Mizie was only too eager to step into the spot vacated by my first wife. I was candid about letting her know beforehand that faithfulness was never part of my repertoire, and that I had no interest in being caged in. Young and smitten as she was, she probably chose not to take my warning seriously, hoping she’d be able to tame me in spite of it. She has suffered bitterly as a consequence. Now that I have grown totally dependent on her devoted, loving care, I am cut down to size, reduced to some kind of infantile monster, the physical wreck I never wished to be. What was the fucking point of signing that living will? I know she’s locked it away in her desk somewhere two floors down from my own prison.
Was it revenge that drove her to engage this provocative tootsie with the big tits to wash me, knowing full well I can’t get it up anymore? Like waving a slab of bacon under the nose of a toothless cat and getting a kick out of watching it suffer. Mizie could end my torment right now; it’s in her power to do so, if she’d just stop force-feeding me her revolting pureed vegetables, the bland soups and horrid nutri-drinks. But it’s clear she’d rather put it off for as long as possible. Her smile oozes love and venom by turns as she strokes my leathery face with an ice-cold finger or pinches my decrepit old-geezer’s mug roughly, impatiently, forcing me to open up for her so she can stuff her disgusting baby swill into it, or else push the spout of the plastic beaker in to make me swallow some repulsive brew.
And yet, even under these deplorable conditions, I have managed to eke out a small victory. I have succeeded, I am happy to report, in winning over the cute young thing. My physical body may have deserted me, my magnetic smile may be sitting in the water glass next to my bed like some daft Cheshire cat, and my witty banter may be reduced to inarticulate mumbling, but apparently I’m still capable of making a wench come running at my beck and call, even lying here dressed in nothing but baggy striped pajama pants instead of a custom-made suit. I assume my PJs don’t look that different from the ragged prison pants in which Aaron probably spent the last freezing months of his life.
I have always hated pajamas, and I never wore them in my life. Why should I? My beast was cooped up often enough as it was, and at the time of my return to the Netherlands from my luxurious London exile, striped pajamas were as abhorred as the “Horst Wessel Song.” But these days Mizie likes to hoist me into a pair in order to keep the giant diaper in place.
The sexy young thing has noticed my interest in Ezra, who is now a front-page news item, and has taken it upon herself to show me the papers the moment my loving prison warden leaves the house, since Mizie forbids any stimulus that might lead to overexcitement.
The wretched but still pulsating mechanism that is my heart skipped a beat when I caught sight of the photograph: my proud boy, my own vain, greedy, pushy blood, looking unshaven and unkempt, his graying hair disheveled, being led off like a common criminal, in the city that should have been the stage of his greatest triumph. Handcuffed, hands crossed in front, as if they were afraid he might kick a policeman in the balls. Utter humiliation.
The strength of one strand of female hair is mightier than any rope; its pull can bring down an entire career, as evidenced by my own life as well as by Ezra’s downfall.
Ah, that thing that seems to have a life of its own, that can wreck both your peace of mind and your professional life—the irresistible lure of the contours of a secretary’s breasts poking through her flimsy summer frock during a meeting about some bulk insulin shipment, or the coffee lady’s backside rising in the air as she bends down to take a fresh can of milk from the lower shelf of her cart, a glorious tush that in all its shapely plumpness seems to shout at you right through the tight black stuff of her trim little dress, Touch me, hug me, pinch me!
Or, say, the intimate chat in my office with one of the young women taking Preparation 288, some with great success, some with none. If after several months of treatment there was still no baby on the way, I’d be looking at a little puddle of misery, the legs slightly ajar, the eyes brimming with tears, begging me for another chance. “ ’Cause Annie and Bertha, they’re in the family way now, Mr. De Paauw, so why ain’t it working for me?” The pleading look, as though beseeching the Messiah himself, that moved me to rise from my chair, walk around to where she was sitting, and console her with a pat on the head, a hand on her back, as it occurred to me that the cause of her infertility might very well be her husband’s semen count. And then, pressing her teary face to my torso in a comforting hug, I’d feel my beast rise up like a hound on the scent, straining to be let off the leash.
