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Authors: Francois Lelord
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another.
‘I’m not in the mood,’ said Jean-Marcel.
‘Neither am I,’ said Hector.
They climbed back into the tuk-tuk and Jean-Marcel was clearly quite drunk because he couldn’t get in on his first attempt.
‘Kerls, kerls!’ said the driver.
Hector didn’t understand Khmer; he just said ‘hotel’ and dozed off a little while making sure Jean-Marcel didn’t fall over the side.
Finally, the tuk-tuk dropped them at another place, a rather dimly lit sort of shed, where a few local men were waiting around in armchairs. Hector and Jean-Marcel were glad of the armchairs, which were a lot more comfortable than the hard seats in the tuk-tuk. The first thing Hector noticed was that they were the only white men there, and then that some young girls were sitting opposite them on plastic chairs under a bright light. They looked like schoolgirls; they wore jeans and brand-name T-shirts, like in Hector’s country, and high-heeled sandals that showed their pretty toes, and some were using their mobiles while others talked or stared into space with bored expressions. Hector wondered why all the young girls were sitting on one side and the men on the other, and why the lights were so bright that some of them were blinking in the glare, and then suddenly he understood.
He saw that some of the girls stared at him and flashed him little smiles, while others, on the contrary, looked scared and hid their faces as soon as he looked at them. They seemed so young; already women, but still young enough to be at school or watch the pop charts on television. In Hector’s country, they would have been studying or working as shop assistants or trainees. Some of them reminded him of his friends’ daughters, or some of his young patients. They talked among themselves just like girls their age anywhere.
Hector saw Jean-Marcel was watching them, too. He remembered Jean-Marcel telling him his daughter was sixteen.
Hector and Jean-Marcel looked at each other again, stood up and walked back to the tuk-tuk.
‘Kerls? Kerls? . . . Poys?’ screeched the driver.
‘Hotel! Hotel! Hotel!’ Jean-Marcel said, a little too loudly, Hector thought.
The driver also had a family to feed and commissions to earn from the clients he brought.
Later, in his room, looking through his notebook, Hector reread:
Seedling no. 8: Sexual desire is an essential part of love,
which he had decided wasn’t true for everybody, nor at all times.
He thought of the girls sitting under the lights and he wrote:
Seedling no. 10: Men’s sexual desire can create many hells.
Hector thought of the local men sitting next to him, who took their time before choosing, or only fantasised because they didn’t have enough money to pay for half an hour of a young girl’s beauty, and of all the frustrated men in his own country who might have dreamt of being in a place like that, and of himself (because who knows what might have happened if he had gone there on a different night having drunk a bit less or a bit more or without Clara on his mind?), and it made him think again of old François’s words. What if somebody found a way of suppressing sexual desire? Wouldn’t life be nicer and more decent?
HECTOR MAKES A CHOICE
J UST as Hector was dropping off to sleep, there was a knock at his door. He turned on his bedside light and walked barefoot across the smooth, varnished acaciawood floor, and opened the door. The young waitress with the complicated name was standing there, as pretty as ever in her sarong, and once again she gave him a graceful oriental bow. She looked nervous. Hector gestured to her to come in.
He was very surprised. He hadn’t rung for anything, and, besides, it was only in novels that enchanting young women came to knock on your bedroom door at night. As she walked past him, the pretty waitress handed him an envelope. Hector invited her to sit down in one of the armchairs, which she did, crossing her legs underneath her. In the light of the bedside
‘I’m not in the mood,’ said Jean-Marcel.
‘Neither am I,’ said Hector.
They climbed back into the tuk-tuk and Jean-Marcel was clearly quite drunk because he couldn’t get in on his first attempt.
‘Kerls, kerls!’ said the driver.
Hector didn’t understand Khmer; he just said ‘hotel’ and dozed off a little while making sure Jean-Marcel didn’t fall over the side.
Finally, the tuk-tuk dropped them at another place, a rather dimly lit sort of shed, where a few local men were waiting around in armchairs. Hector and Jean-Marcel were glad of the armchairs, which were a lot more comfortable than the hard seats in the tuk-tuk. The first thing Hector noticed was that they were the only white men there, and then that some young girls were sitting opposite them on plastic chairs under a bright light. They looked like schoolgirls; they wore jeans and brand-name T-shirts, like in Hector’s country, and high-heeled sandals that showed their pretty toes, and some were using their mobiles while others talked or stared into space with bored expressions. Hector wondered why all the young girls were sitting on one side and the men on the other, and why the lights were so bright that some of them were blinking in the glare, and then suddenly he understood.
He saw that some of the girls stared at him and flashed him little smiles, while others, on the contrary, looked scared and hid their faces as soon as he looked at them. They seemed so young; already women, but still young enough to be at school or watch the pop charts on television. In Hector’s country, they would have been studying or working as shop assistants or trainees. Some of them reminded him of his friends’ daughters, or some of his young patients. They talked among themselves just like girls their age anywhere.
Hector saw Jean-Marcel was watching them, too. He remembered Jean-Marcel telling him his daughter was sixteen.
Hector and Jean-Marcel looked at each other again, stood up and walked back to the tuk-tuk.
‘Kerls? Kerls? . . . Poys?’ screeched the driver.
‘Hotel! Hotel! Hotel!’ Jean-Marcel said, a little too loudly, Hector thought.
The driver also had a family to feed and commissions to earn from the clients he brought.
Later, in his room, looking through his notebook, Hector reread:
Seedling no. 8: Sexual desire is an essential part of love,
which he had decided wasn’t true for everybody, nor at all times.
He thought of the girls sitting under the lights and he wrote:
Seedling no. 10: Men’s sexual desire can create many hells.
Hector thought of the local men sitting next to him, who took their time before choosing, or only fantasised because they didn’t have enough money to pay for half an hour of a young girl’s beauty, and of all the frustrated men in his own country who might have dreamt of being in a place like that, and of himself (because who knows what might have happened if he had gone there on a different night having drunk a bit less or a bit more or without Clara on his mind?), and it made him think again of old François’s words. What if somebody found a way of suppressing sexual desire? Wouldn’t life be nicer and more decent?
HECTOR MAKES A CHOICE
J UST as Hector was dropping off to sleep, there was a knock at his door. He turned on his bedside light and walked barefoot across the smooth, varnished acaciawood floor, and opened the door. The young waitress with the complicated name was standing there, as pretty as ever in her sarong, and once again she gave him a graceful oriental bow. She looked nervous. Hector gestured to her to come in.
He was very surprised. He hadn’t rung for anything, and, besides, it was only in novels that enchanting young women came to knock on your bedroom door at night. As she walked past him, the pretty waitress handed him an envelope. Hector invited her to sit down in one of the armchairs, which she did, crossing her legs underneath her. In the light of the bedside
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