Victor and the women

CHAPTER ONE

When I think of my early teens, I see naked women. Their breasts and pubic hair

filled my dreams and left me breathless. Enhanced by a powerful sense of sin, these

images engraved themselves in my young memory during brief, but exhilarating, stolen

moments or in the round-the-clock movie theater of my imagination. I also shake with

terror and this is linked to the memory of my mother. There is no logical link between

these two poles of my youth and yet I know they are united.

Coarse or silky, curly, thick, bushy, frizzy, neglected or manicured like a Japanese

garden, clean-shaven like a bourgeois' cheek, blonde, jet black, red and even, and for one

of them, even bright green; familiar or anonymous, many a pubic mound has since

ravished my eyes. Few left a mark in my memory, but the first ones, those I stared at

while wiggling out of my cocoon, are vividly present.

I can see them. Lucie, my half-sister, had a flaming red bush. Janine's was pale, a

barely visible fluff in my telescope. She was the maid and lived in a room my parents

rented across the street. Her breasts were round and heavy. And there was Suzanne's jet-

black tuft, of course. Suzanne was Lucie's Vietnamese friend and her med school

companion. When their homework took them late into the night, I struggled to remain

awake until their bedtime, waiting for Suzanne to take her turn in the bathroom that my

sister and I shared. Through a gap along the doorjamb, I would stare in a state of
hypnosis at the lovely triangle of silky threads as thin as the long hair that flowed down

her slender back; they were shiny like the chunks of coal we studied at school. Neither

thick nor curly, I imagined them at the tip of my fingers, soft as a feather, and I fainted,

my hand clenched on my penis.

Breasts made my blood boil as well and women's legs were important too. Later,

their mouths fascinated me. Then their eyes. But for the feverish child I was then, pubic

hair mattered most.

Why do my thoughts keep returning to those years as I start a day of which I

expected so much, a day I even sometimes looked forward to and which, I'm beginning to

realize, will disappoint? I finish shaving; I reach for the bottle of lotion. My most

ordinary gestures are solemn. In the mirror, I see the charcoal-gray suit, the white shirt,

and the black tie. For years I convinced myself that this day would set me free. I would

be sad, I thought, full of remorse no doubt, but liberated. But it's not happening. The past

is stubborn. I might as well make peace with it, extend my hand and smile, hoping that it

will return the gesture.

I am fond of the little boy I was and I cherish those years of exquisite torment in

spite of the misery that came with them. Adulthood allowed me to satisfy my cravings,

but never again did I feel the juice of the forbidden fruit moisten my lips and run down

my chin. Never again did I savor its sweetness, a taste I owed as much to the priests of

the École Saint Jean-Baptiste as to my parents who, I always believed, had conceived me

in darkness during a brief and dull encounter.

Sex was never discussed at home and when my sister indulged in her med student

humor, she was quickly silenced. "Lucie, please! Not that! Your brother!"
 Did it never occur to my parents that the brother in question had nothing but

THAT on his mind? One evening, having found a Larousse dictionary open at the letter

“V” under my bed, my mother grilled me as she knew so well how to do: "What are you

looking for this time? What word?"

Not missing a beat and surprised by my own quickness, I replied: "Vagabond.

Yes, I'd like to be a vagabond when I grow up."

My mother sat down on the edge of my bed.

"A vagabond! My poor Victor! Is that what you want to be? A drifter? Won't you

ever have any kind of ambition in you? A vagabond, an object of contempt! Wouldn't

you rather be a great lawyer or a great scientist?"

Why did she always entertain dreams of greatness for a son she despised and

tormented so relentlessly? As soon as my mother left the room, I aimed my torch lamp at

the dictionary. A few entries below vagabond was vagina. The words I was discovering

overwhelmed me. I could stare for hours at the little black signs on the page. They set my

imagination afire and pointed toward other mysteries: passage leading to the uterus from

the vulva—their mere presence under my eyes quickened my heartbeat. Those printed

letters had a hypnotic power. I cannot feel it anymore, but I remember how they carried

me away then.

