Human groups of more than three people have a tendency, apparently spontaneous, to split into two hostile subgroups. Dinner was served on a pontoon in the middle of the river; this time, the tables had been laid for eight. The ecologists and the naturopaths were already installed at one table; the ex-pork butchers were currently all alone at the second. What could have brought about the rift? Maybe the massage discussion at lunch, which, let's face it, hadn't gone too well. In addition, that morning, Suzanne, soberly dressed in a white linen tunic and trousers — nicely cut to emphasize her angular features —had burst out laughing when she saw Josette's flower-print dress. Whatever the reason, the divisions had begun. In a rather cowardly move, I slowed my pace so as to let Lionel, my neighbor from the plane, who also had the neighboring cottage, overtake me. He made his choice quickly, barely aware of doing so. I didn't even get the impression it was a choice based on elective affinity, more a sort of class solidarity, or rather (since he worked at Gaz de France and was therefore a civil servant, while the others had been small shopkeepers) a solidarity based on level of education. René welcomed us with evident relief. In any case, our decision was not critical at this stage of the game: had we joined the others we would have forcefully confirmed the isolation of the ex-pork butchers, whereas this way, we were really only balancing out the table numbers. Babette and Léa arrived shortly after and without a second thought sat at the other table. Quite some time later—our first courses had already been served — Valérie appeared on the edge of.the pontoon; she looked around her uncertainly. At the other table, there were still two empty places beside Babette and Léa. She hesitated a little longer, made a little start, and came and sat on my left. Josiane had taken even longer than usual getting ready. She must have had trouble putting on her makeup by candlelight. Her black velvet dress wasn't bad, a bit low-cut, but not excessively so. She also hesitated for a moment, then came and sat opposite Valérie. Robert arrived last, a little unsteady. He'd probably been boozing it up before the meal —I'd seen him with a bottle of Mekong earlier. He dropped heavily onto the bench next to Valérie. A short but fearful cry went up from somewhere close by in the jungle; probably some small mammal had just breathed its last.
Sôn moved between the tables to check that everything was okay and that we had all settled in nicely. She was having dinner elsewhere, with the driver—a less-than-democratic arrangement that had already earned Josiane's disapproval at lunchtime. But, basically, I think it suited her just fine, even if she had nothing against us. Despite her best efforts, she seemed to find long discussions in French a bit tiring. At the next table the conversation purred happily, discussing the beauty of the location, the joy of being at one with nature, far from civilization, the essential values, etc. "Yeah, it's awesome," confirmed Léa. "And y'know, we're really smack in the middle of jungle. I can't believe it." Our table was having a little more difficulty finding common ground. Opposite me, Lionel was eating placidly, making no effort whatsoever. I glanced nervously from side to side. At one point I saw a big bearded guy coming out of the kitchens and shouting angrily at the waiters. This had to be none other than the famous Bertrand Le Moal. To my mind, his greatest achievement so far was to have taught the Karens the recipe for gratin dauphinois. It was delicious, and the roast pork was perfectly done, crisp but tender. "All we're missing is a drop of wine," René said sadly. Josiane pursed her lips scornfully. One didn't need to ask what she thought about French tourists who couldn't leave the country without their drop of wine. A little awkwardly, Valérie came to Rene's defense. With Thai food, she said, you never felt the need; but right now, a little wine would be rather appropriate. In any case, she herself only drank water. "If you go abroad," Josiane barked, "it is in order to eat the local food and to observe local customs! If not, you might as well stay at home." "I agree!" shouted Robert. She paused, cut off in midflow, and looked at him hatefully. "Sometimes I find it a bit too spicy," confessed Josette timidly, 'it doesn't seem to bother you," she said, addressing me, probably to ease the tension. "No, no, I love it. The spicier it is, the better I like it. Even in Paris I eat Chinese all the time," I hastily responded. And so the conversation was able to move on to Chinese restaurants, which had multiplied in Paris just recently. Valérie liked to have lunch in them; they were very reasonable, much better than eating fast food, and probably much healthier too. Josiane had nothing to say on the subject; she had a staff cafeteria. As for Robert, he probably thought the subject was beneath him. In short, everything proceeded more or less peacefully until dessert.
