The Image

by Jean de Berg

  “Here is the perfect place,” she said. “Don’t you think so?” She had dragged us both in under the tree. On one side of it there was a fairly large free space en tirely enclosed by relatively dense branches.

  “It depends what you want to use it for,” I replied.

  “But for the little girl, of course: she was look ing for a bathroom!”

  Anne protested weakly:

  “But no... honestly... I don’t need to go... ,” trying to get us back out to the gardens.

  “If that’s the case,” said Claire, “then why did you lie to us?

  I thought you were going to give us a little performance.”

  “No... I assure you... , I was mis taken...” Claire made the girl stand in front of her and look her in the eye, holding her chin up with her fist.

  “Come on,” she said, “you little idiot, don’t try to fool us. You know it won’t get you anywhere.” Then, in a harsher tone, calm but with no non sense about it, she suddenly ordered:

  “You’ll do it right now, or else I’m going to slap you!” The girl at once bent down and, carefully spreading her white dress around her, squatted in front of Claire. Claire reached down to caress the pretty face, reddened with shame. With a firm hand she forced her friend to raise her face to hers, and continued stroking it: the cheeks, the eyelids, and the mouth. More tenderly, she said:

  “Get on your knees, it’s much more attractive.” The girl knelt and pulled her skirt in front of her, taking the white material in both hands to hold it away from her thighs. From behind, the tips of her shoes protruded from beneath her dress. “Now then,” said Claire, with a slightly disgusted smile, “is our little girl going to do pee pee?”

  She forced the mouth open with her fingers and began fondling the lips.

  “Above all, be sure your legs are apart!”

  Anne spread her knees further, and disappeared completely under her dress.

  “There, that’s fine. Now lean forward a little.” The girl leaned forward and lowered her head. Under the blonde curls that fell over her face, Claire’s fingers continued to play with the open mouth.

  “You’re very nice like this, you know,” she said. Then, after a moment, suddenly losing patience:

  “Well, are you going to piss or not, little bitch!” When nothing happened, Claire gathered the mass of hair in one hand and yanked the head up, exposing the face. Then she slapped it with the other hand, as hard as she could, once... twice...

  I heard the stream of water, long held in, hit the dry leaves on the ground with violence.

  IV : AN EXPIATORY SACRIFICE

  More than a week went by without my seeing Claire or her friend again.

  On the eighth day, quite by chance, I ran into little Anne in a bookstore in Montmartre. She was alone. She pretended not to recognize me, which hardly surprised me, I must say.

  I thought of the last image I had of our afternoon in the Bagatelle gardens. The rose must have come loose from the garter belt when the girl knelt down under the beech tree. When she got to her feet again, hiding her face in her hands, I saw the flesh-colored flower lying abandoned on the dead leaves. It had happened to be right under the stream: in the hollows of its bruised petals drops of liquid glistened like pearls. All around it the brown leaves were wet, dark and lustrous.

  One large drop had slid slowly down a folded petal of the rose and come to rest on an almost perfect leaf, more or less flat, where the water, before it ran off, had formed a sort of mirror which took several seconds to seep away.

  The girl was now speaking to the salesman. What struck me at once was the positive tone, full of assurance, she used in dealing with this man. She wanted a rare book, sold only under the counter, which she asked for with poise, obviously sure that this was the place to find it.

  In effect, the salesman soon gave up pretending he’d never heard of it and got a copy out from under the counter. She paid for it without further ado.

  I had placed myself in her path, in the middle of the doorway, where she couldn’t avoid having to look at me. I said:

  “Don’t you remember me?” She regarded me coldly.

  “Yes, obviously. But not the way that you mean.” I realized at once that things were going to go very differently that day, so I quickly assured her that I hadn’t meant anything in particular, and accompanied her outside.

  “What do you want?” she asked me rather rudely.

  “Nothing... just to talk to you a little...”

  “I don’t feel like having anyone talk to me, and I’m in a hurry. I’ve got to bring this book back right away.” She showed me the little package wrapped in brown paper: the handiwork of the salesman.

  “To whom?” I asked. “To Claire?”

  The look in those green eyes became even more hostile: a flashing that was certainly unlike any thing I had known before.

  “I bring things back to whomever I please. It’s none of your business!”

  I thought an innocent smile would get me off the hook and I wished her a pleasant evening.

  But she had already turned to go.

  This encounter left me highly dissatisfied.

  I hadn’t imagined that I, personally, would have any power over this girl, but it had seemed only natural that I should continue to enjoy certain privileges, outside of Claire’s presence, since they had already been granted to me so liberally, and without my even having asked for anything.

  Then, upon further reflection, I began to won der if I had been granted so much after all, the other day. I was obliged to come to a negative con clusion.

  Then I could see how wrong I had been. I could even make fun of my own stupidity, for the recent conduct of little Anne suddenly appeared quite normal and obvious, to the extent that for her to have behaved any differently now seemed impossible.

  The situation, in short, had not been what I thought it was.

  I felt annoyed and deceived. I decided not to think about those two girls any more, or about the whole absurd story.

