reached their sleeping car. The ticket controller opened the door connecting the children and the grandmother’s cabin. They moved and jumped between the compartments with noisy glee. Leone walked out into the corridor, and noticed the two men coming towards her from the other end of the car. The same emotion that had overcome her in the restaurant returned, only more violent now. She had to admit to herself that she wanted both of them together, that their joint desire was inflaming hers. “I’m a complete freak,” she thought. A good thing matters would go no further: them to Morzine or wherever, she in Paris. Sadness suddenly swirled over her at the thought of being alone in Paris, in the grey, cold and muddy December Paris, while others left for the snow and holidays, maybe even some sun.
“We were looking for you . . . You will come and have a glass of champagne with us?”
“No, thank you. It’s not possible, the train is about to leave.”
“But until Morzine we have all the time in the world.”
“I’m not taking the train, I’m only seeing the children off.”
“Oh, no . . .”
The harmony of how they expressed their disappointment and the sad look on their faces touched Leone so much she couldn’t stop herself from chuckling gently.
“Don’t pull such faces, you both look as if you’ve just lost your best friend.”
“Yeah, I suppose it’s a bit like that,” whispe
red the darker-haired one.
“Come with us,” said the other. “It’s stupid to stay in Paris at Christmas.”
“Yes, yes, why don’t you come along?”
“But I can’t, my job . . .”
“You can phone in tomorrow and say you’re sick.”
All the while, Sophie had been quietly listening to the conversation and watching her mother and the two young men in turn. She took her mother by the hand.
“They’re right, it would be nice if you came along with us.”
“You know it’s not possible, my darling. Go and see your grandmother.”
“Come, we’d so much like to know you better. Even if you can’t stay for the whole holiday, come for two or three days.”
“No, I tell you, it’s not possible. Anyway, I’d have nothing to wear. I can’t go to the mountains and the snow dressed like this.”
She pointed at herself, showing them how her black shoes couldn’t adequately replace decent apres-ski and her thin grey stockings substitute for warm leggings; and her delicate kid gloves, they would fall apart in the snow.
“It doesn’t matter, everything you need we can buy there.”
She did not answer. All three of them kept on watching each other, twisted up in their desire to huddle together, to caress one another, to love. Leone felt a pang of anger: “They’re right, what’s so important in Paris? I was only staying behind because I didn’t feel like going with mother and the children . . . But . . . Can one go like this, with people you don’t even know? . . . The only thing I know of them, is that they want to screw me . . . It’s getting on my nerves, after all . . . and then, what would mother think, if I stayed here, like that . . . she’s not stupid . . . and the children? . . . oh, to hell with the kids . . . if I did go? . . . It’s not possible, I haven’t got my toothbrush . . . or any make-up . . . I’d be such a sorry sight tomorrow morning . . . but they are so handsome . . . why not give in to their lust. . . and mine . . . so?”
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica Page 49