Were my schoolmates as seriously affected as I was by the raging epidemic of

puberty in our 9th grade class? Most probably, but I felt different. While many invented a

love life for themselves and recounted their imaginary exploits, I was happy exploring

alone the wild forest of my obsessions. They would talk of this or that girl at the

neighboring high school who had gone all the way. ALL THE WAY! Oh! The mystery of
those words! Another girl was easy; she "wanted it." One had only to see how she looked

in our direction. A whore, a slut! I can still see their lips move as they spewed the dirty

words.

Those tales fascinated me and I envied their assurance, but we didn't live in the

same world. Besides, something else set us apart: while my schoolmates were unruly and

bursting with energy, I dozed through the classes. Father Vincent, the vice principal, even

urged my parents to consult a doctor—a great specialist, of course, my mother wouldn't

have trusted a regular doctor—and I was forced to swallow daily spoonfuls of a lemon-

flavored syrup. I wasn't at all ill; all I needed was sleep. How could I have told the great

specialist that I was leading the life of a night watchman, the most vigilant of all?

The nocturnal visions for which I lived conflicted sharply with school hours.

Having left my curtains half-open, I'd lie in darkness waiting for a window to light up or

a ray of light to appear under a door. Lucie worked hard into the night in the neighboring

room. I could hear the chalk run on the blackboard across the wall as she lined up her

cabalistic formulas. When the noise of drawers being shut and the rattling of her chair

announced the much-awaited moment, I'd rush to the door and put my eye to the keyhole.

Sometimes, I thought that my sister was looking in my direction. She even

seemed to smile at me as she took off her blouse, unhooked her bra—her breasts were

tiny, with flat nipples so pale I could hardly see them--stepped out of her corduroy pants

and finally, at long last, took off her panties. What a beautiful sight! She tousled her red

bush with the tip of her fingers and ran a nail along her perfectly-shaven triangle. She

then paraded in the nude for a moment, offering herself to me, disappearing for a few

seconds, coming back as if for an encore, then stepping away again, to finally appear
wearing a knee-long shirt. She then went to our bathroom. For the simple exercise of

toothbrushing, I didn't bother.

Janine, the maid, was less predictable. Blonde and twenty, twenty-five years old

at the most, she had eyes the color of porcelain and her skin was as rosy and bright as that

of a piglet. She put on airs as if she was innocence incarnate, but often returned to her

room at dawn. The following day was hard for both of us. She never suspected how much

damage her escapades inflicted on my school records.

Janine's room across the street was one floor below mine. All I could see of her

was a headless body and that was perfectly fine by me. All night long, I struggled to stay

awake, waiting for the rectangle of yellow light to come on. I would then jump to my feet

and aim the telescope that was supposed to foster my interest in astrology. I remember

being torn between resentment and anticipation. I was angry with Janine for the sleepless

night, but I also knew that she wouldn't bother to shut her curtains at this early hour.

Surrounded by blind windows, certain to be alone in the world, she didn't pull her

curtains. I could roam her room freely.

When Janine walked around, I could see her from her feet up to the middle of her

breasts. Her thighs were thick and her belly fat, but my eyes were glued to the pale bush,

light as a chick's down. Sometimes, she would sit on the edge of her bed, facing me, and

rub her tired feet. When I first caught a glimpse of the darker pink flesh deep between her

thighs, I almost fainted.

And, of course, there was the fear. The terror. Any moment, the door could burst

open and my mother would surprise me. She would scream, hurl insults, and remind me

of how vile a creature I was. She would turn to God and ask Him what she had done to
deserve to be punished with giving life to such a despicable son. And deep down, I would

agree. I was bad. Hopelessly bad.

On the fringe of this sinful universe, a princess reigned over my heart. Her name

was Sophie. De Marennes de Lucet, if you please. She lived two floors below us and was

in every way out of my reach, but there was no place for realism in my life. Sophie was at

least five years older than me—a generation at that age—and her beauty left me

breathless. With her swan-like neck and almond-shaped eyes, she reminded me of

Audrey Hepburn, whose Roman Holiday I had seen three times. Like her, Sophie was a

princess running free among the hoi polloi before returning to her palace.

Whenever we found ourselves together in the elevator, I knew I didn't exist for

her. Her nod in answer to my stuttered hello was nothing more than the mechanical

acknowledgment of the humblest of her subjects. During a few brief moments, I was

allowed to breathe the same air as her. From her point of view, all I did was pollute it.

