Just next to the bar, I found an outdoor restaurant, where I sat and had a plate of crabmeat and rice. At almost every table sat a couple, composed of a western man and a Thai woman. Most of the guys looked Califomian, the way you imagine Californians to look, or at any rate they were all wearing flip-flops. Actually, they could have been Australian —it's easy to get the two mixed up —but whatever they were, they looked healthy, sporty, well-fed. They were the future. It was at that point, seeing all these young-beyond-reproach Anglo-Saxons with their brilliant futures, that I realized just how important sex tourism would be to the future of the world. At the next table, two Thai women of about thirty, shapely, generously proportioned, were chatting excitedly. Two shaved-headed English men who looked like postmodern convicts sat opposite; they barely sipped their beers and said nothing. A little further along, a couple of German dykes in dungarees, rather chubby, with buzzed red hair, had treated themselves to the company of a delightful adolescent girl with long black hair and an innocent face, wearing a colorful sarong. There were also a couple of lone Arabs of indeterminate nationality, their heads wrapped in the sort of tea towel you see Yasser Arafat wearing when he's on television. In short, all the rich or moderately wealthy world was here, all answering "Present!" to the gentle and constant roll call of Asian pussy. The strangest thing was that you had the impression, the minute you set eyes on each couple, of knowing whether things would work out or not. More often than not, the girls were bored, wore sulky or resigned expressions, glancing around at the other tables. But some of them turned their eyes to their companions in an attitude of loving expectancy, hung on their partners' words, responded eagerly; in such cases you could imagine things going further, that a friendship might develop, or even a more lasting relationship. I knew that marriages were not rare, especially with Germans. Myself, I didn't much feel like striking up a conversation with some girl in a bar; in general these conversations, overly focused on the character and price of sexual services to come, were a disappointment. I preferred massage parlors, where you begin with sex, and sometimes an intimacy develops, sometimes not. It sometimes happens that you think about extending your stay at the hotel, and that's when you find out that the girl isn't always ready—she might be divorced, or she might have children who need to be looked after. It's sad, but it's good. As I finished my rice, I sketched out the plot of a pornographic adventure film called The Massage Room. Sirien, a young girl from northern Thailand, falls hopelessly in love with Bob, an American student who winds up in the massage parlor by accident, dragged there by his buddies after a fatefully boozy evening. Bob doesn't touch her, he's happy just to look at her with his lovely, pale-blue eyes and tell her about his hometown —in North Carolina, or somewhere like that. They see each other several more times, whenever Sirien isn't working, but, sadly, Bob must leave to finish his senior year at Yale. Ellipsis. Sirien waits expectantly while continuing to satisfy the needs of her numerous clients. Though pure at heart, she fervently jerks off and sucks paunchy, mustached Frenchmen (supporting role for Gerard Jugnot), corpulent, bald Germans (supporting role for some German actor). Finally, Bob returns and tries to free her from her hell —but the Chinese mafia doesn't see things in quite the same light. Bob persuades the American ambassador and the president of some humanitarian organization opposed to the exploitation of young girls to intervene (supporting role for Jane Fonda). What with the Chinese mafia (hint at the Triads) and the collusion of Thai generals (political angle, appeal to democratic values), there would be a lot of fight scenes and chase sequences through the streets of Bangkok. At the end of the day. Bob carries her off. But in the penultimate scene, Sirien gives, for the first time, an honest account of the extent of her sexual experience. All the cocks she has sucked as a humble massage parlor employee, she has sucked in the anticipation, in the hope of sucking Bob's cock, into which all the others were subsumed—well, I'd have to work on the dialogue. Cross-fade between the two rivers (the Chao Phraya, the Delaware). Closing credits. For the European market, I already had a tag line in mind, along the lines of "If you liked The Music Room, you'll love The Massage Room." It was all a bit vague, but first I would need backers. After I paid, I got up and walked a hundred and fifty meters, dodging a variety of propositions, and found myself in front of the Pussy Paradise. I pushed the door and went in. Three meters in front of me I spotted Robert and Lionel seated in front of a couple of Irish coffees. At the back, behind a glass screen, about fifty girls sat on terraced benches with their numbered tags. A waiter quickly approached me. Turning his head, Lionel saw me and looked shamefaced. Robert also turned and with a slow wave motioned to me