* * *
At the meal, the child, seated between us, chattered on about his battles. I listened to him absent-mindedly, savoring the cool wine and the langoustines sautéed in garlic. The woman, her thin face framed by blond locks that had escaped from her bun, smiled and drank as well. The child finally fell silent to attack a langoustine, trying to break one of its claws between his little baby teeth; I wiped myself with my napkin and, with the tip of my fingers, stroked his hair, blond like his mother’s. His meal over, he quickly cleared his dishes and ran down the stairs, rubbing his greasy fingers on his pajamas as his mother gently scolded him. I finished clearing up as she went downstairs to put him to bed and carefully washed my hands before returning to finish my wine. A disk case was lying on the stereo, a recent recording of Don Giovanni; I put the third disk on and sat down in front of the bay window, lighting a thin cigar and contemplating the saffron light of evening dotting the green masses of the garden. The Commendatore was about to turn up for dinner and I thought about the meaning of this threatening, moralizing figure. He demanded, above all, to impose his law on the rebel son; but hadn’t the latter run him through in the beginning of the first act? Obviously, that hadn’t done any good, since now he was returning, even more monumental and deadly, the ruin of all pleasures. But the end was approaching and the son was resisting every inch of the way, like a stubborn kid, crafty and obstinate, refusing all adherence to that dead, outdated, stifling law, even if his life depended on it. Outside night was falling and I got up to turn on, one by one, the living room lamps. Then I poured myself another glass. Already the disk was coming to an end, in a comic final ensemble which sounded like the last echo of the unrelenting rascal’s mocking laughter. Later on, the woman came back up, and I followed her upstairs. Her hips swayed gently in the half-light of the stairway. As she showered I quickly went through the photographs on the chest of drawers: they all showed me in the company of the child, at different times and in different situations, at the circus, at the beach, on a boat. None of them caught my eye and I left them there before getting undressed, absent-mindedly examining my lean muscles in the tall upright mirror that stood next to the door. Seen from the back, my body seemed almost feminine to me, I examined the ass, white and round like the woman’s. When she emerged from the bathroom, naked and still wet, her long hair rolled up in a towel, I pulled her by the shoulders and pushed her onto the bedspread, a thick golden cloth embroidered with long green grass. She fell on her stomach with a little cry and I reached out to turn off the light. Now only the pale gleam of the moon lit the room, it flowed through the windows behind which stood out the mad twists of the wisteria, illuminating the green leaves of the embroidery and the white body sprawled out on it, the long, thin back, the hips, the twin globes of the buttocks. I lay down on top of this body and it shivered. The towel had fallen away and the hair covered her face. With the tips of my feet, I spread her legs, I slipped a hand beneath her belly to raise her hips, and pressed my erect member against her sex. But it was dry, I withdrew a little, poured saliva on my fingers and smeared the opening, gently massaging it. Then I could enter easily. Her breathing accelerated, her behind, beneath me, began moving, her long body, held in both my hands, went taut and a cry escaped her, immediately broken off. I felt myself melting with sweetness, a long needle of delight pierced my back, very thin, stretching the skin on the back of my neck and electrifying it. I turned my head: in the mirror, pale under the moonlight, I could again see my ass and the top of my sinewy thighs, hers too, pinned beneath, and in between them dark, reddish, indistinct shapes. Fascinated by this incongruous spectacle, I slowed down, the woman, her body lost in the long embroidered grass leaves of the bedspread, was panting, her hand sought my hip, I could see it in the mirror, the lacquered nails embedded in my muscles, while next to the mirror the door opened and in the section of moonlight I saw the pointy little face of the child, his eyes wide open and his lips stubborn, obstinate. I froze. The face also remained motionless; next to it, I could still see in the mirror the double mass of buttocks and the dark jumble of organs between them. I could feel the pleasure mounting, the woman was moaning, I withdrew abruptly and rolled onto my side, my wet, scarlet member still throbbing, I was coming in long spurts almost without realizing it, the kid’s face had disappeared into the darkness of the stairway, we could hear his little bare feet hurriedly slapping the stone steps, the woman was looking at me with a lost, confused air, I was still coming. Dripping with sweat, my breathing irregular, I rolled completely onto my back and distractedly wiped my stomach with the sheet as the woman, already standing, put on a bathrobe to go follow the child.
