LOVE RITES
This is Nora Nix.
Is that Hugo Arnold?
- The dresses are ready. - I'll be right over.
You'll love them.
They're all Fortuny models...
and very rare, I assure you.
Made of the finest silk,
long, accordeon-pleated tunics that hug the body.
Some are split on the side.
All are decorated with colorful floral designs.
Plunging necklines front and back, sleeveless...
- Sleeveless? ...with narrow straps.
To be worn with nothing on underneath.
- You may have to disinfect them. - Disinfect them?
Imagine showing these magnificent gowns
to your selected clientele.
- Is the fabric intact? - Don't worry...
you can touch it up...
A charming address
which, before the war,
housed what Larbaud roguishly referred to as
"The Academy of Harlotry".
An address always given with a sly smile
to prove one's savvy.
How ironic that Hugo Arnold
is unaware that this famous brothel
was on his street.
In Rome and Venice,
the famous "Bocca della Verita"
was a stone lion's head
whose mouth received whispered betrayals.
In Paris, on the other hand,
the subway sewers have "mouths"
that are no more than underground entryways.
But the old metropolitan line has retained
a bit of the mystery of its founding days...
some 90 years ago.
It would be cowardly,
if not dishonest, for a red-blooded male
to ignore such an elegant invitation to debauchery.
Everything happens too quickly.
Like the ride from the prison to the guillotine
for aristocrats and their ladies
whose fine necks were exposed to the blade.
Madam!
May I please speak to you?
Our platforms are separated
by an impenetrable electric barrier.
What a pity.
Was it you watching me
as I played at making up my face in the subway?
My pantomime.
But here, the arched ceiling
can carry our voices perfectly,
offering actor and spectator
better acoustics than in most Parisian theaters.
I speak from experience.
Are you an actress?
In a manner of speaking.
I'm often out of work,
but I don't mind.
Do you happen to know who once said that an actress
was half prostitute and half poet?
I am loath to slander the noble poet
whose art delivers us from darkness.
Thus far, I have been only a spectator in this play.
My ambition now is to share the stage with you.
Would you be so kind?
My name is Hugo Arnold.
Mine is Miriam Gwen.
We need no audience for what we have in mind.
If no one notices us, that's just as well...
or too bad. It makes no difference.
I couldn't agree more.
Still, you surprise me.
Doesn't an actress crave publicity as a panther does flesh?
And isn't publicity her very life's blood?
That is correct.
The poet may despise publicity with all his might,
but the prostitute avoid it like plague.
The lady of the night blooms in the shadows
like a pungent desert flower.
Why did you choose to sit and wait for me
under a poster proclaiming
the horrible message: "Everything Must Go"?
Because everything must be destroyed, laid to waste!
I chose to wait for you here.
"Everything Must Go".
A fitting title for our little adventure.
"The Brazen One" might better describe your person.
Are you Jewish?
More or less.
Enough to qualify for the ovens,
if that's what you mean.
Think I'd make a good martyr?
But your name sounds Gaelic.
My mother was an Irish beauty. It's her name.
My father refused to give his name to me:
The fruit of a one-night stand.
Did I ever meet him?
I have no idea.
I don't even know his name.
My mother says he was a man of many identities.
A businessman?
More like a gangster.
They say he came to a bad end.
My mother was fond of drinking.
The bars' neon signs beckoned to her.
She drank in noisy, backstreet dives.
She hated to drink alone.
Then she'd disappear for a day or two.
She'd come home happy and tired,
bringing me leftovers from fancy meals.
When I was 16, I ran away from home...
and that dismal seaport town.
Do you ever hear from your mother?
She never writes. Nor do I.
We see each other even less.
If one of us had money, it'd be different.
The poor one would sponge off the rich.
Think of me what you will.
I don't fear your scorn.
But if you were a gentleman,
you'd cross the barrier separating us,
and join me over here.
Use the overpass.
Don't waste a ticket... you can jump the turnstile
like you did when you were chasing me.
Here I am.
Here you are.
As I was applying my makeup...
Using the mirror you keep in your vanity case...
So you noticed my vanity!
It's one of the few things my mother ever gave me.
Bought in an England shop, though she hated the Brits.
She was full of surprises.
What about you?
So am I.