to join them. Lionel was biting his lip; he didn't know what to do with himself. The waiter took my order. "I'm right-wing," Robert said, for no apparent reason, "but watch your step." He wagged his index finger as though warning me. Since the start of the trip, I'd noticed, he had assumed I was a lefty, and had been waiting for a favorable opportunity to have a conversation with me. I had no intention of playing that little game. I lit a cigarette. He looked me up and down gravely. "Happiness is a delicate thing," he announced in a sententious voice. "It is difficult to find within ourselves, and impossible to find elsewhere." After a few seconds, he added confidently, "Chamfort." Lionel looked at him admiringly—he seemed to be completely under his spell. I thought the sentiment was debatable —if you reversed the words "difficult" and "impossible" you'd probably have been a little closer to the truth —but I had no desire to pursue the conversation. It seemed to me imperative for us to get back to a normal tourist situation. On top of everything, I was starting to feel a surge of desire for number 47, a slim little Thai girl, almost too slim, but with full lips and a sweet demeanor: she was wearing a red miniskirt and black stockings. Aware that my attention had wandered, Robert turned to Lionel. "I believe in truth," he said in a low voice. "I believe in truth and in the importance of absolute proof." Listening distractedly, I was surprised to discover that he had a degree in mathematics and that in his youth he had written a number of promising papers on Lie groups. I reacted excitedly to this news: there were, in other words, certain areas of human intelligence in which he had been the first clearly to see the truth, to discover absolute, demonstrable certainties. "Yes," he agreed almost apologetically. "Of course, it was all proved again for the general case." After that he had been a teacher, mostly teaching candidates for the Grandes Kcoles. He had derived little pleasure from spending his mature years coaching a bunch of young assholes obsessed with getting into the Ecole Polytechnique, or the Ecole Centrale—despite the fact that his students were the few most talented of their peers. "In any case," he added, "I didn't have the makings of a creative mathematician. It is a gift given to very few." Toward the end of the seventies, he sat on a government committee on the reform of mathematics teaching—a load of bullshit, by his own admission. Now, at fifty-three, having retired three years ago, he devoted himself to sex tourism. He had been married three times. "I'm racist," he said cheerfully. "I've become racist. One of the first effects of travel," he added, "is to reinforce or create racial prejudice; because how do you imagine other people before you've gotten to know them? You imagine they are just like you, it goes without saying; it's only little by little that you realize that the reality is somewhat different. When he can, a westerner works; he often finds his work frustrating or boring, but he pretends to find it interesting: this much is obvious. At the age of fifty,weary of teaching, of math, of everything, I decided to see the world. I had just been divorced for the third time; as far as sex was concerned, I wasn't expecting much. My first trip was to Thailand, and immediately after that I left for Madagascar. I haven't fucked a white woman since. I've never even felt the desire to do so. Believe me," he added, placing a firm hand on Lionel's forearm, "you won't find a white woman with a soft, submissive, supple, muscular pussy anymore. That's all gone now." Number 47 noticed that I was staring at her; she smiled at me and crossed her legs high up, revealing a pair of red g
arters. Robert continued to expound his theory: "At the time when the white man thought himself superior, racism wasn't dangerous. For colonials, missionaries, and educators in the nineteenth century, the Negro was a big animal, none too clever, a sort of slightly more evolved monkey. At worst, they considered him a useful beast of burden, capable of performing complex tasks, and at best a frustrated soul —coarse, but, through education, capable of elevating himself to God —or at least western reason. In both cases, they saw in him a 'lesser brother,' and one does not feel hatred for an inferior, at most a sort of cordial contempt. This benevolent, almost humanist racism has completely vanished. The moment the white man began to consider blacks as equals, it was obvious that sooner or later they would come to consider them to be superior. The notion of equality has no basis in human society," he went on, lifting his index finger again. For a moment, I thought he was going to cite sources—La Rochefoucauld or I don't know whom —but he didn't. Lionel furrowed his brow. "Once white men believed themselves to be inferior," Robert went on, anxious that he be clearly understood, "the stage was set for a different type of racism, based on masochism: historically, it is in circumstances like these that violence, interracial wars, and massacres break out. For example, all anti-Semites agree that the Jews have a certain