Now that he is gone, I look between my breasts and see another flower growing: a rash of raspberry dots, like seeds. I wonder if this is how fear discharges itself when we leave our bodies in moments of pain.
The psychiatrist, when he first came, promised me a rose garden and in the mirror tomorrow morning I will see the results for the first time on my own body. I will tend his bouquets before he comes again, his eyes misty with fear and lust. Then I will listen to the liquid notes that are pleasing in the sunlit foyer and smile because somewhere, off in the distance, my father is clapping.
WHITE NIGHT by Françoise Rey
Translated by Maxim Jakubowski
WE’D BEEN DRIVING for some time already. The night was cold and icy. Thin snow was falling. Suddenly, we moved straight into a blizzard. The flakes rushed towards us through the daze of the headlights, waltzing wildly, blinding our sight of the road. You slowed down.
“I’m married,” you suddenly said. This did not offend me, interrupting as it did a lengthy silence I had neither sought nor wanted.
“I know,” I answered. You looked down at your left hand and examined, as if it had never been there before, the ring, smiled as if confronted by undeniable evidence and my admission that I already knew. Which implied some form of idle curiosity on my part at least. Then you looked round at my own hands.
I think I wore five or six rings, but in the semi-darkness you had no time to count them as the road was becoming increasingly treacherous and invisible. You peered up through the wind-screen, changed the wipers’ speed, looked round at me again quizzically. I answered your silent question with a faint laugh and, still smiling, you accepted both my silence, and my wish to say nothing…
It was warm in the lorry’s cab, I was feeling good. Then you said: “My wife is at a ski resort, with the small ones.” I answered: “We’re also in the snow.” You put your hand on my knee and I closed my eyes.
Our meeting had been a bit of a miracle. Because of the time of year… It was the evening of December 24th…
My luggage in hand, I had crossed the road a bit too fast. There were a lot of people, many of them laden with parcels. A bike had shuffled against me, awkwardly squeezing me against the hood of a parked car, against which my case noisily brushed.
You were on the other side of the street, about to climb into your lorry. A big lorry which had probably just delivered oysters to the covered market which stood nearby. The company’s name was painted in large letters on the side of the vehicle, together with its address: “Rue B. Patoiseau – MARENNES.”
You halted in mid-ascent, then climbed down again to come to my rescue. I was a trifle shaken, no more.
“Are you OK?” you asked. “You’re not hurt?”
You picked up my case. You were much taller than me, film star-size. With a cheerful, sly glint in your winter sea green eyes, which reminded me – why not? – of clear, fresh oysters.
“You were leaving on holiday?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I was going to spend Christmas with my family in La Rochelle. But I’m worried that my train might be full and I forgot to make a reservation…”
You looked me straight in the eyes, pondered just half a second, turned toward your lorry.
“Say, I’ve thought of something…”
And there we are…
Just enough time for you to go to some office to complete the paperwork and for me to make a phone call, and we were on our way, on a long, unexpected, delicious Christmas Eve journey.
We had reached a hill. You slowed down, had to change gear, your hand left my knee for a moment, then swiftly returned. “The truth is,” you said to me, “I’m very shy.” And I was so enjoying this strange conversation where words seemed to be possessed of different meanings. The charming way you said “the truth is”, so pregnant with possibilities.
“Really?” Did I doubt you?
“Not usually,” you added.
“But tonight?” I sought confirmation.
“A bit.”
“Because of me?”
“Thanks to you.”
“And does it feel good?”
“It’s delectable!”
I thought that for a lorry driver your vocabulary was quite charming. And I loved the way you thought.
“How funny…” I said.
“Yes, for a lorry driver, eh?” you answered, and smiled once again. I looked back at you and drowned my gaze in your deeply lined brow. I had always known vile seducers had wrinkles just like yours. And I allowed myself to be seduced…
I put my hand on yours. It was warm, strong. Wise. I pulled my skirt up and encouraged your large hand to shed its innocence and explore further.
“You’re really funny!” you said. “You don’t really look like…”
“But I’m not…”
“What, only tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s Christmas!”
The disappointment on your face was almost comic.
“I thought it was because of me…”
“Thanks to you!” I corrected you.
And we sealed our complicity with an exchange of meaningful looks and smiles.
“Keep your eyes on the road. Our hands are old enough to look after themselves. Especially yours.”
“It’s not always an advantage to have such large hands,” you said, as your fingers approached the edge of my knickers.
I did not answer but pulled my buttocks up, and pulled off the piece of underwear obstructing you. And wedged myself deep into the seat, opened my thighs and again closed my eyes.
Your hand sported intelligence. At first, it made no demands. Wandered quietly over my fur, knuckles slowly skimming over its surface, a pleasing caress. The hum of the lorry’s engine and the bumps in the road echoed all the way through to my sex, where I could feel a whole network of nerve terminals vibrating in unison. It was like a sort of telephone switchboard in my lower stomach, impatiently awaiting calls and demands.
“Tell me…” you asked.
I did not misunderstand your request. All you wanted to hear from me was how I felt right then.
“I know it’s called a pussy,” I said. “I feel as if it’s about to miaow!”
“I love animals,” you answered.
“They always return your affection,” I whispered back, my voice suddenly quite hoarse as one of your errant fingers penetrated me.
You found it amusing to enter and withdraw from me in a slow, gentle rhythm. I slipped my hand under the palm of your hand, still warming my mons, found my bud and delicately landed on it, careful not to rush anything, to make this holy moment last as long as possible, this very instant when imagination moves residence and settles in highly secret places.
My dreams were at sea, balanced on the waves. My cunt was the sea, waves crashing against each other, ebb and flow, ebb and flow…
I was in the depths, dark, salty, wetter than wet and my stomach was initiating a new, steady pulse, ever increasing in strength: hold back, hold on, hold back, hold on… I was becoming an underwater cave, a dizzy abyss. Soon I would require something stronger, something to war against, to fight back, to digest. I beckoned the myths of the great sea serpent, the indefatigable swimmer, the steel-membered Argonaut. I begged to be taken…
You were still driving, your eyes on the road, a foreigner to all that was happening between my thighs. You kindly offered me another finger. It was welcome, but the angle of penetration slowed its movements, causing pain in the midst of pleasure.
“You’re wet!” you said.
“You’re the one who’s making me wet. I’m like a jetty covered in kelp, you know, after the wave has subsided… A jetty after the storm…”
I thought of mooring bitts. I placed my left hand on your flies.
You raised yourself slightly to allow me to unbutton your top button, as it was too tight. The rest came easy. I quickly found you.
It’s damn crazy to jerk off like that, a thick cock in hand, and dreaming of being elsewhere. Can drive you mad.