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THIERRY JONQUET TARANTULA PDF

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Tarantula. Thierry Jonquet. Click here if your download doesn"t start automatically Tarantula by Thierry Jonquet Free PDF d0wnl0ad, audio books, books to. Thierry Jonquet was born in Paris in An exponent of the French noir influenced by post-May politics, Jonquet became one of France's best- known. Richard Lafargue is an eminent plastic surgeon haunted by dirty secrets. He has an operating theatre in the basement of his chateau and keeps his partner Eve imprisoned in her bedroom, a room he has equipped with an intercom and watt speakers through which he bellows orders.


Thierry Jonquet Tarantula Pdf

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He also has a secret operating theatre in his basements this is where he performs operations that he wants to keep on the hush-hush. He seems like a man who has it all but has lost his way and end up in a very dark place. Eve gets ready to perform for her Husband as he sits behind the mirror. The second trail follows a bungled robbery and the man committing it Alex barney ,we see him on the run after killing a cop ,also he needs to find a new identity this leads him to Larfargue ,they have met in passing through the book ,he ends up at the house stuck in a great stand-off between the three ,from which there lives will change.

Alex Barny rested on a camp bed in an attic room. He had nothing to do ,except wait. The chatter of the curadas in the garriage was an unrelenting racket. No doubt about their still being hicks! He had driven into their farmyard one rainy afternoon in his car, a Ford with a roaring engine.

His father stood waiting for him on the front steps. Alex felt proud of his clothes, his shoes, his new-man appearance with every last whiff of the soil gone. Playing the village bullyboy as a nightclub bouncer did not seem to him like much of a trade.

The two of them had sat facing each other in the main room. Alex merely lit a cigarette, ignoring the mustard glass of wine that had been poured for him.

What could they talk about? The weather they were having? The weather they were about to have? A few old men were playing cards, thumping loudly on the table as they laid out their hands, and two or three youngsters pushed and shoved one another at a pinball machine.

Alex was delighted with the impression he made.

Tarantula: the Skin I Live in

He shook hands with everyone and drank to the health of one and all. She was a good-looking woman, tall, graceful, and well turned out. She slouched and dragged her feet as she made her way to the minimarket to do her shopping. Every week, as regular as clockwork, Madame Moreau paid a ritual visit to the police station in Meaux in search of news of her missing son.

The police had told her that there were thousands of disappearances in France every year, and most of the time no trace of the missing person was ever found.

See a Problem?

A search of the forest around had turned up nothing. Alex spent that night in the village. It was Saturday, and there was a dance.

Annie was there, her hair as red as ever, her limbs a little thicker. She worked at the bean cannery in the next village over. Alex danced a slow number with her, then took her walking in the woods nearby. They made love in his car, lying uncomfortably on its reclining seats. The next day, after kissing his folks goodbye, Alex left. Alex unrolled his bandage: He sprinkled his thigh with the powder his friend had given him, then bound himself up again, pulling the bandage good and tight over the fresh dressing.

His hard-on was still there, almost painful itself. He masturbated furiously, thinking about Annie. He had never had a lot of girls. He usually had to pay them. It had been much better when Vincent was around. Vincent had chicks falling all over him in droves.

They often went to dances, the two of them. Vincent would dance; he would get every cool girl from miles around to dance with him. Alex used to sit at the bar and drink beer. Watching Vincent doing his number. Vincent smiled at the girls with his great smile.

It had them eating out of his hand. He would bring girls over to the bar and introduce them to Alex. No, they would rather have Vincent—puny, hairless, delicate Vincent with his oh-sopretty face! Lost in thoughts of an earlier time, Alex jerked off. Laboriously mobilizing his shaky memory, he tried to pass all the girls he had shared with Vincent in rapid review. And to think that Vincent had abandoned him!

The bastard! He was probably in America by now, getting laid by starlets! He wiped himself off with a spare dressing and went down to the kitchen to make coffee. He made it very strong. As the water was heating, he thrust his head under the tap, pushing aside the piles of dirty dishes that cluttered the sink. He sipped from his steaming bowl of coffee and chewed on the remains of a sandwich.

Alex turned the radio on and listened to a quiz show on Radio Luxembourg called The Suitcase. A fortune. New, crackling bills. He had looked in the dictionary to see who these people were whose likenesses were printed on the notes: Voltaire, Pascal, Berlioz.

How weird, to have your photo on a banknote— rather like being turned into a bit of money yourself. He stretched out on the couch and returned to his pastime, a jigsaw with more than two thousand pieces.

He was close to getting it done. By gluing matches together he achieved a clumsy, naive, touching replica. All that was missing was the tractor, so he cut one out of a piece of cardboard.

Later, on a return visit to the attic, he turned up the jigsaw puzzle… The farmhouse where he was hiding out belonged to a friend of his, a guy he had met working as a nightclub bouncer. You could spend a few weeks there without fear of unannounced visits from curious neighbors.

The cops hate it when one of their own gets killed. Alex was working on part of the sky. It was all blue, very hard to do. Alex got irritated, which made him try even more unlikely joins; he was continually assembling patches of sky only to pull them apart again. A squat and repulsive spider. She picked a corner of the wall and set about spinning a web. She came and went carefully and laboriously. The spider panicked, checking her surroundings, looking out for the advent of some enemy; but since the concept of matches was not inscribed in her genes, she soon went back to work.

Alex found a dead mosquito and tossed it into the newly constructed web. The spider rushed over, circled this carrion, but disdained it. Alex divined the reason for her lack of interest: Hobbling, he went out to the front steps, delicately gathered up a moth hiding under a tile, and placed it in the web. The moth struggled to escape the viscous toils. The spider promptly reappeared, turning the prey this way and that before weaving a cocoon for it and storing the insect in a crack in the wall, safe for a future feast.

Eve was sitting at her dressing table, examining her face in the mirror. A childish face, with great sad almond-shaped eyes. There was almost too much perfection, and such radiant charm created a sort of malaise in her. She had never known a man who could resist her attraction or remain indifferent to her glance.

No man could pierce her aura of mystery or pin down the quality that invested her every gesture with an enrapturing ambiguity. She drew them all to her, piquing their interest, arousing their desire, playing on the tension they felt once in her presence. She made herself up, then took the easel from its case and spread out the paints and brushes and resumed work on a canvas that she had in hand. It was a portrait of Richard, vulgar and crudely executed.

She showed him seated on a bar stool with legs apart, cross-dressed as a woman, a cigarette-holder in his mouth, wearing a pink dress and black stockings held up by a garter-belt; his feet were crammed into high-heeled shoes.

Painted with obsessive precision, the face was covered with red blotches. No viewer of the picture could have failed to supply a voice for this pathetic, monstrous caricature: Later, you came to regret it. For the moment, he was treating you better. He would come and give you showers, spraying you with tepid water from a garden hose, even letting you have a piece of soap.

The spotlight stayed on all the time. For hours at a time your master would stay with you, sitting in an armchair opposite you, scrutinizing your slightest movement.

But then you got your courage up. He replied immediately, smiling: So, he had been holding you captive for over two months. Two months of being hungry and thirsty—and how long eating from his hand, licking that tin plate, lying prostrate at his feet, being washed with a hose? You wept then, asked why he was doing all this to you. This time he said nothing.

You could see his face, which was impenetrable, crowned by white hair: He kept coming into your prison and staying there, sitting before you, impassive. He would disappear only to return a little later.

Tarantula.

The nightmares of your early days of incarceration were gone. Could he be slipping tranquilizers into your rations? True, your anxiety was still there, but its object had changed.

You were sure of staying alive, for otherwise, you reasoned, he would have killed you already. It was, therefore, something else… A little later, your meal routine was changed. Your master set up a folding table and a stool for you. He gave you a plastic knife and fork like the ones they give you on airplanes. A plate replaced the tin bowl. And real meals soon followed: You were still chained up, but your master cared for the abrasions on your wrists caused by the shackles. You would spread cream on the sores, and he would wind an elastic bandage round your wrist beneath the steel cuffs.

Everything was going better, but still he said nothing. You told your life story. He listened with the greatest interest. His silence was intolerable to you. You had to talk, to tell and retell your stories, to recount your childhood, to stupefy yourself with words, merely to prove to him that you were not an animal! Later still, your diet was suddenly improved once more. The tableware was luxurious. Chained to your wall, naked as ever, you stuffed yourself with caviar, salmon, sorbets, and fancy pastries.

He sat beside you, serving you the food. He brought in a cassette player, and you listened to Chopin and Liszt. As for the humiliating issue of the calls of nature, there too he became more humane, providing a conveniently placed waste bucket.

A time came at last when he allowed you to leave the wall at certain times.

He released you from your fetters and led you around the cellar on a leash. You wandered slowly in a circle, round and round the spotlight. Balzac, Stendhal…In high school you had hated such works, but now, alone in your hole, sitting crosslegged on your patch of oilcloth or leaning your elbows on the folding table, you devoured them. Little by little, your leisure took on substance.

Your master took care to vary its pleasures. A stereo system appeared, complete with records; even an electronic chess set. He had adjusted the brightness of the spotlight so that it no longer dazzled you, hanging a rag over the bulb to subdue the glare.

By virtue of all these changes, the absence of any brutality from your master, and the increasing luxury that gradually offset your solitude, you began to forget or at least to repress your fear. Your nakedness and the chains that still held you became an incongruity. The walks around on the leash continued. You were a cultivated, intelligent beast. You suffered from memory lapses; at times you became acutely aware of the unreality, even the absurdity of your predicament.

Of course, you had a burning desire for answers from your master, but he discouraged all questions, concerning himself exclusively with your material comfort.

What would you like for supper?

Did you enjoy the recording? And so on. What about your village? Your mother? The faces of your friends were fading from your memory, melding into a thick fog. Your distant past returned in violent and chaotic waves; images from your long-forgotten childhood would reemerge unannounced in startling clarity, only to dissipate in their turn into a vague mist. A minute, two hours, ten years? Your master noticed how this troubled you and gave you an alarm clock.

You began to count the hours, avidly watching the progress of the hands on the clock. No, the important thing was that now you could once again regulate your life: A rhythm: Several more weeks had gone by. You sketched faceless portraits, mouths, confused landscapes, the ocean, immense cliffs, a giant hand creating waves. You scotch-taped these drawings to the wall; they helped you forget the bare concrete beneath.

In your head you had given your master a name. You dared not pronounce it in his presence, needless to say. You had given up weeping and complaining. There was no pain in your new life in the material sense. At this time of year—February? You were habituated to your nudity.

Shame was long gone. Only your chains were still intolerable. It was probably some time in May, according to your reckoning, but possibly it was earlier, when a strange event occurred. Your alarm said it was two-thirty in the afternoon. Mygale came down to visit you. He sat down in the armchair, as was his wont, to observe you. You were drawing. He got up and came over to you. You got to your feet and faced him standing up. Your two faces were almost touching.

Mygale raised his hand and placed it on your shoulder.

He felt your cheeks, your nose, gently pinching the skin. Your heart was beating wildly. His hand, which felt hot, wandered back down over your chest, became soft and agile as it slid across your ribs, your belly. He fondled your muscles and stroked your smooth, hairless skin.

Mistaking the meaning of these motions, you gauchely attempted a caress of your own, touching his face. Mygale slapped you violently, teeth clenched.

He ordered you to turn around, then methodically continued his examination for several more minutes. When it was over, you sat down, rubbing your cheek, which still smarted from his blow. You smiled. Mygale left. You did not know what to make of this new kind of contact—a revolution, really, in your relationship.

You resumed your drawing and stopped thinking about anything. He had gone out into the garden and was carving a piece of wood, an olive-tree root. Alex wore a broad straw hat to protect him from the sun. With a beer close to hand, he forgot his injury and lost himself in his painstaking task. The telephone ringing made him start violently.

Hardly believing his ears, he ran into the farmhouse and planted himself before the phone, his arms dangling. Who could possibly know that he was here? The weapon was more sophisticated than his own. Trembling, he picked up the receiver. He knew the voice. Against a tidy consideration, the guy had contrived to treat Alex himself.

There had been no need to extract the bullet, because it had exited from his thigh after passing through the quadriceps. It hurt a lot, but the legionnaire swore up and down that he knew enough to do without a doctor. In any event, Alex had no choice: The normal course, outpatient treatment from a hospital, was out of the question.

The phone conversation was brief and staccato. The owner of the farmhouse was implicated in a sordid business connected with prostitution. The police were liable to show up at the door in the next few hours armed with a search warrant.

Alex must clear out immediately… He agreed, stammering out his thanks. The caller hung up. Alex paced up and down with the Colt still in his hand. He wept with rage. It was all about to start again: He packed up quickly, transferring the money to a suitcase. He dressed in a cotton suit that he had found in a wardrobe. It was a little baggy, but what did that matter?

The bandage around his thigh made a lump under the material. Freshly shaved, he tossed a bag into the trunk of the car: Stowing the Colt in the glove compartment, Alex started the car. He left the iron gates to the property wide open behind him.

On the road, he passed the Dutch family on their way back from the beach. Alex was sweating profusely. He had to get up to Paris as quickly as possible. But where would he go?

Alex had no idea. The money, he realized, would attract all kinds of people. Weakened by his injury, panic-stricken, and caught up in an adventure that it was beyond his capacities to confront, Alex sensed obscurely that the future would be no bed of roses.

