Sylvia Kristel - Undressing Emmanuelle - A memoir

A memoir

SYLVIA KRISTEL

with

JEAN ARCELIN

For Arthur

Title Page UNDRESSING EMMANUELLE A memoir SYLVIA KRISTEL with JEAN ARCELIN Dedication For Arthur List of Illustrations UNDRESSING EMMANUELLE A memoir SYLVIA KRISTEL with JEAN ARCELIN Chapter One 1 Amsterdam, 2005 Bessel Kok is a major businessman. It shows: he has presence, composure, style and a keen eye. He’s a chess fanatic like my father, and a connoisseur of fine flesh and lovely women. His wife is young and ravishing, he has the pot belly of a gourmand, and his dream is to become President of the World Chess Federation. He is also generous and – as luck would have it – a nostalgic fan and kind patron of little old me! I met him a few years ago at a smart dinner after a private view. He kindly invited me to the Karlovy Vary Film Festival in the Czech Republic, of which he was a sponsor. Bessel has become a thoughtful and protective friend. This summer he offered to subsidise me. ‘Why?’ ‘I will provide you with financial support for a few months, so you can devote yourself to your own project.’ ‘What kind of project?’ ‘A book.’ ‘A book?’ ‘The story of an ageing Dutchwoman, a former goddess of love, in fragile health and living in a tiny apartment …’ He laughed, adding: ‘Give it some thought …’ * The sun was shining brightly on the Amsterdam canals, and life was cutting me some slack. My mind roamed freely in my convalescing body – I had time to live, to think. My pale skin soaked up the sun, turning more golden by the day and slowly showing up a scar on my left arm. Four white spots came gradually into relief, each smaller than the last. ‘Give it some thought …’ Bessel’s words kept running through my mind, refusing to fade. I couldn’t take my eyes off this scar of mine. So old. Forgotten. Four spots, like a secret code, the code of my childhood, of my life perhaps. A code I had never tested. But now I had to; it was time. I phoned Bessel in the middle of that hot summer and announced: ‘I’m going to test the code.’ ‘What?’ ‘I’ve been frightened that I’d forgotten everything, on purpose or because I had to, but now it’s all coming back, the words are on the tip of my tongue …’ ‘I can’t understand what you’re saying.’ ‘I accept your support, Bessel! I’m ready to do the book.’ Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty One Chapter Twenty Two Chapter Twenty Three Chapter Twenty Four Chapter Twenty Five Chapter Twenty Six Chapter Twenty Seven Chapter Twenty Eight Chapter Twenty Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty One Chapter Thirty Two Chapter Thirty Three Chapter Thirty Four Chapter Thirty Five Chapter Thirty Six Chapter Thirty Seven Chapter Thirty Eight Chapter Thirty Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty One Chapter Forty Two Chapter Forty Three Chapter Forty Four Chapter Forty Five Chapter Forty Six Chapter Forty Seven Chapter Forty Eight Chapter Forty Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty One Chapter Fifty Two Chapter Fifty Three Chapter Fifty Four Chapter Fifty Five Chapter Fifty Six Chapter Fifty Seven Chapter Fifty Eight Chapter Fifty Nine Chapter Sixty Chapter Sixty One Chapter Sixty Two Chapter Sixty Three Chapter Sixty Four Chapter Sixty Five Chapter Sixty Six Chapter Sixty Seven Chapter Sixty Eight Chapter Sixty Nine Chapter Seventy Chapter Seventy One Chapter Seventy Two Chapter Seventy Three Chapter Seventy Four Chapter Seventy Five Chapter Seventy Six Chapter Seventy Seven Chapter Seventy Eight Chapter Seventy Nine Chapter Eighty Chapter Eighty One Chapter Eighty Two Chapter Eighty Three Chapter Eighty Four Chapter Eighty Five Chapter Eighty Six Chapter Eighty Seven Chapter Eighty Eight Chapter Eighty Nine Copyright About the Publisher

1

Amsterdam, 2005

Bessel Kok is a major businessman. It shows: he has presence, composure, style and a keen eye. He’s a chess fanatic like my father, and a connoisseur of fine flesh and lovely women. His wife is young and ravishing, he has the pot belly of a gourmand, and his dream is to become President of the World Chess Federation.

He is also generous and – as luck would have it – a nostalgic fan and kind patron of little old me! I met him a few years ago at a smart dinner after a private view. He kindly invited me to the Karlovy Vary Film Festival in the Czech Republic, of which he was a sponsor. Bessel has become a thoughtful and protective friend.

This summer he offered to subsidise me.

‘Why?’

‘I will provide you with financial support for a few months, so you can devote yourself to your own project.’

‘What kind of project?’

‘A book.’

‘A book?’

‘The story of an ageing Dutchwoman, a former goddess of love, in fragile health and living in a tiny apartment …’ He laughed, adding: ‘Give it some thought …’

*

The sun was shining brightly on the Amsterdam canals, and life was cutting me some slack. My mind roamed freely in my convalescing body – I had time to live, to think. My pale skin soaked up the sun, turning more golden by the day and slowly showing up a scar on my left arm. Four white spots came gradually into relief, each smaller than the last.

‘Give it some thought …’ Bessel’s words kept running through my mind, refusing to fade.

I couldn’t take my eyes off this scar of mine. So old. Forgotten. Four spots, like a secret code, the code of my childhood, of my life perhaps. A code I had never tested.

But now I had to; it was time.

I phoned Bessel in the middle of that hot summer and announced: ‘I’m going to test the code.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve been frightened that I’d forgotten everything, on purpose or because I had to, but now it’s all coming back, the words are on the tip of my tongue …’

‘I can’t understand what you’re saying.’

‘I accept your support, Bessel! I’m ready to do the book.’

2

The last train has screeched noisily into Utrecht station, as it does every evening just after nine. Daytime was over hours ago, but night arrives only with this silence. A brutal cold snap started today.

‘Winter is here, that’s for sure!’ declared a customer in the overheated hotel restaurant.

Utrecht station is enormous, the biggest in Holland, a great entangled fork leading to a huge, well-ordered platform. Travellers arrive here from all countries, for a day or a month, for the cattle market, the trade fairs, the hopes and encounters of big city life.

I walk slowly down the main staircase, the floorboards creaking despite the lightness of my tread. I am trying not to make any noise, in case the hotel is full – although the lights in the lobby are off. There’s only that red light seeping in through the bay windows, lending a glow to each piece of furniture, each line, to the Chinese vase standing on the reception counter. This red light blinks on and off, banishing the nighttime dark. In the hotel the dark is never black, it’s purple.

The show is scheduled for ten o’clock. I cross the empty restaurant; the customers must have eaten early on account of the sudden cold. I walk towards the counter. It’s the end of the week and the customers have left, tired.

I’m disappointed. I enjoy doing my little show. Usually the two of us do it together, it’s better that way – we smile and protect each other. We always use the same song, ‘Only You’ by the Platters. I get on my bicycle and pedal around the bar, turning in the wide aisle. I fix each customer with a perfectly neutral smile, neither happy nor sad. I stretch out one leg, then the other. My skirt flips back over the saddle and I turn my head slowly from side to side, trying to make the curls of my short hair flutter. Marianne is behind me on the rack, waving. I meet the amused eyes of the customers without reading them. I check that everyone is happy. The recipe usually takes – they laugh out loud, encouraging me and calling out: