They began to assess the customer-satisfaction surveys. A large number had been filled in, thanks to a prize draw in which the first fifty won a week's holiday. At first glance, the reasons for their dissatisfaction with Eldorador Standard were difficult to establish. The customers were satisfied with the accommodations and the location, satisfied with the food, satisfied with the activities and the sports offered; that said, fewer and fewer of them were returning customers. By chance, Valérie happened on an article in Tourisme Hebdo analyzing consumers' new values. The author claimed to use the Holbrook and Hirschman model, which focuses on the emotion the consumer feels when faced with a product or service. But the conclusions drawn were nothing new. The "new consumers" were described as being less predictable, more eclectic, more sophisticated, more concerned with humanitarian issues. They no longer consumed to "seem," but to "be": more serenity. They had balanced diets, were careful about their health. They were slightly fearful of others and of the future. They demanded the right to be unfaithful out of curiosity, in the name of eclecticism. They favored things that were solid, durable, authentic. They had ethical leanings: more solidarity, etc. She had read all these things a hundred times: behavioral psychologists and sociologists transplanted the same words from one article to another, one magazine to another. In any case, they had already taken all these factors into account. The Eldorador villages were built of traditional materials, following the architectural traditions of the host country. The self-service menus were balanced, with ample room given over to selections of fresh vegetables, fruit, the Cretan diet. Among the activities on offer were yoga, relaxation therapy, and Tai Chi. Aurore had signed the ethical tourism charter, gave regularly to the World Wildlife Fund. None of these things seemed sufficient to halt the decline. "I think people are just lying," said Jean-Yves, having reread the summary of the customer surveys a second time. "They say they're satisfied, they tick the box marked 'Good' every time, but in reality they've been bored stiff for the whole holiday and they feel too guilty to admit it. I'm going to end up selling off all the resorts we can't convert to the Discovery formula and really go for it on the activity holidays: add four-by-fours, hot-air balloon trips, traditional feasts in the desert, trips in dugout canoes, scuba diving, white-water rafting, the works..." "We're not the only ones in the market." "No," he agreed, disheartened. "We should try spending a week at one of the clubs, incognito, not for any particular reason, just to see what the atmosphere is like." "Yeah." Jean-Yves sat up in his armchair, took a sheaf of listings. He flicked quickly through the pages. "Djerba and Monastir are a disaster, but I think we're going to drop Tunisia altogether anyway. It's already too built-up, and the competition are prepared to drop their prices to ludicrous levels. Given our positioning, we could never follow them." "Have you got any offers to buy?" "Oddly enough, yes. Neckermann is interested. They want to get into Eastern Europe: Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Poland .. . the very bottom of the market, but the Costa Brava is already saturated. They're interested in our Agadir resort as well, and it's a reasonable offer. I'm quite tempted to sell to them; even with southern Morocco, Agadir isn't taking off—I think people will always prefer Marrakech." "But Marrakech is awful." "I know. The strange thing is that Sharm-el-Sheikh isn't doing all that well. It's got a lot going for it: the most beautiful coral reefs in the world, trips to the Sinai desert. .." "Yeah, but it's in Egypt." "And?" "I don't think people have forgotten the terrorist attack in Luxor in 1997. After all, there were fifty-eight dead. The only way you're going to sell Sharm-el-Sheikh is to take out the word 'Egypt.' " "What do you want to put in its place?" "I don't know, 'The Red Sea' maybe?" "OK, 'The Red Sea' it is." He made a note and went back to leafing through the figures. "Africa is doing well —that's strange. Cuba conies rather low. But Cuban music, that whole Latin vibe is hip, isn't it? The Dominican Republic is always full, for example." He read the description of the Cuban resort: "The Guardalavaca hotel is almost new, it's competitively priced. Not too sporty, not too family-oriented. 'Live the magic of Cuban nights to the wild rhythms of salsa . . .' Numbers are down 15 percent. Maybe we could go and have a look at the place: either there or Egypt." "Wherever you want, Jean-Yves," she answered wearily. "In any case, it will do you good to get away without your wife."