But my tastes are even more surprising than hers.
I love the luxury of living in poverty.
Did you know
that we are not alone in this subterranean world?
Creatures of all kind live down here
in vast, empty tunnels that have never been used.
There are the rats they try to exterminate
without much success,
as they flee from the metro into sewers.
Dogs and cats long lost in the darkness
resurface with blood in their eyes.
Boa constrictors and garden snakes...
and even vipers, set loose by terrorist pranksters.
Not to mention other creatures...
From the time the subway closes, after midnight,
till it opens the next day,
this underground menagerie crawls out of its hiding places.
If you're trying to scare me, you're wasting your breath.
I've always felt at home in the metro.
I fear neither rats nor serpents,
but prefer the latter for their venomous beauty.
Not long ago,
a colony of crows, carrion crows,
escaped from the Bastille station.
They must have hatched from eggs laid by a female
who'd sought refuge in this oldest
and most tangled network of tunnels.
- Black birds fleeing the darkness. - That's right.
They ended up settling
in the lime trees, lining the Place des Vosges.
The male crows,
in a springtime frenzy,
ravished the pigeons living there.
And a strange bastard breed now perches awkwardly
atop the statue of Louis XIII.
Think of what those gentle birds went through!
How could they stand it?
Quite willingly, it appears.
Enough, Madam!
We will now kiss with open lips,
and you will surrender your pink-tipped tongue to me.
My lips are yours.
Press them against mine. You heard me!
Your wish is my command.
Let's go in.
I always stop by when I'm in the area.
The architecture of the human body has been the subject of debate
for centuries but only truly exists in the symmetrical forms
of a woman's body.
The twin orbs of her breasts matched by those of her ass.
Isn't entering St Germain-des-Pres with Miriam like entering her very body?
Or like the promise that we'll soon be offered a glimpse...
and invited in?
Do you often come here alone?
Alone, yes. Often, no.
Dressed like this?
Sometimes. Sometimes not.
You remain alone?
Not often.
Do you talk?
No. This is a holy place.
The first move, the first "nibble" as they say in fishing,
is always timid...
barely perceptible... as if by accident.
Nothing like your obvious pick-up in the subway.
Don't you stop them?
No.
I don't move,
I pretend not to notice.
Even when their fingers become more insistent
and wonder above the knee.
It's a scene that I play to perfection.
For me, life is a stage.
That's why I find it normal that "everything must go".
How does the scene end?
After feigning not to notice his advances,
our heroine walks slowly out of the church
so that the man has time to catch up with her.
- Then what? - Then a new scene begins,
just as compelling as the first.
The stage is set, if you'd like to see it.
The first scene's decor was ill-suited to lovemaking.
The stone virgins supporting the church's vaulted ceiling
are robed in discolored plaster,
evidence of last century's regrettable restorations.
You forget the frescos of Hippolyte Flandrin...
A contemporary of Baudelaire.
"The Last Judgment," for example.
That moment when everything must go.
Those fatal words that united us.
"Abraham's sacrifice."
A murderous tale with no bloodshed.
Unusual in the Bible.
I wonder if you know Belli's version of the story?
Isaac, worried as he reached the mountaintop where his father
had told him they would sacrifice a large sheep, asked:
"Where is the large sheep?"
And Abraham answered:
"You, my son, are the sheep."
Of course I read Belli,
whose anticlericalism is the work of rebellious angels.
My learning is much deeper than you seem to think, Sire.
Then there was Joseph, who was sold by his brothers.
First, they stripped him of his coat of many colors.
If they strip you, you command a higher price.
To sell yourself, you must also be laid bare.
Or tied up.
I seem to remember being sold by my brothers.
Like Joseph.
Until I decided to do it myself.
- Do you have any brothers? - I had two brothers:
Rubin and Benjamin.
Born before me, of a different father.
I don't know if they're dead or alive.
I've wiped clean the slate of my past with acid.
I hate families.
But thinking back,
the acid must've been too weak,
as a memory of my adolescence comes back to me.
My brothers and I were playing in the woods.
They grabbed me,
and tore my clothes.
Laughing, they tied me to a tree.
Then they stroke me,
and took turn raping me
...over and over again, as I begged them to stop.
Later on,
when we returned to town, they sold me to rich men...
forcing me to submit to their every desire.
