No Touching

by Ketty Rouf

  “Martin, I get it, it’s not easy to force ourselves to take things for what they aren’t. The only way is to kill off a little part of ourselves.”

  “Well, look. I’d better get back to my grading and my oh-so-saintly job. Didn’t Kant say it was impossible to be immoral in doing one’s duty?”

  “He absolutely did.”

  Then I add, “Wait—I haven’t put it in your pigeonhole yet, but here’s your present. Baricco.”

  “Thanks, Jo. What would we do without this stuff?”

  Martin kisses me on the cheek and takes the book, squeezing my hand. I watch him walk away, bringing the hand he squeezed up to my nostrils. I think I like his scent. I think I’d like to press my body against his, too. But how can I tell this respectable man of letters that I put my ass on display several nights a week, to make men get hard so they’ll give me lots of money? The discrepancy flashes through my mind in all its crudeness. Martin wouldn’t like Rose Lee. She’d awaken the pig inside him, the one he stifles with poetry. I caught him staring at my chest once. Just once. I liked it. But Martin will only yield to the temptation of angels, talks only about “saintly sighs” and “the cries of the fairies.” He clings to metaphor and euphemism to escape the ugliness of the world. It’s hard to imagine him giving way to animal sensuality. And yet . . . the poet, too, buckles under the weight of the burden he carries between his legs. That’s all literature talks about. What if he saw me, nearly naked onstage? Maybe he wouldn’t even recognize me. Rose Lee’s eyes are dark with kohl and mascara. She changes her hair, uses extensions, wears it down. Rose Lee wears a corset. Her skin is velvety, her back arched, her breasts voluptuously revealed. Rose Lee could be a thousand other women. She isn’t me.

  I quickly go to collect my things and stow away the copy of a new teaching manual sent by a publishing house so I can get home. There’s a green envelope in my pigeonhole, on top of a pile of administrative papers.

  Drancy, December 10, 2005

  Dear Madame,

  Thank you—your reply was great! You made me so happy, you don’t even know. I wasn’t sure if I should write you. I have a problem, but I can’t talk to my friends about it. I can’t tell them I’m interested in philosophy to solve my problems. I know I don’t need to explain it to you, you understand everything.

  You say philosophy taught you that there are ideas that can save us. What ideas are those, Madame? I’ve read your letter over and over again, but I don’t understand. But you can help me, I know it. So what the hell. Two years ago, I was in tenth grade with a girl named Anne. She and her family moved, and she transferred to another school, near Sceaux, I think. We were really good friends; she helped me with my schoolwork a lot. You can probably guess the rest. Except there is no rest, and that’s the problem. I think I like her, but I’ve never been able to work up the guts to tell her. She intimidated me too much. And I was a coward, and I didn’t even go to her going-away party. I’m so mad at myself. I’ve been mad at myself for two whole years. What can philosophy do for that? I just can’t see it at all.

  Thank you, Madame.

  Hadrien

  * * *

  Paris, December 12, 2005

  Dear Hadrien,

  You’ve made my day! And I’m a bit flattered, too, I’ll admit. If my letter made you feel enthusiastic and made you want to go further, I’m very glad to take some time for you and try to give you some concrete answers, this time, for the problems you’re dealing with.

  Philosophy speaks in concepts. More radically, philosophy is the creation of concepts. Its way of moving forward is abstract; it doesn’t speak directly to “life stuff.” What it attempts to do, rather, is theorize about those things. To get straight to the heart of real things, reading literature might be a better bet. There’s no better education. But let’s talk about philosophy! Let’s think about your problem. You’re suffering from regret: at not confessing your love, not acting to find out whether your feelings were mutual. I know how hard that can be. Maybe you can forget—but are we truly capable of making ourselves forget? I don’t believe so. In reading your letter, a very beautiful saying from a Stoic philosopher leapt to my mind first thing. Marcus Aurelius, remember him? We’ve talked about him in class. He said, “We do not control what happens; we merely control how we respond to it.” Right now, you’re feeling as if you’ve failed: “I should have, but I didn’t.” So be it. Yet, if we reflect on the meaning of Marcus Aurelius’s words, we can see that you have two options available to you. First, the past is past, and you can’t control it anymore, but the choice is yours whether to accept that or not. In other words, if you refuse to accept what you didn’t do, you’re adding anger to your regret. Accepting it means exercising the power of your own free will over your thoughts and soothing the regret and sadness that go along with those thoughts. Second, though you can’t change the past, you can act on the present, not only through reflection, but also with action. In other words, it isn’t too late to get in touch with Anne and ask to meet up with her, or whatever you like. When action is possible, it’s a way of exercising our power over the course of events, and thus over our lives. The consequences of action can’t always be predicted and aren’t entirely within your control (which is why you have to think carefully, to engage in the work of reflection, you might say). But you do have the power, right here and now, to accept the past or not, and to act now, or not.

