From the very first he was intoxicated with me, and I with him. I had not imagined it could be so enjoyable to spend my time with a man, who turned out to be lascivious, and sensual, always on the lookout for new pleasure . . . He liked nothing better than to come over to me and, his eyes shining, point to a line in this notebook. Who would go first? Did his desire arouse mine, or did he anticipate my intentions? I’ll never know. The rest of the time, we talked about literature . . .”
She stroked the leather with the back of her hand.
“One day, he too gave me an identical album, with his menu set out just for me. Alas, later I was obliged to burn it.”
She lingered in her memory, and left me at leisure to imagine, my mouth watering, what Guillaume must have written. What new whims? How far did he go, after his mistress’s boldness? Beneath her sentences, her formality, these lovers from another era had given each other an unheard-of freedom, that of confessing their fantasies, and leading their partner into that place, refusing to allow their lovemaking to become bogged down by mechanical repetition, raising it to a moment of invention and erotic poetry.
“After he had read this notebook,” continued Emma, “Guillaume was amazed to discover that he was the first man to possess me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, you heard me. He required proof in order to be convinced that I had been a virgin until him.”
“I confess that these pages are nothing like the platitudes of an inexperienced virgin.”
“I was a virgin but not inexperienced. Otherwise, how could I have written these lines and then performed them! No, in Africa I was given a head start.”
“In Africa?”
“That is what I explained to Guillaume.”
I spent my childhood in Africa, in a large villa with columns, where servants tried to protect us from the heat by means of awnings and fans, but all they managed to provide was hot shade. I was born there, in the Congo, the jewel in imperial Belgium’s crown. My father had gone to teach literature to the white bourgeoisie in Leopoldville, now called Kinshasa. He met a rich girl there in a society drawing room, fell in love and, although he had no fortune, only culture, he was able to win her hand. My arrival in the world was the cause of my mother’s departure, for she died from complications after the birth; all I knew of her was a sepia photograph placed on the piano she used to play, now closed, imperial and silent, a photograph that faded too quickly: by my adolescence, all I could see of her was an elegant, chalky ghost. My father was the other ghost in my childhood: either he held it against me for having caused his wife’s death, or else he despised me, for he was neither present nor attentive. My mother’s dowry had made him rich, and he spent the money buying thousands of books in order to shut himself away in his library, which he only left to go out to give his lectures.
Naturally, like any child, I thought my everyday life was normal. If from time to time I envied my schoolmates because they had a mother, I did not consider myself unhappy, because I was surrounded by nurses with lilting voices, whose hips swayed as they walked, joyful servants who laced with pity the affection they felt for me. As for my father, his solitude and indifference only made him seem more fascinating. All my efforts in those days were toward a single goal: to grow closer to him, to be with him.
I decided I would cherish books as much as he did. In the beginning, as I read, I wondered what pleasure he could find in giving himself a headache to read such tiny black script—it is true that I had started with a treatise of Roman history in fifteen volumes—then by chance I came upon the novels of Alexandre Dumas, and was filled with enthusiasm for Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan; from that moment, I became the reader I had initially only pretended to be. After a few years went by, when it had
She stroked the leather with the back of her hand.
“One day, he too gave me an identical album, with his menu set out just for me. Alas, later I was obliged to burn it.”
She lingered in her memory, and left me at leisure to imagine, my mouth watering, what Guillaume must have written. What new whims? How far did he go, after his mistress’s boldness? Beneath her sentences, her formality, these lovers from another era had given each other an unheard-of freedom, that of confessing their fantasies, and leading their partner into that place, refusing to allow their lovemaking to become bogged down by mechanical repetition, raising it to a moment of invention and erotic poetry.
“After he had read this notebook,” continued Emma, “Guillaume was amazed to discover that he was the first man to possess me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, you heard me. He required proof in order to be convinced that I had been a virgin until him.”
“I confess that these pages are nothing like the platitudes of an inexperienced virgin.”
“I was a virgin but not inexperienced. Otherwise, how could I have written these lines and then performed them! No, in Africa I was given a head start.”
“In Africa?”
“That is what I explained to Guillaume.”
I spent my childhood in Africa, in a large villa with columns, where servants tried to protect us from the heat by means of awnings and fans, but all they managed to provide was hot shade. I was born there, in the Congo, the jewel in imperial Belgium’s crown. My father had gone to teach literature to the white bourgeoisie in Leopoldville, now called Kinshasa. He met a rich girl there in a society drawing room, fell in love and, although he had no fortune, only culture, he was able to win her hand. My arrival in the world was the cause of my mother’s departure, for she died from complications after the birth; all I knew of her was a sepia photograph placed on the piano she used to play, now closed, imperial and silent, a photograph that faded too quickly: by my adolescence, all I could see of her was an elegant, chalky ghost. My father was the other ghost in my childhood: either he held it against me for having caused his wife’s death, or else he despised me, for he was neither present nor attentive. My mother’s dowry had made him rich, and he spent the money buying thousands of books in order to shut himself away in his library, which he only left to go out to give his lectures.
Naturally, like any child, I thought my everyday life was normal. If from time to time I envied my schoolmates because they had a mother, I did not consider myself unhappy, because I was surrounded by nurses with lilting voices, whose hips swayed as they walked, joyful servants who laced with pity the affection they felt for me. As for my father, his solitude and indifference only made him seem more fascinating. All my efforts in those days were toward a single goal: to grow closer to him, to be with him.
I decided I would cherish books as much as he did. In the beginning, as I read, I wondered what pleasure he could find in giving himself a headache to read such tiny black script—it is true that I had started with a treatise of Roman history in fifteen volumes—then by chance I came upon the novels of Alexandre Dumas, and was filled with enthusiasm for Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan; from that moment, I became the reader I had initially only pretended to be. After a few years went by, when it had
Similar Books
