When she had nothing on but her underwear, she suggested undressing him in turn, and did so, with a lump in her throat. When was the last time she had unbuttoned a man’s shirt?
She worked quicker than he did, she was in a hurry to fuse with his warm body.
When he was down to his boxer shorts, she feared she might not to be able to go any further. Nothing scared her more than uncovering his penis. In spite of her lack of experience, she knew this could be a tricky moment. Would she like it? Would she find it too . . . or not quite . . . ? Or worse, would it remind her of someone else’s? All of a sudden, their closeness was becoming too concrete, too genital, and risked shattering her dream.
As if reading her thoughts, Hippolyte lifted her in his arms, got into bed, covered their bodies with the sheets, and lay on top of her. Smothering her with kisses and undulating imperceptibly over her, he undressed her, and his penis entered her without her seeing it.
2
Coming out of the European meeting, Zachary Bidermann was surrounded by ministers and their chiefs of staff in a state of intense intellectual excitement. He was congratulated in twenty-three languages, people claimed it was an historic moment, there was an enthusiastic consensus. His performance had been dazzling: this brilliant man had broken the deadlock that ideological policies led to, and drawn up a balance and development plan for the next fifteen years. They had been right to invite him to this financing round that preceded the Council of the European Union. His intelligence was a blend of qualities usually distributed among a number of individuals: sharpness of analysis, mastery of synthesis, rigor, imagination, the inventiveness to develop original theories, the ability to define concrete tactics, and communication skills. He had several heads in one, like a kind of intellectual monster, a Hydra no difficulty can bring down but which, on the contrary, regenerates and develops with every blow it receives.
Slyly, Zachary Bidermann enjoyed the compliments, conscious of needing to savor them because they would only be given to him today; the very next day, political bigwigs would appropriate his theories, claim them as their own, and forget where they had come from. Not that Zachary Bidermann cared! All that mattered were the interests of nations and individuals. In fact, behind this wealthy man with a taste for luxury there lay a generous citizen, a republican devoted to the general good. Since he hated populist rhetoric and was wary of pathos and sentimental exhibitionism, he kept the heart of his mission concealed. Nobody suspected his generosity, which suited him well; he could influence his contemporaries more by hiding behind a mask of purely technical intelligence.
After ten minutes of commotion, Léo Adolf, President of the Council of the European Union, took his old friend by the arm and drew him aside. “Zachary, you’re far too important to us here and in the Liberal Party for me to conceal the truth from you.”
“What is it?”
“We’ve received a complaint about you.”
“Who from?”
“Elda Brugge.”
His face twisted in an irritable grimace, Zachary immediately saw the danger. “A complaint about what?”
“Harassment.”
“Again?”
“Again, as you say. She’s the fifth female civil servant to lodge a complaint.”
Zachary tried to change the subject. “Look, Léo, you can’t even flirt with a woman nowadays without her thinking it’s harassment. Just because I’m chivalrous, that doesn’t make me a lout.”
“So you don’t deny it.”
“Come on, it’s a trifle.”
“Maybe so, but it’s going to cause you problems.”
“In what way? I do what I want . . . If it gets out, Rose will see the difference—as she has in the past—and I won’t allow anyone to dictate to me what’s right and wrong in terms of morality. We’re not in America, thank God. Europe knows how to reject the demon of puritanism. First of all, what does this Elda Brugge say?”
“That you followed her several times after meetings, that you called her on her private phone, that you gave her an assignment in order to see her alone in your office, and that there you allegedly tried several times to—”
“Rape her?”
“No. To caress her. To kiss her.”
“And is that a crime?”
“Yes, in her opinion, because she was meeting you strictly on a professional basis and rejected your flirtation. That’s harassment. Do I have to remind you?”
“Is that all?”
“What do you mean, is that all?
“Does she have anything else against me?”
“No.”
“No recordings? No photographs? No letters?”
“No, nothing.”
