barriers raised to keep out foreign livestock and produce. Julien, who’d never spent more than a summer day in the country and then usually at the sumptuous
châteaux
belonging to his friends, could still go misty-eyed once
la campagne
and
les paysans
entered into the conversation. Austin was reminded of Colette’s Julie de Carneilhan and the moment when this middle-aged aristocrat who has lived a slightly sordid bohemian existence in Paris for years is awakened one morning by her country brother, the squire, who’s down below her window with horses, one for her. He’s come to take her back to the family
domaine
now that war has broken out. Behind all the fads and follies of Paris lies the country.
Of course Austin recognized that he was constantly applying moreand more layers of mythic lacquer to his idea of Julien, but a love affair between foreigners is always as much the mutual seduction of two cultures as a meeting between two people. Julien was an exception to the normal French way of doing things (even the assumption that such a norm existed), but with every eccentricity he confirmed or revised Austin’s sense of the national character. If Julien said he liked artificial Parisian vamps, not big-toothed, tanned American gals, it was Baudelaire—the first aesthete in history who’d preferred artifice to nature—who was speaking through his lips, even if Julien had never read the essay on cosmetics. If Julien loved Paris with a young man’s conviction that it would confer wealth and glory on him, he was echoing (at least to Austin’s ears) Balzac’s Lucien de Rubempré. And in Julien’s constant pronouncements on the merits of this orange juicer design over that one, this Andrée Putman chair over that one by the thoroughly American Charles Eames, he was only indulging in the national pastime of judging—of feeling required and
licensed
to judge—everything from a mantelpiece to morality. If he was unsmiling and grave in talking about “design” (the French invoked the English word) he was shockingly irresponsible and unconcerned in discussing ethical questions. “Why
not
rape the child?—she’s probably begging for it,” he’d say of the latest Belgian atrocity, arousing Austin to genuine fury. Austin had a Kantian (and probably American) certainty that he was a universal legislator of morals; Julien knew perfectly well that the positions he took would affect no one and so should at least be “amusing.” Maybe that was the reason
amusant
was the French word that sounded the most supercilious and disgusting to American ears.
He took Julien into the bedroom, which he’d prepared carefully. They sat on the edge of the bed and smoked some of the marijuana that Austin had mailed himself the last time he was in Florida in an ordinary business envelope without a return address. After Julien had come, he flopped back on the bed and said, “I never experienced anything like that before.” He swallowed. He was staring at the ceiling. One nerveless hand briefly rumpled Austin’s hair. “What about you?”
“It was great for me, too.”
“But don’t you want to come?”
“Not now. Maybe later.”
But Austin hadn’t enjoyed it so much. He knew exactly what Julien had experienced. And he did like having Julien so completely in his power. Nor could Julien worry that their sex hadn’t been safe.
“I never knew—I’m amazed,” Julien muttered as he stretched and Austin covered him with a sheet and a light blanket. Austin went into the bathroom, undressed, jerked off, washed up, stopped off in the kitchen for a glass of milk, then stumbled back to bed, consumed by the objective melancholy of the sadist.
Austin was able to garner for Christine a serious reader’s report at Grasset’s and a polite, encouraging rejection. When he sent the evaluation along he asked in his note if he could read the manuscript.
“I
told
her she had to make it less academic!” Julien exclaimed. “Should you be
châteaux
belonging to his friends, could still go misty-eyed once
la campagne
and
les paysans
entered into the conversation. Austin was reminded of Colette’s Julie de Carneilhan and the moment when this middle-aged aristocrat who has lived a slightly sordid bohemian existence in Paris for years is awakened one morning by her country brother, the squire, who’s down below her window with horses, one for her. He’s come to take her back to the family
domaine
now that war has broken out. Behind all the fads and follies of Paris lies the country.
Of course Austin recognized that he was constantly applying moreand more layers of mythic lacquer to his idea of Julien, but a love affair between foreigners is always as much the mutual seduction of two cultures as a meeting between two people. Julien was an exception to the normal French way of doing things (even the assumption that such a norm existed), but with every eccentricity he confirmed or revised Austin’s sense of the national character. If Julien said he liked artificial Parisian vamps, not big-toothed, tanned American gals, it was Baudelaire—the first aesthete in history who’d preferred artifice to nature—who was speaking through his lips, even if Julien had never read the essay on cosmetics. If Julien loved Paris with a young man’s conviction that it would confer wealth and glory on him, he was echoing (at least to Austin’s ears) Balzac’s Lucien de Rubempré. And in Julien’s constant pronouncements on the merits of this orange juicer design over that one, this Andrée Putman chair over that one by the thoroughly American Charles Eames, he was only indulging in the national pastime of judging—of feeling required and
licensed
to judge—everything from a mantelpiece to morality. If he was unsmiling and grave in talking about “design” (the French invoked the English word) he was shockingly irresponsible and unconcerned in discussing ethical questions. “Why
not
rape the child?—she’s probably begging for it,” he’d say of the latest Belgian atrocity, arousing Austin to genuine fury. Austin had a Kantian (and probably American) certainty that he was a universal legislator of morals; Julien knew perfectly well that the positions he took would affect no one and so should at least be “amusing.” Maybe that was the reason
amusant
was the French word that sounded the most supercilious and disgusting to American ears.
He took Julien into the bedroom, which he’d prepared carefully. They sat on the edge of the bed and smoked some of the marijuana that Austin had mailed himself the last time he was in Florida in an ordinary business envelope without a return address. After Julien had come, he flopped back on the bed and said, “I never experienced anything like that before.” He swallowed. He was staring at the ceiling. One nerveless hand briefly rumpled Austin’s hair. “What about you?”
“It was great for me, too.”
“But don’t you want to come?”
“Not now. Maybe later.”
But Austin hadn’t enjoyed it so much. He knew exactly what Julien had experienced. And he did like having Julien so completely in his power. Nor could Julien worry that their sex hadn’t been safe.
“I never knew—I’m amazed,” Julien muttered as he stretched and Austin covered him with a sheet and a light blanket. Austin went into the bathroom, undressed, jerked off, washed up, stopped off in the kitchen for a glass of milk, then stumbled back to bed, consumed by the objective melancholy of the sadist.
Austin was able to garner for Christine a serious reader’s report at Grasset’s and a polite, encouraging rejection. When he sent the evaluation along he asked in his note if he could read the manuscript.
“I
told
her she had to make it less academic!” Julien exclaimed. “Should you be
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