Hector and the Secrets of Love Read online

  Dear Hector,

  It makes me sad after our last conversation to think of you alone and so far away. I’m really sorry, I should have waited until you got back to talk about us, but you kept questioning me, and I ended up telling you everything that was bothering me. And now you’ve gone, I’m wondering whether it was a good thing to have told you I was no longer sure about my feelings towards you. I do still love you, otherwise I wouldn’t be missing you now, but, at the same time, and I’m sorry if this hurts, I have the feeling we can’t be a couple any more. I see you as part of my family, but not as my future husband or the father of my children. And yet the thought of never seeing you again is incredibly painful, and part of me wants to hold on to you – as a friend, some would say, but that word is inadequate; I feel closer to you than I do to anyone else in the whole world, and that’s without even mentioning all your amazing qualities.

  You’ll think I’m blowing hot and cold, that I don’t know what I want, and no doubt there’s some truth in that. We’ve known each other for a long time and we’ve already had our ups and downs. There was a time when I wanted us to get married, but I remember you being the one who wasn’t very keen on starting a family. By saying this to you I feel you will fret and blame yourself for having let the moment pass. Don’t torture yourself – that’s life – we don’t choose our feelings and we can’t blame ourselves or others for them.

  You are still the most important person in my life, even though I can’t see us being together any more. It’s dreadful – each time I say this I feel as if I am punishing you, and yet we’ve always been honest with one another.

  Take care, keep safe, and tell yourself that whatever happens you are still my Hector.

  Love and kisses.

  Hector finished his vodka amaretto and waited for the pretty waitress in the sarong to bring him the next one. It was growing dark beside the pool and he wondered how he was going to fill his time while avoiding thinking about Clara. He was trying to do exactly that when he recognised a few melancholy notes in the background music coming from the bar; it was a song he had listened to with Clara, and which just then he was terrified of hearing:

  I no longer love you, my darling, I no longer love you till the end of time.

  I no longer love you, my darling, I no longer love you till the end of time.

  And those sweet strains began to break Hector’s heart.

  Just then, Jean-Marcel turned up, not looking very happy either. He sat down without paying any attention to the song and explained that he had just spoken to his wife on the phone.

  ‘Do you think two people who have loved each other can stop loving each other?’ he asked Hector.

  Hector said he feared it was possible, yes. And he thought about Professor Cormorant’s drugs. Was there one that allowed people to go on loving each other for as long as they wanted?

  ‘I have a feeling it’s over between me and my wife,’ said Jean-Marcel, ‘and yet we used to be so happy together.’

  They ordered a bottle of white wine because cocktails are a bit sickly after a while.

  Jean-Marcel and Hector began comparing notes on women, which is always a good way for men to become friends quickly.

  ‘They never know what they want.’

  ‘And they’re never happy.’

  ‘As soon as we’re nice to them, they make us pay.’

  ‘The worst thing is their friends’ advice.’

  ‘They always want to control us, and once they’ve succeeded they lose interest.’

  Finally, after the second bottle, they decided to go out on the town and ordered a tuk-tuk, which is a local type of rickshaw, except that instead of a bicycle it is a scooter pulling two fat white people while a less fat less white person drives.

  It was quite pleasant driving through the night air after the heat of the day. The streets were fairly quiet, with just a few cars and some dogs, although you could see several bars lit up and some massage parlours with flashing neon signs. Apparently, the people in that town needed round to the temples. But Hector remembered what the hotel manager had said and he realised they weren’t only giving ordinary massages.

  Finally the tuk-tuk dropped them at a bar where a few young Western men were drinking and chatting with some young women who were unmistakably Asian.

  Two of the women immediately came over to talk to them. They wanted Hector and Jean-Marcel to buy them a drink, and in return they seemed willing to keep repeating how handsome they were and trying to find out the name of their hotel. They smiled, showing all their pretty teeth, but in their eyes Hector glimpsed less happy things. Younger brothers and sisters who needed food. A drug dealer who was owed money. Medicines that had to be paid for.

  Hector and Jean-Marcel looked at one another.

  ‘I’m not in the mood,’ said Jean-Marcel.

  ‘Neither am I,’ said Hector.

  They climbed back into the tuk-tuk and Jean-Marcel was clearly quite drunk because he couldn’t get in on his first attempt.

  ‘Kerls, kerls!’ said the driver.

  Hector didn’t understand Khmer; he just said ‘hotel’ and dozed off a little while making sure Jean-Marcel didn’t fall over the side.

  Finally, the tuk-tuk dropped them at another place, a rather dimly lit sort of shed, where a few local men were waiting around in armchairs. Hector and Jean-Marcel were glad of the armchairs, which were a lot more comfortable than the hard seats in the tuk-tuk. The first thing Hector noticed was that they were the only white men there, and then that some young girls were sitting opposite them on plastic chairs under a bright light. They looked like schoolgirls; they wore jeans and brand-name T-shirts, like in Hector’s country, and high-heeled sandals that showed their pretty toes, and some were using their mobiles while others talked or stared into space with bored expressions. Hector wondered why all the young girls were sitting on one side and the men on the other, and why the lights were so bright that some of them were blinking in the glare, and then suddenly he understood.

