Often shocking but never gratuitous, Monsieur is, paradoxically, a coming-of-age story—her seduction of the married man and its devastating aftermath leaving Ellie older and wiser than she once was after their four-month affair comes to its unpredictable conclusion. At once a novel-confession and a description of the descent from passion to cruel fantasy, this is the disenchantment of a contemporary Lolita.
Often shocking but never gratuitous, Monsieur is, paradoxically, a coming-of-age story—her seduction of the married man and its devastating aftermath leaving Ellie older and wiser than she once was after their four-month affair comes to its unpredictable conclusion. At once a novel-confession and a description of the descent from passion to cruel fantasy, this is the disenchantment of a contemporary Lolita.
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Overview
Often shocking but never gratuitous, Monsieur is, paradoxically, a coming-of-age story—her seduction of the married man and its devastating aftermath leaving Ellie older and wiser than she once was after their four-month affair comes to its unpredictable conclusion. At once a novel-confession and a description of the descent from passion to cruel fantasy, this is the disenchantment of a contemporary Lolita.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781611458442 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Arcade |
| Publication date: | 09/21/2012 |
| Sold by: | SIMON & SCHUSTER |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 384 |
| File size: | 481 KB |
About the Author
Emma Becker is twenty-two years old, and a student of communication at the Sorbonne. Mister is her first novel.
Read an Excerpt
Monsieur
By Emma Becker, Maxim Jakubowski
Skyhorse Publishing
Copyright © 2011 Emma BeckerAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-61145-844-2
CHAPTER 1
Book I
'Dear me, how beautiful you were on the phone tonight!'
Sacha Guitry, Les Femmes et toi
APRIL
Lolita, by Nabokov. A book that led me on the path to damnation. I don't think you could find a more guilty title in my library. I had journeyed through de Sade, Serpieri and Manara, Mandiargues, Pauline Réage, but none had produced the itch that literally threw me into Monsieur's arms. I see it clearly now. I should have been kept well apart from the yellowing old copy that stood innocently on the shelf. It was there I learned all there is to know about a particular type of man, worldly but weary, whose gaze is invariably drawn to young girls, and how those men focus on bodies that are no longer children's but not quite women's. It's the book in which I learned about the inner voice that draws them to nymphets. I learned how to decipher the vice beneath their respectable appearance, their adoration of the tousled goddesses they name Lolita.
Lolita. Demanding beyond reason, possessive and jealous, drawn into an endless war (which she has already won) against all other females, looking down on them despite her diminutive stature, her slender limbs and her age: she is fifteen years old, the age at which Nabokov killed her. The men we are talking about, in their serious suits and oxford brogues, kneel at the altar of these little darlings, for reasons that are wrong, and sordid to many: their innocence and the softness of their skin; their arses and breasts, which defy Newton's laws of gravity; their fingers, which lack shame, their small hands manipulating in childlike fashion – hands that have probably held nothing larger than a Magnum icecream (isn't there playful appetite in the way they hold this new delicacy?); their eyes, which are like harpoons because invariably, with men, they hold their gaze, in the street, despite the presence of parents, because they have no sense of shame. I now know all there is to know of men's attraction to them, but does anyone know what the nymphet is looking for? What draws her away from long-haired boys towards men as old as her father? Nabokov never let us into what Lolita was thinking when she sat on Humbert Humbert's lap on that pale summer morning. Or why, a few pages earlier, she was jumping across his knees, deliberately mistreating him, knickers flashing, twittering while her worshipper attempted to stem an almost adolescent effusion. It's this parallel reading of the book that I missed, the impossibility of discovering how the story would have unfolded had Lolita been allowed to speak. It was with this in mind that in the previous October I had climbed into the bed of a forty-year-old man. I shall ignore the almost accidental frolic I had when I was fifteen with a young company executive: there are men, and then there are men in their forties. Should you consider the distinction insignificant, I can assure you that not a single member of my tribe has ever confused the two. Nymphets and forty-year-old men attract each other.
That man – what was his name? – hadn't left me exhausted with delight in the morning but neither had he killed my attraction to his sort. I will go further: it was his abysmal lack of savoir faire and sensuality that propelled me on my quest. Maybe I was too demanding; maybe I was hoping too much to fulfil all the perfect scenarios I had imagined: myself, bent to the strength, will, hands and words of a professor, open to anything and prey to every manipulation my body would allow him. I had no wish to talk, and neither of us said a word until four o'clock when I got tired of having him inside me. It was a world away from the excesses that had previously crowded my mind. It was while I was jerking him off that I realized the list of those who could worship me as I wanted was endless. I smiled when he came, thinking of the men in my future.
The following day, scampering towards the Métro, still bone tired from lack of sleep, I realized I knew no more than I had the day before. That older men can sometimes find it difficult to get hard was no surprise. The experience had not been psychologically exciting as I had expected; he had said none of the words I had hoped for, and my body showed no evidence of added maturity, even though I was twenty. When the phone rang and his number lit up, I didn't answer and, after a few weeks' silence, I received this message: 'I'm tired of pursuing you, Ellie. Stop playing at being Lolita. You're too old for that sort of game, and I have no intention of becoming Humbert Humbert, even if I wanted to, which I don't.'
