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floor. As they were passing the door of her bedroom, Emmanuelle suddenly remembered the big nude photograph of her that Jean kept by his bed, and she was afraid her guest would see it. She quickened her pace, but Marie-Anne had already stopped in front of the mosquito netting that separated the bedroom from the landing.
    “Is that your bedroom?” she asked. “May I see it?”
    She went inside without waiting for an answer. Emmanuelle followed her. Marie-Anne burst out laughing. “What an enormous bed! How many people sleep in it with you?”
    Emmanuelle blushed. “It’s actually two twin beds pushed together.”
    Marie-Anne looked at the photograph. “You’re beautiful. Who took it?”
    Emmanuelle wanted to lie by saying that Jean had taken it, but she was unable to do so. “An artist, a friend of my husband,” she admitted.
    “Do you have any other pictures? He must not have taken only this one. Don’t you have any that show you making love?”
    Emmanuelle felt slightly dazed. What kind of a little girl was this who looked at her with those big green eyes and that bright smile, and asked such astounding questions in a tone of camaraderie, with no apparent emotion? And the worst of it was that, perhaps because of those eyes, Emmanuelle felt that she could do nothing but tell the truth, and that this child had the power to make her confess all her secrets if she wanted to. She abruptly opened the door, as though that act could protect her. “Shall we go?”
    Marie-Anne smiled fleetingly. They went out onto a terrace that was sheltered from the sun by a yellow and white striped awning. A warm breeze was blowing from the nearby river.
    “You’re so lucky!” Marie-Anne exclaimed. “There’s no other house in Bangkok with a location like this. What a wonderful view, and what a comfortable feeling!”
    Marie-Anne stood still for a moment before the landscape of coconut palms and flame trees. Then, with a natural movement, she unfastened her high raffia belt and tossed it onto one of the wicker chairs. Without further delay, she unzipped her colorful skirt, let it drop to the floor, and stepped out of the circle it formed around her feet. Her blouse came down to her hips, below the sides of her panties, so that nothing could be seen of them, front and back, but a narrow, crimson, lace-trimmed vertical strip. She sprawled on one of the deck chairs and picked up a magazine, not wasting a minute.
    “It’s been so long since I saw any French magazines! Where did you get these?” She stretched out at ease, with her legs sedately joined.
    Emmanuelle sighed, drove away the confused thoughts that were assailing her, and lay down facing Marie-Anne, who burst out laughing.
    “What kind of a story is this, ‘Owl Oil’? Do you mind if I read it now?”
    “Of course not, Marie-Anne.”
    She plunged into the story. The open magazine hid her face. She did not remain motionless long. Her body became animated with sudden starts, like the shying of a colt. She raised her knee, and her left thigh, no longer pressed against her right one, leaned gently on the arm of the chair. Emmanuelle tried to look into the gap of her panties. One of Marie-Anne’s hands left the magazine, moved between her open legs, pushed aside the nylon, sought a point farther down, found it, and stayed there for a moment. Then it rose again, uncovering, as it passed, the groove in her flesh. It played over the swelling beneath the cloth, descended, slipped under her buttocks, and began the same itinerary again. But this time only her middle finger was lowered; the others, gracefully raised, flanked it like the open wings of an insect. It brushed against her skin until her wrist, abruptly bent, came to rest. Emmanuelle felt her heart beating so hard that she was afraid it could be heard. Her tongue was thrust forward between her lips.
    Marie-Anne continued her game. The middle finger pressed down more deeply, pushing her flesh aside. It stopped again,