* * *
I must have been sleeping by the time she came back to bed. When I woke up, the sky through the windows was growing pale. The tentacles of the wisteria waved gently; the birds nestling in the branches began singing, a concert of shrill chirps. The woman lay half turned away, her face once again hidden beneath her long loose hair, I left her and quickly slipped into my tracksuit before going down to the living room. I entertained the idea of making myself coffee, immediately decided against it, and went down to the lower floor where the boy, curled in a narrow wooden bed, was sleeping. I sat on the edge and contemplated his severe face, lit by the slanting dawn light. Here too, birdsong filled the room. The child seemed to be breathing with difficulty, sweat was sticking his blond hair to his forehead, I brushed it away and he opened his eyes. “You are going?” he said without moving. I nodded. “I don’t want you to,” he said, staring at me stubbornly, almost greedily.—“But I have to,” I answered in a low voice.—“Why?” I thought about that and then replied: “Because I want to.” His gaze, both powerless and obstinate, grew veiled: “So, when you’re happy, I’m unhappy. And when I’m happy, you’re unhappy.”—“No, that’s not it at all. You’re getting it all mixed up.” I bent over, delicately kissed his damp forehead, got up and went out. In the garden, everything was calm, the leaves rustled gently, hiding the abrupt movements of the birds, which still hadn’t fallen silent. It was already hot, a strong morning heat that clung to the skin. The door opened easily and I found the hallway where I resumed my deliberate running, the wide strides in rhythm with my breathing. The hallway appeared a little lighter, I seemed better able to perceive the curves, even if I couldn’t manage precisely to locate either the walls or the ceiling, if there even was one. The temperature, here, was more moderate, but my body, heated by the running, was sweating in my clothes; the pants stuck to my hips, which didn’t prevent me, like a well-oiled machine, from maintaining a regular rhythm. I passed dark openings without slowing down, junctions or possibly merely alcoves; finally something on my left drew my attention, a metallic brilliance that floated in the corner of my vision; without hesitating or slowing down, I found the handle, opened the door and crossed the threshold. My foot sank into something soft and I stopped short. I found myself in a rather large, semi-dark room, sparsely furnished; on the walls, the golden vines of the wallpaper intertwined as they climbed; a dark red, almost blood-colored carpet covered the floor. Across the room, beyond the bed covered in a heavy golden cloth embroidered with long green grass, a figure with close-cropped jet black hair was standing in front of the window; the shutters were closed, but it was staring at something in the window, its own reflection perhaps. I contemplated it for a minute as if through a window pane, with a light, almost joyful feeling. At the sound of the door closing, it turned around, and I saw then that it was a woman, a beautiful woman whose matte, sharp-featured face lit up with a smile when she saw me. She skirted round the bed and embraced me, pressing her mobile little tongue between my lips, laughing. I lost my balance and fell with her onto the green leaves of the bedspread, my nose pressed against her short hair, filling my face with the smell of earth and cinnamon. Beneath me, she twisted, laughing, and tried to break loose. I straightened up and undertook as best I could to unbutton her sheer tulle blouse, brushing against her breasts held in by a ri
gid bra. She laughed again and slipped between my hands before kneeling on the green and gold expanse of the bed to re-button her blouse. “In the street,” she said, lifting her beautiful dark eyes, full of cheerfulness beneath eyelashes heavy with mascara, “I imagined I was touching your face. And now, here you are.” I stretched my hand out again toward her body and she brushed it away, laughing: “What impatience! Wait, I’m dying of hunger.” She picked up the receiver next to the bed, dialed a number and, holding up a cardboard menu, named a few items. I rose and shook my numb legs, then went into the bathroom where I opened wide the heavy porcelain faucets of the bathtub, my fingers beneath the stream of water to gauge the temperature.
