Ordinary Whore

by Dieter Moitzi

  The next tune I select is so rare and frugal I feel like I could count the single notes with my ten fingers. Satie’s Gnossienne numéro 3.

  I close my eyes again, and the face appears once more.

  Damn it, I can’t forget the scowl. I can’t forget the sadness of that face, a sadness that seems to have seeped into the young man’s very clothes, his features, his soul.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help wishing I knew how to take away that sadness.

  It might ease my own sadness a bit, somehow.

  When the first solemn organ notes of Glass’s Koyaanisqatsi ring through my apartment—I’ve searched for it without noticing—tears are trickling down my cheeks again, unimpeded.

  And the city outside bustles and rushes, the sun is shining, both oblivious to loneliness and feelings.

  —33—

  At last, I realise I cannot go on like this. I cannot allow myself to choke up on stupid memories. I must not pine for someone I’m likely never going to see again and who wouldn’t want me in the first place.

  Moreover, Gloria asked for Japan and ocean swirls and colours. If I continue in the same vein, the only inspiration I will provide will be black, despair, and tears.

  After a long search, I select one of my favourite pop songs, a little gem by two unjustly underrated musicians. The song is called Way Home. With its calm steadiness and homeliness, it lifts my spirits at last.

  I sip my drink, soak myself in the soothing music, feel the lyrics. Maybe there’s hope somewhere, even for me. And if there isn’t, I can at least do this job for Gloria to the best of my abilities.

  I follow up with Pentangle’s version of Let No Man Steal Your Thyme, then PJ Harvey’s The River and The Mountain. I let myself be guided by my intuition, putting together a weird collection of tunes, textures, voices, sounds. This Mortal Coil, Song to the Siren. Roy Harper, Another Day. Institute of Love, O Superman. Majida El Roumi, Ebhath Aanni. Mariza, Primavera.

  This last song, one of the most beautiful fados I’ve ever heard, tears me up again.

  Briskly I stop the song and select the Dhafer Youssef Quartet, Les Ondes Orientales. I get up and walk over to the desk that stands in a corner. Through the bay windows I glimpse the canal de l’Ourcq down below; it sparkles in green and precious hues.

  Absentmindedly I push the papers from one side to the other. There’s a heap of fashion magazines, more than a week old. I should chuck them away. As there’s no better time than now, I take them…

  … and discover Father’s appointment books beneath them.

  Of course, that’s where I shoved them when I came back from that ghastly dinner with my sisters. Staring at them, I realise that apart from his shoddy DNA they are the sole inheritance Father has left me.

  I drop the magazines in the paper bin under the desk and take the two black, leather-bound books with me to my sofa.

  Reluctantly I open the first appointment book, which covers last year, and leaf through the pages.

  How curious. Father officially withdrew from public life a few years ago, but still he met many, many people. There are several appointments each day, including Sundays.

  What a weird life. What drove him to see all those people? What the hell would they talk about? What could be so important that even after he retired, he didn’t seem to have a minute for himself?

  In July, I stumble upon my name. Truth be told, I wouldn’t even have noticed it if he hadn’t underlined it. A single straight line under each mention of “MonfilsMarc.” My son Marc. Oddly enough, he forgot to add blank spaces between the three words.

  I check his other appointments in July. Apparently, Father was in Austria for three weeks—what did he do there, for Christ’s sake?—and apparently, we met ten times. Ten underlined meetings. Ten times “MonfilsMarc.” In Wiener Neustadt, Leoben, Judenburg, Wolfsberg, Villach, Spital an der Drau, Bischofshofen, Salzburg, Wels, and Linz.

  Ten cities I’ve never been to. Ten cities I’ve never even heard of as far as I know, even though I’ve been to Austria twice in my younger years.

  —32—

  Odd that I should be reminded of these visits now. And odder still that the trigger should be ten imaginary meetings my father recorded in his appointment book as if they had really taken place.

  I close my eyes and reminisce.

  The first time I visited Austria, I had just got my driver’s licence. Back then I didn’t mind driving, so I rented a car and spent two lazy summer months travelling around the country. I remember how much I loved all those arbitrary stops in sleepy villages deep in forlorn mountain valleys. I would find rooms in one of the typical quaint, old farmsteads that make the country such a charming place and then go hiking.

  When you’re walking up a narrow mountain path, you can almost forget about the other seven billion people crowding the planet, most of whom are probably willing to use you for their own advantage. Everything feels more intense, more meaningful, less shabby up on a mountain.

  Provided you’re alone, that is.

  The second time must have been four or five years later. A Brazilian guy I had met in one of the boarding schools—as rich as Croesus—had founded an exclusive escort service and had asked me if I wanted to enrol. That was before I worked for Alessandra, of course. I had thought, why not, and one of my first missions had led me to Austria.

  In fact, my client was a well-known politician. I didn’t know it because otherwise I would have politely refused the job—since I was little, I had had enough dealings with politicians to last me a lifetime and wasn’t keen on having anything to do with them now. A mere handshake, and I always felt dirty.

  Anyway, the guy, in his late forties, turned out to be a good-looking, unnaturally tanned chap. He had that mischievous little boy thing going which, combined with his amazing shrewdness and complete absence of scruples, had made him an instant media darling and a political shooting star. He had those small eyes that were sparkling with intelligence, and a rather cute, lopsided grin. Beautiful teeth that must have cost him a fortune. Well, he wouldn’t have cared—he was loaded. An inheritance or something if I remember correctly.

  At first, I was surprised by how small he was. He tried to compensate his size by a hypermasculine stance and that sort of public aggressivity one often encounters with small men. But in private he was the most captivating guy, very sweet and considerate, and a skilled conversationalist.

  He was taken aback by how well I spoke German when he met me. “I thought you’d have that cute French accent,” he said, looking me over. “That’s sexy as hell.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I replied. “I can fake it if you want.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t bother. I’d know that you are faking it, and I’d wonder what else you’d be faking.”

  Afterwards—after his untimely death, that is—I was told he had a nasty cocaine habit, but if so, he never indulged in my presence, never offered me any powder, and never seemed to be drugged.

  But then, I was no specialist, either.

  What astonished me, too, was his entourage. No fewer than four bodyguards were constantly around him, all strikingly handsome, plus his personal secretary, a lean, tall, almost good-looking young chap who shared his liking for that leathery overtanned skin tone. I had the impression the six of them shared other things as well. Meaning the man was married—I found it out afterwards, too—but walking around with his personal harem, and no one seemed to notice or take umbrage.

  We spent a few uneventful days in Vienna before we headed into the countryside. The region where the guy had rented a splendid villa was one I hadn’t visited before, some kilometres east of Vienna. I remember an idle evening. We were sitting on the terrace overlooking a flat, almost feature-less landscape with a vast, scintillating lake that spread to the horizon. Hot gusts of wind were blowing over from the endless Hungarian
plains. They smelled of sand and dust somehow.

  The politician, in a striped tank top and dark shorts, was mixing cocktails. Two of his goons were barbequing sausages and meat, both shirtless, their toned torsos glistening in the last golden rays of the day. The two other bodyguards had disappeared inside to prepare a salad, I was told. The secretary was sitting across from us smoking and staring glumly at me. I think he was seriously in love with his boss and had maybe hoped we would have a nice threesome, but as I remember, he was never asked to join us.

  As for the boss himself… Well, he was a politician, so he was seriously in love with himself and with power. In that order.

  What I remember most acutely was the feeling of homeliness. The five guys were so used to spending time with each other, it was like watching a loving, caring family.

  Which was strange because that—a family of five gay guys—was precisely not the family the politician was defending in his public speeches.

  The last evening, we drove to one of the small villages along the lake shore. First, we went for a walk down a path with lush birch trees to our left and rustling reed to our right. The politician tried to tell me about his political ideas, rather neo-con and very nationalist.

