about, and I finally discovered what went on between men and women, from every angle, with every variation. I learned about love the way a chef learns about gastronomy, by staying in the kitchen.
Out of friendship, one of them allowed me to use “Madame’s trap door,” an opening that was built into every room so that Madame could keep an eye on any suspicious clients.
So, between the age of twelve and seventeen, I was a frequent visitor to Madame Georges’s brothel. It became a second home. As incredible as it may seem, there was so much tenderness between us that Madame Georges kept my visits a secret. We were both intensely curious about other people, but she had satisfied her curiosity through prostitution, then reading. She insisted, moreover, that I must not imitate her, or any of her boarders, and she took charge of a part of my education.
“Your style has to be pure, with a ‘healthy girl’ aspect, a sort of eternal virgin, but modern. Even if you wear makeup, you have to give the impression you have nothing on your face.”
So, while I spent my days in the company of whores, I looked as respectable as can be.
Then one day one of my cousins saw me go in and come out of the Villa Violette, and tattled on me to my father.
He called me into his solemn study, on the day I turned seventeen, to demand an explanation.
I told him everything, without hiding a thing.
“Swear to me, Emma, that, well, you understand, you never gave, anybody—”
He couldn’t finish his sentence. I think that in the course of this conversation he was discovering that he was my father and, for the first time, that he had a duty toward me.
“Papa, I swear I didn’t. And you know Madame Georges, she doesn’t fool around! When she says something is a certain way, then that’s the way it is.”
“That’s . . . that’s true” he muttered, blushing, embarrassed that I was acquainted with this Madame Georges, who had had her share in organizing an existence he had hoped to keep secret.
I went on, specifying that I was neither ashamed of spending my time there, nor of having a Madam as my best friend, and you’d really have to be a dolt like my cousin not to grasp that.
“I see . . .” he conceded, to his own surprise.
Not only was he astonished to discover who I was, but he was astonished to find that he liked me, in the end. This discussion, which should have been stormy yet was not, marked the beginning of a new relationship between my father and me, our happy years . . . Until we left the Congo, that is how we lived, spending our time, both he and I, between two houses, our own and the Villa Violette.
“And that is how Guillaume found me, an experienced virgin, a woman who had given herself to no one but was not afraid, either of men, or their bodies, or sex. Health problems required me to go back to Belgium; once my treatment was over, I came to rest in this family house. My father wanted to join me here, and he settled in for six months, bringing home all his library, then he missed the Congo so much—or was it the Villa Violette?—that he went back there. Guillaume met me the year I turned twenty-three. In the beginning, our affair remained a secret. Out of caution, no doubt. And modesty, too. The pleasure of clandestine meetings. And then, it seemed we got into the habit, and our affair remained clandestine. Outside his aide-de-camp, his secretaries, and his servants whom circumstances obliged us to trust, no word got out about our affair. We avoided any gossip, or photographers, we never appeared anywhere together in public. We hid here, apart from a few escapades abroad, in countries where Guillaume was an unknown tourist.”
“Why?” I dared to interrupt her.
Emma Van A. hesitated, her jaw trembled, as it she was forcing herself to keep certain words inside. Her gaze swept the room, and it took her a moment to reply.
“I had chosen a man, not a prince. I had chosen to be a mistress, not a spouse,
Out of friendship, one of them allowed me to use “Madame’s trap door,” an opening that was built into every room so that Madame could keep an eye on any suspicious clients.
So, between the age of twelve and seventeen, I was a frequent visitor to Madame Georges’s brothel. It became a second home. As incredible as it may seem, there was so much tenderness between us that Madame Georges kept my visits a secret. We were both intensely curious about other people, but she had satisfied her curiosity through prostitution, then reading. She insisted, moreover, that I must not imitate her, or any of her boarders, and she took charge of a part of my education.
“Your style has to be pure, with a ‘healthy girl’ aspect, a sort of eternal virgin, but modern. Even if you wear makeup, you have to give the impression you have nothing on your face.”
So, while I spent my days in the company of whores, I looked as respectable as can be.
Then one day one of my cousins saw me go in and come out of the Villa Violette, and tattled on me to my father.
He called me into his solemn study, on the day I turned seventeen, to demand an explanation.
I told him everything, without hiding a thing.
“Swear to me, Emma, that, well, you understand, you never gave, anybody—”
He couldn’t finish his sentence. I think that in the course of this conversation he was discovering that he was my father and, for the first time, that he had a duty toward me.
“Papa, I swear I didn’t. And you know Madame Georges, she doesn’t fool around! When she says something is a certain way, then that’s the way it is.”
“That’s . . . that’s true” he muttered, blushing, embarrassed that I was acquainted with this Madame Georges, who had had her share in organizing an existence he had hoped to keep secret.
I went on, specifying that I was neither ashamed of spending my time there, nor of having a Madam as my best friend, and you’d really have to be a dolt like my cousin not to grasp that.
“I see . . .” he conceded, to his own surprise.
Not only was he astonished to discover who I was, but he was astonished to find that he liked me, in the end. This discussion, which should have been stormy yet was not, marked the beginning of a new relationship between my father and me, our happy years . . . Until we left the Congo, that is how we lived, spending our time, both he and I, between two houses, our own and the Villa Violette.
“And that is how Guillaume found me, an experienced virgin, a woman who had given herself to no one but was not afraid, either of men, or their bodies, or sex. Health problems required me to go back to Belgium; once my treatment was over, I came to rest in this family house. My father wanted to join me here, and he settled in for six months, bringing home all his library, then he missed the Congo so much—or was it the Villa Violette?—that he went back there. Guillaume met me the year I turned twenty-three. In the beginning, our affair remained a secret. Out of caution, no doubt. And modesty, too. The pleasure of clandestine meetings. And then, it seemed we got into the habit, and our affair remained clandestine. Outside his aide-de-camp, his secretaries, and his servants whom circumstances obliged us to trust, no word got out about our affair. We avoided any gossip, or photographers, we never appeared anywhere together in public. We hid here, apart from a few escapades abroad, in countries where Guillaume was an unknown tourist.”
“Why?” I dared to interrupt her.
Emma Van A. hesitated, her jaw trembled, as it she was forcing herself to keep certain words inside. Her gaze swept the room, and it took her a moment to reply.
“I had chosen a man, not a prince. I had chosen to be a mistress, not a spouse,
Similar Books
