Strange Landscape (III)
Third chapter of Tony Duvert's Paysage de fantaisie
[read Chapter 2 here]
when it’s two o’clock it’s time to take a seat they get their stacks of picture books and bags of sweets they drop their trousers and sit on the well-greased chairs they don’t get up except to go to the toilet it lasts until six the chairs are lined up in the big room upstairs next to the photo studio a guy stays with us to check we aren’t faking but we don’t try to fake it because it’s only with the chairs and their rods that it hurts less to get buggered they fuck us in the afternoons or at night after that we’re free except for a few who leave for the night the clients are very rich they even invite boys on holiday the whole world is very rich except for us
me I didn’t know how to read I’d fall sleep on my chair after an hour I’d dream the guy came to tie me down so I wouldn’t fall he didn’t stop me sleeping they treated us well never a smack never a punishment and as many sweets as we wanted in the mornings we walked in the countryside wherever we liked you had to be back before two there was always whatever we liked to eat and no one ran away I would’ve run away in the beginning but they watched me too closely it was only the first few weeks that were hard after you begin to find you’re happy we didn’t work everyday they organised a roster one day in three for the little ones every other day for the older we only went onto the chairs the days we were working otherwise we didn’t except for the newbies who weren’t loose enough they’d get sat at two o’clock they finished at four snack time we fucked them endlessly at night we came hard enjoying ourselves more than with the clients they don’t laugh they’re fat and sad hairy and heavy they don’t touch us the dick a lot our backsides then yes our mouths yes of course we don’t really get too tired little Yann is in love
he’s Breton he’s got a completely round head and he collects boats when we grow up he’ll have to go there I’ll only have the street and that city far from this place that I detest
he kissed me twice quickly I laughed at him he’s building a boat in a bottle two days a week on the special chairs we got so bored I said to the guy Get a load of my hole I don’t need to make it any bigger why do I have to stay here with the others It’ll teach you a lesson it’s not because of a lesson I won’t come anymore you hear and all these knobheads will come running after me it’s not like we’re in prison
wait one more year and we’ll throw you out you’re going to miss us
pff I’ll go to the city I’ll have women
he’s also trying to build an airship but it won’t work the thing’s all twisted there are motors going all over the place I much prefer sails it takes off well but crashes because of the motors all the weight and the smoke it works with lighter fluid you can hear it from here when he tries it out down by the river behind the bridge close to the washhouse
I was standing up straight on tip toes I kissed his beautiful cheeks twice
a chair with a huge dowel coming out of it and they sit you on it you’re not well he doesn’t believe me I’ll show him my arse he’ll say I’m always getting fucked out in the fields although there’s no shortage of girls in the byways and their dick holes have no shit in them
I changed my shirt to come and see him and I had flowers in my hand that I didn’t dare give him they were too ugly he would’ve laughed the biscuits in my pocket broke when he pushed me over I fell I cried I had a lump on the back of my head they put arnica on it they said It’s them again we’ll tell the director these orphans are hooligans poor dear poor little one mothers here aren’t knocking round the streets and good job too they wouldn’t know how to hide the men who come evenings anymore being well on the bootlicking side and the dispensary sisters for antiseptic arnica and nose drops
close to the studio the big black room serves as a cinema they bricked up the window and the chairs are fixed in rows by long bars nailed to the backrests we sit we watch films the films are silent it’s us who laugh
you’re lucky there they have money the people who have it have time to entertain you we always get punished I’m fed up with school we never have films there
these words and then others in my sleep a suffocating August afternoon whispered phrases drowned soft fuzzy and suddenly rising growing clearer shredding my drowsiness I shook my heavy head and dozed again turning slowly on my side something entered my backside maliciously the three o’clock suppository yeah it’s fat and aromatic the five o’clock thermometer stings and sharp nails always hurt my hole as they spread it then I was no longer sick and the odours of the pharmacy were blown away the tinkling of foil tearing and the very fresh smell of chocolate coming out of its wrapper
hey you give me a bit of that?
don’t worry about it sleep he takes my hand Touch see touch a bit so what is it potted meat? he folded his arms across his chest and clenched his fist to flex his biceps I’m buff me you’re a titch he explained I roll onto the other side I’m still in pain I can’t go back to sleep the suppository burns it smells of crap cocoa butter and camphor damp sheets under me they won’t open the window the springtime sun the springtime wind every morning all the scents the blonde boy who brings me a boiled egg buttered sliced bread and bowl of chicken and noodle soup at midday he watches me eat he has a nice smile he found a black butterfly with a rainbow cockade like an aeroplane he showed it to me and let it fly around the room he tells me its chic to be ill
this morning they made me scrub the big pond you know the stony one in front of the rose garden its for goldfish this afternoon they’re going to turn on the water hose to fill it and put fish in it’ll be nice eh the water’s beautiful makes me thirsty me you too?
when will they get me up?