  I waited for three more days. But, on the fourth, I telephoned Claire.

  I am certain that she was waiting for my call although her voice, on the other end of the line, betrayed nothing. In the most banal conversational tone she asked me what I’d been doing, how I’d been feeling “since the last time.” I said that I was feeling fine.

  Then I inquired about her health, and about the health of her friend.

  “But... which friend are you talking about?”

  “Anne, obviously! Are you trying to make a fool of me?”

  “Anne! But of course! I’d completely forgotten. If it’s Anne you want to see, you should have said so right away. I can lend her to you, my dear, with no trouble at all. You can make love to her as long as you like, if you’re in that mood. What day would you like me to send her over?”

  There was a brutality in her words that seemed suspicious to me. Affecting complete indifference, I pretended that I thought she was joking and moved away from this burning subject without daring to name a day.

  Once I had hung up I thought about my idiotic refusal. I desired Anne very much, that was evident. But I had been afraid to find myself alone with the strange, cold girl of the bookstore who left so few openings I hardly thought I could even carry the thing off. One might as well try and have a go at Claire!

  Or was the solution I had adopted, getting out of it entirely, perhaps going to lead to some far more unusual form of pleasure? And was this very hope, without my being aware of it, my real motive?

  At any rate it was with Claire that I finally had made a date, at her place on the rue Jacob, on the pretext of wanting to see the photographs she had promised to show me that first day.

  I thought again about the girl in the white dress kneeling under the beech tree, about the noise her stream of water made hitting the dead leaves under her dress, and about the rose, its petals all bruised, still dripping with bright beads of liquid.

  V : THE PHOTOGRAPHS

>   I recognized the photographs at first glance: the very ones that were proffered to susceptible souls in the bookstore where I had run into Anne.

  It hadn’t seemed to me, however, that she was known to the house: or at least not to the salesman who waited on her.

  The prints that Claire showed me that after noon were much larger and far superior in quality to those I had absent-mindedly leafed through one day in Montmartre. At the time, the pictures had struck me as being quite uninteresting, and the pictures very ordinary.

  This time, on the contrary, I saw them in an entirely new light. It wasn’t only because I recognized Anne as the pretty model who had posed for them, either. But I was particularly aware of their extraordinary clarity, while the other prints I had seen hadn’t conveyed at all this sense of flagrant reality, more real, more palpable almost, than nature itself. Perhaps this impression was due to the lighting, or to the dramatic contrast between the blacks and whites which gave added precision to the lines of composition.

  In spite of these differences, however, I was sure they were the same pictures. Claire must savour the pleasure of a slave trader in allowing the humiliated image of her friend to be sold to the first customer. And this was, as far as I could tell, the sort of gratification she’d been looking for in from the beginning.

  Used in this fashion, the photographs had a heightened value for me, as well as for her. On top of this, from a technical point of view, I could be quite sincere in offering her my congratulations.

  We were sitting at arm’s length in two little upholstered chairs before a low table. Above us was an adjustable lamp that must have been used as a spotlight during the posing sessions.

  It was the first time that I’d been to her apartment on the rue Jacob. I was agreeably surprised by the ease and cheerfulness of this room and its very modern furnishings (as well as by the rest of the apartment, from what I could tell), especially in contrast to the dark, narrow stairway and the great age of the building.

  To achieve this isolation from the world outside, so different in feeling, the heavy curtains at the windows were closed even though it was broad daylight. Even if they didn’t open onto a narrow courtyard, as often happens in old buildings, the windows could have only let in a dreary light, less bright yet less intimate than the clever artificial lighting in the room.

  Claire handed me the photographs one after the other, first carefully examining each one herself while I was occupied with the preceding one. They were mounted on cardboard the size of regular business stationery. The glossy surface of each was protected by a transparent overlay which one turned back to look at the picture.

  In the first one, Anne is wearing a short black slip with nothing underneath but her stockings and a simple garter belt like the one I already admired in the Bagatelle gardens. But these stockings do not have embroidered tops.

  She is standing next to a column in the same position Claire made her assume to hide the stolen rose under her dress.

  Only she is not wearing any shoes and instead of the dress she only has the slip whose thin material she is holding up with both hands, exposing the half-opened thighs and the triangle of her fleece. One leg is straight, the other slightly bent at the knee, the foot only half resting on the floor.

  A lace inset decorates the top of the slip but one can’t really make it out because it is pulled to one side, the right shoulder strap not being on at all and the left one having fallen off the shoulder. The black lingerie is therefore twisted around, covering half of one breast and freeing the other breast almost entirely. The breasts are perfect, not too full, far enough apart, with the brown halo that circles the nipple clearly marked but not too large. The arms are well-rounded and gracefully curved.

  The face, under the loose curls, is a real triumph: the eyes consenting, the lips parted, a mingled look of ingénue charm and submissiveness.