August had settled over Paris. The days were hot, almost stifling, but the good weather didn't last—after a day or two a storm would come, and the air would suddenly become cool. Then the sun would come Out, with the mercury in the thermometer, and the pollution index would begin to rise again. To tell the truth, it was of limited interest to me. I had given up on peep shows since I met Valérie, and I had also given up, many years ago, on the "urban adventure." Paris had never been a moveable feast for me, and I could think of no reason why it should become one. Still, ten or twelve years ago, when I was starting out in the Ministry of Culture, I used to go out to the clubs and bars that were "don't-misses"; all I remember there was a slight but persistent feeling of unease. I had nothing to say, I felt completely incapable of carrying on a conversation with anyone at all, and I didn't know how to dance, either. It was in such circumstances that I started to become an alcoholic. Alcohol didn't let me down, never once in my life—it has been a constant support to me. After about ten gin and tonics, I occasionally—pretty rarely; all in all, it must have happened four or five times —managed to find the requisite energy to ask a girl to share my bed. The results, in general, were pretty disappointing: I couldn't get it up, and I usually fell asleep after a couple of minutes. Later, I discovered the existence of Viagra. Elevated blood-alcohol levels limited its effectiveness a lot, but if you boosted the dosage, you could still get somewhere. The game, in any case, wasn't worth the effort. In fact, before Valérie, I had never met a single girl who could come close to a Thai prostitute. It's possible that when I was very young, I managed to feel something when I was with sixteen or seventeen-year-olds. But the situation I moved in was a complete disaster. The girls weren't remotely interested in sex, only in seduction—and even then it was a kind of elitist, trashy, bizarre seduction that was not the least bit erotic. In bed, they were simply incapable of the least thing. Either that, or they needed fantasies, a whole lot of fastidious, kitschy scenarios, the mere mention of which was enough to make me sick. They liked to talk about sex, that much was true, in fact it was their only real topic of conversation; but they didn't have the slightest sensual innocence. As a matter of fact, the men weren't much better. In any case, the French have a penchant for talking about sex at every possible opportunity without ever doing anything about it; but it was seriously starting to depress me.
Anything can happen in life, especially nothing. But this time at least something had happened in my life: I had found a lover and she made me happy. Our August was very quiet. Espitalier, Leguen, and most of the other senior executives at Aurore had gone away on vacation. Valérie and Jean-Yves had decided not to make any important decisions before the Cuba trip at the beginning of September. It was a break, a period of calm. Jean-Yves was a bit better. "He finally decided to go see a whore," I learned from Valérie. "He should have done it long ago. He's drinking less now, he's calmer." "All the same, from what I remember, hookers aren't so great." "Yeah, but this is different, these girls work via the Internet. They're pretty young, some of them are still students. They don't take many clients, they pick and choose, and they are not doing it just for the money. At least lie told me it's pretty good. If you want we can try it sometime. A bisexual girl for the two of us: I know men are turned on by all that and, actually, I like girls too." We didn't do it that summer, but the simple fact that she had suggested it was tremendously exciting. I was lucky. She knew the different things that kept male desire alive—well, not completely, that was impossible, but let's say enough to make love from time to time, while waiting for everything to come to an end. In fact, being aware of such things is nothing; it's easy, pathetically so. But she enjoyed doing these things, she took pleasure in them, she enjoy
ed seeing the desire rising in my eyes. Often, in a restaurant, when she came back from the restroom, she would place the panties she had just taken off on the table. Then she liked to slip a hand between my legs to make the most of my erection. Sometimes she would open my fly and jerk me off right there, hidden by the tablecloth. In the mornings, too, when she woke me with fellatio and handed me a cup of coffee before taking me into her mouth again, I would feel a dizzying rush of gratitude and gentleness. She knew how to stop just before I came, she could have kept me on the brink for hours. I lived inside a game, a game that was tender and exciting, the only game left to adults; I moved through a universe of gentle desires and limitless moments of pleasure.
7
At the end of August, the real estate agent in Cherbourg phoned to tell me he had found a buyer for my father's house. The guy wanted me to drop the price a little, but he was prepared to pay cash. I accepted immediately. Very shortly, I would, therefore, receive a little more than two million francs. At the time, I was working on a proposal for a touring exhibition in which frogs were to be released onto playing cards spread out in a mosaic-tiled enclosure—some of the tiles had been engraved with the names of great men of history, such as Dürer, Einstein, or Michelangelo. The lion's share of the budget was allocated to buying the decks of cards, since they needed to be changed fairly frequently. The frogs had to be changed too, from time to time. The artist wanted, at least for the inaugural exhibition in Paris, to use tarot cards. In the provinces, he was prepared to make do with ordinary playing cards. I decided to go to Cuba for a week with Valérie and Jean-Yves in early September. I had intended to pay my way, but she told me she would sort things out with the group. "I won't get in the way of your work," I promised. "We're not really going to work, you know, we'll just behave like ordinary tourists. We're not going to do anything much, but that in itself is very important. We're going to try and work out what's going wrong, why there's no atmosphere at the resort, why people don't come back thrilled from their holidays. You won't be in the way at all. On the contrary, you could be very useful."
