Her childhood had been grim. From the age of seven she had labored on the farm surrounded by semialcoholic brutes. Her adolescence was too short for her to have any precise memories of it. After the death of her husband, she worked in a factory and brought up her four children; in midwinter she drew water from the pump in the courtyard so they could wash. At sixty, having just retired from the factory, she agreed to look after her son’s only child. He had wanted for nothing—clean clothes, good Sunday lunches and love. All these things she had done for him. Any analysis of human behavior, however rudimentary, should take account of such phenomena. Historically, such human beings have existed. Human beings who have worked—worked hard—all their lives with no motive other than love and devotion, who have literally given their lives for others, out of love and devotion; human beings who have no sense of having made any sacrifice, who cannot imagine any way of life other than giving their lives for others, out of love and devotion. In general, such human beings are generally women.
Michel had been in the room for about fifteen minutes, holding his grandmother’s hand in his, when an intern came in and told him that he would be in the way if he were to stay any longer. There might be something they could do; not an operation, it was past that, but something, maybe. He shouldn’t give up hope.
They headed back in silence; Marie-Thérèse drove the Renault 16 mechanically. They ate without saying much, occasionally evoking a memory. Marie-Thérèse cooked and served, needing to keep busy; now and again she would stop and cry a little and then go back to cooking.
Annabelle had been there when the ambulance came and when the Renault came back. At about one a.m., she rose and dressed—her parents were asleep—and walked to the gate of Michel’s house. The lights were still on, and everyone was probably in the living room, but it was impossible to make out anything through the heavy curtains. A light rain fell. Ten minutes passed. Annabelle knew she could ring the doorbell and see Michel, but she could also do nothing. She did not know that these ten minutes were a concrete example of free will; she knew only that they were terrible and that when they had elapsed, she would never be quite the same again. Many years later Michel proposed a theory of human freedom using the flow of superfluid helium as an analogy. In principle, the transfer of electrons between neurons and synapses in the brain—as discrete atomic phenomena—is governed by quantum uncertainty. The sheer number of neurons, however, statistically cancels out elementary differences, ensuring that human behavior is as rigorously determined—in broad terms and in the smallest detail—as any other natural system. However, in rare cases—Christians refer to them as acts of grace—a different harmonic wave form causes changes in the brain which modify behavior, temporarily or permanently. It is this new harmonic resonance which gives rise to what is commonly called free will.
Nothing of the sort happened on this occasion, and Annabelle went home. She felt much older. It would be almost twenty-five years before she saw Michel again.
At three a.m. the telephone rang; the nurse seemed truly sorry. Everything possible had been done, but very little was possible. Her heart was too weak. At least they could be sure that she had not suffered. But, she had to tell them, it was over now.
Michel went back to his room, taking short steps, barely twenty centimeters at a time. Brigitte moved to get up but Marie-Thérèse prevented her. For a minute or two there was silence, and then a sort of mewing or howling from his room. Brigitte hurried to him. Michel was rolled into a ball at the foot of his bed. His eyes were wide open, but his expression was not one of grief, nor of any recognizable human emotion. His face was filled with abject, animal fear.
PART TWO
Strange Moments
1
Bruno lost control of the car just outside Poitiers. The Peugeot 305 skidded across the expressway and hit the guardrail, spun 180 degrees, righted itself, then stopped. “Christ!” he muttered numbly, “Jesus fucking Christ!” A Jaguar hurtled toward him, doing 220 km; the driver braked sharply and swerved, narrowly missing the other guardrail, then drove off leaning on his horn. “Bastard!” screamed Bruno, climbing out and shaking his fist. “Fucking bastard!” Then he got back into his car, made a U-turn and continued on his way.