I didn't know Monsieur. I had heard his name a thousand times over meals with my uncle Philippe – they were not only colleagues but close friends. For me, his name evoked the hospital. I didn't know Monsieur. If I'm honest, it's all my mother's fault. In February this year I was slouching up the stairs from my room in the basement, holding my Bible under my arms (La Mécanique des femmes by Louis Calaferte), wondering what to do with myself during the students' strike. It's impossible now to determine what Mum had in mind when she mentioned the surgeon's name. According to her, he was the only person apart from me who appeared to want such a filthy piece of literature – in fact, he was obsessed with it. At first, I couldn't have cared less: Philippe's work colleague belonged to another world, whether or not we were obsessed by the same book, and I couldn't see myself arriving at the clinic to discuss erotica with a man of forty-five.
Forty-five.
Forty-five.
An insidious form of boredom allowed the idea to take root in me that I should meet this man. I would repeat his name aloud, surprised that I found it increasingly attractive in a dangerous sort of way. I searched for it on Facebook and gazed at the only hit, trying half-heartedly to come up with a reason to make him a 'friend'. I had to enter his world like a spy, with literature, a charming Trojan horse, concealing my true purpose. The need to discover everything about him was like a mosquito bite I had to scratch. I had put two or three cunning questions to Philippe and learned that when I was still small I had passed the famous C.S. in the clinic's corridors when Philippe and he had been visiting patients. I plumbed the depths of my memory and recalled my uncle's birthday, two years ago: I had spent an entire evening among a crowd of elders without noticing the man who read the same books as I did, and just happened to have a twenty-five-year start on me. Twenty-five years: such an enormous gap. Twenty-five years spent caressing the bodies of women, subverting procreative sex, while I was still an innocent sucking milk from my mother's breasts. Must I also mention the strong ties connecting Monsieur and my family, thin but strong, like a nylon cord, with the same cutting edge? The heads of twenty-year-old girls are full of improbable romantic scripts: there's the one about the student and the surgeon, where she knows nothing and he knows everything and, standing between them, the dear old uncle, unaware of the drama unfolding around him. (Were he to find out, the erotic tale would swiftly turn into a drama by Racine!)
In March, I moved closer. I no longer needed a face for Monsieur. That he was a surgeon, that he harboured the same tastes as I did, that he was married and had a family made him stand out from the crowd easily enough; those attributes confirmed him as an inhabitant of an almost parallel world, that of Adults (it would be an aberration to define people of my age as such). I didn't need to find him physically attractive (just as long as he wasn't disgusting ...). As I write, I can hear his theatrical indignation: 'So you would have been content with any old fat guy!' To which I can only answer, yes, probably. But let me reassure him: as the story unfolds, we will see that his trap was perfect.
One day I became tired of circling him without his being aware of it. It was April. The shimmering month of April. Pollen was floating down from the chestnut trees and I was bored. The strike struggled on, I wasn't seeing anyone and, as spring came around, I spent my days sprawled on the terrace, sunbathing. I was desperate to meet up with people, men, and experience fever, ecstasy, passion, anything but this deadly lethargy. I had gone over and over the situation in my head and lay in wait, crouched in the shadows, for the moment to reveal myself to Monsieur.
Good evening.
You probably don't know who I am, even if you have kindly added me to your Friends list, so let me tell you: I am the niece of Philippe Cantrel who worked at the clinic until recently. It was through him that I learned you are a reader of Bataille and Calaferte, and I am curious about men who have read and appreciated La Mécanique des femmes. It makes me feel less alone ...!
My name is Ellie, I'm twenty, studying literature, and I've published articles in an erotic magazine. You'd know this already from my Facebook profile, but I thought it would be sensible to introduce myself.
I have no doubt you're a very busy man, but I would be grateful if you could find the time to explain, in just a few lines, what pleases you in Calaferte. I am currently attempting to write 'Mécanique des hommes' so everything is grist to the mill.
Have a lovely evening.
Ellie
At the time I was selfishly fearful because I had no idea how Monsieur might react: I imagined Philippe learning from his shaken colleague about my cunning manoeuvre and screaming at me, 'What's wrong with you, trying to chase a guy of his age? Just wait until I tell your mother! See how clever she thinks you are!'
And me, red in the face, sweating like a pig as the rope tightens around my neck: 'What do you mean, chase? I only wanted to talk about erotic literature!'
Explain yourself, Ellie. Try to explain to the man who changed your nappies and gave your first boyfriends dirty looks the subtle difference between discussing Story of O and shameless flirting. Philippe would see beyond the words. In the dry tone that always gave me the willies he would say, 'Do you think I'm a complete fool? Do you think a guy knows the difference between talking about erotic literature and the chance to have it off?'