Life wasn't a stage, in those days.
That's why I tried to erase all memories of it.
But some remain.
You could write a book.
It might become a best seller. The public loves juicy memoirs.
I'm not poor and don't need to sell my memories.
I wouldn't change my life for a million dollars.
How commendable!
This holy place is too cold for your scanty garb.
Come out in the sun where it's warm.
I'm not as fragile as you think.
Let's go before the faithful arrive.
What have you got against the faithful?
Nothing.
Individually, they're fine.
But I avoid them in flocks, especially if they're singing.
Same with soldiers.
Vive I'amour!
We failed to create a scandal at St Germain-des-Pres.
I don't know why.
I thought we played our parts very well.
I address you as familiarly as I would a fellow actor.
I have reason to think that pretty soon
we'll be even more familiar.
I know what you think. Now, what do you know?
You amaze me!
I can't believe you're really a whore.
But if you are, you sure are a pedantic one!
There's an odd assonance
between "pedant" and "prostitute,"
as in "pedant" and "pederast."
Even the expression "cultural exhibition"
has sexual overtones.
Today, everything hinges on sex.
You sure think about it a lot.
I'd prefer to be having it.
The day is young, we have plenty of time.
What if I picked up another man
and screwed him while you watched?
- I'd kill you! - Bravo!
But don't forget that in my little play,
I do the killing, not my partner.
Let's go to a hotel!
I have a better idea.
Let me take you to paradise on earth.
Your place?
My friend and mentor Sarah Sand
has a private boudoir she lets me borrow
when I entertain men.
Who's Sarah Sand? Where's she live?
The boudoir is by no means her home.
When I use the word "boudoir," I think you know
what I mean.
Let's go. I'll get us a cab.
No, we'll walk.
You mustn't know where we're going.
Avoid looking at street signs.
I forbid you to do so.
No problem, I'm nearsighted.
And my mind's on other things.
It's time we got down to business.
Walk like a blind man.
Look within, and forget what is without.
Pretend you're in a trance.
Miriam will soon share his bed.
For lacking a stage career where she could
display her beauty in front of an audience
in dramatic roles,
she makes her living
selling her body to men who buy her favors
for an unspecified amount of time
and at a negotiable price.
This is it.
The door's open.
Watch your step.
Once over this threshold, you're the master of the game,
and I'm your servant, as decreed by Sarah Sand.
She demands that I call you "Master" now.
She'd be proud of the way I've handled you so far.
This is her realm.
We are but actors performing on her stage.
Her boudoir is at the top of the stairs,
behind the third door.
Submission is the rule here.
And Sarah Sand's protegees must not only perform it,
but feel its sting on their flesh.
How like an actress
to suffer on cue.
Actress, harlot, poet...
a theatrical trio.
Upstairs, Master.
I'll make love to you as if you were my sister.
If you mean that, leave your shoes behind.
Your friend invited you to use her boudoir today.
But if we hadn't met,
if I hadn't kissed your hand,
you'd have paraded your painted beauty at St Germain,
until you found a man you fancied...
and taken him to your pleasure parlor.
That's right.
You forget one thing:
I might have invited more than one guest.
It's not only ex-jailbirds
and tattooed gentlemen
who notice me at St Germain-des-Pres.
I'm glad you have no illusions about us.
What you might find hard to understand,
is that with you, or any other man,
my actions are controlled entirely by the invisible Sarah Sand.
Let the orgy begin.
Act two.
Get up.
Come here.
Come here!
Come here.
Give me your hands.
Turn around.
Who did that?
My butterfly?
Sarah Sand's slave boy.
He's Cambodian. And mute.
We call him Ping.
When he was taken prisoner in his country's civil war,
his captors cut out his tongue, larynx and vocal cords.
Total ablation.
Sarah met him in Marseilles and fixed him up.
Today he's well, and her devoted slave.
But he's a sex maniac, an insatiable brute.
She keeps him in line by offering him her girls.
He takes them to his garret and abuses them.
- He's had you? - Just once...
but he wants me again.
That horrible gaping mouth, empty of all its organs...
endlessly filling with saliva.
And the outrages he forces me to commit!
- I'm sorry I brought it up. - Not at all!