don’t know tomorrow for sure voices from within and those from outside then my head droops and I fall asleep a while a nap every afternoon we get on each others nerves we’re bored to death and no one dares horse around on account of the overseer who slaps impossible to keep your arms and legs still in the same place for so long shutters closed when the sun hits you’ve got to wait but the hardiest chat in low voices we’re too hot under the roof Yann’s allowed to go on with his boats we can smell the glue and wood he cuts up
the one I love cuffed me round the neck and asked if I wanked off with a cigar cutter or into a pen lid I blushed I said with my grandmother’s bicycle pliers he repeated it to the guy in the bed next to his Hey you hear titch the pliers from his granny’s bike what a joker you wouldn’t think it to look at him and I blushed again but from pride I leant over the pillow and kissed his beautiful cheek
there he is starting up again he’s really crazy kissing me like that yo Yann you’re shoving shit
he’s a chatterbox this guy I bet you but the one I love has clenched his fists he threw me a furious look his forehead was sweating and a big strand of hair stuck to it in a spiral I was afraid of his beautiful grey eyes grey green mouse like in the nursery rhyme in the garden grass they run in circles and entertain themselves with a little ball by the wall there are more girls I’m no longer there I have a hula hoop a boat a castle cars dominos a diabolo Meccano a pipe a lasso a yoyo a bingo cage wind-up horses he takes my yoyo to do sun tricks and I shiver with pleasure up to the nape we started it all off with the worst at first I was a dotard
we played make believe a couple of times when we met outside the dormitory we slept together in our enormous bed whose big shining yellow balls and my model boats hanging everywhere for decoration you can see from far away the two of us in the midst of sweet talk laughing
Yann’s moving on my back as though he’s shagging me and the others are laughing my darling my love suck me my love my darling you’re beautiful I want to fuck you the boys listen to him they go back up one by one to the rooms where they fucked the old men they approached took pleasure spackled his backside pulled his pants right down my darling my love it’s not tight enough my love my darling clench your arsehole his little rump came and went all white covering me the kids bunched up around us mocked us My darling my love! they sniggered with laughter I wanna fuck ya! they smacked him on the thighs they made themselves hoarse It’s not tight enough! they grinned when we clenched our buttocks and fell back into My love my darling! You’re gorgeous! it was killing them they encouraged Yann Go on whip him good jockey don’t spare the crop! they were splitting their sides to see us they asked me Is it by distance or by time good fellow? and Yann got hard and rubbed his dick against my trousers soaking me with his laughter at my neck they shouted Is it too dark in there light the beacon on your bellend! they were cracking up Yann in turn became the horse I climbed on him I kept my fly shut I frotted against his naked arse the sprogs were in stitches delighted amazed on it went it was too good I thrust hard he protested putting himself flat on his back I pretended I would take him from the front my dear darling my sweet love he couldn’t anymore falling about legs in the air my fly chafed his groin harder and harder he protected his bollocks with his hand Watch out for my balls you’re going to smash them but it was whispered for me alone I leant over kiss me I’m going to come kiss me the others repeated Well kiss him then like he said! they were red and sweaty from the larks all over each other pinching thumping pulling by the feet getting up falling down again in disarray legs and arms tangled fingers arses and faces muddled stiff cocks roughed up by the tumbles my dear darling my sweet love Yann could tell by my face I was really going to come I could have killed them their dirty hands on the sheets their piercing cries their pants hot with desire with piss I got up out of breath turned inside out my stomach sticky they yelled Olé he won!