  Sincerely,

  Josephine

  7

  Andrea’s assigned me a newly freed-up locker. It’s like a promotion: Rose Lee’s name is up in the dressing room. I peeled off the sticker with Electra’s name on it, the one who got herself fired. She’d tried to disable the camera in one of the private rooms. Electra had forgotten that the eye never stops watching us. Some dancers are tempted, sometimes, to promise clients what they can’t give them. Fleur didn’t like Electra; this wasn’t the first time she’d seen her break the rules. “It’s what she deserved,” she told me. “She was stupid, and she got caught.”

  I’ve been Rose Lee for about a month now. Not bad for someone who never should have even started this job, and now keeps putting off her resignation. I started. I kept going. And the problem now is that I’m starting to get emotionally involved here. Having a locker means you’re part of the family. It touches me. And besides, I’ve decided to allow myself to keep dancing through the holiday vacation. It’s been forever since I could take advantage of the semiannual sales in January. I need boots, a coat, sheets, a desk lamp, and new glasses. I’d like to go on a trip during the February break. Somewhere exotic, sunny in the middle of winter, with a new bathing suit. The top floor of Galeries Lafayette has an huge range of bathing suits to choose from all year round. That’s luxury, too—sunshine, twelve months of the year. All those things a humble little civil servant could never afford, unless they’ve opted for a career as an expatriate teacher in Tahiti or Mauritius or the Caribbean. I make more money than an expatriate teacher, but I’m not actually allowed to. Civil servants cannot combine public-sector employment with paid private work. It’s called “obligation to exclusive exercise of function.” Law no. 83-634, effective July 13, 1983. It’s categorical. Last month I rented a safety-deposit box at my bank. I don’t put anything but two-hundred- and five-hundred-euro notes in it. I love making those little yellow and pink bundles; it gives me goosebumps every time. The pleasure is incomparable, but I know it won’t last. In addition to tips, I get paid a salary via bank transfer. And that’s proof of other employment. That’s the unambiguous reality that will show up on my tax return. I’ll be required to stop. It’s not sustainable, the vast difference between day and night, the public sector and the private. Rose Lee is going to end up trapping Jo. I’ve been thinking about a career change for years—but, other than teaching, what can I be with a master’s degree in philosophy? A stripper?

  I’ve decided to give myself a little more time. Ton
ight I’m wearing that beautiful transparent black dress and flouting the so-called obligation to morality: “In his or her private life, the civil servant is required to behave in a manner that conveys dignity and must never display an attitude that risks shocking others.” Bit obtrusive, that civil servitude. Hand in hand with Fleur, I go upstairs.

  It’s Sharon’s turn onstage. Fleur whispers in my ear: “Have you seen her new ass yet? Remember? She was so gross with that paunch—can you imagine gaining weight just so they can inject the fat into your ass? What are these bitches gonna do when big asses aren’t trendy anymore?”

  “Maybe it’ll deflate.”

  “Chicks like that don’t deflate.”

  A customer calls Fleur over, and she walks away. It’s beginning early tonight. I look for Poppy, so we can start out together. We’re stronger in pairs; it gives us the courage to flirt with customers, even without drinking. We sit down at tables without being invited. That’s how the game works here. The men like it; it saves them from having to make the first move. And here, the first move isn’t some covert operation. We trade roles, and everything becomes simpler, communication is much clearer, we’re all finally speaking the same language. Sometimes we’re partners in crime, one held hostage by his own desire, the other seized by the giddiness of seduction.

  Being that woman means playing with a man. Offering him the dream, but being the only one to capitalize on it. He believes her, she lets him. He asks, she stalls. He has expectations, she walks away. Sometimes he pays a lot of money for her just to make conversation with him, smiling while she drinks his bottle of champagne. At other times, he thinks he’s buying something. “I’m paying you,” he says. Yes, he’s paying her for the pleasure of not having her. And it will be incredible; she’s the one who’s promised him that. He sits down, steeling himself not to come, and asks her for more and more bliss, because she is a professional who will bend over backwards to give him endless pleasure. But it doesn’t come cheap. He pays not to touch. He pays not to see. He pays not to have it. He’ll empty his bank account for her. The stripper, and the oblivion. Worse than a prostitute. But when he goes home, he’s comforted. The bed is warm; his wife is sleeping. And he has had the dream. It was real, like the pleasure of jerking off in the bathroom. He’s pleased with himself for not actually having done anything. He hasn’t cheated on his wife. No, he hasn’t.

  The circle is complete. The show is over.

  But it will start again, endlessly.

  He will come back, to drink in the sight of the dancer, facing the mirror in which she is who she has always wanted to be. As a woman. As a man. When the woman dances, it’s always herself she’s dancing with. That pleasure can’t be shared; it’s hers alone, untransmittable. But he thinks, out there in the audience, that she’s dancing for him. Sometimes he even thinks that she desires him, or that she’s fallen in love with him. The illusion is so perfect that he’d rather believe she’s lying when she denies it sweetly. The truth is that she’s driving him to romanticize, to fantasize, to pay for her future vacations and her new clothes and her silk sheets. Both of them are hiding behind that curtain in the private room, their pleasure out of sight.

  I start my night off with a banker who likes to read poetry. He regrets not having followed his dream in life of doing what he loves most: reading, writing, and flying. He didn’t want to burden his parents with the cost of earning a pilot’s license, so he chose caution, security. He’s thinking of quitting his job. But no, he can’t. He’s about to become a father. The baby is due next week. “I’m not married,” he keeps repeating. “No, I’m not married.”

  At around two A.M., I go down to the dressing room for my snack. When I come back upstairs, I think I spot the man with the green eyes, but it isn’t him. Something’s nagging at me. I don’t want to trawl for any more dances or money tonight. Cédric’s arrival is providential. I fling my arms around him.

  “You’re here to rescue me! Thank you!”

  “I don’t know what I’m rescuing you from, but don’t disappear. I want to watch you—alone.”

  At closing time, I follow him without hesitation.

  Later, I call the principal’s secretary to say I’m not going to be at school. I decide to start my vacation a day early. My scruples vanish entirely at the prospect of having some fun. Right now, everything seems clear. Joséphine, that little coward, is seeking her redemption. I’m still Rose Lee with Cédric, even after the night, without my heels or costume, but still ready to party. We go to his restaurant, which is brimful of music, the kitchen clattering with good food and cakes coming out of the ovens. We drink champagne and eat salad, and he prepares some filet of beef with black pepper—an improvised recipe that’s his remedy for the exhaustion of the night. And I have nothing to do except indulge myself. To be Rose Lee, stopping the sunrise, prolonging the night, the day. To be with him every morning, as long as our mutual pleasure lasts. Rose Lee, giving herself up to Cédric’s kisses. Rose Lee, lingering with him in his bed in the flat behind the kitchen, waking up to the smell of the warm croissants he brings for her. The customers are already there; I meet the chef’s knowing gaze and sit down at the table right next to the counter. My new place in life. I gaze at Cédric, my whole body straining toward his caress.

  He serves me a strong coffee.