The Lieu du Changement was founded in 1975 by a group of ’68 veterans (in fact, they were more “spirit of ’68,” since none of them had actually been involved in the riots). It was just south of Cholet on a vast estate scattered with pine forests that belonged to one of the members’ parents. Their plan, inspired by the liberal values of the early seventies, was to create an authentic utopia—a place where the principles of self-government, respect for individual freedom and true democracy could be practiced in the “here and now.” The Lieu was not a commune, but had the more modest aim of providing a place where like-minded people could spend the summer months living according to the principles they espoused. It was intended that this haven of humanist and democratic feeling would create synergies, facilitate the meeting of minds and, in particular, as one of the founding members put it, provide an opportunity to “get your rocks off.”
Just before Cholet Sud, Bruno took the exit off the expressway and drove for ten kilometers along country roads. The map was not very clear, and he felt hot. It was pure chance, he thought, that he finally saw the sign. In large, multicolored letters it read LIEU DU CHANGEMENT and, underneath: I am properly free when all the men and women about me are equally free (Mikhail Bakunin). On the right, two teenage girls were walking up a path that led to the sea and dragging a plastic duck. The sluts were wearing nothing under their T-shirts. Bruno watched them as they passed; his cock ached. Wet T-shirts, he thought solemnly, were a wonderful thing. The girls turned off the road; they were clearly heading to the nearby campsite.
He parked the 305 and walked over to a small wooden hut with a welcome sign. Inside, a woman of about sixty sat in the lotus position. Her thin, wrinkled breasts hung over her thin cotton tunic; Bruno felt sorry for her. She gave him a big, somewhat stilted smile. “Welcome to the Lieu du Changement,” she said at last. She smiled broadly again; was she demented? “Have you got your reservation form?” Bruno took his papers out of his wallet. “Perfect!” muttered the hag, still smiling like a half-wit.
It was forbidden to drive cars within the grounds of the campsite so he decided to work in stages: first he would find a place to pitch his tent, then he would get his things from the car. He had bought a tent from La Samaritaine before setting off (“Made in the People’s Republic of China, 2/3 persons, 449FF”).
The first thing Bruno noticed when he arrived in the clearing was the pyramid. It was twenty meters high and twenty meters along the base: exactly equilateral. The sides were constructed of glass panes in heavy wood frames. The dying sun glinted on some of them, while through others it was possible to see the internal framework of levels and partitions, also constructed of dark wood. It was intended to symbolize a tree. In the center, a large cylinder housed the central staircase. A stream of people—some alone, others in small groups; some dressed, others naked—was leaving the building. With the sunset flaring through the long grass, the whole scene looked like a science fiction movie. Bruno observed the scene for two or three minutes, then took his tent under his arm and started up the first hill.
The land was hilly and wooded with clearings here and there; the ground was carpeted with pine needles, and there were communal sanitary facilities at regular intervals. No plots were marked out. Bruno started to sweat, and he had gas; he’d eaten too much at the rest stop. He was finding it difficult to think clearly, but he knew that the choice of where to pitch his tent could make all the difference in the success of his stay.
He was concluding as much when he noticed a clothesline strung between two trees. An evening breeze moved gently through the panties that had been hung out to dry. It might be a good idea to camp here, he thought, since it’s easy to get to know your neighbors when camping. Not necessarily to fuck them, just to get acquain
ted. It was a start. He put down the tent and began to study the instructions. The French translation was abominable, the English not much better; he assumed that the other European languages were just as bad. Fucking Chinks. What the hell did upturn the demipoles to stable the dome mean?
He was standing staring hopelessly at the diagrams when a sort of squaw appeared, dressed in a miniskirt of animal pelt, her large breasts dangling in the twilight. “Just got here?” the apparition asked. “Need a hand setting up your tent?”
“I’ll be okay,” he said in a strangled voice. “I’ll be okay, thanks . . . It’s very good of you,” he whispered. He had the impression this was a trap. Moments later, a wailing erupted from the neighboring wigwam (where the hell had they bought this thing—or had they made it themselves?). The squaw ran off, returned with two little brats, one on each hip, and rocked them gently. They screamed louder. The squaw’s brave trotted up, his cock dangling in the breeze. He was about fifty, a stocky guy with long gray hair and a beard. He took one of the little monkeys in his arms and started tickling it. Disgusting. Bruno moved a little way off—that was a close call. With little monsters like that, he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. She was obviously breast-feeding, the cow; nice tits, though.