We took the mid-afternoon flight to Santiago de Cuba on Friday, September 5. Jean-Yves hadn't been able to stop himself from bringing along his laptop, but he seemed relaxed in his pale blue polo, ready for a holiday. Shortly after takeoff, Valérie put her hand on my thigh; she relaxed, her eyes closed. "I'm not worried, I know we'll find out what's going on," she'd said to me as we were leaving. The transfer from the airport took two and a half hours. "Negative number one," noted Valérie. "We must check and see if there's a flight into Holguín." In front of us on the bus, two little old ladies of about sixty, with blue-gray perms, twittered constantly, pointing out items of interest as we passed: men cutting sugar cane, a vulture wheeling over the fields, two cows returning to the barn . . . They had the air of ladies determined to be interested in everything, and they seemed dry and difficult. I got the impression they wouldn't be easy customers. Sure enough, when the rooms were being allocated, twitterer A doggedly insisted on having a room next door to twitterer B. This sort of demand had clearly not been anticipated. The receptionist couldn't understand at all, and the resort manager had to be sent for. He was about thirty, with a head like a ram and a stubborn air, his narrow brow furrowed with worry lines; in fact, he looked a lot like the actor Nagui. "No problem, okay," he said when the issue had been explained to him. "No problem, okay, my dear lady. This evening is not possible, but tomorrow we have some people leaving and we will change your room." A porter took us to our ocean-view bungalow, turned on the air conditioning, and left with a dollar tip. "There we go," said Valérie, sitting down on the bed. "The meals are served buffet style. It's an all-inclusive package, including snacks and cocktails. The disco opens at eleven. There's a supplement for massages and for lighting the tennis courts at night." The aim of tourist companies is to make people happy, for a specified price, for a specified period. The task can be an easy one, or it can prove impossible —depending on the nature of the people, the services offered, and other factors. Valérie took off her trousers and her blouse. I lay down on the other twin bed. Our genitals exist as a source of permanent, accessible pleasure. The god who created all our unhappinesses, who-made us short-lived, vain, and cruel, has also provided this form of meager compensation. If we couldn't have sex from time to time, what would life be? A futile struggle against joints that stiffen, caries that form. All of which, moreover, is as uninteresting as humanly possible —the collagen that makes muscles stiffen, the appearance of microbic cavities in the gums. Valérie parted her thighs above-my mouth. She was wearing a pair of sheer Tanga briefs in purple lace. I pushed the fabric aside and wet my fingers in order to stroke her labia. For her part, she undid my trousers and took my penis in the palm of her hand. She began to massage my balls gently, unhurriedly. I grabbed a pillow so my mouth would be at the same level as her pussy. At that moment, I saw a maid sweeping the sand from the terrace. The curtains and the window were wide open. As her eyes met mine, the girl burst out laughing. Valérie sat up and motioned to her to come in. She stayed where she was, hesitant, leaning on her broom. Valérie got up, walked toward her, and held out her hands. As soon as the girl was inside, she started to open the buttons of her blouse. She was wearing nothing underneath but a pair of white cotton panties. She must have been about twenty, and her body was very brown, almost black. She had a firm little bust and finely curved buttocks. Valérie drew the curtains; I got up in turn. The girl's name was Margarita. Valérie took her hand and placed it on my penis. She burst out laughing again, but started to jerk me off. Valérie quickly took off her bra and panties, lay down on the bed, and started to stroke herself. Again, Margarita hesitated for a moment, then she took off her panties and knelt between Valerie's thighs. First she looked at her pussy, stroking it with her hand, then she brought her mouth closer and began to lick it. Valérie put her hand on Margarita's head to guide her as she continued to jerk me off with her other hand. I felt that I was going to come. I backed off and went to look for a condom in my bag. I was so excited that I had trouble finding one. As I put it on, my vision seemed almost blurred. The little black girl's ass rose and fell as she bobbed over Valerie's pubis. I penetrated her in one thrust, her pussy was open like a fruit. She moaned quietly, pushed her buttocks toward me. I started to thrust in and out of her any old how. My head was spinning, shudders of pleasure coursed through my body. It was getting dark, you could hardly see anything in the room now. From far, far away, as though from another world, I heard Valerie's rising cries. I pressed my hands hard against Margarita's ass, thrusting into her harder and harder. At the moment Valérie screamed, I came in turn. For a second or two I had the impression of weightlessness, of floating in space. Then the feeling of gravity returned, I suddenly felt exhausted. I collapsed on the bed into their arms.