“So it’s her word against mine?”
“Yes.”
Zachary burst out laughing.
Although he felt reassured, Léo Adolf was taken aback. “So you’re not the least bit worried?”
“Look, Léo, it’ll be easy to show that this woman is being spiteful because she hasn’t climbed the ladder as she’d hoped. I’ll easily prove her professional shortcomings. People will think she’s retaliating out of resentment. Especially since . . . ”—he laughed before continuing—“especially since . . . Well, have you seen her? She’s ugly! Really ugly!”
Léo Adolf’s eyes opened wide.
“Come on!” Zachary insisted. “If a disciplinary committee or a board of directors or whatever sees that beanpole with her big ass and her turkey neck, nobody will believe I wanted her. Especially if I show them pictures of Rose. It’ll seem preposterous. Talk about sexual bait! She’ll only make herself look ridiculous.”
Léo Adolf was so shocked by his friend’s attitude that he said nothing. Even though Zachary had just admitted flirting with this woman on several occasions, he seemed to be enjoying the idea that his desire for her would seem implausible.
“But . . . but . . . ”
“What?” Zachary asked innocently.
“You’re despicable. You tried to have sex with her and now you say she’s ugly.”
“Haven’t you ever done that?”
Léo Adolf turned on his heel and walked away.
Zachary caught up with him. “Léo, don’t pretend to be so naive: the best lovers are the partly-beautiful, or partly-ugly, depending on how you look at them. Unlike beautiful women, they give you the lot, they give themselves to you fully, they reject boundaries. It makes sense: half-beautiful women need to prove they’re better than the beautiful ones.”
“Shut up.”
“You should know that only too well, Léo. You had an affair with Carlotta Vesperini.”
Stunned, Léo Adolf turned back and looked Zachary up and down. He was pale, and his lips were trembling. “As it happens, I found Carlotta Vesperini very beautiful.”
Zachary lowered his eyes, sensing that he had just committed an irreparable gaffe.
“Let’s drop the subject,” Léo Adolf concluded.
“Let’s drop the subject,” Zachary agreed.
The President of the Union pulled himself together, while Zachary, relieved that his accuser had put a stop to this idiotic conversation, went to the lunch organized in the corridors where the key members of the European project were assembled.
A nagging sense of anxiety led him to him drink three glasses of champagne. But then, in conversation with a group of senior administrators, he recovered, developed a few original ideas, and gradually felt more relaxed.
He went up to a female member of the Swedish delegation. Before he had even said a word, the gleam in his dilated eyes told her plainly enough that he thought she was stunning. She blushed, and they struck up a conversation. While keeping his thoughts within certain boundaries, he examined her with lust: her small waist, her pert breasts, her tiny ears . . . She felt as if there were two Zacharys speaking to her, one developing brilliant t
heories, the other sniffing her like a dog about to mount a bitch. Disquieted, she was unable to split herself down the middle in the same way; either she prioritized her mind and concentrated only on the intellectual exchange between them, or she became nothing but her desired body and wriggled nervously.
Zachary embarrassed her and that delighted him.
A blond man with glasses approached and gave a slight bow. “Monsieur, let me take advantage of the fact that you’re talking with my fiancée to thank you for your presentation.”
A profusion of compliments followed, but Zachary had stopped listening. The Swedish woman’s prevarication had been halted by the presence of her fiancé; she had left her body and returned to being a politician conversing with a world-famous economist.
As soon as he could, Zachary said goodbye to them and went searching for prey elsewhere. During the seconds in which his attention vainly wandered over the gathering, he felt a lump of unease in his throat. Luckily, he noticed a forty-year-old woman whose eyes met his. He brazenly walked up to her, as if she had invited him.
Again, his body immediately sent her the signals of desire. He shifted from foot to foot, moved very close to her face, and smiled, making it clear to her that he found her attractive.
She understood, and all at once was troubled and uncertain, which gave Zachary leave to start a conversation.