  “This country is in serious trouble,” he said. “We need to put Austrians first and fight all those immigrants, you understand?”

  “In fact, no, I don’t,” I replied honestly. “Everybody looks so content wherever I go. Austria seems to be a rich country, and people seem to be doing fine. Everything’s tidy and snug, almost like a postcard.”

  “You’re utterly wrong,” he said sharply. “Those pinstripes socialists and lukewarm conservatives have ruined the country.”

  I didn’t want him to get all riled up, so I said meekly, “I admit I don’t get politics most of the time.”

  He calmed down and patted my hand. “It’s all right. Don’t worry your pretty head over these things.”

  We ended up in a nice little tavern where they sold excellent if a bit greasy food and the wine the owners produced themselves. The evening trickled along nicely, and we got rather tipsy, I’m afraid.

  I remember there was a big party of Americans sitting at the next table. They were discussing loudly, downing bottle after bottle. At one point, one of the women ordered two bottles of red wine and two of white. When the waiter had brought the wine, we heard her say proudly, “Now we can mix’em up and have rosé wine.”

  We shook with laughter.

  I remember those were the carefree days.

  I didn’t feel good, I didn’t feel bad.

  I didn’t feel anything.

  —31—

  The concert of the Dhafer Youssef Quartet is over, my apartment is silent. I select Tchinares by Levon Minassian and Armand Amar. The otherworldly melancholic sound of Minassian’s duduk rings through space and time.

  I stare at the appointment book again. In fact, if I remember correctly, last year in July I was cruising the Caribbean with a bunch of wealthy US socialites. A ghastly experience, but very lucrative.

  I certainly did not travel through Austrian backwoods towns with my father, of all people.

  What the hell is that rubbish?

  I go back to January and read the pages again, one after the other, paying more attention.

  Most of the names I don’t recognise.

  But there. Father met Jean-Paul, Mother’s manager. In February. Three times.

  He loathed that man, perhaps as violently as I do.

  And that isn’t all. There are more surprises.

  When I’ve finished the book, I’m stunned, simply stunned. Father met with people he normally wouldn’t have given the time of day, even if his life depended on it.

  Not only Jean-Paul but also Jane. Jane the feminist, for heaven’s sake. Once a month, for two hours. He saw several members of the current majority in the Assemblée Nationale—they were his political opponents. He saw the home secretary, a man I would have thought too shady, too borderline even for Father.

  And he met me. After the imaginary ten times in Austria, in July, we supposedly met again in Luxemburg, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, and Jersey between August and December.

  Jersey!

  I mean, what. The. Fuck.

  Yet there it is. “MonfilsMarc.” Underlined.

  Random songs wash over me, but I don’t even listen anymore. The noise in my head is getting louder and louder. The ice in my tumbler has melted down to water.

  When I’m finished reading, I sit there for a moment, staring at the appointment book in my hands, and can’t see anything, can’t get a grip on reality, can’t form a single coherent thought.

  I feel as if caught in my own, private Glamorama. With a lot less glam, a lot less confetti, certainly no flies, but still with all its unrelenting, inextricable, incomprehensible plot enmeshing the clueless main character Victor Ward.

  Then I give myself a mental shove and pick up the second appointment book.

  It’s almost empty except for meetings with my sisters and some business relations whose names I vaguely recognise. Father saw Jean-Paul one last time in March, and Jane in April. He saw Maître Chambard twice. He saw a certain “G.” once.

  I’m completely absent from this book, which shouldn’t surprise me. We never met this year. But that doesn’t mean a thing—we never met last year either, and still, I found “MonfilsMarc” on every other page.

  I notice one last entry at the end of April.

  “Juliette, Limes.”

  I google Limes, which turns out to be… a small town in Belgium.

  Belgium? What did he do in Belgium? And who is Juliette?

  Her name stirs a vague memory. I close my eyes and try to remember where I’ve heard it before.