He walked a couple of meters away from the wigwam, but didn’t want to stray too far from the panties. They were delicate, lacy and transparent, and he couldn’t imagine they belonged to the squaw. He finally found a spot between two Canadian girls (cousins? sisters? school friends?) and set to work.
It was almost dark by the time he had finished. In the half-light, he went back to get his suitcases. He met a number of people on the way: both couples and singles, and quite a few single women in their forties. At regular intervals there were signs nailed to the trees reading MUTUAL RESPECT. He walked up to one of them; underneath was a small dish full of condoms conforming to French specifications. Below, there was a white plastic trash can. He stepped on the pedal and turned on his flashlight; the trash can was mostly full of empty beer cans, but there were also used condoms. That’s reassuring, thought Bruno; it looks like this place is humming.
The trip back was difficult; he was out of breath and the suitcase handles cut into his hands. He had to stop halfway up. Some people were still circulating, the beams from their flashlights crossing in the darkness. There was still a lot of traffic on the coast road. The Dynasty on the way to Saint-Clément had a topless night, but he didn’t feel up to it. He stood motionless for half an hour. This is my life, thought Bruno, I’m watching the cars’ headlights through the trees.
When he got back to his tent he poured himself a whiskey and jerked off slowly, flicking through a copy of Swing—“pleasure is a right”—having bought a copy at a service station near Angers. He had no intention of really replying to any of the small ads; he couldn’t hack a gang bang or a sperm fest. The women seeking single men were generally looking for black guys, and in any case he did not come close to the minimum size they required. Issue after issue, he came to the conclusion that his cock was too small for the porn circuit.
In general, however, he was not unhappy with his body. The hair transplant had taken well—luckily he’d found a good surgeon. He worked out regularly and, frankly, thought he looked good for forty-two. He poured another whiskey, ejaculated on the magazine and fell asleep, almost content.
2
A THIRTEEN-HOUR FLIGHT
The Lieu du Changement rapidly ran into the problem of aging. In the eighties young people found its ideals dated. There were theater workshops and massage therapy, but it basically was a campsite; the accommodations and facilities were not up to resort standards. Apart from that, the anarchic spirit of the place made it difficult to control access and collect payments; its finances, which had always been precarious, became even more problematic.
Their first response—a decision passed unanimously by the founding members—was to establish preferential rates for the young, but this did not prove sufficient. At the annual board meeting in the beginning of the 1984 fiscal year, Frédéric Le Dantec made a proposal that turned out to be the Lieu’s salvation. He suggested that business was the leisure industry of the 1980s. Each of them had acquired valuable experience in humanist therapy (Gestalt, rebirth, walking on hot coals, transactional analysis, Zen meditation, communication skills . . .). Why not invest that experience in developing a series of residential courses aimed at businesses? After fierce debate, the proposal was adopted. Once it was accepted, work began on building the pyramid, together with fifty bungalows—basic but comfortable—where visitors could stay. At the same time, the founders organized an extensive mailing, targeting human resources directors in multinational companies. Some of the more left-wing of the founders found this transition difficult to accept. After a brief internal power struggle, the Lieu ceased to be an association under the act of 1901 and became a publicly traded corporation in which Frédéric Le Dantec was principal shareholder. After all, it was his parents’ land, and Crédit Mutuel in Charente-Maritime seemed willing to back the project.
Five years later, the Lieu du Changement had an excellent client list (the National Bank of Paris, IBM, the Ministry of Finance, the Paris transit authority, Bouygues telecommunications). Inter- and intracompany courses were offered year-round and the campsite—maintained principally for reasons of nostalgia—accounted for less than five percent of the company’s annual turnover.