superiority. If you read anti-Semitic literature, you will be struck by the fact that the Jew is considered to be more intelligent, more cunning, that he is credited with having singular financial talents—and, moreover, greater communal solidarity. Result: six million dead." I glanced at number 47 again: anticipation is exciting, something you'd like to prolong indefinitely, but there's always the risk that the girl will go off with another customer. I signaled discreetly to the waiter. "I am not a Jew!" exclaimed Robert, thinking I was about to object. I could, in fact, have made several objections: we were in Thailand, after all, and the yellow races have never been considered by the white man to be "lesser brothers," but to be civilized peoples, members of different, complex, possibly dangerous civilizations; I could also have pointed out that we were here to fuck and that these discussions were wasting time. In fact, the latter was my primary objection. The waiter came over to our table; with a swift gesture, Robert motioned to him to bring another round. "I need a girl," I said in English, my voice shrill, "the girl forty-seven." He leaned toward me, his face anxious, quizzical; a Chinese group had just sat down at the next table, making an appalling racket. "The girl number four-seven!" I shouted, enunciating each syllable. This time he understood, smiled broadly, and went to the microphone, where he uttered a few words. The girl got up, stepped clown, and walked toward a side door, smoothing her hair. "Racism." Robert went on, giving me a quick glance, "seems to be characterized first by an accumulation of hostility, a more aggressive sense of competition between males of different races; but the corollary is an increased desire for the females of the other race. What is really at stake in racial struggles," Robert said simply, "is neither economic nor cultural, it is brutal and biological. It is competition for the cunts of young women." I sensed that it wouldn't be long before he moved on to Darwinism. At that moment, the waiter came back to our table, accompanied by number 47. Robert looked up at her, considered for a moment. "Good choice," he concluded soberly. "There's something shitty about her." The girl smiled shyly. I slipped a hand under her skirt and stroked her ass as though to protect her. She snuggled against me. "It's true that around my way, it's not the whites that lay down the law anymore," Lionel said, for no apparent reason. "Exactly!" agreed Robert forcefully. "You're scared, and you're right to be scared. I predict an increase in racial violence in Europe in years to come. It can only end in civil war," he said, frothing at the mouth a little. "It will all be settled with Kalashnikovs." He gulped back his cocktail; Lionel began to look at him a little nervously. "I don't give a fuck about any of it anymore!" Robert added, slamming his glass down on the table. "I'm a westerner, but I can live wherever I want, and for the time being, I'm still the one with the money. I've been in Senegal, Kenya, Tanzania, the Ivory Coast. It's true the girls are not the experts that Thai girls are —they're less gentle —but they're nicely curved, and they have a sweet-smelling snatch." He was obviously lost in his memories for a moment, as he suddenly fell silent. "What is your name?" I took the opportunity to ask number 47. "I am Sin," she said. The Chinese at the next table had made their choices, they headed upstairs, chuckling and laughing; relative silence was restored. "They get on all fours, the little nigger girls, show you their pussies and their asses," Robert continued thoughtfully; "and inside, their pussies are completely pink," he murmured. I also got to my feet. Lionel shot me a grateful look, visibly happy that I was the first to leave with a girl, as it made things less embarrassing for him. I nodded to Robert to take my leave. His dour face, fixed in a bitter rictus, scanned the room—and beyond, the human race —without a hint of affability. He had made his point, or at least he had had the opportunity. I sensed that I was going to forget him pretty quickly. All of a sudden he seemed to me to be finished, a broken man. I had the impression that he didn't even want to make love to these girls anymore. Life can be seen as a process of gradually coming to a standstill, a process evident in the French bulldog—so frisky in its youth, so listless in middle age. In Robert, the process was already well advanced: he possibly still got erections, but even that wasn't certain. It's easy to play the smart aleck, to give the impression that you've understood something about life; the fact remains that life comes to an end. My fate was similar to his, and we had shared the same defeat, yet I felt no active sense of solidarity. In the absence of love, nothing can be sanctified. On the inside of the eyelids patches of light merge; there are visions, there are dreams. None of this now concerns man, who waits for night; night comes. I paid the waiter two thousand baht and he escorted me to the double doors leading upstairs. Sin held my hand; she would, for an hour or two, try to make me happy.