  He saw that some of the girls stared at him and flashed him little smiles, while others, on the contrary, looked scared and hid their faces as soon as he looked at them. They seemed so young; already women, but still young enough to be at school or watch the pop charts on television. In Hector’s country, they would have been studying or working as shop assistants or trainees. Some of them reminded him of his friends’ daughters, or some of his young patients. They talked among themselves just like girls their age anywhere.

  Hector saw Jean-Marcel was watching them, too. He remembered Jean-Marcel telling him his daughter was sixteen.

  Hector and Jean-Marcel looked at each other again, stood up and walked back to the tuk-tuk.

  ‘Kerls? Kerls? . . . Poys?’ screeched the driver.

  ‘Hotel! Hotel! Hotel!’ Jean-Marcel said, a little too loudly, Hector thought.

  The driver also had a family to feed and commissions to earn from the clients he brought.

  Later, in his room, looking through his notebook, Hector reread:

  Seedling no. 8: Sexual desire is an essential part of love,

  which he had decided wasn’t true for everybody, nor at all times.

  He thought of the girls sitting under the lights and he wrote:

  Seedling no. 10: Men’s sexual desire can create many hells.

  Hector thought of the local men sitting next to him, who took their time before choosing, or only fantasised because they didn’t have enough money to pay for half an hour of a young girl’s beauty, and of all the frustrated men in his own country who might have dreamt of being in a place like that, and of himself (because who knows what might have happened if he had gone there on a different night having drunk a bit less or a bit more or without Clara on his mind?), and it made him think again of old François’s words. What if somebody found a way of suppressing sexual desire? Wouldn’t life be nicer and more decent?

  HECTOR MAKES A CHOICE

  JUST as Hector was dropping of
f to sleep, there was a knock at his door. He turned on his bedside light and walked barefoot across the smooth, varnished acaciawood floor, and opened the door. The young waitress with the complicated name was standing there, as pretty as ever in her sarong, and once again she gave him a graceful oriental bow. She looked nervous. Hector gestured to her to come in.

  He was very surprised. He hadn’t rung for anything, and, besides, it was only in novels that enchanting young women came to knock on your bedroom door at night. As she walked past him, the pretty waitress handed him an envelope. Hector invited her to sit down in one of the armchairs, which she did, crossing her legs underneath her. In the light of the bedside lamp, her face had a beautiful amber glow and her supple figure and her smile gave the impression that one of the stone dancers had stepped off the temple wall under cover of darkness and come all the way to his room. She looked at him without saying anything and he felt a bit uneasy.

  He opened the envelope. As he had suspected, it was a letter from Professor Cormorant.

  Dear friend,

  I left another message for you in the temple, which I trust you found, warning you that everything you do is being watched, including any emails you send from anywhere. That is why I have chosen a charming messenger, the gentle Vayla, to deliver this letter to you, in the certainty that, like Caesar’s wife, she would never be suspected.

  My dear friend, you are now going to be part of my experiment, assuming you have the courage. If you take part, you will be contributing not only to a major scientific advance, but to the beginning of a revolution in the history of humanity, which will transform our customs, culture, art and most probably our economy too. Imagine how different the world would be if we could harness the power of love!

  But let’s not get carried away; this is only a preliminary stage and I myself am still fumbling about, if you’ll pardon the expression.

  I have entrusted the charming Vayla with two small phials containing a solution of two different drugs. I invite you both to go somewhere quiet and take them together. You have nothing to fear. I carried out the experiment on myself and as you can see from the tone of this letter I am still in full possession of my faculties. Only, in order to convince my dear Not, who was not entirely persuaded by the methods of Western science, we took my potion at sunrise in the ruins of the temple of love you visited. We spent several very peaceful, and at the same time very intense, hours there, which she enjoyed, and although my poor knowledge of Khmer and her ignorance of English limited our verbal communication, it fortunately left room for other types of communication and an emotional intimacy to which a common language can so often be an impediment.

  In order that you do not suffer the side effects which I noticed — and which that prude of a hotel manager probably described to you – I have changed the proportions in the solution: less sexual desire, more emotion and empathy. Also, should you wish to avoid developing an inconvenient attachment to the lovely Vayla, I have developed a third drug designed to wipe out all emotional traces of the experiment. I was able to produce it in tablet form. If you decide to take it, I naturally recommend you give half to your partner, so that she won’t be left pining for evermore after your departure. As for me, I haven’t taken the antidote, because I say to myself that, at my age, my lovely, gentle companion is undoubtedly the best thing I could hope for in life. And what of conversation? you will ask. I am no longer interested in conversing, except with a handful of my colleagues and with you. And so . . .

  Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse, Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, With one chain of thy neck.

  Well, dear friend, I imagine you reading this letter, while at your feet the lovely Vayla awaits your decision, ready to obey and to please you. Frankly, the stories her friend must have told her about her experiences with me will already have enticed her, not to mention your own personal charm, which I do not underestimate.

