Torture Garden

“Is what old fatty just said true?”
“What’s that, dear Clara? What do you care about fatty?”
“Just now he said that a single female flower sometimes requires twenty males to satisfy her. Is that true?”
“Certainly!”
“Really true? Really, really true?”
“Of course it is.”
“So old fatty wasn’t mocking us? You’re sure?”
“How odd you are! Why do you ask? Why look at me with such strange eyes? Of course it’s true!”
“Ah!”
She remained thoughtful, her eyelids closed for a second. Her breath magnified, her throat almost panting. And, very low, she murmured as she rested her head against my chest:
“I’d like to be a flower. I’d like, I’d like to be … everything!”
“Clara!” I pleaded. “My little Clara …”
I held her tightly, rocking her in my arms:
“Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you want that? You’d prefer to spend the rest of your life as a soft little good-for-nothing. Huh – it’s shameful!”
After a short pause, during which we distinctly heard the red sand of the avenue crunch beneath our heavy steps, she continued in a sing-song voice:
“And I’d also like – when I’m dead, I’d like very strong perfumes, and thalictus flowers to be put in my coffin, together with images of sin – beautiful images, ardent and naked, like those which adorn the mats in my room. Or else I’d like to be buried without clothes or shroud, in the crypts of the Elephanta temple among those strange stone bacchantes who caress and tear each other in such furious lusts. Ah, my dear, I’d like, I’d like to be dead already!”

“Tell me I’m just a woman, a perfectly small woman, a woman as fragile as a flower, as delicate and frail as a bamboo shoot, and that, of the two of us, I’m the man … and I’m worth ten men like you!”
And the desire her flesh provoked in me was complicated with an immense pity for her distracted and crazy soul.
She then spoke, with a light contemptuous whistle, words which frequently came to her lips:
“Men! They don’t know what love is, nor what death is, which is still more beautiful than love. They know nothing – they’re always depressed and weeping, or fainting for no reason, for mere nothings! Huh! Huh! Huh!”

“Clara, dear Clara!” I implored. “Let’s go, please!”
“Oh, how pale you are! Why? Isn’t this fun?”
“Clara, dear Clara!” I insisted. Let’s go, I beg you! I can’t stand the smell any more.”
“But it’s not a bad smell, my love. It smells of death, that’s all!”
It didn’t seem to affect her. No grimace of disgust marked her white skin, as fresh as cherry tree blossom. To judge by the veiled ardour of her eyes and the pulsing of her nostrils, it seemed as though she was sensually aroused … She inhaled decay with delight, as though it was a perfume.

When we reached a negro village after an interminable march they were so frightened! They immediately uttered cries of distress, but instead of fleeing, since they were so afraid, they flung themselves to the ground weeping. We plied them with liquor, for we always kept abundant supplies of alcohol in our baggage, and when they were drunk, we slaughtered them!”

The explorer was rather put out and went on: “No matter! In spite of these slight irritations, I’m happy to be going. In Europe I’m sick. I don’t live. I don’t know where to go. I find myself drained and trapped in Europe, like an animal in a cage … There’s no elbow room. You can’t spread your arms or open your mouth without coming up against stupid prejudices and idiotic laws and iniquitous customs. Last year, dear lady, I was walking through a wheat field. I was beating down the ears with my cane … it amused me. Surely I have the right to do as I please? A peasant came running up, shouting out, insulting me and ordering me off his land! Can you countenance it? What would you have done in my place? I dealt him three vigorous blows on the head with my cane. He fell with a fractured skull … Well, guess what happened to me?”
“Perhaps you ate him?” suggested Clara with a laugh.
“No … I was dragged in front of some common or garden judge, who sentenced me to two months in prison and ten thousand francs in damages and interest … For a dirty peasant! And you call that civilisation? Can you believe it! Well, thanks very much – just think if I was sentenced like that in Africa every time I killed a negro, or even a white …”
“So you do kill negroes?” said Clara.
“Most certainly, yes, adorable lady!”
“Why, since you can’t eat them?”
“Well, to civilise them – in other words to take their stocks of ivory and resin … Anyway, what do you expect? Suppose the governments and business houses that entrust us with civilising missions learned that we hadn’t killed anyone … what would they say?”
“That’s right!” the man from Normandy approved. “Besides, negroes are wild beasts … poachers … tigers! …”
“Negroes? You’re mistaken there, sir! They’re sweet and cheerful … they’re like children. Have you ever seen rabbits playing in a meadow at the edge of a wood at eventide?”
“Probably.”
“They frolic joyfully, using their paws to preen their fur as they leap around and roll in the mint. Well, negroes are like those young rabbits … they’re quite charming.”
“Even so, isn’t it well known that they’re cannibals?” persisted the gentleman.
“Negroes?” protested the explorer. “Not at all! The only cannibals in the lands of the blacks are the whites … The negroes eat bananas and graze on lush grass. I know one scholar who even claims that negroes have the stomachs of ruminants. How do you expect them to eat meat, especially human meat?”
“Then why kill them?” I objected, suddenly filled with benevolence and pity.
“But … I just told you – to civilise them. And because it’s great fun!

So?” she said in a malicious voice. “It’s not a joke? You really have eaten human flesh?”
“Certainly I have,” he replied proudly in a tone which established an undeniable superiority over us. “We had to … You eat whatever you can.”
“What does it taste like?” she asked, a little disgusted.
He thought for a moment … then, with a vague gesture:
“Heavens!” he said. “How can I explain? Imagine, adorable young lady, imagine pork, slightly marinated in nut oil…”
In a complacently resigned tone he added: “It’s not very good … At any rate you wouldn’t eat it for pleasure. I’d prefer a leg of lamb or a steak.”
“Clearly,” Clara accepted.
And, as though she wanted, through politeness, to minimise the horror of such anthropophagy, she added:
“Doubtless because you only consumed negro flesh!”
“Negro?” he cried with a start. “Ugh! Fortunately, dear lady, I was not reduced to such harsh necessity. We never lacked whites, the Lord be thanked! Out escort was large and mainly composed of Europeans – from Marseilles, Germany, Italy, a bit of everywhere. When we were hungry we slaughtered one of the escort, preferably a German. The German, divine lady, is fatter than other races and provides more meat. And again, as far as we French are concerned, it’s one German less! The Italian is dry and hard, full of nerves…”
“And the Marseillais?” I intervened.
“Well,” the traveller declared, shaking his head. “He’s pretty over-rated. He smells of garlic and also, for some reason, sheep grease. He’s not exactly appetising. Edible, but no more than that…”
Turning to Clara with remonstrating gestures, he made his point emphatically:
“But negroes … Never! I think I’d throw up … I’ve known people who have eaten them and they have become sick. The negro is inedible. Some of them, I can assure you, are even poisonous.”
And, being scrupulous, he corrected himself:
“After all, you need to get to know them, as you do mushrooms. Perhaps Indian negroes allow themselves to be eaten?”
“Certainly not!” affirmed the English officer in a decisively categorical tone, and the resultant laughter brought an end to this culinary discussion which was starting to make me feel sick.