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Island of Point Nemo. Jean-Marie Blas de Robles
Читать онлайн.Название Island of Point Nemo
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781940953632
Автор произведения Jean-Marie Blas de Robles
Жанр Ужасы и Мистика
Издательство Ingram
“This is madness,” said Holmes, bringing a huge mouthful of Siberian sorbet to his lips. “I don’t understand how you could have done such a thing!”
“But what could be the problem with her traveling with her child?” said Dr. Mardrus. “On the contrary, it can only aid in her education, pique her curiosity, contribute to the development of her character. Really, I don’t see what is making you so anxious, you’re doing her a great service!”
Clawdia took a sip of wine and looked at Mardrus with that kind of studied coldness, the feigned insensitivity that misfortune forges.
“It so happens that my child, Verity, is the victim of a mysterious illness that has kept her asleep for the last eight years, two months, and fourteen days. I very much doubt whether she will be able to enjoy the voyage other than in her dreams, or even whether she is aware of any of it.”
Dr. Mardrus looked at her fixedly, tucked his hair behind his ears, and responded in a tone that chilled them, despite or perhaps because of its mildness.
“Once the pleasure centers have been damaged,” he said, “it is impossible to know anything but segmented joys. But rest assured they are joys nonetheless, Madame, real, deep joys.”
“You’re sure it won’t be too bad?”
“Positive. It will probably feel a little warm, but no more than Tiger Balm or strong mint. Remember?”
“Not very effective, as I recall . . .”
“And it gave me canker sores.”
Carmen has gotten wind of a new recipe for awakening her beloved’s passion. This time, she is taking the method from a documentary she saw on TV. A film about beekeeping and the countless benefits of honey.
“An old folk remedy. Apparently people used it to treat arthritis. I don’t see why it wouldn’t work for you.”
“If there was a joint in there, we’d know about it, don’t you think?”
“Who said anything about a joint? The point is to make it swell, using venom. It expands and constricts the blood vessels and then . . .”
“Oh, oh, oh!” says Dieumercie, striking a pose from an operetta.
But Monsieur Bonacieux is not reassured, even less so when he catches sight of the jar that his wife is taking out of the cupboard. There are live bees imprisoned in it. A good number of them.
“Let’s see,” says Carmen, sticking the Post-it note where she has written out the procedure to his forehead. “First step, the tourniquet . . . Will you get your little bird out for me, please?”
“I’m not so sure about this. . .”
“Come on, doudou, it’s for a good cause.”
She helps him undo his fly and pull out his penis. He touches her breasts, trying to visualize salacious images. If he can get hard, here, right now, this whole business with the bees can be forgotten. He tries imagining his wife sucking off a dog, a huge dog, a Great Dane, but to no avail, as usual. In the meantime, Madame Bonacieux has looped her hair tie around his cock. She slides it up toward the base and finds the best position for the pink plastic bear cub on the band.
“This looks stupid . . .”
“On the contrary,” says Carmen, patting his testicles, “you’re very cute. This is already driving me wild.”
As if to prove it to him, she pulls her thong down from her under her dress and shakes it off the tips of her toes. She has washed her hair, shaved, put on makeup. The fresh scents of soap and lavender emanate from her body as she cozies up to him to read the next part.
“Step two: we put them to sleep.”
She takes the jar in both hands and shakes it vigorously, like a cocktail shaker. It works: inside, the dazed bees are still. Carmen unscrews the lid and takes two bees by their wings. With one bee between the thumb and index finger of each hand, she kneels down in front of her husband.
“Here we go,” she says, focusing, as if she is getting ready to hook up electrodes to someone in cardiac arrest. “You ready?”
“Do it, dear,” he replies bravely.
“Okay. Clear!”
Madame Bonacieux places the two bees on her husband’s foreskin and squeezes them to get them to sting. Anxious, uncomfortably tickled by their touch, Dieumercie cannot stop himself from recoiling instinctively; when the insects react, they thrust their stingers into his glans. The effect is immediate, intense burning, disproportionate swelling. Monsieur Bonacieux begins to howl as he jumps up and down. His penis looks like a butcher’s joke, a microphone made of bratwurst, ending in a big ball of calf liver. Each time he looks down upon this horror, he starts howling even louder. Frightened by this result, Carmen moves around him as best she can to observe his transformation. She still wants to believe.
“It has to work, doudou. Calm down, the pain will pass . . .”
Dieumercie is so disoriented that he is waving his arms wildly, trying to fight off a cloud. Suddenly, Carmen’s thighs start to itch; she thinks, for a second, that Dieumercie’s burning is contagious, she sticks her hand under her dress to scratch, then starts to writhe just like her husband. Now they are both yelling. Wakened from their torpor, the other bees have flown out of the jar and seem determined to avenge their companions’ deaths.
I Survived the Terror of Russian Sex
After lunch, Canterel easily secured permission to visit his daughter. Clawdia accompanied him to the girl’s apartment and left him alone with her for a quarter of an hour.
The girl was laid out on a sofa bed, her head resting on a fat pillow, her arms beside her body beneath the sheets. Two belts, one across her chest, the other across the middle of her thighs, kept her secured. Canterel took her hand and said her name several times, as if to wake her gently, watching her face, on the lookout for the least sign of a reaction. She must have looked more like Clawdia than him; he recognized the thick set of her eyebrows, her almond eyes, even the four beauty marks that formed a southern cross on her left cheek. But her gauntness, her skin tinged the color of germinated grain, the too pronounced tilt of her neck, the lace bonnet, knotted under her chin, from which transparent blonde locks peeked out, the claw-like stiffness of her fingers . . . it all indicated a slow death. He imagined the movements and rubdowns necessary to stave off bedsores, the nourishing enemas, the manipulations of basic hygiene that all resulted from this, and reflected in turn that it was foolish to have brought this poor child to a place where it would be so difficult to care for her.
He planted a kiss on her forehead and left the compartment, feeling helpless, as if her immobility were contagious.
Madame Chauchat was waiting for him in the passageway.
“How’s the happy father?” she asked, looking out at a bleak landscape of wastelands and abandoned factories. “Not so easy, is it?”
“You shouldn’t have,” he said, after a period of reflection that went on slightly too long.
“Shouldn’t have what? Left you alone, while I was married and pregnant with your child? Spared you the droning of a little girl who was intelligent, but hypersensitive, temperamental, and prone to morbid sulking? My late husband worshipped her, he passed his whimsies on to her . .