Breakneck

by Nelly Arcan

  “I’m going to stop for a second, I’ve got to catch my breath.”

  “I can transfer the pictures to your laptop, if you want.” Julie suggested.

  “I’ll do that by myself, downstairs, alone and quiet.”

  Charles left the roof. Julie went on eating, drinking, and smoking, she had passed a point of no return, she could feel joy in her heart, a celebration, love to give, she was trying in vain to start a conversation with Rose who was disgusted and starting to feel a little drunk, trying to remain steadfast in her belief, and in her treasure that had not yet been revealed. She stopped trying to pull her dress down, it had climbed up and was revealing her ass: two round, tanned cheeks that had swallowed a white satin G-string, which Olivier couldn’t help filming.

  “I’ve got a friend I want to introduce you to,” Julie suggested. “He’ll be here soon.”

  “He’s into women, at least?”

  “Yes. And generally they can’t resist him.”

  Rose smiled, sadness apparent under her façade.

  “By the way,” Julie continued, “I looked up the statistics of births by gender. You’re completely wrong.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “So why’d you tell me what you told me?”

  Julie and Rose looked at each other and smiled through the vapours of alcohol, in it they saw the confused dance of memories from the previous months, both pathetic and terrible. All of that had been pretty serious, pretty ceremonious, for not much return, Julie thought, as Rose, who had a hand on her pussy under the table, was slowly getting herself off with Olivier secretly filming from the next table. He was filming Rose who knew she was being filmed and had stopped right before coming. It’s working, it’s working, she told herself, reassured. Soon it’ll be time.

  CHARLES WAS IN his loft, blinds drawn against the midday sun that warmed the city, now overexposed, victim of the sun’s implacable rays.

  The crashing waves had changed into a muted, throbbing background, like the hum of a high-tension line. On his computer screen, he examined the results of the shoot that had reawakened his clairvoyance. Something had changed since the studio; the movement had become clearer, images gained in texture, in thickness, bodies moved freely and with more volume, almost elegantly, as if they had been made from worms that had joined with the skin, twisting and turning in quivering, self-regulated life. But this time, he knew, the foresight he had acquired wasn’t accidental or temporary, it wasn’t a threat either, quite the opposite, it was a door open to the Truth, a gift from the Will that carried him further than other people, all of whom were blind and without his gift. He was far superior to them, with a gift that still didn’t have a name, that made him the most important man in the world, and the loneliest one as well. The price to pay: solitude and the incomprehension of others, he would gladly pay.

  He was the first man on earth, the second, rather, after his father, to see what he saw. Flesh was no longer anxiety-inducing or even pleasure-inducing, but real, simply real, it existed in the world, bordered humans, but also boiled over into a sort of elsewhere. But nobody could see this, except him. Through the pictures, he could read encoded messages that revealed keys to him, and these messages spoke of a global threat, obscure, the nature of which needed to be defined but certainly spoke of a foreign power that would annihilate man.

  He travelled through the photos. The faster he scrolled through them, the more Rose, attempting to undress and reveal something to him, a secret, his mission, showed her anger. Her face that was set against a turbulent sky, like any sky painted by Van Gogh, filled with long, sinuous, serpentine shapes, telling of a fury that was not only hers, but of the Will too. In a few pictures, too few pictures, he could see her ass, half uncovered, that suggested an opening, that undulated in the movement that turned on itself to swallow itself up. A tanned ass that invited forceful entry through the white satin of the G-string on which the light was reflected, like a star in a smile, an invitation to which he hadn’t submitted, since he was still a blind man.

  Then a voice in his mind, no doubt his father’s, the prime messenger of the Will, spoke:

  “She gave you a sign, and you didn’t follow it.”

  Charles wasn’t afraid, he was ready. The voice came at the right moment, confirming his intuitions. It gave logical meaning, and a salutary one, to the dreadful transformations the world had undergone over the past few weeks. Never had things been clearer: he had entered a new world that opened itself for him so that he might capture Truth, this world had chosen him.

