Platform by Michel Houellebecq

sordid little flying machines. Through the wall I could hear Lionel snoring gently through the night. I got up, put another block of citronella on to melt, then went for a piss. A round hole had been made in the floor of the bathroom; it flowed straight into the river. You could hear the lapping of the water and the sound of fins; I tried not to think about what might be down there. Just as I was going back to bed, Lionel let out a long series of farts. "Too right, my boy!" I commended him enthusiastically. "As Martin Luther said, there's nothing like farting in your sleeping bag!" My voice resounded strangely in the dark, above the murmuring of the river and the persistent drone of the insects. Simply being able to hear the real world was a torment. "The kingdom of heaven is like unto a cotton bud!" I roared again into the night. "Let he who has ears to hear, hear!" In his bed, Lionel turned over and moaned gently without waking. I didn't have much in the way of choice: I'd have to take a sleeping pill.

8
    Carried by the current, tufts of grass floated downriver. The birdsong started up again, rising from the light mist that swathed the jungle. Far off to the south, at the mouth of the valley, the strange contours of the Burmese mountains were silhouetted in the distance. I had seen these curved, bluish forms before, but cut through with sudden indentations. Perhaps in the landscapes of the Italian primitives, on a visit to a museum when I was in grade school. The group was not awake yet; the temperature was still pleasant at this hour. I had slept very badly.

    After the disaster of the previous evening, a certain benevolence floated around the breakfast tables. Josette and René seemed to be in good form; on the other hand, the ecologists from the jura were in a terrible state, I noticed, as they shambled in. The proletariat of a previous generation, who had no hang-ups about enjoying modern comforts when they were available, proved to be much more resilient in truly uncomfortable circumstances than their offspring, who championed "ecological" principles. Éric and Sylvie clearly hadn't got a wink all night; in addition, Sylvie was completely covered in red blisters.
    "Yes, the mosquitoes really got me," she confirmed bitterly.
    "I've got some soothing lotion if you want. It's very good —I can go and get it."
    "That would be nice, thanks; but let's have coffee first." The coffee was revolting, weak, almost undrinkable; from that point of view at least, we were living up to American standards. The young couple looked completely fucking idiotic —it almost pained me to see their "ecological paradise" crumbling before their eyes. But I had a feeling that everything was going to cause me pain today. I looked to the south again. "I'm told Burma is very beautiful," I said in a low voice, mostly to myself. Sylvie solemnly agreed: it was indeed, very beautiful, she'd also heard as much. That said, she forbade herself to go to Burma. It was impossible to allow one's money to support a dictatorship like that. Yes, yes, I thought, money. "Human rights are extremely important," she exclaimed almost despairingly. When people talk about "human rights," I usually get the impression that they're being sarcastic;
    but that wasn't true in this case, or at least I don't think so. "Personally, I stopped going to Spain after the death of Franco," interrupted Robert, taking a seat at our table. I hadn't seen him arrive. He seemed to be in excellent form, his formidable ability to infuriate wellrested. He informed us that he'd gone to bed dead drunk and consequently had slept like a log. He had almost chucked himself in the river a couple of times on his way back to the cottage; but it never actually happened, " lnsh'allah ," he concluded in a booming voice.

    After this parody of a breakfast, Sylvie walked back with me to my room. On the way, we met Josiane. She was serious, withdrawn, and did not even look at us —clearly far from the