Your story has postponed the slaking of my desire.
And knowing of your past suffering excites me even more.
If Ping is mute, how does he give his orders?
He writes them on a magic slate.
According to the rules, you have to be naked
on bended knee to receive his instructions.
If not, you're tortured.
Sarah knows Ping is cruel, but humors him anyway.
He always leaves the girls in pretty bad shape.
- What about you? - Me?
I play along
and submit passively to his depravity.
That's a Caligo. Sarah imports them from Brazil.
They're exquisite.
They feed on flowers she soaks in sugar water.
That one's a morpho, also from South America.
He doesn't seem attracted to my juicy snatch.
Maybe he's jealous?
A word to the wise:
Don't stroll naked
through this exotic paradise.
Sarah also collects reptiles.
Poisonous ones.
In addition to butterflies, she loves plants.
Her favorite flower
is the fabulous Night Queen that blooms in the heat of the night.
Its flower opens
with a slow abandon that reminds me
of childbirth.
At daybreak, the flower slowly contracts
in post-orgasmic spasms.
A fabulous flower.
Nicely put, for a whore.
Stop talking
and take a look at the cock that has sprung up for you
like an arrogant mushroom
standing proudly in the middle of a clearing.
"Dog's phallus"
is the name of a mushroom
whose smell is as repugnant as the Night Queen's is sweet.
But it's nothing like the member you've shown me...
which looks and smells much more inviting.
Open your mouth.
This way, I can keep an eye out
for any surprise attacks by those reptiles.
Luckily, we don't seem to interest them.
His stiff cock glides into the hilt.
Once again, Miriam is subjected
to the rhythmic hammering of an enormous tool
rammed down her throat.
She is forced to take that throbbing demon
in an orifice located just below the brain...
realm of the spirit.
Like a city taken over by an occupying force
that it comes to admire,
Miriam forgets her humiliation
and revels in this familiar pleasure.
With each new thrust, she offers the intruder
the wet caress of practiced tongue.
A rush of emotion fills her soul.
Her heartbeat quickens in rhythm
with his urgent thrusts.
Sensing his strokes tightening,
she matches her cadence.
You've teased me long enough, artful wench.
Try as I may,
I can no longer contain the tide of jism rising in me
that you must now drink down.
A professional job.
You've licked my cock, clean as a whistle.
"Carnal knowledge is a fabric of secrets,"
as someone once said.
They then added,
"But with a single snag, the fabric unravels."
The ritual is over,
but is there more yet to come?
She sucks dry his mighty cock,
which, as it slowly retracts,
she holds in her mouth like an obedient dog
until her master removes it himself.
Use me as you will,
but I'm a better actress than a whore.
Kneeling here, I've just given my best performance.
For that, I thank you.
That butterfly of yours!
- Won't it fly away? - It can't.
It's part of me.
It watches the comings and goings.
- Open up! - All my doors are wide open.
It's your aim that's off...
like that of a bumbling virgin.
My butterfly's scared your cock!
What an amusing thought!
To silence her mockery, he plunges his rigid tongue
into her mouth.
As she lets her tongue slither around his,
her snatch suddenly yields,
and without further ado,
his cock plunges into the hilt
...right up to his balls.
He keeps stroking her creamy cunt,
as she submits to his slow rhythm.
Like a nymph taken by Jupiter,
she will obey her master's desires
so as to retain her beauty and eternal youth,
the most precious gifts for a demigoddess.
To control his senses
and to tame the volcano about to erupt in his loins,
Hugo stops.
His manly lava, forcing its way
up the volcano about to explode,
finally shoots out.
During those eight to 10 thrusts,
he revels in the sensation of the secretion coming out
through his swollen prostate,
to find refuge in Miriam Gwen's warm, moist insides.
The sensation is different from the passive pleasure
earlier given by his submissive beauty.
Feeling especially virile
and not eager to put an end to his escapade,
he keeps coming and going inside the gooey receptacle.
For you own sake, be quiet!
Not a word, or you're dead!
Isn't it ironic that love making requires a "hard" member
that tenderness would render impotent?
The words "tender" and "hard" are thus ill-suited to the language of love.
An interesting paradox.
His cock stirs
and stiffens inside her.
