Zenith Hotel Read Online Free PDF

around a coffee table isn’t practical. They eat out, it’s more convenient.
    There’s a little Italian on the main road. Emmanuel and Estelle have dinner there sometimes. The two of them, gazing into each other’s eyes. He always has lasagne, which irritates Estelle. He never has anything different – the lasagne’s good, he doesn’t see why he should have something different . They know them there, him and Estelle. The waiter looks like a real Eyetie. His name’s Édouard. Estelle always wants to leave him a tip. She always says he’s stylish. Sometimes, Emmanuel’s jealous. At the same time, he likes it. It’s simple, whenever they come home from the restaurant, Estelle wants to do stuff. It never failed. Driving home, hegets himself in the mood. He chooses the girls he’s going to think about. He’s happy, he feels as if he’s earned his treat. It’s never especially passionate, but it’s worth it anyway.
    Then they go to sleep. It’s a school day tomorrow.

    ‘Call me Nanou.’
    ‘OK, Nanou. I don’t normally do this, you know. I’m a school supervisor. I’ve got responsibilities.’
    ‘Stop talking, will you. Do you like my breasts?’
    ‘Yes, they’re big.’
    ‘Do you want to play with them?’
    ‘Yes, can I rub myself against them?’

    It’s worse when it’s cold. I see the customer coming (I wish there was another word, I’m not running a business ), we’re going to be in the warm. I swallow my pride for some dosh and ten minutes’ electric heating.

    I’m not in good health, I stink of the street. I’m a girl who’s spent her whole life doing this, who doesn’t know how to do anything else. I think that’s what they want. It’s OK to despise me. It makes them feel civilized , it gives them a sense of power. They get turned on by an old trollop who reeks of syphilis and mulled wine. They find it comforting to taste destitution, to defile themselves a little. When they get home, they’ll have a shower and forget all about it.
    I wash myself too, but it doesn’t come out. Their filth is under my skin, under my nails, in my hair. Their smell clings to my body. I scrub myself raw but I can’t get rid of it. Even though I’ve been doing this for a long time, you don’t get used to other people’s filth. It contaminates you as much as it did on the first day.

    These are not the days of cheerful brothels and soldiers on leave. The guys don’t boast about it. There’snothing clever about damaging me a little more. I can tell from their body language that they despise me. That’s my only contact with men. It’s quite something.
    Selling my body and my cunt, my mouth and my hands is a freedom that I give myself. It never lasts long, five or six minutes at most. The rest is chit-chat, answering their questions, laughing at their jokes – that’s another form of prostitution.

    Every morning I loathe myself a little bit more. It’s all very well telling myself that I don’t have to get up at 5 a.m. and jump on a commuter train, put on white clogs Crocs and serve frozen meals in a works canteen, it’s all very well telling myself that I have my freedom, I don’t have to work nine-to-five or file tax returns or fend off a lecherous boss, I still loathe myself.
    There’s no going back. You’re a prostitute for life. The ones who give it up will always remain whores. You’re branded, a tattoo on the heart.

    The street is the world I know. It doesn’t make me feel good. Sometimes, I long for the countryside, farmers and cornfields. Work the land, the green belt. Risewith the sun and go to bed at nightfall, after a bowl of nice, rich broth.
    But there too, it’s the same misery. The man of the fields, his bestiality, his talk … we’ve known and hated each other for generations.
    In Paris, at least, you can count on anonymity. Being lost in the crowd without anyone bothering. There are swarms of people all around your body, but no one notices you.

Victor & Baton
    Baton