#marianne
Marianne and Hilda
A Conversation
Marianne was becoming bored with her ‘job’ at GFE. True, the money was good, but so were her expenses. Hair, make-up, beauty treatments, clothes suitable to be seen with rich clients, etc. Plus, she was developing a rather nasty cocaine habit. She said it was just to give herself a little boost, “You know, to give me some self confidence and get me through the night.“ But after snorting a line or two – or more – she had trouble finally falling asleep after a ‘date,’ so she began using sedatives. Then opioids, when the sedatives didn’t work. Of course, this constipated her and made it difficult to maintain her slim figure in addition to making her irritable. A friend at GFE suggested fentanyl, but a week later that same fried o.d.’d and died. So, Marianne thought it might be time for a ‘career’ change. She briefly considered going back home to North Carolina and maybe getting a job there. But, as she thought to herself, “Who am I kidding? Me back in Fayetteville?”
As she was fretting and drinking gin and tonics without the tonic, Marianne remembered that a client named Rick W. had told her about a place in France where she could make more money than she ever did at GFE, if she could abide by its peculiar rules. She thought, “I bet those rules might include me not doing drugs, or at least as many as I am now. Besides, I’ve never had a chance to use my high school French.” She paused, then said out loud, “I bet I have Rick’s phone number around here somewhere. We ‘dated’ several times.”
Rick was sound asleep in his apartment in Manhattan when the phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Yes?”
“Rick, sweetie. You sound groggy. Did I wake you?”
“Yes. It’s 2:45 in the morning.” Then, “Who is this?”
“Sweetie, it’s Marianne. From GFE.”
“Oh, Marianne. Hi! Speaking of which, re you high?”
“Well, maybe just a little.” Marianne giggled, paused, and then, “But I have a question.”
“Okay. Ask.”
“Do you remember telling me about that place in France? I think you said it was near Paris and that I could make bunch of money there.” Rick replied, “Yeah, I remember. It’s called Chateau Roissy.”
“Oh, that sounds dreamy,” said Marianne. “Could you get me a job there? I’m a little burned out with GFE.”
Rick responded, “Listen honey, I really don’t know a whole lot about it.” He paused, then hearing a sigh of disappointment on the other end, added, “But I do vaguely know a man who does. I think he’s some sort of big wig there. Maybe I could arrange an introduction.”
“Oh sweetie, that would be just marvelous. How can I repay you?”
“Oh, I’ll think of something.”
And so it began.
Marianne sat on the leather sofa in Rick’s apartment. As he was pouring her a drink, she said, “So, how do you know this Ralph fellow and what do you know about Roissy?”
Rick replied, “Neat or on the rocks?”
“Neat. I think my ‘date’ tonight is from Texas. I need a bit of a buzz to be civil to cowboys,” replied Marianne. Then, “You haven’t answered my question.”
Rick handed the three fingers of scotch to Marianne and said, “It’s a little complicated. You see several years ago I met a girl through GFE. I was relatively new in town and used the service. They sent me a girl in her mid-twenties. A redheaded French girl: she was stranded here in New York, so she began working at GFE. She was called O. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but pretty, nevertheless. And there was something about her that fascinated me. We ‘dated’ a couple of times, and truth be told, I sort of fell in love with her.”
“So, she told you about Roissy?”
“No. Well, not at first. I took her to a resort in St. Bart’s. We lay in the sun, ate, drank, made love, etc. Then she met another woman – a famous model - on the beach. Seems they knew each other previously or something like that. Anyway, both of them had been to Roissy.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Her husband, the French girl, and I all met for dinner. And then the truth came out. It seems that O had been at Roissy. A previous boyfriend had taken her there. She went to prove her love to this fellow. While there she basically became his sex slave. Later, this same fellow ‘gave’ O to his older, half-brother, a fellow named Sir Stephen. He had taken O to New York but had gotten arrested for war crimes in Bosnia. He was taken away by INTERPOL. O was left broke; that’s how she ended up with GFE.”
“Does she still work for GFE? If so, I don’t think I have met her.”
“No. That’s the odd part. When I found out at dinner that she had basically been a sex slave, I was sort of put off. We quarreled. I never saw her again.”
“And what does this have to do with me going to this Roissy place?”
“I’m getting to that,” said Rick. Then, “About a year or so ago, this Ralph came to our law firm. He wanted me to help with a naming rights contract. We sort of became friends. He’ solder; very much a man of the world. He asked about female ‘companionship,’ and I recommended GFE. He went out with your friend Elke. Later, over dinner he confided in me that while Elke was superb in the sack, he was looking for someone a little more ‘interesting.’ I asked what that might be, and he said someone more submissive, maybe someone who likes to be spanked or tied up. That sort of thing. I was intrigued and asked what he meant. Then he told me about Roissy. He said he was a Senior Master in the Roissy Society. He knew O and the fellow who ‘owned’ her. The Roissy Society has a chateau, and it seems that there are two types of women there. Some, like O, are brought by lovers and are basically slaves. Others come voluntarily to be - no offense – basically prostitutes. All of them live in the Chateau. They service the Masters and any guests who come.”
Marianne interrupted, “Sounds very kinky and a little icky.” Rick continued, “But the girls are really well paid. I mean REALLY well paid. Most of the guests are very rich, powerful men. Diplomats, businessmen. Even some European royalty. I think you could make a lot of money if you are accepted.”
“What do you mean ‘if’? I thought it was a done deal.”
“Well, you have to be approved. By either some woman who is the manager there or a Master. That is why I have us scheduled for dinner with Sir Ralph this coming Friday. Elaines at 9 pm. Is that good for you?” Marianne responded, “Okay, I guess.” And while she was on her ‘date’ with the Texan that evening, all Marianne could think about was Roissy and, of course, money.
He’s not someone who feels comfortable confiding in others, or demanding things from them. He needs Marianne for this reason. This fact strikes him newly. Marianne is someone he can ask things of. Even though there are certain difficulties and resentments in their relationship, the relationship carries on. This seems remarkable to him now, and almost moving.
—Sally Rooney, Normal People.
rushed 20 minute inktober day 8 - frail
new portraits of the deer!
From the french tv show ‘Marianne’
Oh l'amour
you guys don’t understand how much this fucks me up every time i rewatch it
one of my pieces for @feteahouses project!
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Today i watched this unreal masterpiece for the second time. Cèline Sciamma’s Portrait Of a Lady On Fire paints(its a movie) a vivid at the same time gloomy nature of a tender lesbian relationship between two young french women in the eighteenth century. Every frame of the film feels like a painting. It starts off as a film about glances and stares and slowly(not in a negative sense) unfolds itself into a reverie of a cathartic experience. Sciamma focussed on the power of a female gaze. She dares to tell us a lesbian story through the eyes of the women living it. She also touches the taboo subject of abortion. This movie immerses us into oceanic hues, lush canvas close ups and mystery of love. Outside we hear blowing of the wind and rushing of waves which juxtaposes with the inner turmoil these women are facing. The transformation of their memoir into their marker is shown with a perfect emotional arc for both the characters. It is filled with unforgettable moments especially the last scene which is one of most powerful shot i have ever seen. Sciamma’s film is carefully structured with beatiful shots by Claire Mathon.