Justine, Pt2.

This will make more sense if you have read the previous part of Justine.

You are going to have to be patient with this one. There’s a slow build-up.

South of France, present, night-time…

Sitting on her bed, she knows that she needs to sleep, that the recent nights where she has slept for only a few hours are part of a downward spiral.

The insistent conversation in her head, the questions that kept surfacing in her mind each evening, after she had been dismissed from the increasingly strange after dinner ‘chats’, the repeated ‘incidents’, the questions as to exactly what was going on with her, with her employers, those questions which had kept her awake for hours, questions which had gotten deeper, more paranoid (although, as it had turned out, she had not been paranoid enough), the lack of sleep making it harder and harder for her to think clearly, to respond appropriately to things that were said and done to her, in her presence, that led to even longer internal questioning, of an increasingly disturbing and disturbed nature, this had all spiralled out of control.

And this was why, this evening, she had found herself opening Pandora’s box; unable, any longer, to contain the paradoxes, the questions, the paranoia, the unknowingness, she had demanded answers to straightforward questions.

And received answers which were infinitely more disturbing than her own imagination had been able to provide.

Worse, even these crazy answers did not satisfy her— only raised even more troubling questions.

Questions— about her judgement as to whom to respect, pay attention to, who people really were, but also - more immediate, more troubling, more demanding; questions about her own moral fibre, her own body, her own psyche, her own future, her desires…

Questions which it seemed could not be answered, except through her discovering, through lived experience, just what it might mean for her to say ‘yes’ to these people. These people whom, just a week before, she had been eager to display her most dedicated respect and attention for.

Which dedication, it was now suggested, required her to ask them to degrade her, break her, destroy her, shame and humiliate her, pervert her.

They were so much older than her, so much more experienced— so wise, so clever, so rich, so powerful, so strong in their self-determination, their ability and will to get from the world what they desired of it.

And they seemed to know something about her, have some firm confidence that they saw her more clearly than she could see herself.

They seemed to be confident she would let them have her on insane terms, without them even working at it. That she would do the work herself. It was either that, or they genuinely did not care what she chose— that they were not really in the slightest interested in her.

That thought, when it came, cut her like a burning knife.

It could not be— it could not be allowed to be— true, that they (that Sir Stephen, that Danika, those two in particular, but all of them, really)— that they did not care if they never saw her again.

Tears took her; it was all too hard, too frightening, too overwhelming!

Why could she not even begin to feel sleepy?

London, the previous year…

Into Justine and Ulya’s lives had come a visitor, Stefan.

Like her mother, originally eastern European (his exact origin never discussed), he had for some while been settled, and naturalised, in England. Indeed, he was widely known as Stephen; Sir Stephen in fact; Sir Stephen Sirov, knighted for ‘services to European relations’— whatever that meant (again he didn’t discuss the question). He was younger than her parents, Justine knew, but still seemed old— over 40!

Picture: Stefan / Sir Stephen

He’d been a business associate of her father’s, rather than an original friend of her mother— but the Russian connection had been made, and it clearly still counted for something.

There had been a good family friendship a few years back; some joint holidays (he was a confirmed bachelor, a string of girlfriends clearly never intended as marriage material), long evenings of bonhomie, but there had not been much contact since the divorce— business interests had diverged, and Stefan had been out of the country for long periods. They hadn’t seen him in over four years.

He had come, he said, as soon as he had heard of Justine’s father remarrying. He didn’t want to take sides, but he did want to help. He was blunt; did Ulya (Justine’s mother) need money? Typically Russian, she readily admitted that she did, and the matter was dealt with without much more than routine fuss and several servings of black tea.

During all this, Justine had been quiet— serving the tea, smiling appreciatively at appropriate points, murmuring thanks. But she had been remembering— remembering the conversations that her twelve year-old self had had with Stefan— ‘Sir Stephen’ as her mother now insists she call him. Realising that, even though she had been so young, Stefan / Sir Stephen had talked to her as if she was a grown-up— a real person; listened to her, attempted to answer her, taken her opinions seriously; even if he had disagreed with all of them, he had done so in a way which made it clear that he thought she had a right to opinions, that he respected her for having them, that he also expected her to have reasons, arguments, something to say about them. In which she had sometimes been exposed as lacking, but which he had never been dismissive about— only gently suggesting that she do some more thinking.

‘Sir Stephen’ (she was trying to train herself)— he was someone whom she could imagine as a friend. A real friend— one who would certainly have a view on Iron in the Soul — and who would be interested to hear hers— even if he might challenge it.

She laughed at herself, a little bitterly— he was a grown man, a businessman out in the world— she was still only emerging from childhood ‘well, I’m not— I am a grown up! I’ve got boobs, and I’ve had sex, and I can smoke if I want, and vote, and…’ — she had not even convinced herself; of course he must see her as a child.

In point of fact, Stefan had noticed immediately on arriving that Justine had become a woman; a rather beautiful and desirable young woman at that. This was a simple observation, without any urge to action— Sir Stephen (he had trained himself to respond to this, but still knew himself as Stefan) had no unfulfilled lusts, no unmet hungers.

