Platform Read Free Page A

theatricalisation of space, full of nods to various cop shows featuring the Los Angeles Police Department. The artist had favoured a 'fun' approach rather than the social critique you'd expect. An interesting project, all in all, not too expensive nor too complicated; even a moron like Cecilia was capable of finalising the provisional budget.
    Usually, when I left the office, I'd take in a peepshow. It set me back fifty francs, maybe seventy if I was slow to ejaculate. Watching pussy in motion cleared my head. The contradictory trends of contemporary video art, balancing the conservation of national heritage with support for living creativity ... all of that quickly evaporated before the facile magic of a moving pussy. I gently emptied my testicles. At the same moment, Cecilia was stuffing herself with chocolate cake in a patisserie near the Ministry; our motives were much the same.
    Very occasionally, I would take a private room at five hundred francs; that was if my dick wasn't feeling too good, when it seemed to me to resemble a useless, demanding little appendage that smelled like cheese. Then I needed a girl to take it in her hands, to go into raptures, however faked, oyer its vigour, the richness of its semen. Be that as it may, I was always home before seven-thirty. I'd start with Questions pour un champion which I had set my video to record; then I would continue with the national news. The mad cow disease crisis was of little interest to me, mostly I survived on Mousline instant mash with cheese. Then the evening would continue. I wasn't unhappy, I had 128 channels. At about two in the morning, I'd finish with Turkish musicals.
    A number of days went by like this, relatively peacefully, before I received another phone call from Chaumont. Things had progressed significantly, they had found the alleged killer; actually, it was more than a allegation, for in fact the man had confessed. They were going to stage a re-enactment in a couple of days. Did I want to be present? Oh yes, I said, yes.
    Marie-Jeanne congratulated me on this courageous decision. She talked about the grieving process, the mysteries of the father-son relationship. She used socially acceptable terms from a limited catalogue, what was more important, even surprising, was that I realized that she was fond of me, and it felt good. Women really do have a handle on affection, I thought as I boarded the Cherbourg train; even at work, they have a tendency to establish emotional ties, finding it difficult to orient themselves, let alone thrive, in a universe completely stripped of such emotional ties, they find it difficult to thrive in such an atmosphere. This was a weakness of theirs, as the 'psychology' column of Marie-Claire continually reminded them: it would be better if they could clearly separate the professional from the emotional, but they simply could not do it, and the 'true stories' column of Marie-Claire confirmed with equal regularity. Somewhere near Rouen, I reviewed the essential facts of the case. Chaumont's breakthrough was the discovery that Aicha had been having 'intimate relations' with my father. How often, and how intimate? He didn't know, and it had no significance to his continuing inquiry. One of Aicha's brothers had quickly confessed that he had come 'to demand an explanation' of the old man, things had got out of hand, and he had left him for dead on the concrete floor of the boiler room.
    In principle, the re-enactment was to be presided over by the examining magistrate, a brusque, austere little man, dressed in flannel trousers and a dark polo-neck, his face permanently clenched in a rictus of irritation; but Chaumont quickly established himself as the real master of ceremonies. Briskly and cheerfully he greeted the participants, gave each a little word of welcome, and led them to their places: he seemed remarkably happy. This was his first murder case and he'd solved it in less than a week; in this whole banal, sordid story, he