The page came from a women’s magazine, which disturbed him even more. Meg? Petra? Impossible.
His eyes skimmed over the article: “The premature ejaculator often releases his seed less than a minute after penetration, being unable to delay it.” Less than a minute, yes, that was it.
He heard footsteps and quickly stuffed the paper into his pocket. Petra appeared, holding a box.
“Oh, there you are, darling. I was just coming to mix my creatine.”
She put two spoonfuls of powder in a glass, added water, and stirred it with a silver spoon.
Wim realized that he had left the envelope open on the marble surface. She also noticed it.
“Oh,” she said, “you saw the article I cut out for you.”
He turned white.
Knocking the spoon against the glass, she continued without looking at him, “Oh, yes, I heard from a girlfriend in London that this was your problem. The model Policy, do you remember? Very beautiful, yes. Very talkative. Especially when she has a glass in her hand. No, don’t be angry at her, poor thing, it’s thanks to her that we’re here today, because that was what first drew my attention to you.” She drank her concoction, grimaced, then emitted a slight burp. “That kind of thing doesn’t bother me, for obvious reasons. But I told myself that, for you, it must be a real problem.”
Wim turned red, unable to answer.
“Yes, as you say,” she went on, “it’s kind of me.” She burped again. “I really can’t take this creatine anymore. I can’t wait to go to New York, they say there’s a new mixture there that has a similar effect on the muscle structure, but without this horrible taste. I read all about it in bodybuilders’ blogs.”
In normal circumstances, if he hadn’t been humiliated, Wim would have been amused by the scene: the sophisticated Petra von Tannenbaum poring over sporting tips from pumped-up musclemen.
At last she looked at him. “Anyway, darling, this is just to say that I can keep a secret. I hope you can too.” At last, she was coming to the point. “I’ll have left you with the memory of a torrid partner. And when I think of you, I’ll suppose that . . . you were amazing. Do we agree?”
Petra suggested to Wim that she never mention his sexual difficulties if he, in return, remained silent about her indifference to sex.
“Agreed, Petra. It’s what I would have said even if you hadn’t shown me that article.”
“Yes, you’d probably have said it boastfully. I prefer it should be out of fear.”
With that, she left the room.
For the second time that day, Wim found life absurd and interminable. So much effort to hide the sordid reality . . .
That Saturday night, Petra von Tannenbaum was due to perform at the Petrodossian Gallery in front of an audience of the most fashionable people in Brussels.
Stage fright made her horrid; she screamed in several languages at the Filipino staff, called Meg a fat, stupid cow when the latter couldn’t get the organizers of the event on the phone, and insulted Wim with sharp, scathing, repetitive cruelty.
They took the blows without responding, as fatalistically as people awaiting the end of a storm.
At last, the props were sent to the gallery and Petra, locked in the bathroom that constituted her temple, finished her preparations.
When Wim suggested giving her a lift to the venue, she merely murmured, “Don’t behave like an old husband. I’ll get there on my own, if Meg manages to find me a taxi.” She turned suddenly and looked him in the eyes. “On the other hand, I would like you to join me in the wings as soon as the show is over and behave like a jealous lover, I give you permission for that. It’s the best way for me to get rid of unwelcome admirers.”
Wim nodded, not knowing if he should hate or admire the way Petra had of assigning tasks like an army officer.
He left the mezzanine and joined Meg in the loft. “You know about the taxi?”
“Oh, yes, it was ordered three days ago. I’ve already called back at least four times to make sure it’ll be here on time.”
“Thanks, Meg.”
“Would you like a glass of whiskey? A fifteen-year-old Lagavulin?”
“I think I need it.”
She brought in the drink. “On the rocks, the way you like it.”
“Thanks. You’re the woman I ought to have married.”
Meg made no attempt to decipher from Wim’s inscrutable face what was hidden behind that last nuance: “I ought to have.” How much longer could she hold out, being at the side of a man she loved but didn’t love her, a man who was constantly mentioning their desirable but impossible marriage?
As was her habit, when her morale has been sapped, she went and took shelter in the toilet.
At seven o’clock, Petra burst on them like a bomb, took out her anger on Wim, Meg, the organizers, and this “shitty Belgium” with its “stupid public,” wondered one last time why she was making so much effort to satisfy people who were ungrateful and devoid of taste, then, slamming the door, went down to get her taxi.
Left alone, Wim and Meg looked at each other like two camel drivers after a sandstorm has passed.
“Another glass of whiskey?” Meg suggested.
“Absolutely,” Wim replied.
Sipping the amber liquid that tasted of peat and smoke, they discussed the affairs of the gallery, some of their customers, and a new artist whose work they had discovered and were trying to promote. For both of them, there was nothing more pleasant than this relaxed conversation about what constituted their everyday life. Wim really didn’t want to leave, and Meg had to point out the time on her watch.
“Don’t miss the show.”
Wim sighed and got laboriously to his feet, with none of his usual liveliness.
“And don’t forget your keys.”
“I won’t, Meg.”
“I’ll switch off the lights.”
