become clear to him that I was devouring thousands of pages every week, from time to time he would point to a spine, and say in a weary voice, “There, you should try that one.” I would gratefully plunge into the text as if my father had said, “I love you.”
When I was twelve years old, I noticed that from time to time my father, once he was sure I was in bed, would set off at twilight, an hour when he could no longer give any lectures. Where did he go? Where did he return from, an hour or two later, quiet, almost smiling, humming a tune now and again to his own amusement? I began to dream that he was courting a woman who would someday become my second mother.
I was not far from the truth: I would soon discover that he had unearthed an entire army of mothers! A battalion of women who became my friends . . . but I’m getting ahead of myself, let me explain.
One day, because he had stolen a flower from the bouquet in the dining room to put in the lapel of his new suit, I followed him, in secret. Imagine my stupefaction when I saw that he only went a hundred yards or so from our street, just round the corner, to the Villa Violette.
I begged the maids: who lives there? They burst out laughing, refused to reply, and then as I would not give up, they eventually described the place to me: it was a brothel.
Fortunately, Maupassant, one of my favorite authors, had taught me the existence of these establishments where women gave pleasure to men in exchange for money; better still, because he passed no moral judgment on the activity of prostitutes, and depicted them with so much humanity in Boule de Suif and La Maison Tellier , Maupassant had filled me with respect for them. Particularly as, in my opinion, they had been ennobled, even blessed, because they had inspired the pen of such a genius.
It was in that state of mind that I went up to the brothel of Madame Georges. What must she have thought, that fat redheaded woman with her gold teeth, squeezed into her made-to-measure dresses from thinner days, when she saw this little girl come up to her? I will never know. The fact remains that although I was initially discouraged by her chilly reception, over time I managed to convince her I was in good faith: no, I was not looking for work; no, I did not come to keep a jealous eye on my father; no, I would not write down the names of her clients in order to inform their spouses in Leopoldville.
“What you doing here again? What is it that attracts you? It’s not very healthy for a girl your age to be so curious . . .”
“Indeed, Madame, I may be curious, but I don’t see why it is unhealthy. I’m interested in pleasure. Isn’t that what you offer here?”
“For money, that’s what I offer, yes. However, there are other places where you can learn.”
“Oh, yes? Where? There are no women in my house because my mother died; my nannies treat me like a little kid; no one wants to talk to me! I want to see women, real women. Like you and your girls.”
Fortunately, Madame Georges loved to read novels. Since she no longer gave herself to men—or since they had stopped asking for her—she indulged in orgies of reading. By lending her the books she didn’t have, and talking about them with her, I won her over, and in some confused part of her brain I was transformed into the daughter she would have liked to have. As for me, I played along with complete sincerity, for I was fascinated by Madame Georges, or rather by her world.
Because she ran a business that was devoted to men’s pleasure, she was not afraid of them.
“Don’t be afraid of men, my girl, they need us as much as we need them. There’s no reason for you to keep quiet, ever. Remember that.”
Over time, I was allowed access to the Blue Salon, a room where no males had the right to enter. That is where the girls rested between two clients, chatting together; as the weeks went by, they got used to me, and stopped paying attention to what they talked
When I was twelve years old, I noticed that from time to time my father, once he was sure I was in bed, would set off at twilight, an hour when he could no longer give any lectures. Where did he go? Where did he return from, an hour or two later, quiet, almost smiling, humming a tune now and again to his own amusement? I began to dream that he was courting a woman who would someday become my second mother.
I was not far from the truth: I would soon discover that he had unearthed an entire army of mothers! A battalion of women who became my friends . . . but I’m getting ahead of myself, let me explain.
One day, because he had stolen a flower from the bouquet in the dining room to put in the lapel of his new suit, I followed him, in secret. Imagine my stupefaction when I saw that he only went a hundred yards or so from our street, just round the corner, to the Villa Violette.
I begged the maids: who lives there? They burst out laughing, refused to reply, and then as I would not give up, they eventually described the place to me: it was a brothel.
Fortunately, Maupassant, one of my favorite authors, had taught me the existence of these establishments where women gave pleasure to men in exchange for money; better still, because he passed no moral judgment on the activity of prostitutes, and depicted them with so much humanity in Boule de Suif and La Maison Tellier , Maupassant had filled me with respect for them. Particularly as, in my opinion, they had been ennobled, even blessed, because they had inspired the pen of such a genius.
It was in that state of mind that I went up to the brothel of Madame Georges. What must she have thought, that fat redheaded woman with her gold teeth, squeezed into her made-to-measure dresses from thinner days, when she saw this little girl come up to her? I will never know. The fact remains that although I was initially discouraged by her chilly reception, over time I managed to convince her I was in good faith: no, I was not looking for work; no, I did not come to keep a jealous eye on my father; no, I would not write down the names of her clients in order to inform their spouses in Leopoldville.
“What you doing here again? What is it that attracts you? It’s not very healthy for a girl your age to be so curious . . .”
“Indeed, Madame, I may be curious, but I don’t see why it is unhealthy. I’m interested in pleasure. Isn’t that what you offer here?”
“For money, that’s what I offer, yes. However, there are other places where you can learn.”
“Oh, yes? Where? There are no women in my house because my mother died; my nannies treat me like a little kid; no one wants to talk to me! I want to see women, real women. Like you and your girls.”
Fortunately, Madame Georges loved to read novels. Since she no longer gave herself to men—or since they had stopped asking for her—she indulged in orgies of reading. By lending her the books she didn’t have, and talking about them with her, I won her over, and in some confused part of her brain I was transformed into the daughter she would have liked to have. As for me, I played along with complete sincerity, for I was fascinated by Madame Georges, or rather by her world.
Because she ran a business that was devoted to men’s pleasure, she was not afraid of them.
“Don’t be afraid of men, my girl, they need us as much as we need them. There’s no reason for you to keep quiet, ever. Remember that.”
Over time, I was allowed access to the Blue Salon, a room where no males had the right to enter. That is where the girls rested between two clients, chatting together; as the weeks went by, they got used to me, and stopped paying attention to what they talked
Similar Books