Self-control has simply never been our strong suit. Playing with fire, that’s another thing my youngest spawn and I have in common.
18 …
So it came about that in the period when the rutting hormone was being used in the development of an ever-growing number of drugs for female problems, the red light outside my door would come on with increasing regularity, indicating that I was not to be disturbed.
I was aware that stories were making the rounds about my magnanimous impulses; it was whispered that you could get a lot more from Mr. De Paauw than just pills. Girls from the factory floor were starting to find excuses to come up to my office and offer themselves to me, either subtly or less so, and not always because they were longing for a child. Although I did not as a rule like to disappoint these willing volunteers, I preferred to pick the girls out for myself. Sometimes, on one of my factory rounds, some young chick would attract my eye, and I’d stop to chat with her to get a sense of whether she was interested in taking our acquaintance to the next level. It was their eyes that told me they were willing, even if they didn’t even know it themselves. Of the ones I invited up to my office, some would simply offer themselves up to me, as it were, on a platter, whereas others, reticent at first, might need a little more persuasion. I must confess that their inhibitions didn’t always hold me back. There’s something titillating in a little resistance, I find; a bit of a struggle, a head shaking no, a hand fending me off, a tussle, until the wench accepts the inevitable and lets you have your way, limp as a lab rabbit receiving an injection. Then, when it was over, I always knew how to make the girl feel okay about it, reassuring her with a loving pat on the rump before sending her back down to her workstation.
All of this didn’t have a lot to do with scientific research, naturally. My Garden of Eden was my own private domain, however. I didn’t have to report to Rafaël about it, and by rights it should also have fallen outside of Aaron’s morally superior oversight. But Aaron was starting to grow more and more suspicious about the parade of young girls trickling into my office and the red light blinking outside my door. His gloom seemed to be deepening by the day too, and as time went on I felt increasingly uncomfortable in his presence. The telling looks that signaled he was watching me made it harder to convince myself I was doing something good not just for myself, but also for my female visitors. Sometimes I wished I had a bit more of Aaron’s detachment, and that I wasn’t always ruled by the will of my rod. It would certainly have been worth it to be able to concentrate on the countless essential tasks demanding my full attention instead of being constantly distracted. That sex drive of mine—I wouldn’t want to be without it. Yet at the same time it was a curse I could not escape.
I was usually the last one to leave the administrative floor. One evening, noticing that the light in Aaron’s office was still on, I knocked on his door and went in. My brother was seated at his desk. He looked up at me darkly.
“What’s keeping you here so late?” I asked him.
He shrugged, raising his hunched shoulders even higher than they already were. His eyes, the same brown as mine but without the purposeful gleam, stared at me dully.
“There isn’t much for me to rush home for,” he muttered listlessly. “Whether it’s here or there, the silence is the same. At least in here I can pretend I’m making a difference. Even if all I’m doing is propping up your house of cards.”
“Do you mean you’re
lonely? That you wish you had a wife?” I asked, puzzled. It was the first hint I’d ever had that he wasn’t happy being a bachelor.
“Does it surprise you?” he asked rather sardonically. “Never thought your brother could be anything other than your handy little helper, did you? Never suspected that poor, bumbling old Aaron might be a man with needs and desires, have you? Never considered that I might dream of a woman waiting for me at home, even if she’s only half as good a catch as the trophy wife you bagged for yourself by banging her?”
“No,” I said, “or rather, yes, of course I’ve thought about it, and I’ve never understood why women seem to leave you cold. At first I used to wonder if you were more attracted to men, but I’ve never seen you show the slightest inclination in that direction either.”