* * *
In the water, her back to me, she leaned her long brown body against mine. Her short, thick hair tickled my nostrils; I patiently caressed her arms, her belly, the tops of her breasts floating on the surface of the slightly greenish bathwater. A number of little scars decorated her dusky skin, rather thick, the bumps long or short depending on the place, I counted three on her left shoulder, one on her groin, a large one on her ribs, just beneath the right breast, another forked one at the angle of her jaw. Abrupt knocks sounded on the door to the room. The girl turned round in a loud splash, placed a quick kiss on my lips, and leapt out of the bathtub, slipping her streaming body into a terrycloth bathrobe before going to the door. I relaxed in the water, my face scarcely showing above the surface. A powerful feeling of plenitude filled my body, but an almost unsettling plenitude, impossible to grasp or possess, which left something like a sensation of emptiness behind it. Some noises, stifled by the water covering my ears, reached me indistinctly. I got out of the bath, dried myself quickly, pulled on the other bathrobe hanging there and, without taking the trouble to close it, went back into the bedroom. Kneeling once again on the golden bedspread, the girl was contemplating a large tray on which were lined up dishes in lacquered wood, covered with raw fish and pickled vegetables. Two golden beers frothed in tapered glasses. I joined her and began eating without a word. Aside from the sound of the chopsticks everything was quiet; behind the shutters, where there must have been a street or a courtyard, there was not a sound; a lone lamp standing by the bedside lit us with its yellowish halo, and I could distinctly make out our reflections in the windowpanes, two slightly blurred silhouettes, draped in white, which stood out from the field of green grasses of the bedspread. From time to time one of us offered a piece of fish to the other, who snapped it up with a surprised smile; when I kissed her, her lips had the bitter taste of beer. It was very dry in this room, I could feel my skin pulling at my hands and face; the raw fish as well made me thirsty, I quickly finished my beer. The girl got up, took my empty glass, and went into the bathroom. I finished the last little vegetables and piled the plates on the tray to go put it in a corner, on the floor. The girl still hadn’t come out and I got rid of my bathrobe to stretch out on the bedspread, on my belly, my head resting on my crossed arms. Turning my face I could glimpse the twin moon of my buttocks reflected in one of the windowpanes, white and slightly rounded. When the young woman reappeared she was naked too, splendid, her bare feet advanced on the blood-red carpet as she held the glass filled with water in front of her, her hips caught in a leather harness that held a long black phallus strapped to her pubis. I took the glass from her hand and drank. She moved behind me, without thinking I spread my legs and pointed my toes, her fingers, smeared with a liquid, slippery substance, threaded their way between my buttocks to massage the areola of my anus, my hips rose, she lay on top of me and I heard her husky breathing whistling in my ear as her hand played with my hair, pressing my head onto the bedspread. The object attached to her hips beat against my ass, heavy, hard, and silky. I arched my hips a little and it began to move between my buttocks, with a very deliberate slowness, then it withdrew and the tip caught, I slipped a hand behind my back to guide it and the girl leaned in with all her weight: then my ass opened all of a sudden and she entered me, her hands gripping my buttocks to spread them more and her head weighing on my neck. A cold, biting flame filled my pelvis, I hollowed out my back some more and leaned with both hands against the headboard, her hips were beating against mine now in large long strokes that kept spreading further through my body horribly sweet sensations, my legs twisted, sought a support, slid, her firm, soft thighs pressed on mine, her hands, now, rose up and pressed with all their weight on my head. Pleasure invaded my neck and shoulders, a long, diffuse, electric stream, I arched my back convulsively, my member, limp and almost forgotten, beat against the embroidery of the cloth to the rhythm of her moving hips; supporting myself on one shoulder, I pulled back a little, turned onto my side and opened my eyes to look beneath her arm. Her brown thigh, marked with several scars, entwined my own, much paler and covered with curly hairs; the leather straps which held in place the object with which she was working my hips shaped small bulges in her flesh: and in the window, beyond her long slim back, I could see her ass, two golden orbs pushed upwards by the straps beneath them, overlapping mine on the green and golden field of the bedspread. All of a sudden, the light went out, erasing the image in the window and plunging the room into darkness; even with my eyes wide open I could see nothing, the electricity must have gone out, I was coming now with all my muscles and she, heaving against me and panting, must have been coming too, finally she collapsed on my back, her pelvis tense against my buttocks, the immobile phallus planted inside me, I slipped one hand behind my head to rub her hair, she bit my neck and I still spasmodically moved my hips. The blade of pleasure, long successive waves, kept unfurling throughout my abandoned body. I wanted to pull myself together, perhaps withdraw to take her in turn, but a great somnolence invaded me, I yawned, my hands moved with more and more languor and lightness, I ran my fingers again over my back, my hips and her thighs and I fell asleep thus, her member still inside me and her body stretched out on mine, melting with pleasure.