Obviously, it's rare to come across a girl in a massage parlor who wants to make love. As soon as we were in the room, Sin went down on her knees in front of me, took down my trousers and my underpants, and took my penis between her lips. I immediately started to get hard. She brought her lips closer, slowly pushed back the foreskin with short thrusts of her tongue. I closed my eyes, I felt a dizzying rush, I thought I was going to come in her mouth. She stopped suddenly, undressed, smiling as she did so, folded her clothes, and placed them on a chair. "Massage later," she said, lying on the bed. She then opened her thighs. I was already inside her, and I was thrusting forcefully in and out when I realized I'd forgotten to put on a condom. According to reports by Médecins du Monde, one-third of all prostitutes in Thailand are HIVpositive. Even so, I can't say that I felt a shudder of fear; I felt mildly annoyed, no more. Clearly those ad campaigns warning us about AIDS had been a complete failure. I went a bit limp, even so. "Something wrong?" She was worried, she propped herself up on her elbows. "Maybe . . . a condom," I said, embarrassed. "No problem, no condom. I'm okay!" she told me cheerfully. She took my balls in the palm of one hand, slipping the other palm onto my prick. I lay down on my back, surrendering myself to the caress. The movement of her palm quickened, I felt the blood rush back to my penis. Anyway, they probably had medical checkups or something. As soon as I was hard, she climbed on top and went straight down on me. I laced my hands behind her back; I felt invulnerable. She started to move her pelvis in delicate, pulsing strokes, and as her pleasure mounted, I parted my thighs to penetrate her more deeply. The pleasure was intense, almost intoxicating. I breathed very slowly to hold myself back. I felt reconciled. She lay down on top of me, rubbing her pubis hard against mine with little cries of pleasure; I moved my hands up to stroke the back of her neck. At the moment of orgasm, she became still, gave a long moan, and then collapsed on my chest. I was still inside her and could feel her pussy contracting. She had a second orgasm, a very powerful contraction from deep inside her. Involuntarily, I hugged her to me and ejaculated with a roar. She stayed motionless,
her head on my chest, for about ten minutes; then she got up and suggested I take a shower. She dried me very gently, patting me with the towel as you would a baby. I sat down on the sofa and offered her a cigarette. "We have time," she said. "We have a little time." I learned that she was thirty-two. She didn't enjoy her work, but her husband had left her with two children. "Bad man," she said, "Thai men, bad men." I asked her if she had any friends among the other girls. Not really, she told me. Most of the girls were young and brainless, they spent everything they earned on clothes and perfume. She was not like that, she was serious, she put her money in the bank. In a couple of years she would be able to give this up and go back to live in the village where she grew up. Her parents were old now and they needed help. As I was leaving, I gave her a two-thousand-baht tip; it was ridiculous, it was far too much. She took the money incredulously, and bowed to me several times, her hands together in front of her chest. "You good man," she said. She slipped on her miniskirt and her stockings; she had two hours left before they closed. She accompanied me to the door, bowed again, her hands together. "Take care," she said again. "Be happy." I walked back out into the street, a little pensive. The following morning we were due to leave at eight o'clock for the last leg of the trip. I wondered how Valérie had spent her free day.