“Thank you, Meg, thank you for everything.”
He grabbed his keys and walked out.
Meg checked all three floors, closed the shutters, switched on the alarm system, and got ready to leave.
Her keys had disappeared. In a panic, she looked in her pockets and her bag, then, for fear of setting off the alarm, blocked the antitheft system, and began a systematic search for her keys.
Alas, Wim had taken them by mistake.
She had no way of getting out. Of course, she could simply slam the door shut behind her, but how could she take that risk when art worth several million euros was hanging on the walls? No, she would have to wait for Wim and Petra to get back. Grabbing the bottle of Scotch, she poured herself another glass, not a Parisienne’s portion this time, no, the portion of a true Flemish woman.
After all, what difference did it make if she stayed here? Nobody was waiting for her.
Petra von Tannenbaum’s show had delighted the exclusive Brussels audience.
“Nothing vulgar about it at all!”
“A revolution in the genre!”
“Female beauty, but with a hint of irony just beneath the surface, and, underlying it all, a sense of kitsch.”
Hearing these conventional comments, Wim kept drinking. During the performance, he had come to the realization that he couldn’t stand Petra anymore; even her statuesque figure had stopped fascinating him: he knew all the work that went into forming those curves, he sensed the sweat beneath her powdered skin, he was aware of her efforts to keep her stomach ideally flat and her insides on the inside.
As expected, he played the guard dog outside the dressing room, filtering those who came to pay their respects by glaring at them in a hostile manner. Since this comedy would help his reputation as a man for whom everything always went right, he performed it to perfection.
Boredom only kicked in when he found himself alone again in his car with Petra. The latter, relaxed after the
success of the show, was in a talkative mood, which was quite unusual for her.
“Darling, at what age do you think I should quit? Thirty-eight, that’s what I’ve decided.”
“You’ll still be gorgeous at the age of thirty-eight.”
“That’s what I mean: I’ll quit when I’m at the height of my beauty. I won’t tolerate any image of myself diminished. It’s unbearable enough to see photographs of my childhood or my teenage years show up here and there.”
“What will you do when you quit?”
“What a question! When I quit, I quit. That’s it. The ultimate farewell!”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ll kill myself, darling.”
“Petra!”
“But of course! In order to be complete, my legend requires a tragic ending.”
“You are joking, I hope?”
“Not a bit of it. Only death will transfer my life into a destiny.”
“Why don’t you just wait to die?”
“I’ll never agree to decay, not after the sacrifices I’ve forced myself to make. At the age of thirty-eight, I’ll kill myself, it’s been decided for a long time.”
“Petra, I beg you to—”
“Look at poor Greta Garbo: she was smart enough to quit movies when she was perfect, but then she chickened out and carried on living. Have you seen the photographs taken by paparazzi outside her building in New York, with her sublime face ravaged by time? The shame of it! But I’ll have the courage.”
Wim fell silent. Petra irritated him so much that he almost regretted she wasn’t already thirty-eight so that he could get rid of her.
“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll have published my memoirs first. Just to stop people saying whatever they like. And I think I shall write a few very friendly lines about you.”
“Thank you, Petra. I’m touched.”
She gave a slight grimace. His answer wasn’t the one she’d expected. “What about you?” she asked. “Will you write your memoirs one day?”
“Of course, Petra. When a man has met an artist like you, the publishers demand that he write his memoirs. Have no fear.”
“Thank you,” she concluded in a satisfied tone.
The car reached Place d’Arezzo, which was congested thanks to a reception being held at the Bidermanns’. Women in long dresses and men in tuxedos were entering the fully lit town house, from which the sounds of a string orchestra emerged. Out of politeness, Wim thought he should explain the purpose of this event to the indifferent Petra. “Our neighbor, the European Commissioner for Competition Zachary Bidermann, a world-renowned economist, is going to be appointed Prime Minister of Belgium.”
“Oh, yes, I know all about that.”
Wim suppressed an exclamation of surprise. Did she follow current affairs? Had he misjudged her, thinking she only read articles about herself?
“Are you invited, darling?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I have no desire to take sides politically.”
“Phone them, I’d like to go.”
Petra had given him this order as if telling a taxi driver an address.
“I’m sorry, Petra,” he replied irritably, “I’m not in the habit of begging for invitations.”
“You’re pathetic, darling.”
Wim didn’t react to the insult. The sense of well-being brought on by the many drinks he’d had lessened his anger toward Petra.
Once they were back in the apartment, she put on a sumptuous ostrich feather coat and announced, “I’m going to that reception.”
“Without an invitation?”
“I don’t think they’ll turn me away. The fact is, I haven’t been invited anywhere for years now, but I’ve been received everywhere. Naturally, you’re not coming?”
“Naturally,” Wim replied.
She shrugged and walked out the door.
Wim went to the window and amused himself watching her as she crossed the square. Arrogant and regal, like a queen in exile, she climbed the steps, talked with the servants, and went inside.
“Just stay there,” Wim muttered.
