even Strasbourg, a woman without a man is public property. Itâs a whore or itâs rapable. Once alone, in the street or the café or the train, sheâs regarded as belonging to anyone who takes a fancy. This attitude is one of the most primitive there is. Weâve barely scratched the surface. Woman is butcherâs meat. Iâve got as far as educating the men in this office.â
âNow you are shocking me.â
âBelieve me, I mean to. The women are as bad. How many rapes are there, really? We donât know. We guess that one in ten gets reported.â
âGo on,â said Arlette woodenly. âI donât intend to be the one or the other nine.â
âThatâs the stuff. Right, we tend to say that nine of Them are just frightened little flashers. True, but a hard core is bulls. And they can all be physically strong. Youâre tall, and youâve muscles, but you must learn this: you just havenât the strength.
âYou know it, the one place where the biggest stud is vulnerable is his balls. So try to learn to go with it: donât fight. At all costs avoid his hitting you, breaking you. So frankly, try and make it look youâre longing for it. Because thatâs what they want to believe so you must give them the illusion. Nevermind the shrink stuff about how timid they really are; that doesnât help you with your pants down.
âSet your teeth. Now: my hands are busy on you; where are your hands â make like you want to help me, get my trousers off. Donât worry; Iâm hetero as hell. Talk, do a patter, heave about and wail like youâre in a porno movie, darling I love it.
âSorry, Arlette. I know this is hideous. But the thing is worse, you see. Iâve talked to certainly thirty women in two years whoâve been through it.
âBetter ⦠Weâll take a minuteâs rest now. Want a fag? Weâve done the worst. If youâve a gun of course and your hands arenât pinned, then youâre super-penis, but if youâve dropped it, forgot it, canât get to it ⦠all right? â ready, again? Now if youâre grabbed from the back.â
Realities: The world was very evil.
Monsieur Dupont hadnât sounded like a rapist on the phone. But, said Corinne, âYouâre a woman. Take nothing for granted, anywhere.â There are violent emotions in the world. People did violent things, for violent hidden reasons. You donât grasp it, until you go out and learn professional attitudes.
âQuite right,â Arthur had said when told about life with Corinne. âNo sentimental attitudes about you; I approve most thoroughly of Corinne. âIn fact, in his dryest voice, âquoting textually the interesting memoirs of Albert Pierrepoint the Home Office Hangman, I never knew what jealousy meant, until I became an Executioner. Even at that job you got sabotaged by the professional colleagues.â
âIâll remember that,â Arlette had said.
She was silent that evening, and the music she chose, to listen to, a long and to Arthur slightly trying piece by Mahler. He made no comments. It might be in the nature of a requiem for Mr Van der Valk, whom he had not known, but understood, he thought, and fairly well. For whom he felt respect: a cop; not always a polished personality but neither oaf nor ruffian. He suspected that it was still more a requiem for the widow Van der Valk, and was careful not to fidget.
She was remembering the Vosges countryside, and the toylike white Citroen, and Ruth as a young teenager. The flat in The Hague, always rather dark, and seeming cramped whatever she tried. And the road to Scheveningen, where Piet had died on the pavement. Her âdottinessâ: everyone who knew her agreed that she had been slightly psychotic throughout the entire wretched episode. âArletteâs gone mataglapâ as the thoroughly frightened Ruth told a friend.
âNow you are shocking me.â
âBelieve me, I mean to. The women are as bad. How many rapes are there, really? We donât know. We guess that one in ten gets reported.â
âGo on,â said Arlette woodenly. âI donât intend to be the one or the other nine.â
âThatâs the stuff. Right, we tend to say that nine of Them are just frightened little flashers. True, but a hard core is bulls. And they can all be physically strong. Youâre tall, and youâve muscles, but you must learn this: you just havenât the strength.
âYou know it, the one place where the biggest stud is vulnerable is his balls. So try to learn to go with it: donât fight. At all costs avoid his hitting you, breaking you. So frankly, try and make it look youâre longing for it. Because thatâs what they want to believe so you must give them the illusion. Nevermind the shrink stuff about how timid they really are; that doesnât help you with your pants down.
âSet your teeth. Now: my hands are busy on you; where are your hands â make like you want to help me, get my trousers off. Donât worry; Iâm hetero as hell. Talk, do a patter, heave about and wail like youâre in a porno movie, darling I love it.
âSorry, Arlette. I know this is hideous. But the thing is worse, you see. Iâve talked to certainly thirty women in two years whoâve been through it.
âBetter ⦠Weâll take a minuteâs rest now. Want a fag? Weâve done the worst. If youâve a gun of course and your hands arenât pinned, then youâre super-penis, but if youâve dropped it, forgot it, canât get to it ⦠all right? â ready, again? Now if youâre grabbed from the back.â
Realities: The world was very evil.
Monsieur Dupont hadnât sounded like a rapist on the phone. But, said Corinne, âYouâre a woman. Take nothing for granted, anywhere.â There are violent emotions in the world. People did violent things, for violent hidden reasons. You donât grasp it, until you go out and learn professional attitudes.
âQuite right,â Arthur had said when told about life with Corinne. âNo sentimental attitudes about you; I approve most thoroughly of Corinne. âIn fact, in his dryest voice, âquoting textually the interesting memoirs of Albert Pierrepoint the Home Office Hangman, I never knew what jealousy meant, until I became an Executioner. Even at that job you got sabotaged by the professional colleagues.â
âIâll remember that,â Arlette had said.
She was silent that evening, and the music she chose, to listen to, a long and to Arthur slightly trying piece by Mahler. He made no comments. It might be in the nature of a requiem for Mr Van der Valk, whom he had not known, but understood, he thought, and fairly well. For whom he felt respect: a cop; not always a polished personality but neither oaf nor ruffian. He suspected that it was still more a requiem for the widow Van der Valk, and was careful not to fidget.
She was remembering the Vosges countryside, and the toylike white Citroen, and Ruth as a young teenager. The flat in The Hague, always rather dark, and seeming cramped whatever she tried. And the road to Scheveningen, where Piet had died on the pavement. Her âdottinessâ: everyone who knew her agreed that she had been slightly psychotic throughout the entire wretched episode. âArletteâs gone mataglapâ as the thoroughly frightened Ruth told a friend.
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