Bruno woke with a crippling headache and no illusions. He had heard about the place from a secretary who had been on a “Personal Development—Positive Thinking” course at five thousand francs a day. He had asked her for the brochure. Friendly, open-minded, liberal; he got the picture. But one statistic at the bottom of the page attracted his attention: in July–August of the previous year, sixty-three percent of visitors to the Lieu du Changement were female. That was almost two women to every man: an excellent ratio. He decided to check it out, and booked a week there in July; especially as camping would be cheaper than going to a Club Med. Of course, he could guess what sort of women went there: deranged old lefties who were probably all HIV-positive. But still, with two women to every man, he stood a chance; if he worked it properly, he might even bag two.
The year had started well from a sexual point of view. The influx of girls from Eastern Europe had meant prices had dropped. For two hundred francs you could get a little personal relaxation, down from four hundred francs some months earlier. Unfortunately, he crashed his car in April and the repairs were expensive; worse still, it had been his fault. The bank started to squeeze him and he had to economize.
He lifted himself on his elbow and poured himself his first whiskey. The copy of Swing was still open at the same page. A guy who kept his socks on—his name was Hervé—was thrusting his cock toward the camera with visible effort.
Not my thing, thought Bruno, not at all. He put on a pair of boxer shorts and walked toward the shower block. After all, he thought hopefully, the squaw from last night was more or less fuckable. In fact her big, sagging breasts were perfect for a tit-job; it had been three years since his last time. Bruno had always liked jerking off between a girl’s tits, but whores didn’t really go for it. Was it the fact that you came in their faces that turned them off? Did it require more time and personal investment than a blow-job? Whatever, a tit-job wasn’t generally on the menu, so it was difficult to get girls to do it. They seemed to think of it as personal. Often, when he requested one, Bruno had to make do with a hand-job or maybe a blow-job. He sometimes managed to coax a tit-job out of a girl, but as far as Bruno was concerned there were not nearly enough to go around.
He arrived at the shower block, Body Space 8. He had more or less resigned himself to the women being old and decrepit and was taken aback to see teenagers. There were four of them near the showers, all between fifteen and seventeen, opposite the sinks. Two of them wore bikini bottoms and waited as the other two played under the shower like otters, chatting and laughing and splashing eac
h other: they were completely naked. The scene was indescribably graceful and erotic. He did not deserve such a thing. His cock was hard in his boxer shorts; with one hand, he took it out and pressed himself against the sink as he cleaned between his teeth with a toothpick. He stabbed himself in the gum, removed the bloody toothpick. The head of his penis tingled unbearably; it was hot and swollen, a drop forming at the tip.
One of the girls, graceful and dark-haired, stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and began to contentedly pat her young breasts dry. A little redhead slipped off her swimsuit and took her place under the shower—her pussy hair was golden blonde. Bruno moaned a little, and was beginning to feel dizzy. In his head, he could imagine walking over, taking his shorts off and waiting by the showers. He had every right to go and wait to take a shower. He imagined himself beside them, his cock hard, saying something like “Is the water hot?” The showers were fifty centimeters apart; if he took a shower next to the redheaded girl she might accidentally brush against his prick. At this thought he felt increasingly dizzy and had to hold on to the porcelain sink. At the same instant two boys arrived, laughing a little too loudly; they were wearing black shorts with fluorescent stripes. Suddenly Bruno’s hard-on was gone; he put his penis back into his shorts and returned to picking at his teeth.
Later, still in a state of shock, he went down to the breakfast tables. He sat apart from the others and spoke to no one. As he chewed his vitamin-enriched cereal, he thought about the Faustian nature of sexual pursuit, its vampirism. For example, Bruno thought, people are wrong to talk about homosexuals. He had never—or very rarely—met a homosexual; on the other hand, he knew a great many pederasts. Some pederasts—thankfully, very few—prefer little boys; they wind up in prison for a long stretch and no one ever talks about them again. Most pederasts, however, are attracted to youths between fifteen and twenty-five. Anyone older than that is, to them, simply an old, dried-up asshole. Watch two old queens together, Bruno liked to say, watch them closely: they may be fond of each other, they may even be affectionate, but do they really want each other? No. As soon as some tight fifteen-to-twenty-five-year-old ass walks past, they will tear each other apart like panthers; each will rip the other to pieces just for that tight little ass—so Bruno thought.