  “When she returns, be guided by this voice.”

  Charles opened the pictures of Rose’s pussy as wide as he could get them. They now inspired in him nothing but awe and incomparable respect, an urgent desire to read them too, and decode the message, a desire to remain alert and concentrated until their truth was revealed. His entire life, he knew now, had converged toward this pussy, his whole life had been waiting for it. The movement of the worms over the pussy was slower and deeper still, everything moved in circular, hypnotic fashion.

  The time that passed seemed like an eternity, but nothing needed to be rushed. He was discovering God, and God was his Father. His butcher shop, his meat, was only a façade before Truth that Pierre had tried to transmit to him, though he hadn’t been ready to hear it at the time.

  The movement traced patterns that were becoming more precise. In the middle of the flesh an eye opened, not the image of an eye, not a photographed eye, but a real one, a living eye that moved, its pupil scanning in every direction as if to ensure that no one, except Charles, was in the room. After a moment, the eye looked him straight in his own eye, with intention, ready to speak to him without malice. He saw God, the Butcher Father, who saw him in return.

  “When she comes, follow her. She will show you the way.”

  The voice coming from the eye was reassuring.

  “My son, I was wrong. Women aren’t our enemy. Rose, their leader, is the Amazon, the way.”

  Charles looked at the eye in the pussy swallowed and spit out by its movement. He stared at the eye that was staring at him and time passed, nothing needed to be rushed. He was feeling good, he was waiting.

  OLIVIER, BERTRAND, AND ANDRÉ ARRIVED. They were welcomed with champagne and Julie at the height of her gaiety, and by Rose, half naked, whose beauty and simpering airs threw André into a tizzy, since he was seeing her for the first time, and irritated Bertrand, who was also seeing her for the first time, so to speak, since she’d never acted this way around him. Rose was beginning a new career and testing her talents on them, at least that’s what she told herself as she snorted a generous line of cocaine offered by André.

  “Some wake-up, Bella.”

  Rose would fuck him, this Great Skirt-Chaser, tall, dark, and handsome, fuck him like use him, use him then throw him away afterwards, that’s what she promised herself, but first she had to play out her plans.

  Large white clouds travelled through the sky, and behind them the sun erupted here and there, like a spotlight aiming at them, scanning them and the city with its powerful burning.

  Supercharged with cocaine, Julie was knocking on every door in the building to invite her neighbours up on the roof. “The more, the merrier!” she told every one of them, reassuring them afterwards, her words tumbling out, words juxtaposed—merry had nothing to do with Christmas, it was summer after all, and they just wanted to be happy, so they were welcome upstairs with their alcohol to contribute to the merriness. She knocked on Charles’ door and got no answer, but she didn’t worry herself too much. Before going down the hall in her flip-flops, she yelled through the door:

  “Hey, Photoman! We’re waiting for you! Hurry up!”

  No sound came from behind the door. Too bad for him.

  Olivier Blanchette tracked her with his camera, he’d decided that improvisation would be the rule of the shoot, chaos might be used later, in a manner yet to be determined.

  Julie’s rampage through
the hall achieved its results. Two dozen bored neighbours accepted the invitation, they appeared one after the other on the roof, calling their friends on their cellphones, sensing electricity in the air, the promise of action. They decided to move the tables along the deck. The guardrail pitched a little, but that was no problem since everyone had been informed, in any case it had been collectively decided that if you were going to fall, you’d have to want to.

  ROSE WAS STANDING in front of Charles who was watching her, his eyes bulging, his mouth half-open, like a child in front of a magician. Like Charles, Rose was exalted and more convinced than ever, his reaction was better than in her wildest dreams. She’d raised her turquoise dress over her hips with both hands, the white satin string shone in the dim room, a phosphorescent presence that spoke to Charles, showing him the way to go, with the voice of the Butcher Father commenting on every move, approving. In the darkness, the computer screen displayed Rose’s pussy, and she could see the image. He’s jerking off in secret instead of coming to me, she thought, happy at the prospect.