Aaron laughed. “You don’t know me at all, little brother,” he scoffed, his gaze traveling outside the window. “I think that I see through you far better than you see through me. It isn’t hard for me to figure out what you’re up to with the girls you call into your office, you know. Whenever I catch myself in a moment of weakness, like right now, I only have to think about you, and how you’re cheating on your lovely wife, to squash every bit of desire I have. I wouldn’t for the life of me want to turn into a despicable bastard like you!”
I looked down at the ground. Aaron and Levine were pretty much the only ones in the world who could make me feel bad about myself.
“I do struggle with it, and try to stop myself,” I said sullenly. “Still, I don’t see that I’m doing anything wrong. I’m giving them the child they so dearly want, or helping them get over their sexual frustration.”
Aaron let out a loud and bitter laugh. “A factory boss who fucks the young girls in his employ, and then has the gall to claim with a straight face that he isn’t doing anything wrong! Motke, you’re a disgusting piece of shit.”
“And you’re a frigid, gutless schmuck who doesn’t have what it takes,” I fumed, and stormed out, slamming the door behind me.
In the days following this episode, Aaron’s words kept coming back to me. I was in the process of purchasing a tract of land across from the plant, since I envisaged that we’d need to expand soon and wanted to provide Farmacom with its own research and lab-animal facility. It was an exciting prospect, but the thought of Aaron’s rebuke soured my mood. I couldn’t help thinking somberly that my brother was right. I was constantly cheating on my “lovely wife,” Rivka, and abusing my position of authority in the company.
I resolved to rid myself of these bad habits and to be an irreproachable husband and boss from now on. I made a concerted effort to remain faithful to my Rivka and to leave the factory girls alone, even sending away the ones who came to me voluntarily, trying instead to focus all my energies on the two companies, which took so much work to run.
I kept it up for two weeks. Like an alcoholic who’s on the wagon and can’t think of anything but the damn bottle, I found those days an interminable hell. I just wasn’t up to handling our German subsidiary with my usual sangfroid or decisiveness as they tried to wriggle out of our price agreement. My normally sharp mind seemed to be wholly and obsessively occupied with female buttocks, boobs, and pussy. My common sense was in thrall to my beast, which would get hard at the most inopportune times. Jerking off provided only temporary relief. At night, as soon as the children were in bed, I’d try to get Rivka to have sex with me, but I was so importunate and impatient about it that one fine night she pushed me away and announced she wouldn’t sleep with me anymore. She banished me to the guest room and, from that day on, avoided all physical contact with me.
• • •
On the seventh day of the second week I gave up. I rang for fat Bertha, who wasn’t one of my test subjects but a zaftig, willing tart from meatpacking only too eager for my attentions. As soon as she walked into my office and closed the door, I pushed her over to the sofa, unbuttoned her white smock, and thrust my way in.
“Gee, Mr. Motke,” she exclaimed in surprise, “ain’t you got ants in your pants! I never seen you this horny!” She looked up at me, amused.
I stayed inside her a while longer, my tormented soul slowly calming down. Once my breathing had returned to normal, I began petting her solicitously, more lovingly than I had ever done before with the broad, and then I took her another time. Afterward I thanked her and, before she left, slipped an unnecessarily generous sum into her apron pocket. I was genuinely grateful to her for giving me the opportunity to recover my old, inescapable self, and decided I’d never attempt to deny my true nature again. Living up to my brother’s standards was impossible; it would have derailed my marriage, my business, and my life.
• • •
And so it began all over again. Of course I had to take care that my activities did not become common knowledge. I knew Aaron would never have the guts to give me away, but caution was in order. My position as head of the firm required a great deal of integrity, naturally; a bad reputation would be bad for the entire company as well as for my ever-growing network of important connections. I was regarded as the point man for the Dutch meat industry. Not a Nobel Prize winner, certainly, but nothing to sneeze at either, for a high school dropout. My stellar reputation led to an invitation to chair the Netherlands Pork Board, an organization founded after the crash to bolster the national meat industry. I was delighted, naturally, to accept the position. Four years later, however, after a government inquiry into alleged conflicts of interest, I sadly had to resign. It had actually been quite a nice little sideline, and it was too bad that a few unusually vigilant politicians had made that glitch come to light. But since I had stepped down without a murmur of protest, I was invited to join the Council of Government Commissioners in return for being such a good sport and, on top of that, was appointed commercial adviser to the Dutch government on agrarian affairs. Those prestigious posts eventually led to an invitation from the Royal Palace. In time I became a welcome guest there, and was honored with the title of royal merchant, purveyor to the queen. I was gaining more respect abroad as well, and became adept at making friends in all the high places in the global business and diplomatic worlds.
