Frank Wynne (translator)
BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR
- Title: Platform
- Description:
Michel is a civil-servant, an account manager at the Ministry of Culture. He is single, and likes his pleasures pre-packaged: game shows, TV movies, pornography and instant mash. When his father is murdered and he comes into some money, Michel takes leave of absence to go on a package tour to Thailand. Relieved to get away, he is nonetheless infuriated by the shallow hypocrisy and mediocrity of his fellow travellers. Only the awkward Valerie attracts his attention. Too bashful to pursue her, Michel prefers the uncomplicated pleasures of Thai massage parlours and sex with local women. Western society, he believes, has lost the sense of the other - the sensual, the exotic - that is necessary to pleasure. Back in Paris, he calls Valerie and they plunge into a passionate affair which strays far beyond the bounds of Michel's previous 'vanilla' existence, into S&M, partner-swapping and sex in public. Michel quits his job, and tries to help Valerie and her boss, Jean-Yves, in their ailing travel business, putting his philosophy into practice by offering consenting adults sexual tourism in the third world.The project is risky, but when the three return to Thailand, Michel discovers that sex is neither the most consuming nor the most dangerous of human passions... From the Publisher Michel Houellebecq’s follow-up to the international bestseller Atomised takes him international, into the world of sex-tourism and cultural globalisation. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Michel Houellebecq lives in County Cork, Ireland. He is the author of two previous novels, Atomised and Whatever. He is also a poet, essayist and rap artist. Excerpted from Platform by Michel Houellebecq. Copyright © 2002. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Part OneThai Tropic After the funeral, I went back to the house where my father lived out his last years. The body had been discovered a week earlier. A little dust had already settled around the furniture and in the corners of the rooms; I noticed a cobweb on the window frame. So time, entropy, all that stuff, was slowly taking the place over. The freezer was empty. The kitchen cupboards mostly contained single-serving Weight Watchers meals-in-a-bag, tins of flavoured protein and energy bars. I wandered through the rooms nibbling a magnesium-enriched biscuit. In the boiler room, I rode the exercise bike for a while. My father was over seventy and in much better physical shape than I was. He did an hour of rigorous exercise every day, lengths of the pool twice a week. At weekends, he played tennis and went cycling with people his age; I'd met some of them at the funeral. 'He coached the lot of us! . . .' a gynaecologist exclaimed. 'He was ten years older than us, and on a two kilometre hill, he!'d be a whole minute ahead.' Father, father, I said to myself, how great was your vanity! To the left of my field of vision I could make out a weightlifting bench, barbells. I quickly visualised a moron in shorts - his face wrinkled, but otherwise very like mine - building up his pectorals with hopeless vigour. Father, I said to myself, Father, you have built your house upon sand. I was still pedalling but I was starting to feel breathless, my thighs ached a little, though I was only on level one. Thinking back to the ceremony, I was aware that I had made an excellent general impression. I'm always clean shaven, my shoulders are narrow and when I developed a bald spot at about the age of thirty, I decided to cut my hair very short. I usually wear a grey suit and sober ties, and I don't look particularly cheerful. With my short hair, my lightweight glasses and my sullen expression, my head bowed a little to listen to a Christian funeral-hymn medley, I felt perfectly at ease with the situation - much more at ease than I would have done at a wedding, for example. Funerals, clearly, were my thing. I stopped pedalling, coughed gently. Night was falling quickly over the surrounding meadows. Near the concrete structure which housed the boiler, you could make out a brownish stain which had been poorly cleaned. It was there that my father had been discovered, his skull shattered, wearing shorts and an 'I love New York' sweatshirt. He had been dead for three days, according to the coroner. There was the possibility, very remote, that what happened was an accident, he could have slipped in a puddle of oil or something. That said, the floor of the room was completely dry; and the skull had been broken in several places, some of the brain had even spilled on to the floor; in all probability, what we were dealing with was murder. Captain Chaumont of the Cherbourg police was supposed to come over to see me that evening. Back in the living room, I turned on the television, a 32-inch Sony widescreen with surround sound and an integrated DVD player. There was an episode of Xena: Warrior Princess on TF1, one of my favourite series: two very muscular women wearing metallic bras and miniskirts made of animal hide were challenging each other with their sabres. 'Your reign has gone on too long, Tagrathâ!' cried the brunette, 'I am Xena, warrior of the Western Plains!' There was a knock at the door; I turned the sound down. Outside, it was dark. The wind gently shook the branches dripping with rain. A girl of about twenty-five, she looked north-African, was standing in the doorway. 'I'm Aïcha,' she said, 'I cleaned for Monsieur Renault twice a week. I've just come to get my things.' 'Well . . .' I said, '. . . well.' I made a vague gesture, something intended to be welcoming. She came in, glanced quickly at the television screen: the two warriors were now wrestling right next to a volcano; I suppose the spectacle had its stimulating side, for certain lesbians. 'I don't want to disturb you,' said Aïcha, 'I'll only be five minutes.' 'You're not disturbing me,' I said, 'in fact, nothing disturbs me.' She nodded her head as though she understood, her eyes lingered on my face; she was probably gauging my physical resemblance to my father, possibly inferring a degree of moral resemblance. After studying me for a few moments, she turned and climbed the stairs that lead to the bedrooms. 'Take your time,' I said, my voice barely audible. 'Take all the time you need . . .' She didn't answer, didn't pause in her ascent; she had probably not even heard me. I sat down on the sofa again, exhausted by the confrontation. I should have offered to take her coat; that's what you usually do, offer to take someone's coat. I realised that the room was terribly cold - a damp, penetrating cold, the cold of a cellar. I didn't know how to light the boiler, I had no wish to try, now my father was dead. I had intended to leave straight away. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
