The High-Life Read Free Page B

imagined that they had poisoned him. At any rate, I was convinced that they were putting on an act, like everyone else who came there, for that matter. But I desired them so, those disquieting actresses in black! I became unctuous, dull. I forgot my timidity. I sank into redundant chatter. They would cast me weary glances. I knew they did and those glances gave me pleasure. I loved coming off like a pompous idiot. High-flown commonplaces didn't scare me. I quoted Bossuet, my favorite author. I was irksome, I circled about my victims while reveling over phrases from the "Sermon on the Mount," or the "Funeral Oration for Henrietta of England." I laughed inwardly. I got fabulous erections. One time, one of these young ladies in mourning mischievously retorted that I would do much better to reread the "Treatise on Concupiscence." I was overwhelmed. How was such intelligence in a woman possible? That "truth in one soul and one body" Rimbaud speaks of: was that it, then? Joy, joy, tears of joy, my vision blurred, my heart beat wildly, my very words intoxicated me. Were her undergarments also black? This idea made me ill. Black panties, black bra. Tears of desire on that funereal lingerie. She wept, that grief-stricken woman, she wept, she was all sweaty, all limp, she was melting away, and me with her, lost between her balmy thighs smelling of rotting fish, kelp, an oyster bed caressed by a warm wind blowing from Andernos, when the Arcachon Bay is nothing more than a paradise of silt, at low tide, in the intense light of noon. I could have talked forever, the young woman didn't know how to get rid of me, my tongue swelled in my mouth, it swelled enough to choke me, and my boss was obliged to chase me off into the back room, giving me little kicks, like I was some poodle that had had an accident in the living room. I'd have given up several years of my life just to spend an evening with that ravishing, witty widow. Another time, a kid, about twelve years old, in black jeans and black T-shirt (her breasts had to be bare under the light cotton, I could sense them softly throbbing, their tips looked like they were already as hard as early buds) had sent me scurrying through the shop under the pretense that she was looking for a plaque made out of some rare material for her mother. She had an insolent look on her face. He, green eyes were buried under mascara. The mauve shadows around her eyes fascinated me. I was convinced she was putting on an act for me, and that all she was interested in was laughing at my expense. None of the plaques suited her. "Awful, they're all awful," she kept repeating to me, giving me contemptuous looks. I had a crazy urge to ask her if she masturbated a lot, and if so, how many times a day. She was already a good head taller than me. She was walking on the gravestones, every now and then passing a tiny, greedy kittenish pink tongue over her purple-coated lips. Luckily, my boss wasn't there. "This place is ugly. I've never seen such hideous stuff." She gave the ceramic flowers some kicks, she had some fun knocking the crucifixes off the wall, every now and then her T-shirt lifted and I saw her tanned skin, so soft, so warm, probably, with that light blond, angelic down. I was in ecstasy. I really didn't have the courage to scold that charming little girl. Unconsciously, like a sleepwalker, I approached her, my hand caressed the nape of her neck, my body pressed against hers so that I could show her a particularly rare item we had in stock in the back room but yes, come, mademoiselle, come on, a superb object, wonderfully sculpted, I think you'll like it, your mom will be happy, you love your mom very much, don't you, that's good, you should love your mom, and your dad too, death is a sacred thing, after you, this way. A tremendous jab of her elbow sent me flying into the funeral wreaths. The kid dashed to the door, laughing. "You're a slug!" she yelled at me before disappearing, "a big, slobbery slug. You