Eventually, Valérie joined me. She was wearing makeup and a short, white, see-through dress; I still wanted her. We found Jean-Yves at the buffet. He seemed relaxed, almost languid, and desultorily informed us of his first impressions. His room was acceptable, though the entertainment seemed a little intrusive. He had just been up by the sound system, and it was almost unbearable. The food wasn't up to snuff, he added, staring bitterly at his piece of stewed chicken. All the same, everyone seemed to be helping themselves generously, coming back to the buffet again and again; the retirees in particular were astonishingly rapacious—you'd almost have thought they had spent the afternoon exhausting themselves at water sports and beach volleyball. "They eat and eat," Jean-Yves observed wearily. "What else do you expect them to do?" After dinner, there was a show in which audience participation was once again called for. A woman of about fifty launched into a karaoke version of "Bang Bang" by Sheila. It was pretty brave of her; there was a smattering of applause. For the most part, however, the show was run by the reps. Jean-Yves looked as though he was ready to fall asleep. Valérie calmly sipped on her cocktail. I looked at the next table over. The people gave the impression that they were a little bored, but they applauded politely at the end of each number. Customer dissatisfaction with resorts didn't seem to me too difficult to understand —it appeared to be staring us in the face. The clientele was made up of retirees, or people "of a certain age," and the reps seemed to be trying to doing their utmost to take them to heights of pleasure they could no longer attain, at least not that way. Valérie and Jean-Yves, even I myself, in some sense, still had professional responsibilities in the "real world." We were sober, respectable employees, each exhausted by routine worries, not to mention taxes, health concerns, and the like. Most of the people sitting at these tables were in the same position: they were managers, teachers, doctors, engineers, accountants, or retired people who had once been employed in those professions. I couldn't understand how the reps could possibly expect us to launch ourselves enthusiastically into icebreakers or singing contests. I couldn't work out how at our age, in our position, we were supposed to have kept alive our sense of fun. At its best, the entertainment had been designed to amuse the under-fourteens. I tried to let Valérie know my thoughts, but the rep had started speaking again. He was holding the microphone too close, and it made a terrible racket. Now they were performing an improvisation inspired by Lagaf, or maybe by Laurent Baffie. Whichever it was, they were sauntering around carrying palm fronds while a girl dressed as a penguin followed them, laughing at everything they said. The show ended with the resort's anthem and some silly dances. A few people in the front row moved about halfheartedly. Standing beside me, Jean-Yves stifled a yawn. "Shall we go check out the disco?" he suggested.
There were about fifty people, but the reps were pretty much the only ones dancing. The DJ played a mix of techno and salsa. Eventually, a number of middle-aged couples tried a salsa. The organizer with the palm fronds wandered between the couples on the dance floor, clapping his hands and shouting, "Caliente! Caliente!" I got the impression they found him more embarrassing than anything else. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a piña colada. Two cocktails later, Valérie nudged me with her elbow, pointing to Jean-Yves. "I think maybe we can leave him to it," she whispered into my ear. He was talking to a very pretty girl of about thirty, probably Italian. They were very close, shoulder to shoulder, their faces inches from one other. The night was hot, muggy. Valérie took me by the arm. The rhythm of the disco died away. We could hear the drone of walkie-talkies as guards patrolled the inside of the compound. Past the pool, we turned left toward the ocean. The beach was deserted. Waves gently licked the sand a few feet from us, and we could no longer hear a sound. Arriving at the bungalow, I undressed and lay down on the bed to wait for Valérie. She brushed her teeth, undressed in turn, and came to join me. I pressed myself against her naked body. I placed one hand on her breasts, the other in the hollow of her belly. It was sweet.