The feminine orifice grips him
as if the victim were trying to help him
enter her again
and perform anew the love sacrifice.
But to what unnamed divinity?
Wait here.
Don't move!
No wisecracks!
I should warn you that this boudoir
is equipped with cameras and microphones.
Everything you've done or said
has been recorded and can be used against you.
My subservience is history now!
Sarah Sand has no pity for men
who refuse to relinquish their male pride.
Once they've served their purpose,
we throw them out, sullied and shamed.
But we're not through with you yet.
This is no act. I only told you it was
to lure you up here
so we could use you.
With Ping the slave,
you'd be in for harder times
from start to finish.
Lucky for you, I'm afraid to call him.
That's right, lover boy,
the worst is yet to come.
Don't move!
I'm the one who calls the shots
and changes roles.
Put up your hands. Higher!
Hurry up, or you'll be sorry!
Rip me apart!
Make me burn!
Your prick is as limp as a rag,
a flaccid reminder
of its past glory!
That's right, lover boy,
the worst is yet to come!
Don't move.
I'm the one who calls the shots.
Hands up!
Higher!
You'd better hurry up!
If you were a nobleman, I'd treat you even worse!
Black slaves
would strip you naked and beat you!
You'd tremble beneath me
like a whipped dog!
Stick out your tongue!
Come on!
Open your mouth! Do as I say!
You've got no choice!
Get out of here!
Not a word! Shut up!
Miriam doesn't exist anymore.
Maybe she never did.
Forget my name!
Get out!
You're a bad actor who's being fired
for botching his role.
You live only a semblance of a life.
You're a pitiful excuse for a man.
I can't even despise you.
That's a blessing in disguise.
Get out.
Get out!
I never said I was an actor.
Let alone a bad one.
That was no act I put on for you!
I'm just a man...
a simple man.
I was wrong to take you for an actor.
You're no poet either.
You have no place in my little game.
Get out while you still can!
The doors are wide open.
Unless Sarah has locked them, which I doubt.
Downstairs, turn right and walk straight ahead.
Go towards the river.
Once there, you'll be given a new life.
The Seine will wash you clean of your past
as it has for others.
Get out.
Leave all that.
Ping collect such things,
tokens left in haste by occupying forces.
He also collects watches. Hand yours over.
You should've done so before...
out of respect for Miriam.
But it was clear from the start
you were a cad.
A simple man, you say?
"Vulgar" is more like it! You're a spiritual cripple!
You'll never know the thrill of playing life's game
right to the bitter end!
A quick fuck and a bottle of wine...
that's all you care about! Now clear out,
before Ping robs you of more than just your watch.
Namely, your cock!
Go! I offer you a reprieve.
Go down to the river
and wash yourself clean.
No small task, I admit.
What the future holds in store
is beyond your wildest imaginings.
Go back to your Fortuny gowns
that you prefer to the women who wore them!
Get out!
You pathetic fool!
Thank you.
I'm Meriem Ben Saada. Who are you?
Hugo Arnold... I think.
I'm no longer sure. Where are you from?
A land near the river Jordan
on whose banks I offered up my naked body
- to men passing by. - You were a prostitute?
- Not another one! - I was forced to obey
my father and brothers.
Besides, I enjoyed giving men pleasure.
- When was this? - Too long ago to be certain.
But uncertainty leads us closer to the truth.
- You're bleeding. - I almost died.
"It's best to die before dying."
That's what happened.
The water has cleansed you, body and soul.
The poet Ghazali said,
"I'm a bird, and this body is my cage."
This is something women and poets understand.
My wallet, identity papers and gold watch...
have all vanished into a mysterious boudoir.
The only vestige of my former life
is this key.
The key to my apartment.
Watch this!
Your destiny is in your hands.
Answer "yes" to every question you'll be asked.
A simple "yes" will designate you
as the nameless author of the ultimate crime.
Your life will henceforth be in the hands of the State.
Such shall be your fate... and your salvation.
She's dead?
- You killed her? - That's right, Officer.
Yes.
- With what? - He stabbed her in the chest.
Yes.
He plunged the knife in to the hilt.
He killed her.
I saw him do it!
He pulled out a knife
and ripped open her dress.
Lock him up!
Killers like him should be put away!
It's all over now.
Kill him!
Kill the bastard!