  “I was waiting for you,” Charles said.

  “You want to turn on a light?” she asked.

  And then, at the same time, “Turn on the light. Do what she asks,” the Butcher commanded.

  Charles turned on a light near them, then kneeled down in front of Rose, as if in prayer.

  “Go ahead, I’m ready,” he said.

  “This is for you. I did it for you. A gift.” Rose answered, her voice trembling.

  “I know. I know,” he whispered, bowing his head in respect.

  Rose removed her string with the deliberate slowness of a striptease, and gently placed it on Charles’ desk, then bent backward, still standing, her legs spread, her fingers opening her inner lips that had been shrunk, disappeared, her clitoris already swollen, enormous without its hood. Eyes closed, she awaited his touch, a sound, animal excitement, but nothing happened. Maybe he already came, she thought. It was a possibility.

  After a minute without movement or hard breathing, she stood straight again and opened her eyes to see Charles still in prayerful attitude, staring at her pussy with his mouth open, maddened and serious. Against all expectations, his pants were still buttoned up and he wasn’t touching himself, his hands lay against his legs, well-behaved.

  “Look and see,” the Father spoke. “It is the holy pussy that leads to the beyond.”

  Charles gazed upon her pussy, almost healed, waxed and offered up to him, he was losing himself in that little girl’s vulva, in the middle of it there was an eye, the same as on the screen. Then, slowly, the movement of the worms took over Rose’s flesh where the eye scanned left and right.

  “Thank you, Rose, thank you. I didn’t know. I was blind.”

  “What’s up with you? What are you doing?” she yelled, forcing Charles to retreat, then look away from her pussy and at her face.

  Rose was hurt, she had no idea what to do. She bent down and grabbed Charles’ right hand and steered it between her legs.

  “No!”

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened to you?”

  “It is forbidden! It is holy!”

  Charles would not give her what she wanted. Rose understood. Brusquely, she pushed her dress back down and picked up her string. She waved it in Charles’ face. He was terrified as he kneeled before this Last Judgement.

  “Do you see these panties? This satin string? Do you see it? Huh? I bought it for you! For you!”

  Rose shook the string violently and pointed at her crotch.

  “Did you see the operation? Of course you did! It’s for you too! I thought of you the whole time! Do you know what that means! No! You can’t understand!”

  She was on the edge of tears, and they were tears of rage.

  “You don’t even want to touch me! After everything I’ve done, you won’t even bother touching me, Mister Clean!”

  The voice of the Butcher, aggressive now, had turned into a woman’s voice through Rose’s anger. The voice seemed to come from Rose as if she had lost all material presence, but that non-presence was heading for the door.

  “What are you waiting for? Touch her! Touch her!”

  Charles got up and ran with outstretched arms toward Rose, who was moving through the doorway into the corridor, reaching the staircase, taking the stairs two at a time. Charles was at the mercy of the voice that hit high-pitched tones, and when he listened, it was his mother’s voice, yes, it was Diane’s voice that had joined in on some inexplicably logical plane, threatening him now.

  “What have you done? You didn’t listen to her! You didn’t follow her! You’re going to pay!”

  Charles kneeled down and covered his ears with his hands to shut out the voices, but they continued unabated to threaten him. Then, other voices, known and unknown, superimposed themselves over Diane’s, a dozen at least, a cacophony of imprecations, birds of ill omen.

  “No! I’m sorry! I’ll do anything she wants me to. Anything!”

  But Charles could not get to his feet, he was crying, moaning, he was cold. Having sane thoughts was impossible now because They’d stolen them, and They’d replaced them with the Will. Turning toward his computer, he discovered it had switched to screen saver, and it was showing patterns upon patterns that were messages to decipher, all indicating the same direction: the roof.

  ON THE ROOF there had to be fifty people, neighbours from the building and their friends, and the friends of their friends. “The more, the merrier!” Julie exclaimed, full of energy, repeating it until people started getting tired of her.

