Read Online Affairs of State by Dominique Manotti - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dominique Manotti
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…’
‘We played poker all night, and he won.’
‘A bad sign.’
‘They’re going to be stepping up their deliveries of arms to Iran, with the blessing of Saudi Arabia and Israel.’
‘But not of the American Congress.’
Martenot smiles.
‘As you can imagine, it didn’t seem to worry Green. And what about us? Why can’t we simply review our policy on Iran? That’s the President’s intention.’
‘I know, I know. But political life is becoming paralysed in the run-up to the election.’
‘A rather feeble explanation, and you know it.’
‘True … Well let’s say there’s a clan-based power system here in France, and a President who is no longer able to arbitrate, to decide, when issues are as complicated as they are in the Middle East …’
‘And when there are such huge financial interests at stake. The French arms dealers who’ve invested billions in Iraq know full well that they’ll never be paid if Baghdad loses the war.’
‘Naturally, that’s another factor. In other words, it’s hard to get things moving, but I’ll manage it, and that’s a promise. I’m simply saying that two weeks isn’t long enough.’
Martenot rises.
‘It feels like the writing’s on the wall for this government.’
Bornand smiles.
‘There’s an element of that. Trust me.’ He sees Martenot to the door. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’
On the first floor, in the green and white bedroom of Bornand’s mistress, Françoise Michel, Nicolas is reclining naked on the vast white duvet covering the bed. In the centre of the room is the chaise longue, and to the right, the dressing table beneath a giant mirror. Françoise comes in, wearing a green silktea-gown, tied at the waist, her long, almost straight blonde hair cascading down to her hips. She sashays over to the chaise longue, stops, unties her dress and, turning slowly around, with a languid, deliberate gesture, lets it slide to the floor in a pool of colour and gathers up her hair and twists it into a knot at the base of her neck. She’s the focus of every pair of eyes, in charge, sovereign. The curtains have been drawn across the windows, two uplighters illuminate the ceiling. Nicolas gazes at her sinuous white body in this shadowless light, he loves this exaggerated
mise en scène
. Bornand’s mistress, stolen, shared. He has a hard-on. She turns to him and stretches out her leg. He kneels before her, removes one white mule and then the other, traces the shape of her foot with his hand, and then her leg, with a precise movement, up to her knee where he places his lips. Her skin is cool and gives off a fragrance of sweet almond.
I’m hunting on his ground
. His hand moves up to her thigh and he buries his face in her blonde pubic hair, seeks her crotch, finds it soft, alive, a powerful, intense taste. His preserve. He’s gripped by a violent desire. Françoise, present and remote, opens her thighs or pushes him away, grips him, eludes him, derives pleasure from toying with his feelings, she who prides herself in having none, and letting him know it. Only the almost abstract thrill at the spectacle she’s putting on for Bornand, standing behind the two-way mirror. Perhaps.
And suddenly desire wells up in her belly, completely overwhelms her, submerges her, taking her right out of herself. She wants to scream, bites her lip and draws blood. She grabs Nicolas’s head, jerks him out of her cunt, thrusts his shoulders back, pinning him to the ground, and beats her fists against him, her face masked by her hair that has come loose. She crushes him under her weight, straddles him, moves up and down with furyand hatred, until he comes, trembling and groaning. Then she spits in his face, steps over him, gathers up her green gown and leaves him alone, lying on the floor, breathless, adrift, under the gaze of Bornand, helpless. Nicolas gives a seismic shudder.
Françoise locks herself in her bathroom. A chill in her bones, her lip swollen, her
‘We played poker all night, and he won.’
‘A bad sign.’
‘They’re going to be stepping up their deliveries of arms to Iran, with the blessing of Saudi Arabia and Israel.’
‘But not of the American Congress.’
Martenot smiles.
‘As you can imagine, it didn’t seem to worry Green. And what about us? Why can’t we simply review our policy on Iran? That’s the President’s intention.’
‘I know, I know. But political life is becoming paralysed in the run-up to the election.’
‘A rather feeble explanation, and you know it.’
‘True … Well let’s say there’s a clan-based power system here in France, and a President who is no longer able to arbitrate, to decide, when issues are as complicated as they are in the Middle East …’
‘And when there are such huge financial interests at stake. The French arms dealers who’ve invested billions in Iraq know full well that they’ll never be paid if Baghdad loses the war.’
‘Naturally, that’s another factor. In other words, it’s hard to get things moving, but I’ll manage it, and that’s a promise. I’m simply saying that two weeks isn’t long enough.’
Martenot rises.
‘It feels like the writing’s on the wall for this government.’
Bornand smiles.
‘There’s an element of that. Trust me.’ He sees Martenot to the door. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’
On the first floor, in the green and white bedroom of Bornand’s mistress, Françoise Michel, Nicolas is reclining naked on the vast white duvet covering the bed. In the centre of the room is the chaise longue, and to the right, the dressing table beneath a giant mirror. Françoise comes in, wearing a green silktea-gown, tied at the waist, her long, almost straight blonde hair cascading down to her hips. She sashays over to the chaise longue, stops, unties her dress and, turning slowly around, with a languid, deliberate gesture, lets it slide to the floor in a pool of colour and gathers up her hair and twists it into a knot at the base of her neck. She’s the focus of every pair of eyes, in charge, sovereign. The curtains have been drawn across the windows, two uplighters illuminate the ceiling. Nicolas gazes at her sinuous white body in this shadowless light, he loves this exaggerated
mise en scène
. Bornand’s mistress, stolen, shared. He has a hard-on. She turns to him and stretches out her leg. He kneels before her, removes one white mule and then the other, traces the shape of her foot with his hand, and then her leg, with a precise movement, up to her knee where he places his lips. Her skin is cool and gives off a fragrance of sweet almond.
I’m hunting on his ground
. His hand moves up to her thigh and he buries his face in her blonde pubic hair, seeks her crotch, finds it soft, alive, a powerful, intense taste. His preserve. He’s gripped by a violent desire. Françoise, present and remote, opens her thighs or pushes him away, grips him, eludes him, derives pleasure from toying with his feelings, she who prides herself in having none, and letting him know it. Only the almost abstract thrill at the spectacle she’s putting on for Bornand, standing behind the two-way mirror. Perhaps.
And suddenly desire wells up in her belly, completely overwhelms her, submerges her, taking her right out of herself. She wants to scream, bites her lip and draws blood. She grabs Nicolas’s head, jerks him out of her cunt, thrusts his shoulders back, pinning him to the ground, and beats her fists against him, her face masked by her hair that has come loose. She crushes him under her weight, straddles him, moves up and down with furyand hatred, until he comes, trembling and groaning. Then she spits in his face, steps over him, gathers up her green gown and leaves him alone, lying on the floor, breathless, adrift, under the gaze of Bornand, helpless. Nicolas gives a seismic shudder.
Françoise locks herself in her bathroom. A chill in her bones, her lip swollen, her
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