Maybe the subtle difference is that there is no difference: I was never stupid enough to believe that an appreciation for writing alone would provoke Monsieur into a response. I just wanted to see how he'd react. Compare my scruples with his. Assess the power of my youth, determine how much weight it held against a marriage and children. Already, in my absence of principles, I was toying with a seductive postscript, providing him with the assurance of my total discretion as long as he would show me what a man was like, a real man, a man who could fill my body and my mind.
MONSIEUR
Ellie,
I am moved to discover that a twenty-year-old is interested in such writers. Actually, I don't remember mentioning this particular cultural interest to Philippe. I have an enormous interest in erotic literature, and own a significant collection centred around Andre Pieyre de Mandiargues. Apart from my work, it's the true passion in my life.
We can meet up and chat whenever you wish.
What magazine have you written in?
(And, by the way, there is no need to be formal with me.)
See you soon.
At first I didn't mention my secret to anyone. It was like keeping a surprise in my pocket, or stifling a scream. On the evening that Monsieur answered me, Babette came to mine for a sleepover. She knitted her eyebrows, concentrating, as she read the first two messages, carefully weighing up every word, while I stood behind her and spilled out my fears.
'No, really, Babette. Really. Do you think that's what he has in mind?'
'I do.'
I was far from reassured by that. 'I just suggested we chat by Internet. He's the one suggesting we meet.'
'He's "moved",' Babette added, like an amateur detective.
'It's not uncommon to be moved. If all he wanted to do was talk, he could have written, "I'm surprised" or "It's unusual to come across people who read Mandiargues."'
'I reckon he's thinking about it.'
'What should I do?'
'I don't know. What do you want to do?'
We were in my room in Nogent. I lit a fag. 'Generally speaking? I'd like to meet him, talk to him.'
Babette stood up and raised her eyebrows. She was dubious. 'Even though I know how you feel about erotic literature, it'll be difficult to have some sort of innocuous relationship with him, if that's what you mean.'
'You asked me what I wanted to do, generally speaking.'
'Basically, you want to find out what he's all about.'
'He's married, he has five kids, he's forty-six and used to work with my uncle. Should the situation ever become ambiguous, it would only mean the guy has balls.'
'Or that he's a pervert.' She had picked up one of my old copies of Bataille and was leafing through it.
I sat down at my desk and stared at my computer keyboard. 'So what is perversion at the end of the day? For me, it's just the opportunity to track pleasure down wherever it's hiding out. I don't know of any men who search for it in books. Especially this kind of book. Maybe it's worth taking a few risks. Well, I think so at least.'
ELLIE
Good evening,
I recently wrote for a literary erotic magazine called Stupre that a friend of mine had set up and which has so far published three issues. Its distribution is fairly limited so it's unlikely you've come across it.
I would be delighted to meet up with you this week, if your work schedule allows; as far as I'm concerned, I have all the time in the world, as my university faculty has been on strike for an eternity and is likely to remain so for some time to come.
I assume you're not on Facebook that often so let me give you my phone number. It'll be easier to communicate that way: 06 68 ...
I hope we'll see each other very soon,
Ellie
(I will try not to be too formal in our dialogue) (but then again ...)
MONSIEUR
There is nothing wrong with being formal, although it makes some forms of dialogue somewhat awkward, which, however, I appreciate. Informality is a reflex, while formality is a choice.
I shall attempt to get hold of Stupre and read you before we meet so I'll have some idea of the way you ... think.
My own number is 06 34 ... and my email address is *****
I'll call you soon.
Until then.
'Surely, you're not going to fall into bed with this guy!'
Having read the mails, Alice was rolling her eyes. I hadn't expected that. Or maybe I had, just a little. Once upon a time I might have reacted similarly, although I haven't a clue when.
'Come on!' I said, looking her straight in the eye, with an assurance I knew I couldn't sustain.
'Well, that's the way it looks.'
'But he's thinking about it, no?'
Maybe Alice could see hope in my evasive gaze. She let out a deep sigh. 'It's you who's thinking about it.'
'But he is too! And I'm not going to sleep with him just because he feels like it.'
'So if you have no intention of doing so, why are you furnishing him with such heavy hints?'
'I'm not providing him with any hints whatsoever. All I'm doing is talking about erotic literature, which I agree is a bit much, but this guy reads the same books as I do. To discuss our taste in reading is not an invitation to fuck.'
'Why couldn't you have simpler tastes, like sport or animals?'
For a moment, sitting cross-legged on my bed, we fell silent. That's how our conversations go when I shock my sister. We were watching our feet, fags in hand, music in the background connecting us. I'm never worried about losing Alice: she's as corruptible as I am and has the same sense of humour, and I knew that if I could find something funny in this story about the surgeon, she'd soon jump aboard. The only problem was that I couldn't see any humour in the situation, not yet at any rate. That it would be easy to corrupt the man amused me, but perhaps I would be the only one to laugh.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Monsieur by Emma Becker, Maxim Jakubowski. Copyright © 2011 Emma Becker. Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
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