  You will easily find the clue to my next destination and our next possible meeting place – you just have to be able to read!

  Best wishes,

  Chester G. Cormorant

  Hector folded the letter and found Vayla gazing up at him, and he saw in her eyes a look of expectation and trust that he had rarely seen in a human being. Still sitting cross-legged, she was holding in her palm two small cylindrical phials, each about the size of a pen top.

  Hector was in torment. He felt a bit like Snowy when he has to choose between carrying a vital message in his mouth or dropping it in order to seize the delicious bone he has just dug up, and his conscience struggles with a miniature Snowy-devil on one side and a miniature Snowy-angel on the other, each doing their best to win him over. In Hector’s case, the message he had to hold on to was his love for Clara, and the wonderfully tempting bone was Vayla, willing to give herself up to him and to the raptures her friend had described.

  But suddenly the letter he was holding reminded him of the one Clara had written to him.

  I have the feeling we can’t be a couple any more.

  He took the twin phials from Vayla’s hand. She smiled at him and hugged him tenderly round the legs.

  HECTOR MAKES LOVE

  LATER, when he was almost asleep, Hector was thinking that Professor Cormorant had made a fitting choice in quoting verses from the Song of Songs in his messages. That poem expressed so perfectly what he felt with Vayla and what the professor must have experienced with his new friend.

  In the course of a few hours, Hector had experienced with Vayla a range of emotions he hadn’t often felt for the same person: intense sexual excitement, it has to be said, accompanied by a rush of tenderness and affection towards her. And when she wanted him to be more forceful than gentle or at other moments more gentle than forceful, Hector sensed it, all the while feeling this surge of tenderness towards her that was as powerful as his desire. When Vayla stared deep into his eyes, he saw she was experiencing the same intense emotions. As they soared together, borne aloft by the mounting current of their love, Hector could not help asking himself questions. What would it be like when they came down? (Don’t forget that Hector is a psychiatrist, and he has a tendency to analyse his and other people’s feelings, even in the thick of things.)

  What memories, what emotional impressions would he and Vayla have of these moments?

  Luckily, the professor had come up with an antidote that would allow them to dissolve the bond that now bound them together, like melting a chain link that has been forged in a furnace.

  Hector looked at Vayla, lying naked, her eyes closed, a smile on her gently pouting lips. With her arms half raised either side of her head, her legs turned outward and resting flat on the bed, she was like a living replica of one of the stone dancers – apsara, as he had been told they were called – decorating the temple walls. No doubt one of her ancestors had posed as a model and, since in that country nobody travelled much, that harmony had been passed on through the generations only to end up next to him on that bed. Psychiatry is interesting, but travelling isn’t bad either, thought Hector.

  Vayla opened her eyes, smiled and stretched her arms out towards him. Hector knew immediately what he had to do, but he would probably have known that even without the professor’s drug.

  Later, dawn came. The jungle around the hotel was alive with the squawks of countless birds, and even the odd plaintive ou-ou-ou which seemed to suggest the presence of monkeys.

  Hector and Vayla had a few more spells of waking and sleeping, and soon it was midday, the sun was high in the sky and the jungle had gone quiet.

  The phone rang. It was Jean-Marcel.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ he asked.

  Hector looked at Vayla’s profile as she slept.

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ he said.

  Even so, he was afraid; he felt a deep desire to protect Vayla for the rest of her life, to be near her always, to make love to her until his dying breath. He felt swept away by a flood he was powerless to resist.

>   ‘Shall we have lunch?’ Jean-Marcel said.

  ‘Sure.’

  He must wake up completely and take the antidote quickly and make Vayla take it with him. He felt her arms on his shoulders.

  He turned round and immersed himself in her eyes and her smile, at once delighted and terrified by the emotion he felt, which he sensed she was experiencing at the exact same moment, a look of wonder in her eyes, her heart pounding against his chest.

  They mustn’t delay in taking the antidote. He couldn’t tie her to him nor could he be tied to her.

  But when Hector asked her, using gestures, about the professor’s promised antidote, Vayla looked puzzled. She appeared not to understand.

  Hector picked up the hotel biro and notepad and drew two small phials, and next to them an oval-shaped pill. Vayla gazed at his drawing intently, like a young fawn seeing a rabbit for the first time. Hector drew a round pill. Vayla blushed slightly. She looked at Hector and then showed him her slender fingers.

  He understood: she thought he had drawn a wedding ring.

  Hector drew pills of every possible shape — triangular, rectangular, pear-shaped, heart-shaped, in the shape of a four-leafed clover – and even made one out of a piece of scrunched-up paper, but he only succeeded in making Vayla laugh – perhaps she thought he was doing it to amuse her. And Hector couldn’t help laughing when he saw her laugh, and at the same time he was thinking that the real joker was the professor.

  He hadn’t given Vayla the antidote. Or perhaps there was no antidote.

  Now he really had to find Professor Cormorant.

  HECTOR HAS A REST

  ‘You look great!’ said Jean-Marcel.

  I think this climate agrees with me.’

  Jean-Marcel started laughing. ‘You must be the first!’