  Some of the girls have warned me never to turn around if someone calls out my stage name in the street. To avoid being recognized, they hide behind sunglasses—which they wear even in winter—or beneath hats, muffled up in scarves. No more sequins. No more mask. Drawn, unglamorous faces, one last cigarette between their lips. They head for their cars or for a taxi, eager to get home, on the nights they haven’t changed into clubwear to keep the party going. I’ve sometimes fallen asleep with my makeup still on, taught my first few classes with glitter stuck to my cheeks, run my fingers through my hair and smiled at men passing on the street. I explore my body the way you would a new lover’s. I am putty in my own hands. I hated this body for so long, but now it’s my personal celebration. And not only when I use my charms on men only too happy to succumb to them, or when I’m beneath the lights, facing the mirrors and that perfect illusion. It’s my body, only mine. It isn’t without flaws, but Rose Lee has made it desirable. She has what it takes to bestow pleasure and drive away shame. Something only men like. I’ve let Jo fall away along with my clothing. I pushed moral order to the cliff’s edge, and it fell and smashed, and deservedly so. For me, the most beautiful fall is the waterfall of my hair cascading down my back. I mean, fuck it! Finally I can say, fuck it all! Fuck the cafeteria, fuck seriousness, fuck the students, fuck standardization. Fuck Descartes! The body isn’t a thing, but the thing that thinks. And above all, above all, fuck always being so well-spoken. I can permit myself to be light and lowbrow. I don’t intellectualize everything anymore, because that’ll make a hard cock wilt. Rose Lee doesn’t need a master’s degree. I became Rose Lee so that culture wouldn’t be the instrument of my own lies anymore. I became her to stop hiding myself behind a pair of cotton panties with little pink flowers, pubic hair poking out like weeds. What will my desires be if I’m only Jo, with her big jugs, unable to look away from her love-handles? This stomach sheathed in a corset is no longer Jo’s. And neither is this hairless pussy. We’re finally looking each other in the eye, her and me, our gazes meeting in the mirror. I used to allow my pussy to be looked at, but I never wanted to see it. I couldn’t make out the rosy flesh, the folds of the little lips, the way they were beautifully asymmetrical. But now I know my pussy well, and I love it. I’d love to show it to all the men I encounter during the nights. I wax it a few times a week, sometimes every other day. My skin has never been so smooth. I’ve never bought so many disposable razors, exfoliating scrubs, body creams, hand creams, foot creams, face creams, hair products.

  At home, I dance naked, with or without music. I occupy my own body because it is me, my stomach, my th
ighs, my arms. And the pussy and the ass, those are me, too. I’m not naked when I’m nude, anymore. I’m a complete being. I strike Rose Lee’s poses in front of the mirror and stare at myself, astonished. I spread my legs, to possess myself. I part the lips and slide a fingertip inside my moistness and taste myself. It’s my taste. It’s me. I slap my own ass. One slap, and then a caress. My life has the softness of my skin, the exuberance of my breasts. Before, I was just dragging my carcass around. I only thought of my body when I was trying to forget that I had one, when I was trying to erase it beneath clothes that were too big, hiding my legs, flattening my chest. Always exhausted, pins and needles all over, the spreading tentacles of inertia. My body was trying to escape, it had stopped belonging to me. Just a lump, an abscess that swells and swells and ends up exploding.

  8

  I’m not a lesbian, not at all, but honestly, I’ve totally fallen for you. I’ve been watching you. You’ve made so much progress since you started here. You should be coming in more often; the customers are always asking to see Rose Lee. If I were a man, I’d want to marry you. Come on, let’s have a drink.”

  Iris takes me by the hand. We worked together last night, at the same table, midway through the evening. That’s how you get to know the other girls, at a table with customers. It helps me understand better what they expect from the strippers. I watch the other girls. There’s a lot to learn from the way they act. Iris, for example, deploys her charms with the spontaneity of a child, but every move is actually shrewdly calculated. She figures out each customer’s personality very quickly and puts herself on the same level.

  Iris is an actress. She dances at night to make some money and keep her membership in the stage actors’ union. Almost no one in her life knows about her nocturnal activities. She takes full advantage of the job; being a stripper allows her to play all kinds of different roles, and understanding the men helps her to understand herself better. She came to Paris to work, but her family lives near Metz, and she goes back regularly to take care of her hedgehogs. She and her sister have set up a little refuge—Iris likes to call it a hospital—for the critters they find and nurse back to health. One day, when she’s got a lot of money, she’s going to open a hedgehog rescue center.