  The lighting, while accentuating the shadows, softens the lines as it defines them. The light coming from a Gothic window with austere vertical bars, a part of which can be seen in the back ground at the edge of the picture. The column in the foreground is of stone, as is the window frame, and is about the same width as the girl’s hips next to it. Beyond it, at the other edge of the picture, one can see the head of an iron bed. The floor is a checkerboard pattern of very large black and white squares.

  The second picture, taken closer up, encompasses the entire bed. It is a single iron bed painted black, stripped of blankets.

  The sheets are in a state of great disorder. The ironwork of the two upright parts, at the head and foot, is ornate and old-fashioned: metal stems curving and twisting in spirals held together by lighter-colored rings, probably gilded.

  The girl is in the same costume lying across the bed on the rumpled sheets. She is flat on her stom ach but turned a little, one hip higher than the other. Her face is buried in the pillow, her disheveled hair spread over it; her right arm, bent up ward, frames her head; the left arm, at an angle to her body, extends in the direction of the wall. On this side, without the shoulder strap, one can just see the beginning of the breast under the armpit. The slip is again amply pulled up, this time in the back, needless to say. The waist and the hips intersected by the black lines of the garter belt.

  The buttocks are rounded and full, highly evocative. Their firm shape points up some pretty dimples into play by the asymmetry of her position. The thighs are opened to a hollow of darkness. The left knee, bent way up, disappears under a fold of the sheets while the foot touches the extended right leg.

  The picture is taken from fairly high up so as to display the buttocks in the most accommodating position.

  In the next one the girl is entirely naked, hands chained behind her back, kneeling on the black and white checkerboard floor. The picture is taken in profile and also from above. One sees nothing but the girl, kneeling naked on the floor, and the whip.

  Her head is lowered. Her hair falls on either side of her face, hiding it, exposing her neck which is bent down as far as it will go. The tip of one breast appears below the shoulder. The thighs are together, leaning backward, and the trunk is bent forward in a way that makes the buttocks protrude most fetchingly as they await their punishment. The wrists are bound together behind the back at waist height, by a slender chain of shiny metal. A similar chain ties the ankles one against the other. The whip is resting on the squares of the floor not far from the little upturned feet, the soles of which one can just see.

  The whip is of braided leather like those that are used on dogs. From the thin, supple tip it becomes progressively thicker and harder up to the part that one holds in one’s hand, which is almost rigid, forming a sort of very short handle. The lash, motionless on the floor, delineates an S whose narrowest tip curves back on itself.

  The girl is still naked and on her knees, chained now to the foot of the bed. One sees her from the rear. The ankles are closely bound together but crossed, one foot over the other, which forces the knees wide apart.

  The distance between the two hands is much greater, however, on either side of the blonde head and at the same level.

  The arms are held almost horizontally, the elbows bent at a right angle toward the front. The wrists, still with the same metal chains, are attached to either end of the top bar of the iron bedstead.

  The trunk and the thighs are held straight with out the least bending of the hips. But the whole body is slightly twisted to one side, due to the fa tigue caused by this position. The head hangs forward and to the right, almost touching the shoulder.

  The buttocks are marked in every direction by deep lines, very clear and distinct, which crisscross the central crack, more or less stressed according to how hard the whip fell.

  This picture of little Anne chained to her bed, her knees in a most uncomfortable position, is obviously more moving because of the cruel evi dence of the torture she has undergone. The black ironwork forms a pattern of elegant arabesques be hind her.

  The nude girl is
bound to the stone column by thick ropes. She is facing the camera, her legs open, her arms raised. A black band covers her eyes. Her mouth is screaming, or else distorted by the extremity of her suffering.

  The ankles are tied to the pillar on the right and on the left, diametrically opposite each other, so that the legs are wide apart, the knees slightly bent. The arms are pulled up and back, only visible up to the elbows. The hands, no doubt, are tied together behind the pillar.

  The ropes bite deeply into the flesh. One goes under the right armpit and across to the other side of the neck, imprisoning the whole shoulder. Others are tied around the arms and the ankles. Others, finally, hold the legs above and below each knee so as to force them back against the stone and as far apart as possible.

  The tortured body, whose reflexes clearly show that it is struggling against its bonds, has two deep wounds from which blood flows freely.

  One extends from the tip of the breast to the armpit, on the side where there are no ropes. The blood pours down one whole side in little rivers of varying force which run together and separate again in an elaborate network which covers one hip and a good part of the stomach. It even flows into the navel and the pubic hair in a thick stream which runs down the belly.

  The second wound, in the lower part of the body, ornaments the other side. It pierces the groin just above the pubis, penetrating the lower belly and curving down to the inner part of the thigh. The blood from this wound flows in large rivers, almost covering the whole area, running down to rope which binds the body above the knees. There it accumulates a moment and then pours out directly onto one of the white flagstones where a pool has formed.

  This picture, extremely fascinating in its horror despite the somewhat romantic exaggeration, could only be the result of a trick. The two wounds and the quantities of blood undoubtedly had been faked by using red paint on Anne’s obliging body. But it was done so well that one could easily be fooled, especially since the contortions of the vic tim were quite convincing.