Since his body language suggested the opposite of detachment, the woman suddenly exclaimed, “Are you flirting with me?”
He gave a subtle smile. “What makes you say that?”
She stammered, embarrassed, suddenly blushing at the thought that she might be ridiculous. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”
“Not at all. I, on the other hand, am quite ready to flirt with you, if you’ll allow me.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You’re irresistible.”
The woman, who was German, began shaking. She looked around, spotted the emergency exits, then clicked her fingers and said, “I forbid you to treat me like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like a piece of sausage meat. I have a degree in Politics, a PhD in Sociology, I work over eighty hours a week for my country and for Europe: I think I deserve somewhat different behavior from you.”
Zachary grasped the extent of his mistake: in flirting with this functionary, he took away her identity, annihilated the image she had built, denied her career path, and sent her back to being the body she was before all that work.
Without a word, he left her so abruptly that she would be sure to wonder if she had read the scene correctly; with a bit of luck, she might even come and apologize to him.
He went up to one of the hostesses, who was certainly was not going to be offended by being eyed lustfully.
At that moment, President Léo Adolf walked past him, and Zachary felt the weight of disapproval on the back of his neck.
Angrily, he abandoned the hostess and charged straight to the office they had made available to him. He double-locked himself in, opened the computer, and typed in the name of a porn website.
When the first images appeared—full breasts, mouths pursed like anuses, buttocks divided by a G-string—he gave a sigh of relief, freed from the pressure of other people, at last able to experience pleasure.
He chose a particular category on the site—he knew and liked them all—unbuttoned his pants, stroked himself, and came.
Delighted, relaxed, smiling, ready to go back and change the world or move mountains, he noticed with amusement that according to the clock on the screen it had taken just seven minutes to rid him of his tension. Would he still be alive if he didn’t have these pleasures? No, he would probably have died of boredom. Or of depression, because despair was always prowling around him, patient and tenacious.
That afternoon, Zachary Bidermann again dazzled, impressing everyone he met.
At six-thirty, as he was calling his chauffeur in order to leave the European Union buildings, Léo Adolf came into his office.
“Zachary, I want to make sure you understand. We have great hopes for you. Vanderbrock is too weak to run Belgium in this crisis. The people look down on him, the media revile him, the members of parliament heckle him. He’s lost all support as prime minister. You know perfectly well there’s talk of you as a replacement. So I won’t ask where the rumor originated . . . ”
Zachary chuckled.
Taking this laughter as confirmation, Léo Adolf continued, “But anyway, the rumor has taken root. That’s all that matters. Everybody thinks you’re the savior we need, Zachary, and with good reason. You’re the most brilliant person we have. We in the Liberal Party will support you. All the same, your habits could have a negative effect on us.”
“How dare you bring that up again?”
“It’s all about protecting yourself, and protecting us.”
“No, it’s about protecting the country. What I do in private doesn’t affect that.”
“I disagree. You may be able to downplay or even cover up scandals, but the question remains, a question your supporters need an answer to.”
“What question is that?”
“Is Zachary Bidermann able to control himself?”
Zachary looked at him openmouthed. It was a question he had never asked himself.
“Sometimes,” Léo Adolf continued, “it’s a small step from sexual appetite to sexual obsession.”
“Is that so? Are you a specialist on the subject now?”
“There are a few questions I want to ask you. The answers will tell you whether or not you’re an addict. Are you able to stop? Have you ever stopped? Do you sometimes lie to conceal your activities? Do you feel an overwhelming anxiety, a craving, at the times when you aren’t indulging in these activities?” He raised his hand in farewell. “You don’t have to answer me today. Answer yourself first.”
And with that, he left.
Zachary Bidermann closed his office door in a foul mood. If he played Léo Adolf’s game, he would have to consider himself a sick man, whereas in fact he was perfectly fine. Nobody had the right to judge how he handled his stress.