It all came to a head over the sticky rice. It was a light golden color, flavored with cinnamon —I think the recipe was original. Taking the bull by the horns, Josiane decided to tackle the question of "sex tourism" head on. For her, it was absolutely disgusting, there was no other word for it. It was a scandal that the Thai government tolerated such things. The international community had to do something. Robert listened to her with a half smile that I didn't think boded well. It was scandalous, but it was hardly surprising, and it was obvious that most of these places (brothels, that was the only word for them) were owned by generals: that told you what kind of protection they had. "Hey, watch it, I'm a general," interrupted Robert. She was speechless; her lower jaw dropped miserably. "No, no, I'm only joking," he said with a slight grin. "I've never even been in the army." She did not find this funny in the least. She took a moment to pull herself together, then launched herself back into the fray with renewed energy. "It's absolutely shameful that fat assholes can just come over here and take advantage of these girls' poverty with impunity. Of course you know they all come from the north and the northeast, the poorest regions of the whole country." "Not all of them," he objected. "Some of them are from Bangkok." "It's sexual slavery!" screamed Josiane, who hadn't heard. "There's no other way to describe it!" I yawned a little. She shot me a black look, but went on, calling on the others to give their verdict: "Don't you think it's disgraceful that any fat old asshole can come over here and have it off with these kids for next to nothing?" "It's hardly next to nothing," I protested modestly. "I paid three thousand baht, which is about what you'd pay in France." Valérie turned and looked at me, surprised. "You paid a bit much," observed Robert. "Still, if the girl was worth it . . ." Josiane's whole body was trembling; she was starting to unsettle me a little. "Well!" she shrieked in a very shrill voice. "It makes me sick, that any fat pig can pay to shove his cock into a child!" "Nobody's forcing you to come with me, madam," Robert replied calmly. She got up, trembling, her plate of rice in her hand. All conversation at the next table had stopped. I really thought she was going to chuck the plate in his face, and I think it was only fear that stopped her. Robert looked at her with the most serious expression, the muscles under his polo tense. He didn't look like the sort of person to let himself be pushed around; I could well imagine him punching her. She viciously slammed down her plate, which broke into three pieces, turned on her heel, and vanished into the darkness, walking quickly toward the cottages. "Tsk," he said softly. Valérie was stuck between him and me; he stood up gracefully, walked around the table, and sat where Josiane had been sitting, in case Valérie, too, wished to leave the table. She, however, did nothing; at that moment, the waiter brought the coffees. After she had taken two sips, Valérie turned to me again. "So is it true you've paid for girls?" she asked gently. Her tone was intrigued, devoid of any real reproach. "They're not as poor as all that, these girls," added Robert. "They can afford mopeds and clothes, some of them even have their tits done. It's not cheap getting your tits done. It's true they help their parents out, too," he concluded thoughtfully.
At the next table, after a few whispered comments, everyone quickly left —doubtless out of solidarity. We remained the sole masters of the place, in a sense. The moon now bathed the whole pontoon, which gleamed a little. "Are they that good, those little masseuses?" asked René dreamily. "Ah, monsieur!" exclaimed Robert, deliberately grandiloquent, but, it seemed to me, basicall
y sincere. "They are marvelous, positively marvelous! And you haven't been to Pattaya yet. It's a resort on the east coast," he went on, "completely dedicated to lust and debauchery. The Americans were the first to go there, during the Vietnam War, and after that, a lot of English and Germans; now, you get a lot of Russians and Poles. There, they have something for everyone, they cater to all tastes: homosexuals, heterosexuals, transvestites . . . It's Sodom and Gomorrah combined. Actually, it's better, because they've got lesbians, too." "Aaah, aaah .. . ," the ex-pork butcher seemed thoughtful. His wife yawned placidly, excused herself, and turned to her husband. She clearly wanted to go to bed. "In Thailand,'' Robert concluded, "everyone can have what they desire, and everyone can have something good. People will talk to you about Brazilian girls, or about Cubans. I'm welltraveled, monsieur, I have traveled for pleasure and I have no hesitation in telling you: in my opinion, Thai girls are the best lovers in the world." Sitting opposite, Valérie listened to him earnestly. She disappeared shortly after, followed by Josette and René. Lionel, who hadn't said a word all evening, also got to his feet. I did likewise. I didn't really feel like pursuing a conversation with Robert. So I left him alone in the dark, a picture of apparent sobriety, ordering a second cognac. He seemed to have a sophisticated and subtle intelligence. He was at the very least a relativist, a position that always gives one the impression of complexity and subtlety. In front of my cottage, I said good night to Lionel. The atmosphere was heavy with the buzzing of insects, and I was more or less sure that I wouldn't get a wink of sleep. I pushed the door and lit the candle again, more or less resigned to continue reading The Firm. Mosquitoes flew close, some of them charred their wings in the flame, their bodies sank into the melted wax; not one of them settled on me. Despite the fact that I was filled to the dermis with nutritious, delicious blood, they automatically turned tail, unable to break through the olfactory barrier of carbonic dimethyl-peroxide. Roche-Nicholas Laboratories, the creators of Cinq sur Cinq Tropic, were to be congratulated. I blew out the candle and relit it, watching the ever more teeming ballet of these sordid little flying machines. Through the wall I could hear Lionel snoring gently through the night. I got up, put another block of citronella on to melt, then went for a piss. A round hole had been made in the floor of the bathroom; it flowed straight into the river. You could hear the lapping of the water and the sound of fins; I tried not to think about what might be down there. Just as I was going back to bed, Lionel let out a long series of farts. "Too right, my boy!" I commended him enthusiastically. "As Martin Luther said, there's nothing like farting in your sleeping bag!" My voice resounded strangely in the dark, above the murmuring of the river and the persistent drone of the insects. Simply being able to hear the real world was a torment. "The kingdom of heaven is like unto a cotton bud!" I roared again into the night. "Let he who has ears to hear, hear!" In his bed, Lionel turned over and moaned gently without waking. I didn't have much in the way of choice: I'd have to take a sleeping pill.