  Rose appeared on the roof with promises of vengeance. Never had she felt so humiliated. She’d sacrificed herself for Charles in vain, and found herself with nothing at all. She walked through the crowd on the roof and everyone noticed her, so pretty and provocative with her too-short dress, balancing on her platform shoes, drinking champagne and muttering to herself, as André trailed her and tried to drag her into a corner of the deck, away from onlookers behind the stairwell, to offer her some cocaine and, while he was at it, to touch that small body engineered for fucking. Olivier Blanchette was alternating between Rose who was a spectacle in herself, and Julie voicing her opinions on the world that quickly turned to digressions.

  Like Rose, Julie stalked through the crowd, the queen of the roof, making sure everyone had enough of everything, that they were all drinking their fill. She’d made herself up and done her hair in a hurry down in her apartment, and put on shorts and high-heeled shoes—why let Rose be the centre of attention?—and Bertrand was again trying to seduce her, again without success. The Hawaiian shirts he insisted on wearing, she didn’t know why, they were the enemy of seduction, maybe because the pattern made her think of her grandfather O’Brien who spent every winter in Florida for the past twenty years. She was jabbering in all directions at once, telling everyone about the virtues of sunscreen and proper hydration, talking about her project to whomever would listen, and the shoot, and Charles the photographer who still hadn’t made his way up to the roof but would soon, she was about to go get him. Almost all the sandwiches and salads left in the shade on a picnic table had been eaten, the guests were leaving the deck and coming back with more water, fruit juice, wine, and hard liquor, cases of beer, bags of ice, and bites to eat. Music too, techno and other genres, less popular, which Julie didn’t know and didn’t hear either, too caught up in her own words that she couldn’t control.

  “Where’s Charles?”

  Her eyes on Julie, Rose blew cigarette smoke over her head, an act of bravado, as if she didn’t care.

  “I don’t know. Probably fighting it out with his screen, I guess.”

  Julie accepted Rose’s acerbic comments as the price to pay so that her own debt to the other woman might be annulled, though Rose getting kicked onto the street hadn’t done much for either Charles or herself.

  “Speak of the devil,” Rose said, raising her chin in Charles’ direction. He had just appeared on the rooftop deck
, his eyes fidgeting and fearful.

  “Charles!”

  Julie moved toward Charles as Rose fled in André’s direction. André hadn’t taken his eyes off her for a moment, since he was taller than everyone else by a good head, he could do just that.

  “Is everything ok? What are the pictures like? I hope they’re good, especially the ones of Rose! You didn’t have trouble transferring them, at least? We’re having a party here with the neighbours! You can see for yourself, right?”

  Charles was tracking Rose, and not listening to Julie at all. Julie set herself directly in front of him, trying to make him look at her, an intentional harassment, an obstruction, a buzzing fly, a wasp. He was fearful, hard and cold, like someone whose life is in danger. Everything about him was on the razor’s edge, tense, his eyes alighting on every guest, every object, jumping from one to the other without concentrating on any of them, as if looking for the emergency exit. He just realized that the deck was full of people, everything was moving, the sky was shifting, releasing its clouds like a smokestack, and those same clouds were falling back onto the roof and him; he was trapped in the this world transformed, saturated, ready to explode, the opposite of the void; hellish plenitude, a world that contained too much; he could feel that this overflow was causing the voices in him to explode in whistles, jeers, and sarcasm. What had happened? “They’re here for Rose too,” the voices brayed. “Rose,” Diane repeated, “this is her vengeance, you loser!”

  Images, pictures, voices, sky and cloud, people moving, everything turned into a single slab of matter, indefinable, with no clear limits. The distance between beings had disappeared. Skin like the surface of things had disappeared. Charles was pouring himself out, he spat himself out, excavated, the outside poured into him in the same movement that destroyed the limits of the world.

  “Charles, answer me. What’s wrong? I can tell something’s wrong. Is it the pictures? You got other pictures that bothered you?”