Feeling happy, he looked for the Lagavulin, but couldn’t find it. What he did find was a bottle of Jameson. He poured himself a full glass and put on a Duke Ellington disc.
An hour later, drunk but feeling carefree, he went up to the mezzanine and threw himself on his bed.
He struck a body. Startled, he lit the bedside lamp and discovered Meg, drunk and fast asleep on the comforter.
Amused, he gazed down at her. Her plump, smooth pink flesh demanded to be caressed. He sniffed her hair, which had the heady aroma of sour apples. To his surprise, he realized that he felt like making love.
He stood up, determined to go down to the loft and sleep on the couch. Meg turned over, opened her eyes, and saw him.
“I drank too much,” she said, smiling.
“Same here,” Wim replied cheerfully.
She seized his head in both hands and, without thinking, brought it close to hers and kissed him.
Amused, he abandoned himself to this kiss. Their bodies touched.
When they looked at each other, they burst out laughing. In their minds, disinhibited by the alcohol, they weren’t doing anything serious or important, they were just playing a nice game. Besides, they got along so well . . .
Caressing all the while, and constantly bursting into laughter, Wim undressed Meg, then undressed himself. Then he lay down on top of Meg and cuddled her.
Just as slowly, he entered her. She abandoned herself.
Wim started making love to her. Never before had he had this feeling; whereas he usually came too quickly, now he was transformed into a supple animal, undulating in the other person’s body, varying the positions to increase the pleasure.
Meg let herself be manipulated, delighted to discover such a good lover.
After twenty minutes of these sweet embraces, she felt a great warmth flood through her. “I . . . I’m going to come.”
Wim neither slowed down nor speeded up, he merely continued, subtly and inexorably, the movement that was making her so happy.
She screamed with pleasure and clasped him to her, exhausted but radiant.
Wim left her body. For the first time, he was a male pleasuring a female. Even though he had serviced a woman and her orgasm, he felt powerful. This was the supreme power: the power to hold back.
“Make me come,” he whispered.
So Meg got down on all fours and helped her lord and master to achieve climax.
15
The show broke the ratings record—something the channel immediately realized from the number of e-mails and phone calls flooding in during the live broadcast—because Zachary Bidermann, besides being viewed by the nation as the man who could stem the crisis, had a gift for holding the public’s attention. When he was on, whether you were illiterate or had a degree in Economics, you didn’t switch channels.
He was reassuring. Not so much through what he said but through his body language. Sturdy, well-built, broad-shouldered, with a thick neck, Zachary looked like a powerful, huddled animal, ready to pounce. He kept his strong, muscular hands, capable of anything—grabbing and breaking, caressing and strangling—close to his chest, guardians of their master, ready to intervene, to seethe with indignation as he commented on figures or put forward solutions. His neck suggested strength: broad, solid, lined with visible veins, a chimney sending energy from the torso to the brain. His eyes, reduced to half-moons by heavy eyelids, were hypnotic, thanks to their ocean-blue color turning to steel-gray; motionless, then looking in a different direction without anyone noticing them move, the pupils followed their own rhythm, indifferent to external prompts. Although his hair was immaculately white, his black eyebrows testified to the fact that his youth a
nd vigor were still intact. As for his mouth, it either drooped cynically or rose at the corners, producing a cruel, even voracious smile, like a wolf’s chops. A laughing Zachary was different from a reasoning Zachary, and the contrast was fascinating. He was a living paradox, a top-level intellectual hidden inside the body of a beast.
In spite of herself, the interviewer had fallen for his charms. Even though, coached by her journalist colleagues in the editorial offices, she had geared herself up to be combative, during the debate itself she couldn’t stop herself from drinking in her interviewee’s words; at times, when he complimented her on a question, she even blushed. There was a kind of erotic tension between them, a tension she endured and he controlled. And the e-mails coming in showed that it wasn’t just the interviewer’s desires that were being aroused by Zachary Bidermann, to judge from the number of passionate declarations of love.
What was the appeal of the man? He was neither ugly nor handsome, so what spell did he cast? In the case of the interviewer, he showed her that he never forgot she was a woman, even in the middle of a debate, even at the height of a fierce exchange of views; there were features in his face that said, “I can’t wait for this cerebral interaction to be over, because we have better things to do together.” Even though he was addressing her educated consciousness, he stirred her primitive brain, the part that still yearns for the instinctual, that searches for the strong, protective adult whose semen will bear fruit, the chief who will guarantee food, safety, dependency. Beneath the tailor-made three-piece suit, beneath a rational discussion of economics, there was a Neanderthal male addressing a Cro-Magnon female.
Men saw him as a chief rather than a rival, a natural leader. Without the usual shilly-shallying of a politician, and without any show of false modesty, Zachary Bidermann exerted his influence, the commander a defenseless era needed.
Léo Adolf and his Party associates, who were in the studio audience, were pleased with the show: there was no doubt that it would allow them to put forward Zachary Bidermann as the head of a so-called “technical” government to deal with the crisis. Not everyone was happy with the choice, but after his performance tonight there would be only a few naysayers left.