I made it quite clear to the girls that the reason for their visits to my office were to remain our little secret, and if even a whisper came out about the encounters on my “Cozy Corner” (the tasteful sofa Rivka had picked out for me), it would mean instant dismissal for them as well as any other family member in our employ. The threat was enough to do the trick. The depression had not yet run its course, and not one of the bimbos was prepared to jeopardize her job or those of her relatives. Besides, the wenches usually felt complicit. After all, hadn’t they been warned, both by the priest and by their parents, not to provoke a man’s lust? And I’d remind them ever so subtly that I had read an unmistakable invitation in their eyes, even if it hadn’t been conscious on their part. Finally, it was still a common adage in this provincial backwater that it was easier to watch a passel of fleas than to keep a young maid in line. So any girl who was a victim of sexual abuse must herself be partially to blame.
• • •
I hadn’t realized how dangerous my little game was until, some months after my failed attempt at self-restraint, I heard Bertha, who was waiting outside my door to be invited in, tell Agnes: “Just gonna go in there an’ earn meself a new summer frock …”
She walked in still grinning at her own little joke, but her smile froze when she saw my icy stare. She tried to give me a hug, but I slapped her arm away. “You’ve broken your side of the bargain,” I snapped. “Not a word to anyone; that was the deal.”
I glared at her. The slap seemed to have made little impression.
“Gee, Mr. Motke,” she wheedled, contrite, wagging her nicely filled ass, “ain’t we in a bad mood. Now don’t get yer knickers all in a twist … It was just jesting, an’ Agnes ain’t blind to the hanky-panky goin’ on in here, surely? I never done talk about it to no one else, promise. I wouldn’t dare
…”
I told her to get out and thought about firing her, but decided not to, because a girl like that might create a stink once she was no longer dependent on me for her paycheck. No point digging myself into a ditch. I did have another talk with her later and made it clear that there would be no more rendezvous on my sofa. I warned her again that if she whispered so much as one syllable about what we’d been up to, I would sack both her and her father, a glassblower in our factory. All I could hope for was that she would soon get embroiled in other escapades, and the trysts on my sofa would fade into the background.
“Playing with fire means you’ll eventually get burned,” I mused that day, thinking of the risks I brought onto myself through my capers with the factory girls. But as I read the mail, as I went over the monthly figures—which were up in spite of the recession—I decided that, in fact, my work was likewise nothing but a dangerous game that I played all day long. It’s what you do if you’re a successful entrepreneur. You have to throw your weight around, toot your own horn, score points, walk the finest of lines, lick people’s boots, make a big splash, bluff, gamble, and brag; short of that, you won’t get anywhere in a world where everyone is out to crush the competition.
The race had acquired a new dimension now that Rafaël was on the verge of tracking down the male hormone. We’d been behind the eight ball on insulin and the rutting hormone, secretions that had initially been isolated by others, but now Rafaël and his team of expert scientists appeared to have a real crack at beating their German rivals and becoming the first to isolate the male hormone. I couldn’t have asked for a more satisfying payback for all the cash, sweat, and tears we’d put in over the years than to see this discovery being made in our name. That was why I let nothing get in the way of Rafaël’s work. Despite my profound irritation at his exacting demands, I provided him with everything he needed to pry that precious little hormone out of those bull pizzles.
The Hormone Factory: A Novel Page 8