Later, I vaguely saw Margarita getting dressed. Valérie rummaged in her bag to give her something. They kissed on the doorstep. Outside, it was dark. "I gave her forty dollars," said Valérie, lying down again beside me. "That's the price western men pay. To her, it's a month's salary." She turned on the bedside lamp. Silhouettes passed by, formed shadow puppets against the curtains; we could hear the murmur of conversation. I placed a hand on her shoulder. "It was great," I said in a tone of incredulous wonder. "It was really great." "Yes, she's very sensual, that girl. She was really good when she went down on me too." "It's strange, what sex costs," I went on. "I get the impression that it doesn't really depend on a country's standard of living. Obviously, depending on the country, what's on offer is completely different; but the basic price is always pretty much the same: the amount westerners are prepared to pay." "Do you think that's what they call 'supply-side economies'?" "I've no idea." I shook my head. "I've never really understood anything about economics; it's like I have a mental block."
I was very hungry, but the restaurant didn't open until eight o'clock. I drank three piña coladas at the bar while watching the predinner enterta
inment. The effects of the orgasm dissipated only slowly, I was a bit tipsy, and from a distance all the actors looked like Nagui. Actually, they didn't, some of them were younger, but they all had something odd about them, a shaven head, a goatee, or dreadlocks. They gave terrifying cries and from time to time grabbed members of the audience to force them onstage. Thankfully, I was too far away to be in any serious danger. The bar manager was pretty tiresome —he was, for want of a better word, useless. Every time I needed something, he simply waved contemptuously in the direction of the waiters. He looked a bit like an elderly bullfighter, with his scars and his small, contained potbelly. His yellow swimsuit hugged his penis very precisely; he was well hung, and he was determined to let it be known. As I was heading back to my table, having obtained, with extreme difficulty, my fourth cocktail, I saw the man approach one of the neighboring tables, occupied by a compact group of fifty-something Québécoises. I had already noticed them when they arrived: they were thickset and tough, all teeth and blubber, talking incredibly loudly. It wasn't difficult to understand how they bad managed to bury their husbands so quickly. I had a feeling that it wouldn't be wise to cut in front of them in line at the buffet, or to grab a bowl of cereal that one of them had her eyes on. As the aging hunk approached the table, they shot him amorous glances, almost becoming women again for the moment. He strutted extravagantly in front of them, accentuating his coarseness at regular intervals by gestures through his swimsuit, as though to confirm the physical existence of his meat n' three. The Québécoises seemed thrilled by his suggestive company; their aged, worn-out bodies still craved sunshine. He played his part well, whispered softly into the ears of these old creatures, referring to them, Cuban fashion, as ''mi corazón" or "mi amor." Nothing more would come of this, that was clear—he was content to arouse some last quivers in their aging pussies —but perhaps that was sufficient for them to go home with the impression that they had had a wonderful holiday, and for them to recommend the resort to their girlfriends. They had at least twenty years left in them. I sketched out the plot of a socially aware pornographic film entitled Senior Citizens on the Rampage. It portrayed two gangs operating in a resort, one a group of elderly Italian men, the other of pensionettes from Quebec. Armed with numchucks and ice picks, both gangs submit naked, bronzed teenagers to the most vile indecencies. Eventually, of course, they come face to face in the middle of a Club Med yacht. One after another the crew members, quickly rendered helpless, arc raped before being thrown overboard by the bloodthirsty pensionettes. The film ends with a mammoth orgy of pensioners, while the boat, having slipped its moorings, sails straight for the South Pole.