8
When I woke up, I was alone and I had a slight headache. I staggered out of bed and lit a cigarette. After a couple of drags, I felt a bit better. I slipped on a pair of trousers and went out onto the terrace, which was covered in sand —it must have been windy during the night. Day had only just broken; the sky seemed cloudy. I walked a few meters toward the sea and spotted Valérie. She was diving straight into the waves, swimming a few strokes, getting up, and diving again. I stopped, pulling on my cigarette. The wind was a little chilly, and I hesitated to join her. She turned, saw me, and shouted, "Come on!" waving to me. At that moment, the sun burst from between two clouds, lighting her from the front. Light gleamed on her breasts and her hips, made the foam in her hair and her pubic hair sparkle. I stood rooted to the spot for a second or two, conscious that this was an image that I would never forget, that it would become one of those images that apparently flash before you in the few seconds that precede death. The cigarette butt burned my fingers. I threw it onto the sand, undressed, and walked toward the sea. The water was cool and very salty; it was a rejuvenating experience. A band of sunshine glimmered on the surface of the water, running straight to the horizon; I held my breath and dived right into the sunlight. Later, we huddled together in a towel, watching day break over the ocean. Little by little, the clouds dispersed, and the patches of light grew. Sometimes, in the morning, everything seems simple. Valérie threw down the towel, offering her body to the sun. "I don't feel the least bit like getting dressed," she said. "The least bit," I ventured. A bird glided low, scanning the surface of the water. "I really like swimming, I really like making love," she told me again. "But I don't like dancing, I don't know how to enjoy myself, and I've always hated parties. Do you think that's normal?" I hesitated for a long time before replying. "I don't know," I said at last. "All I know is that I'm the same."
There weren't many people at the breakfast tables, but Jean-Yves was already there, sitting with a coffee in front of him, cigarette in hand. He hadn't shaved, and it looked as if he hadn't had much sleep; he gave us a little wave. We sat down opposite him. "So, everything go well with the Italian girl?" asked Valérie, making a start on her scrambled eggs. "Not really, no. She started telling me all about her job in marketing, her problems with her boyfriend, how that was why she'd come on vacation. She got on my nerves, so I went to bed." "You should give the chambermaids a go." He smiled vaguely, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "So, what are we up to today?" I asked. "I mean, well, this is supposed to be a discovery holiday." "Oh, right." Jean-Yves wearily pulled a face. "Well, kind of. I mean, we didn't have time to get much set up. This is the first time I've worked with a socialist country, and it seems it's a bit difficult getting things arranged at the last minute in socialist countries. Anyway, this afternoon, there's something involving dolphins. . ." He stopped himself, tried to be a little more precise. "Well, if I've got it right, it's a dolphin show, and afterwards you can go swimming with them. I suppose you climb on their backs or something like that." "Oh yeah, I know," said Valérie. "It's crap. Everyone thinks that dolphins are these sweet, friendly mammals and stuff. Actually, it's not true, they live in highly structured hierarchical groups with a dominant male and they're really aggressive. They often fight to the death among themselves. The only time I ever tried swimming with dolphins, I was bitten by a female." "Okay, okay." Jean-Yves spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "Whatever the deal is, this afternoon there's dolphins for those who are interested. Tomorrow and the clay after we're on a two-day trip to Baracoa; that should be pretty good, or at least I hope so. And then — " He thought for a moment. "And then, that's it. Actually, no, on the last day, before we head off to the airport, there's a lobster lunch and a visit to the cemetery in Santiago." A few seconds' silence followed this pronouncement. "Yeah," Jean-Yves continued, "I think we fucked up choosing this as our destination. "In fact," he went on after a moment's thought, "I get the impression things aren't going too well at this resort. We
ll, I mean, not just from my point of view. Last night, at the disco, I didn't get the impression there were many couples getting together, even among the young people." He was silent again for a few seconds. "Ergo . . . ," he concluded, with a gesture of resignation. "The sociologist was right," said Valérie, thoughtfully. "What sociologist?" "Lagarrigue. The behavioral sociologist. He was right when he said we're a far cry from the days of the sun worshippers." Jean-Yves finished his coffee, shook his head bitterly. "Really," he said disgustedly, "I really never thought that one day I'd feel nostalgic about the days of the sun worshippers."
