When he paid Gaston for the room (without hiding the fact he had money in his pocket but without showing off about it either), he said, “And please leave us undisturbed for a good hour.” I tried to give Gaston a look meaning I wasn’t planning to waste the whole evening. But the bastard glanced away and said, “Certainly, sir. You’ve paid for twenty-four hours.” So I thought Gaston knew him, and the guy was a cop. But then I realized it was only his tone of voice (and the tip too, of course). That prick Gaston simply caught on that this was one of those johns who feel at home in hotels (and much better ones than this). They instantly had that goddamn secret understanding between them, like all these asshole bourgeois types: bicyclists by nature, if you get what I mean; they bow upward and tread downward, and they’ll all get strung up when the Red Internationale finally wins.

Anyway, I couldn’t count on Gaston, and when we were up in the room, the usual stuff began. He wanted me to take everything off, including my panties (“Your feet will warm up faster without stockings,” and all that shit), and when we were both finally lying in bed stark naked, he took me in his arms and lay back and said, “Let’s smoke a cigarette.”

I wanted to explain that he’d better not think he could play a joke on me for two hundred francs, and he ought to tell me what the hell he wanted or leave me be and go home. But when he lay there with his head on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, I thought to myself, He’s just impotent, or he’s got problems getting it up—after all, he’s not young anymore. I’m gonna have a lot of trouble with him; I’ll probably have to take him in my mouth. Anyway, let’s smoke a cigarette first, for Christ’s sake. Maybe he’ll doze off, and I can take off without him noticing.

So we watched the smoke going up to the ceiling and we didn’t say a word, again like a married couple after a movie. Skin to skin under the blanket and head to head on the pillow. Except once, he asked, “Don’t you recognize me? I was at the Madeleine once with a friend who had a quick number with you. Pretty much in broad daylight. A German. He couldn’t speak a word of French. Of course, that was a while back, more than three years ago.” And I just shook my head—who cares about his friends.

He went quiet again and kept on smoking. And once, he turned his face to me and kissed me on the temple. Strangely enough, he seemed like a kid when he did that, all dreamy. Then he carefully put out his cigarette in the ashtray and mine too and he uncovered my breasts and stroked and kissed them and said, “You’re beautiful.” And I thought to myself, If it’s gonna be difficult, then let’s get started at least. So I grabbed his dick to get it into shape, but he was stiff and ready to go. He started caressing me too, and so he wouldn’t get me really excited I pretended I was; I put on a good act, like I couldn’t wait for him to get inside me. But he held me close and he only kissed me—not on the mouth, of course (I don’t want chancres on my lips), but everywhere else on my face, in a gentle rain of small tender kisses. Finally, I got so impatient I couldn’t think of anything better to say than “You forgot to take your Alka-Seltzer.” But of course he only laughed and said, “I don’t even know where it is. In some pocket or other. No, wait: I think I left it downstairs on the clerk’s desk.” And when I quickly said, “I’ll get it for you,” he kissed me on the forehead again and said, “That’s all right, my love. I don’t need it now. I’m not drunk anymore.”