When he got into his limousine, which was parked at the Rond-Point Robert Schuman, he told the chauffeur to take him home. “Self-control,” he muttered to himself. “Nobody controls himself like me. If only they knew . . . Poor fools. They’ve got nothing left in them but ideas. Bunch of idiots! Fuck you!” Angry but invigorated, he tapped on the chauffeur’s shoulder. “Rue des Moulins, Georges. I’ll go to Place d’Arezzo later.”
When he walked into the Les Tropiques sauna, the place struck him as shabby, unworthy of him, and he sighed with relief. The fact was, he liked the basic decor, the rubber palm trees, the photographs of sunsets on the walls, the sharp smell of bleach. Not one of his colleagues could ever have imagined that someone as prominent as he was could set foot in a place like that; and a man like him was just what he no longer wanted to be.
After putting his clothes into a battered steel locker, he wrapped a threadbare towel around his waist and went down to the basement.
On the bottom steps, a powerful smell of decomposing undergrowth, sweat, and rotting mushrooms struck his nostrils, and he felt intoxicated. He walked along dark corridors, passing couples and a few solitary individuals. He was galvanized by the constant moans. He came to the Turkish bath, his ears and nostrils on the alert; as he advanced, the smell of thyme with which the steam was imbued put the finishing touch to his sense of delight: the aroma, which in his childhood he had associated with medical concoctions for clearing the lungs, had become an aphrodisiac for him, a promise of happiness. He pushed open the steamed-up door. Wrapped in an all-pervasive cloud, beneath a failing light, featureless bodies stirred: five shadowy male figures and two female. He went closer, took off his towel and, naked, without identity, restored to the state of a
lecherous animal, threw himself into that mass of flesh.
An hour later, the elegant Zachary Bidermann got out at Number 10 Place d’Arezzo, dismissed his chauffeur, went through his bedroom to take his customary shower, in order to remove all suspicious smells, changed his suit, and appeared on the reception floor all spruced up, smiling at Rose, who was waiting for him impatiently.
“Not too tired, darling?”
“In top form!”
“You’re truly amazing. How do you do it?”
Flattered by the idea of being a superman, Zachary Bidermann kissed her without replying.
3
What do you recommend?”
Joséphine looked up at the Italian waiter, who stood there ready to take her order. Discouraged by the richness of the menu, she was trying to save herself the effort of having to think.
“I don’t know what you like, Madame.”
“What would you choose?”
Baptiste concealed his derisive expression behind the tall menu because he already knew what came next: the waiter would point out to her what he liked, Joséphine would grimace, he would suggest a second option, she would nod gently, reproach him sullenly for “really” not having the same taste as her, then ask what the people at the next table were having, and demand that very same dish. After this little comedy, which could last four minutes, she would conclude, “Actually, I’m not hungry.”
The waiter withdrew. Joséphine and Baptiste clinked glasses.
After taking a sip of her Brunello, Joséphine fixed her husband with an intent look. “I have something important to tell you.”
“What?”
“I’ve fallen in love.”
Baptiste blinked, a reaction that mixed surprise and relief. Ever since the unsigned message, the strange yellow letter, had arrived, he had guessed that a plot was being hatched without his knowledge and outside his control. It didn’t take exceptional observation skills to notice that Joséphine kept rushing to the other end of the apartment to make phone calls, disappearing for a long time on the pretext of going shopping, and daydreaming in front of the TV news. Although he had already formulated a theory, he had been waiting for the explanation to come from her. Another husband would have followed his wife in secret, searched through her possessions, stolen her cell phone, established an inventory of her calls, and probably made a scene and demanded the truth. But Baptiste considered such behavior to be beneath him. The son of a couple who tore each other apart in domestic arguments, he had had such a hatred of jealousy since childhood that he had purged himself of it, and was averse to playing the inquisitor; but the true reason for his wait-and-see policy was trust: Joséphine couldn’t possibly be deceiving him.