* * *
The return of the electricity woke me up. The girl had rolled onto her side, her legs intertwined with mine, the phallus still lodged inside me. Spreading apart my buttocks, I slowly pulled away, it was dry now and it stuck a little; finally the object came out and fell onto the bedspread with a small dull thud. My mouth was dry and pasty; I carefully disentangled myself from her legs, rose up and headed to the bathroom. The white light of the neon dazzled me, I turned it off right away; still blinking, I leaned over the sink to drink greedily from the faucet. When I came back out I contemplated the young woman: she was still sleeping, stretched out on her side, the phallus almost completely hidden in the shadow of her curved body; behind her, the yellow light of the bedside lamp illuminated her naked, brown back, the long green grasses of the bedspread crumpled beneath her body, the gilt vines of the wallpaper. I sat next to her and lightly ran the flat of my fingertips over the nape of her neck, her spine, her buttocks. She shivered but didn’t wake up. Her skin, almost rough, grated beneath my fingers; between her legs, the secretions had dried on the black phallus, reflecting light in places. I should turn down the heat, I thought confusedly. But I could see no thermostat, no temperature control. I got back up, filled two glasses of water, and placed them on the radiator; then I turned off the light and lay down again alongside the girl, on my belly, one hand on the small of her back. Sounds of water emanating from the bathroom woke me completely. The light was on again and I was alone on the bed. I got up, knocked on the door to the bathroom, and went in without waiting for a reply: the girl, sitting naked on the toilet, her elbows resting on her knees, the phallus still fixed to her belly, was peeing. I bent over to kiss her hair. She wiped herself and got up in a swift movement that made her artificial member bounce, before pressing the flush handle. “Aren’t you going to take that off ?” I asked her as she rinsed her face and ran wet fingers through her hair. “Why? I like having a cock. I think I’ll wear it all day.” She laughed and I went out to stretch out on the bed. It was still just as hot and dry and I was
thirsty again. She came out behind me as the little musical tone of a cellphone rang out. “Oh! I have to go,” she said cheerfully as she examined the screen. Leaning on one elbow, I watched her get dressed. She struggled with her jeans, already almost too narrow for her hips, trying to fit the object lying next to her thigh into them. Finally she managed to zipper them and buckle her belt. Then she put on her bra and her blouse, before tapping the bulge in her jeans: “Nice package, don’t you think?” I reached out and stroked it without a word. She laughed, shook her head, and went out. I got up, showered quickly, and got dressed. The smooth, silky material of the tracksuit glided pleasantly on my skin. At the entrance to the bedroom, I hesitated: there were two doors, one opposite the other, something I hadn’t noticed before. Which one had the girl taken? It didn’t matter. I opened one at random and crossed the threshold with a confident step; already my feet, in sneakers light as feathers, found their short stride again; I brought my elbows in against my ribs and concentrated on my breathing, inhaling through my mouth to the rhythm of my steps. The air here was less dry than in the bedroom, sweat soon beaded on my face, soaked my armpits, the hollow of my back; I followed the curve of the grey hallway, advancing almost noiselessly. It was dark, but that didn’t bother me too much, I could still see well enough; I could not, however, make out any source of light, the walls seemed smooth, identical, indistinct, I wondered vaguely where the lighting could be coming from, while still aware that it was of no importance. Here and there, a darker area seemed to open onto a cubbyhole, or even a tunnel, I went on my way without slowing down, following the curve that continued on, and like a child I held out my hand and let my fingers trail along the wall until they came up against an object that I hadn’t seen. It was a doorknob, I pushed it and opened the door. Right away, I knew that this space suited me. It was a vast and very bright studio, its walls covered with books; in the back a long bay window overlooked piles of little buildings rising in levels in front of a grey, luminous strip of sea. I came over and rested my hands on the long table in front of the window as I examined the city, contemplating the changing colors of the façades as the light faded. Then I turned around. A disk case was lying on a stereo, old recordings of Mozart piano concertos; I put one on at random and strolled through the studio listening to the first notes, letting my gaze wander absent-mindedly over the bindings of the books and the many engravings and reproductions hanging between the bookcases. The cheerful, lucid notes of the music danced through the room, filling me with a profound feeling of serene lightness. I poured myself a glass of schnapps, lit a little cigar found in a box, and burrowed into a black leather sofa to leaf through an album lying there, on a coffee table. In oblong format, bound in white cloth, it showed a series of photographs of naked men and women, executing various movements broken down into stop motion sequences by a multiple camera setup. I paused at one plate: a man, with a powerful movement, was drawing another man around his body to throw him on the ground, face-down, before falling on top of him to pin him there, his head seemingly confused with that of his opponent as the twin white globes of the buttocks and the vigorous lines of the thighs overlapped each other, a sinuous heap of forms, forever fixed in place by the successive shutter releases.
The Fata Morgana Books Page 9