  Of course!

  Father’s estranged sister Juliette. We’ve never seen her, we’ve almost never heard of her. My father and she didn’t talk with each other, for whatever reason.

  Why would he go to see her after all those years?

  Unwillingly, I have to give in. I don’t want to ask questions, but I think I have no other choice now.

  I would have liked to talk to Jane, but she forbade me to call her. I can’t even contact my sister to ask her to organise a meeting. All I can do is try to find out who my unknown aunt is and what she can tell me.

  I need to go to Limes.

  As my laptop is open, I wikipedia my father. Good—there’s a short mention of Juliette Dubois, née Forgeron. Google spits out her current address, which is indeed situated in Limes, Belgium.

  It’s just as easy to find out how to get there.

  When I have booked a train ticket to Sedan and contacted a local car rental agency, I stare at the screen for a while, a half-formed idea beckoning like a red flag.

  I try to shake it off, to shrug it away, but to no avail.

  My suspicions win, and I google my own name.

  There are several entries. Innocuous ones, all in relation to social events; I’m always listed as a tourism consultant.

  I spend half an hour following the different links, typing in more specific searches. But try as I might, not a single link gives away my phone number. It doesn’t even appear in the Yellow or the White Pages.

  And yet, only two hours ago, Gloria claimed she had found it by googling me.

  Is it possible that…? Is Gloria in on the strange things that have happened to me over the last couple of weeks?

  Has Gloria betrayed me as well?

  I’m still mulling over it when I notice the music. Slow, quiet, atmospheric string triads. Ever-changing and yet oddly static, they sound like eternity put into notes, like the long-stretched mutism of those who know, see, and hear nothing.

  Then, a solo trumpet blares out, off-rhythm, followed by dissonant woodwinds that follow their own pace, too.<
br />
  A bitter chortle escapes me.

  Charles Ives’s Unanswered Question.

  How fitting.

  Part Seven | Ordinary Family

  —30—

  I’m gazing out the window while the Gare de l’Est pulls away. Almost a déjà vu experience if it weren’t for the unexpected fat and bulging clouds that cover the sky and make the cityscape look grey and weary. I sip the takeaway coffee and take a bite of the pain au chocolat I’ve bought at the railway station.

  The train is surprisingly full. It’s a weekday, after all, so I would have wagered I would be all by myself. It’s too early for anyone going on a pleasure trip but quite late for those who commute to Reims for their jobs.

  Once we leave Paris behind, I check out the people in our open-space compartment. I’m getting more paranoid every day. But I think I have nothing to fear right now. Nondescript men in executive suits, ties, and neatly ironed shirts are sitting around me, with a couple of nondescript women in dark blue, conservative skirts, blouses, and blazers thrown in. Expressionless faces, some scowls, a few frowns. Many are reading newspapers, headphones stuck in their ears. Some have switched on laptops and are studying their screens with tired but obsessively purposeful looks.

  I hear the fast chuck-CHUCK, chuck-CHUCK of the TGV wheels gliding over the rails, some faint clicks when fingers press keys, a man speaking in a low voice on his mobile. The overhead lamps cast a warm, yellow light, yet the air conditioning is working full blast, chilling me to the bones.

  What a strange atmosphere. It almost lulls me back to sleep.

  At least, I feel relatively safe. Somehow, I believed there would be a nasty surprise this morning, but no one waited outside my apartment building, no one followed me to the métro station, and no one stalked me on my way to the Gare de l’Est. That came as a relief. Honestly, I don’t know what to expect anymore. Since I boarded the train, no one has looked at me, either, and no one is looking right now. They’re all concentrating on their own little selves, all travelling in their own little bubbles.

  Flat fields and soft hills rush by outside, their lush spring colours dulled by the low-hanging clouds. Not much to see here. And yet, staring at landscapes and people is all I have the energy to do this morning. Sometimes, when there’s too much happening on the inside, it’s easier to focus on the outside.