in a yowling gang they cross the village almost every morning they go into the corner shop ten or fifteen at a time buying sweets and pilfering as soon as they pass I step aside into the shelter of a porch or an empty path or behind the church because they’re in the habit of giving me the boot I don’t hear them from far enough away and it’s too painful to walk there’s always one that notices me they trip me over they kick me and they run away they killed my dog last year pulling him limb from limb each taking a paw and yanking them snapping them I still hear its tortured cries I picked it up in my bag it was a little black dog five months old which I had got when they we’re going to shoot it I left it to rot whereas me I slept in the woods it’s the summer when it rains a lot I’m scared of them they’re stronger than me they could destroy me if they wanted to they prefer to torment me except for when they dragged me by the feet into a field I thought it was the end they piled bales on me and set them alight the landowner chased them off with a shotgun he wounded one in the leg he’ll limp forever they took care of my burns in a hospice it was a convent on the bridge road the little one was there too but I never saw him the sisters said he was mean a nasty piece of work and that his leg would always be warped I’d like it better if the village was abandoned I’d die happy I’d warm myself in the sun among poverty’s ruins as long as there are doors and people behind them I’ll go on being scared
at the end of the day after the thermometer Claude comes back he has little radishes in his pocket one by one he crunches them he sits down next to the window he says I feel good here and he reads a book he’s not like the others a man comes especially for him keeping him on reserve and paying a lot as Claude it seems is very beautiful it’s a client who didn’t bugger him and Claude never has the chore of sitting on the chairs the man was big ugly always in an overcoat and hat sad Claude it slid right off him it was only twice a week What are you reading? my question makes him happy he lifts his eyes I’ll have finished tomorrow I’ll tell you about it on the cardboard cover you can see a coloured drawing depicting a boy like Claude and a storm behind him with a black smoking ship far off in the distance it must be good he’s lucky I have less of a fever this evening and my feet wriggle I’m hungry I’m not cold my skin is fresh it’s springtime that’s healed me the happy voices I can hear
the little kids from the area hang around outside now it’s sunny they’ve changed a bit since last summer the babies are walking the little ones are talking the middle ones are fighting the older ones learning to smoke Bernard repaired his new bike he got it for his twelfth birthday the tyre went flat he’s wearing the same jumper as in the autumn but several centimetres of bare wrist separate his hand and the end of the sleeve he’s shot up during the last six months and is outgrowing it more and more he still puts his short pants on and perhaps his fine legs are more on show and his backside fits more snugly than in September but his buttocks still look good in whatever he wears over them even if it’s too big they move like two tortoises under lettuce leaves there are the dead whose mouths noses ears bellybuttons have bloomed into roses a lily prayers written on their petals and also the great trees a garden perfumed by the moonlight enchanter the cemetery stagnates gracelessly and smells like a cesspool nobody comes here I stay sitting on the ground
no one comes to get me anymore today I’d disgust passersby too much my dark complexion my eye eaten away bare bloating skin translucent and running with yellow streaks and there where a penis should hang I have a long gash spreading over my skin it seeps oily piss which makes even the worms nauseous my fingers only moving and seeking to touch whatever comes close the cherry trees and the peach trees have started flowering the kids shake their pink and white snowfall when they pass under the trees and chocolate wrappers bare images of watercolour butterflies gathering nectar from buttercups and lilies there’ll be no more at Toussaint when we go to the cemetery like we do every year to see if the old man who lives there may be yes or no covered with earth but it’s always too early in our opinion he seems alive to us and we leave him again for another four seasons if he opens what’s left of his eyes he should see a rotten sun me I see him shower himself with blossom under a low dog rose and notice the fat ticks attached to his hair
once the railings were painted white and the garden was tended to two old women lived there crumbling bread for the birds then the ogre ate them there was a sandy patio in front of the rose garden closed off with a Romantic balustrade and women there in white outfits watched from under parasols a couple of playful children who ran off having lost their ribboned hats
they probably didn’t go out on the days it rained and we knew nothing of it there had to be sunshine and flowers for the phantoms to appear and so no one dared take the path that led there anymore
he returns from the city at the end of the week he gets back to big pavilion at the top of the village the park his wife and his children he gives them all kisses gifts instructions and news they climb into his lap from the balustrade they show him the valley the woods and the river they kill a rabbit or a duck for his dinner then the little ones go to bed and he subjects his wife to her conjugal duties he demands she suck him off like the girls from Bordeaux or that she take off her nightie to put on a show like the Angoulême sluts or that she cries jesusfuck when she comes like a Perigord whore she had a taste for novels she held onto the strawberry blonde Englishwomen of her childhood in a quilted case other locks I could go back to caveman days following the nostalgia of each one I prefer a brothel I picked this grey hat and set off down the road I’ll be there in two hours the establishment is in the provinces a beautiful dwelling sold at a loss because of the sadistic crimes that took place there the guilty party got his head cut off in front of the press it was a very great punishment here we are only denied chocolate eclairs or a swim after naptime
that summer they got permission to build two walls across the river to block off a bathing spot there was a lock and a filter we no longer had to worry about snakes freshwater insects or drownings the stonework’s already been done on fifteen metres of bank we’ll have like a swimming pool in the meadow we’ll enjoy it a lot despite the cows coming to drink with their flies and their pats which the sun crusts we undressed under the trees he hid behind me while he pulled on his little bright yellow trunks we have long planks from the sawmill for boats we launch them we catch up to them we straddle them several on each and the fattest hold on one moment before they sink under the weight here the river bed is sandy and there’s a good metre of cold flowing water that hollows out our stomachs when we enter it
he annoys me with his meetings at the wash house after dinner there’s going to be a storm I can’t be arsed the sky is dark I won’t go
for him I shampooed my beautiful hairTony Duvert (1945-2008) was an essayist and writer of subversive and experimental literature. Associated with the Nouveau Roman, and admired by the likes of Roland Barthes and Claude Mauriac, his fifth novel, Paysage de Fantaisie (Les Éditions de Minuit), was awarded the prix Médicis in 1973 . An advocate for sexual freedoms of the most extreme kind, despite his critical success, Duvert withdrew from the literary world and ended his life in poverty, all but forgotten, his body discovered several weeks after his death.