To get to the beach, we had to suffer an ambush of people hawking shitty handicrafts, but it was okay, there weren't too many, and they weren't too persistent—you could get rid of them with smiles and apologetic waves of the hand. During the day, the natives had access to the hotel beach. They don't have much to offer or to sell, Valérie explained to me, but they try, they do their best. Apparently, no one in this country could get by on just their wages. Nothing really worked: there was no gasoline for the engines or spare parts for machines. Hence the sense of a rustic Utopia, which you noticed crossing the countryside: farmers working with oxen, getting about in horses and carts . . . But this was no utopia, nor some environmentalist's reconstruction: it was the reality of a country that could no longer sustain itself in the industrial age. Cuba still manages to export some agricultural produce like coffee, cocoa, and sugar cane, but its industrial output has fallen almost to zero. It's difficult to find even the most basic consumer products: soap, paper, ballpoint pens. The only well-stocked shops sell imported products, and you have to pay in dollars. So, everyone in Cuba gets by thanks to some secondary, tourist-related work. The privileged work directly for the tourist industry, and the others try to get their hands on dollars, one way or another, through other services or through smuggling. I lay down on the sand to think. The bronzed men and women weaving between the tourists thought of us purely as wallets on legs, there was no point in deluding oneself. But it was just the same in every third world country. What was particular about Cuba was this glaring problem with industrial production. I myself was completely incompetent in matters of industrial production. I was perfectly adapted to the information age —that is to say, good for nothing. Like me, Valérie and Jean-Yves knew only how to manage information and capital. They used their knowledge intelligently and competitively, while I used mine in more mundane, bureaucratic ways. But if, for example, a foreign power were to impose a blockade, not one of the three of us, nor anyone I knew, would have been capable of getting industrial production up and running again. We had not the least idea about casting metal, manufacturing parts, thermoforming plastics. Not to mention more complex objects like fiber optics or microprocessors. We lived in a world made up of objects whose manufacture, possible uses, and functions were completely alien to us. I glanced around me, panic-stricken by this realization. There was a towel, a pair of sunglasses, sunscreen, a paperback by Milan Kundera. Paper, cotton, glass; complex machines, sophisticated manufacturing processes. Valerie's swimsuit, for example. I was incapable of grasping the manufacturing process that had gone into making it: it was made of 80 percent latex, 20 percent polyurethane. I slipped two fingers under her bikini; under the artificial fiber construction, I could feel the living flesh. I slipped my fingers in a little further, felt the nipple harden. This was something I could do. that I knew how to do. Little by little the heat became sweltering. Once in the water, Valérie took off her bikini. She wrapped her legs around my waist and lay, floating on her back. Her pussy was already open. I smoothly penetrated her, thrusting inside her to the rhythm of the waves. There was no alternative. I stopped just before I came. We came back to dry ourselves in the sun. A couple passed us, a big black guy and a girl with very white skin, a nervous face, and close-cropped hair, who looked at him as she talked, laughing too loudly. She was obviously American, maybe a journalist with the New York Times or something like that. In fact, looking more closely, there were quite a lot of mixed couples on the beach. Further off, two big blond, slightly overweight guys with nasal accents laughed and joked with two superb girls with coppery skin. "They're not allowed to bring them back to the hotel," said Valérie, following my gaze. "There are rooms you can rent in the next village over." "I thought Americans weren't allowed to come to Cuba." "They're not, in theory, but they travel via Canada or Mexico. In fact, they're furious that they've lost Cuba. You can see why," she said pensively. "If ever there was a country in need of sex tourism, it's theirs. But for the moment, American companies are subject to the blockade, and they're simply not allowed to invest. In any case, the country will end up becoming capitalist again, it's just a matter of years. But until then, the field is open for Europeans. That's why Aurore doesn't want to give up on it, even though the resort is having problems. Now's the time to get an edge on the competition. Cuba represents a unique opportunity in the Caribbean-West Indies zone. "Yep," she went on cheerfully after a moment's silence. "That's how we talk in my line of work—in the world of the global economy."