After those encounters, I would run straight to my room, excited and humiliated,

hoping that no one would inquire about my red face. Later, seated at my little desk, some

school manual open before me, I would relive those precious seconds during which

exhilaration and frustration had inhabited me. I could see Sophie's delicate profile as she

looked up at the floor numbers, and the nape of her neck when she had turned her back to

me. If I had been tempted to extend my hand toward her then, it would have been pure

and unmitigated veneration, the gesture of the pilgrim touching the prelate's robe.

My head between my hands, looking very much like the studious pupil, I staged

in my mind our next encounter. Having arrived first, I would stand facing the elevator

and pretend only to take notice of Sophie de Marennes de Lucet at the very last minute.
Stepping back, I would then sweep the ground with an imaginary musketeer's feathered

hat. Or I could be somewhat aloof and just say, "Hi, there!"

My finger on the button panel, I'd say, "Fourth floor, I believe?" as if there had

been a doubt in my mind. Leaning against the wall, ankles crossed, I would toss a few

coins in my hand, all coolness. Accustomed as she certainly was to suitors down on their

knees before her, Her Highness would no doubt be quite impressed.

Never, not once in the five years during which we shared the same address, was I

able to utter two intelligible words in the presence of Sophie de Marennes de Lucet. I was

ten when we moved into the Avenue Mozart apartment and fifteen when the de Marennes

de Lucet moved out, headed, no doubt, for a residence more suited to their rank, and she

never even knew my name.

Such was the purity of my feelings toward my princess that I took to exploiting

her presence in my life during my Saturday morning confessions. The Fathers had

scheduled the purification ritual on the last day of the week to guarantee us a spotless

soul for the Sunday morning communion. At first, I sincerely attempted to keep away the

lustful thoughts that haunted me; it was only twenty-four hours; surely it could be done.

Never did I succeed. Therefore, if I summoned Sophie's image in the oppressive darkness

of the confession booth while wiggling uncomfortably, it was in order to lie with more

conviction.

Father Minot bombarded me with questions, which, in retrospect, betrayed more

than just a holy concern for my soul. Full of understanding for the sloth and many lapses

which constituted my weekly account, he showed more concern for what he called the

"impure thoughts." When such dreams began to visit me, I confessed to them. At the
time, my resolve to fight Satan was such that I honestly believed I could win the battle.

Soon enough, the enemy's power overwhelmed my weak defenses, however, and I

surrendered.

Convinced of the inanity of my resolutions and embarrassed by the frequency of

my defeats, I decided to ignore the matter, pure and simple. If God loved me as much as

they said He did, then He would have to take me as I was. It was He, after all, who had

created me.

Week after week, Father Minot attempted to catch me out and bombarded me

with questions. Did I think about girls sometimes; did I ever try to imagine their bodies

(was he serious?); was I tempted to touch myself where ... you know ... where one

shouldn't?

No, Father. Never! This tone of absolute sincerity I owed to Sophie, whose image

accompanied me in the confession booth. With Father Minot's each question, I focused

intensely on our most recent encounter in the elevator. All I had to do was evoke her hair,

flowing down her swan-like neck or her delicate fingers when she had pushed the door,

and my soul instantly became immaculate. If there was a body under her blouse and skirt,

it could not conceivably generate the sinful thoughts that other women did. Thinking only

of Sophie at confession, I wasn't even guilty of lying, since, for a few brief moments, my

soul was without stain.

A woman smiles at me amidst the memories of those years. Her name was

Mireille, and she was some thirty years older than me. Sometimes, I think that she may

be dead now, or worse, an invalid in a wheel chair. I hate to think of her that way. In my

memory, she's very much alive. I recently found a photograph she gave me. She's seated
on a stone wall by a river and wears a light cotton dress. Her smile is quizzical and she

waves at the camera. I must not lie to myself: with her bland features, her fat nose and her

frizzy hair, Mireille was not pretty. I can see it now, but I was blinded by the sun that

shone for me under that skirt. At the back of the picture, she had written: To Victor, my

lovely sex maniac. Enjoy it, for it won't last. Soon, you'll be a grown up."

Mireille was wrong. I grew up and even reached middle age, but I didn't really

change. Well ... maybe I'm not so lovely anymore.