8
Carried by the current, tufts of grass floated downriver. The birdsong started up again, rising from the light mist that swathed the jungle. Far off to the south, at the mouth of the valley, the strange contours of the Burmese mountains were silhouetted in the distance. I had seen these curved, bluish forms before, but cut through with sudden indentations. Perhaps in the landscapes of the Italian primitives, on a visit to a museum when I was in grade school. The group was not awake yet; the temperature was still pleasant at this hour. I had slept very badly.
After the disaster of the previous evening, a certain benevolence floated around the breakfast tables. Josette and René seemed to be in good form; on the other hand, the ecologists from the jura were in a terrible state, I noticed, as they shambled in. The proletariat of a previous generation, who had no hang-ups about enjoying modern comforts when they were available, proved to be much more resilient in truly uncomfortable circumstances than their offspring, who championed "ecological" principles. Éric and Sylvie clearly hadn't got a wink all night; in addition, Sylvie was completely covered in red blisters. "Yes, the mosquitoes really got me," she confirmed bitterly. "I've got some soothing lotion if you want. It's very good —I can go and get it." "That would be nice, thanks; but let's have coffee first." The coffee was revolting, weak, almost undrinkable; from that point of view at least, we were living up to American standards. The young couple looked completely fucking idiotic —it almost pained me to see their "ecological paradise" crumbling before their eyes. But I had a feeling that everything was going to cause me pain today. I looked to the south again. "I'm told Burma is very beautiful," I said in a low voice, mostly to myself. Sylvie solemnly agreed: it was indeed, very beautiful, she'd also heard as much. That said, she forbade herself to go to Burma. It was impossible to allow one's money to support a dictatorship like that. Yes, yes, I thought, money. "Human rights are extremely important," she exclaimed almost despairingly. When people talk about "human rights," I usually get the impression that they're being sarcastic; but that wasn't true in this case, or at least I don't think so. "Personally, I stopped going to Spain after the death of Franco," interrupted Robert, taking a seat at our table. I hadn't seen him arrive. He seemed to be in excellent form, his formidable ability to infuriate wellrested. He informed us that he'd gone to bed dead drunk and consequently had slept like a log. He had almost chucked himself in the river a couple of times on his way back to the cottage; but it never actually happened, "lnsh'allah," he concluded in a booming voice.
After this parody of a breakfast, Sylvie walked back with me to my room. On the way, we met Josiane. She was serious, withdrawn, and did not even look at us —clearly far from the road to forgiveness. I discovered that she taught literature in civvy street (a public school), as René amusingly put it; I wasn't a bit surprised. She was exactly the kind of bitch who'd made me give up studying literature many years before. I gave Sylvie the tube of soothing lotion. "I'll bring it straight back," she said. "You can keep it, I don't think we'll come across any more mosquitoes. As far as I know, they hate the seaside." She thanked me, walked to the door, hesitated, turned around: "Surely you don't approve of the sexual exploitation of children!" she exclaimed anguishedly. I was expecting something of the kind. I shook my head and answered wearily, "There's not that much child prostitution in Thailand. No more than in Europe, in my opinion." She nodded, not really convinced, and walked out. In fact, I had access to rather more detailed information, courtesy of a strange publication called The White Book, which I'd bought for my previous trip. It was apparently published —no author's or publisher's name was given —by an association called Inquisition 2000. Under the pretense of denouncing sex tourism, it offered a comprehensive list of the addresses, country by country. Each informative chapter was preceded by a short and vehement paragraph calling for respect for the Divine Plan and the reintroduction of the death penalty for sex offenders. On the question of pedophilia, The White Book was unequivocal: it formally advised against Thailand, which no longer had anything to recommend it, if indeed it ever had. It was much better to go to the Philippines or, better still, to Cambodia —the journey might be dangerous, but it was worth the effort.