Nevertheless, he appreciated Justine’s slender but shapely form, the lovely way in which she held herself, with which she moved, and allowed himself to consider what she might look like naked; deciding— with the benefit of his large and wide experience— that she was probably rather lovely— a real peach, in point of fact.

He, had also remembered the conversations he had had with a (much) younger Justine— her precocious intelligence, her intense approach to thinking about what mattered, her excitement in finding someone willing to converse with her on such matters. Her ideas, her thoughts, her conclusions had been mostly naive, jejeune, of course— but still he had been impressed, interested by her ability to converse, and entertained by her eager sincerity. She had been lovely then, too, a lovely child, with the promise of a real mind in development.

He had enjoyed their conversations, found them refreshing and rejuvenating— the sense that each generation would have its own new thoughts eternally was something that had not occurred to him until then. At the time he had just been arriving at the realisation that he, himself, was no longer young— that the years had changed him, forced him to acknowledge his own limits, the hard shape of certain aspects of his world that could not be changed by idealism, reason, enthusiasm or even relentless effort. it was a pleasure to him to see such naive sincerity coupled with such a strong intelligence and will to explore.

Ulya asked if he would mind if she left him alone for a little while - she had a slight headache. He readily agreed, promised he would still be there when she returned. He was pleased to have some time alone, for he had begun to consider Justine, to wonder whether she might be considered in a new light; the light of opportunity.

Remembering 12 year old Justine’s qualities, he accepted that these were a material factor in his decision about exploiting this opportunity. Was he justified in setting the process which he was considering into motion? Justine might have an interesting and fulfilling life in front of her.

He decided he would sleep on it, and so allowed Ulya to convince him to stay the night. Shaving the next morning, he realised that he had already made his decision. He would take the girl. He could, and so he should. It was almost as simple as that.

At breakfast he began to ask about Justine— politely taking an interest. That’s all it took. Ulya was worrying about her, but had lost the ability and will to direct her daughter as she had previously done— what is she going to do? She needs to earn money this year, or do something interesting— perhaps both, before she arrives at the Sorbonne— but the girl can’t decide. At this rate she’ll end up at home all year long— not right for a young girl, surely? She talked for a while, but as he didn’t ask much in the way of follow-up, that seemed to be the end of it. Justine had been in the room throughout, but neither of them had done much more than glance at her; at no point had they asked her view, or considered that she might have one.

Stefan announced he must leave in the afternoon, and Justine wondered if he would speak to her at all— he didn’t seem to have paid any direct attention to her, and she was beginning to tell herself that he had not, after all, found her interesting, years before— that she must have bored him, that he didn’t want to risk being bored again. She wasn’t desperate about it— just sad; one more nail in the coffin of everything she had understood life to be about before the last year.

But then, while her mother was fussing in the kitchen— insisting on putting up a pot of proper borsch for Sir Stephen to take with him, despite his protests— he had begun to ask Justine questions about her plans, about the Sorbonne, about her subject. When she mentioned that it was Iron in the Soul, which had perhaps set her on that path, the first thing he asked her was whether she had read any other Sartre? She felt herself going pink— she couldn’t help it, and sounded much less grown-up to herself that she would have liked to as she answered— yes, but she had decided that she preferred Camus and de Beauvoir.

He didn’t challenge her, thankfully (it had been months since she had read anything serious), and moved on to easier topics; how was she feeling about going to Paris? What did she want to do in the next year? Would she see her father? Once again, she found him a relief to talk to; he treated her as she remembered— as a grown up, not a child— assumed that she was making these decisions for herself, as a responsible person. She also noticed that his eyes, on her, were the eyes of a man on a woman— not that there was anything untoward, but it was clear that he had noticed her breasts, her legs (she was wearing tight leggings under a small skirt— dancer wear, as was habitual for her).

She was pleased, although as often a little uncomfortable. Men were a difficult issue for her— until recently, it had been difficult for her to have time for boys— and to be honest, most of them seemed silly and childish to her. Men, though, were interesting, but at the same time always made her feel confused. Wasn’t she supposed to go with boys her own age? Why was it that she always noticed when the ones old enough to be her father were looking at her— and why wasn’t she disgusted by them— why didn’t she call them, think of them, as ‘dirty old men’, as the girls she knew did?

Stefan had made his decision, and this conversation only reinforced it. She was suitable. If he left her to herself, there was no certainty that she would become anyone special. His process had a much higher reliability of giving him, and his colleagues, something they would consider special. Her chances of having a meaningful life were better his way. Even if it would be the sort of special that he appreciated, and very different indeed to the kind of ‘special’ that Ulya had hoped for her child.

Still, the reality of the world was that there were always hard choices to be made, and Justine was there for the taking.

He had made his choice. He had confidence in his ability to control her choices, without it seeming he had done so.

Right before he left, then, he had raised a subject. There was a group of families— generally connected with the serious end of the property business— an international community, almost, who rented houses in the South of France every year— Provence, near the coast, in the run up to and for some weeks after the big international property show in Cannes, in June.

There was always a need for girls to look after the children— and Russian/French/English speakers like Justine were at a premium. Would Justine like him to ask around? The work would not be too hard— plenty of time off, excellent beaches, lovely pools…

Read the next part of Justine.