9
The minibus to Baracoa left at eight in the morning. There were about fifteen people on board. They had already had an opportunity to get to know each other and were full of enthusiasm for the dolphins. The retirees (the majority), the two speech therapists who took their holidays together, and the student couple, naturally, expressed their enthusiasm in slightly different lexical registers, but all would have felt able to agree on the following: "a unique experience." Afterwards, the conversation turned to the features of the resort. I shot a glance at Jean-Yves sitting alone in the middle of the minibus. He had placed a notepad and a pen on the seat next to him. Leaning forward a little, his eyes half-closed, he was concentrating on getting down everything that was said. It was at this stage, obviously, that he hoped to glean a generous harvest of useful observations and impressions. On the subject of the resort, too, there seemed to be a consensus of opinion among the members. The reps were unanimously considered "nice," but the activities themselves were not very interesting. The rooms were good, except those close to the sound system, which were too noisy. As for the food, it was pretty awful. None of those present had taken part in the early morning aerobics, or the salsa or Spanish lessons. In the end, what they liked best was the beach; all the more so because it was quiet. "Activities and sound levels considered irritating," noted Jean-Yves on his pad. The bungalows received general approval, especially as they were far from the disco. "Next time, we'll insist on a bungalow!" a heavyset retired man said emphatically. He was in the prime of life and evidently used to giving orders; in fact, he had spent his entire career marketing the wines of Bordeaux. The two students were of the same opinion. "Disco unnecessary," noted Jean-Yves, thinking despondently of all the wasted investment.
After the Cayo Saetia junction, the road got steadily worse. There were potholes and cracks, sometimes covering half the road surface. The driver was forced to zigzag continuously. We rattled around in our seats, pitched from left to right. The passengers reacted with shouts and laughter. "It's okay, they're good-natured," Valérie said to me quietly. "That's the great thing about Discovery Tours: you can subject them to horrible conditions. To them, it's all part of the adventure. In this case, it's our fault: for this kind of trip, you need four-wheel-drive." Just before Moa, the driver swerved to the right to avoid an enormous rut. The vehicle skidded slowly and came to a halt in a muddy hole. The driver restarted the engine and revved hard. The wheels spun in the brownish mud, and the minibus did not move. Desperately he tried several times, to no effect. "Well," said the wine merchant, folding his arms in a jovial manner, "we'll have to get out and push." We got out of the vehicle. Before us stretched a vast plain encrusted with cracked brown mud, which looked unsanitary. Pools of stagnant water, which appeared almost black, were surrounded by tall grasses, withered and bleached. In the background, a huge factory of dark brick dominated the landscape, its twin smokestacks spewing out
thick fumes. Rusted pipes ran from the factory and appeared to zigzag aimlessly through the middle of the plain. On the hard shoulder, a metal sign depicting Che Guevara exhorting the workers to the revolutionary development of the forces of production was itself beginning to rust. The air was pervaded by an appalling stench that seemed to rise from the mud itself rather than the pools of water. The rut was not too deep, and our concerted efforts easily got the minibus back on the road. Everyone boarded the bus again, congratulating themselves. A little later we had lunch in a seafood restaurant. Jean-Yves consulted his notebook with a worried air. He hadn't touched his meal. "With the discovery holidays," he concluded after considerable reflection, "I think we're off to a good start. But with the standard resort, I really don't see what we can do." Valérie observed him calmly, sipping her iced coffee. She looked as though she didn't give a fuck. "Obviously," he continued, "we could just fire the team of reps, which would reduce our total wage bill." "That would be a good start, yes." "You don't think it's a bit radical as an idea?" he asked anxiously. "Don't worry about that. Being a rep at a holiday club village is no education for young people. It makes them stupid and lazy, and anyway it leads nowhere. The only thing they're fit for afterwards is to be a resort manager—or a TV announcer." "Okay, then, I reduce the overall wage bill. But then again, they're not all that well paid. I'd be surprised if it saved us enough to be competitive with the German clubs. Anyway, I'll run up a spreadsheet this evening, but I'm not convinced." She nodded in indifferent assent, something like "Go ahead and simulate, it can't do any harm." She was really surprising me at this point, I thought she was cool. It's true we were fucking quite a lot, and there's no doubt that fucking is calming: it puts things in perspective. For his part, Jean-Yves looked ready to rush to his spreadsheet. I even wondered whether he was going to ask the driver to get his laptop out of the trunk. "Don't worry, we'll find a solution," Valérie said to him, shaking him affectionately by the shoulder. That seemed to calm him for a while he quietly went back and took his seat on the minibus.