That time when Vincent had got him to go to the Paris Hall of Justice to attend the superior court had left him with a most agonizing memory that he simply could not shake off: He resolved to save a bullet for himself if ever he was caught. He returned to Paris by back roads; the major arteries and highways were bound to be patrolled by the national security police at this, the height of the vacation season.

He had only one place to go: The man now ran a private surveillance company. If things smoothed out for Alex, if the bills were negotiable, then everything became possible…Meanwhile, the legionnaire knew that Alex was entirely dependent on him, not only to get over his injury but also to get out of the country.

Alex, all at sea in his new life, was not about to throw himself blindly into the waiting arms of Interpol.

Alex had no foreign contacts offering him a guarantee of security abroad. He could easily foresee the moment when his protector would state his price for arranging a clean disappearance, complete with a credible passport and a quiet, discreet hideaway.

And that price would certainly be a very high percentage of the proceeds of the hold-up… Alex dwelt on his abiding hatred for men at ease in wellcut clothes, casually elegant, who knew how to talk to women. He himself was still a peasant, a rube that anybody could manipulate at will. He wound up in a small suburban detached house at LivryGargan, one of the residential zones of Seine-Saint-Denis. After setting Alex up there, the legionnaire ordered him not to go out, and, much as at the farmhouse, he found a freezer stuffed to bursting, a bed, and a television set.

Alex made himself as comfortable as he could, using just one room. The neighboring houses were either unoccupied, in the process of being rented, or inhabited by bank employees with well-regulated lives who rose very early and returned only in the early evening. Moreover, the summer season meant that the Paris suburbs had been depopulated since the beginning of August.

The legionnaire insisted absolutely on his remaining inside. Alex would not see his protector again until he returned to town in September, so Alex was to take things quietly until then. He listened attentively as the petty bureaucrat pitched his product, which according to him was easier to inject, easier to handle, and so forth. The Japanese man was waving his arms about as he spoke. The telephone rang.

As Richard listened, a deep frown came over his face, and when he answered his voice was hollow and tremulous. He thanked the caller, then turned to the salesman and explained that he would have to terminate their meeting.

They set up another time for the next day. Lafargue doffed his lab coat and ran all the way to his car. Roger was waiting at the wheel, but he sent him home, preferring to drive himself. He drove rapidly to the Paris ring road, then took the Normandy turnpike.

He kept his foot down and leaned furiously on the horn whenever a driver did not get over into the slow lane quickly enough when he wanted to pass.

Richard followed the doctor into the elevator. Viviane was in crisis. She had ripped her smock, and she was stamping her feet and screaming, tearing at her body, which was already covered with bloody weals.

They should take effect soon. Double the dose. Richard came in, sat down on the bed and, his voice no more than a murmur, called her by name. She began screaming again, but she stayed still. She was breathless, and her mad eyes rolled in every direction; she drew back her lips and whistled through her teeth. Little by little, still quite conscious, she settled down. Her breathing was more regular now, less labored.

Lafargue was able to take her in his arms and get her into bed. The psychiatrist had remained in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his white coat; he came over to Richard, taking his arm.

I must! I just have to come! The image of Viviane obsessed him. The vision of her battered and sullied body was a waking nightmare that tormented him always. It had all started with a long-drawn-out scream audible above the music of the band, then Viviane had appeared with her clothes torn, her thighs streaming with blood, her eyes blank… Lise had the day off.

He burst out laughing, ran and pressed his mouth to the intercom and shouted as loud as he could. Get dressed! You are going to entertain me tonight! Lafargue had turned the volume up as far as it would go. The racket was intolerable.

Eve gasped. He found her slumped over the piano, her hands clamped to ears still hurting from the onslaught. He had stopped in the doorway, a smile playing about his lips and a glass of scotch in his hand. She turned and looked at him in horror. She knew the meaning of the crises that made him erupt like this: His suffering had to be appeased, and Eve existed solely for this purpose. He forced her to empty the glass in one gulp. Then he seized her wrist, dragged her all the way downstairs, and threw her bodily into the car.

Lafargue propelled Eve onto the bed by kicking her in the back. He already had the closet open and was pulling out clothes, tossing them pell-mell onto the carpet.

She stood facing him, crying softly. He held out the leather skirt, the boots, a white blouse. She put them on. He pointed to the telephone. She was obliged to pick up the receiver and dial the number.

After a moment, Varneroy came on the line. Richard stood behind her, ready to strike. And you need money? How sweet of you to think of poor old Varneroy! Thrilled, Varneroy would be there in half an hour. She had made enough connections at the time to supply the twice-monthly sessions that he now demanded of her: Then he disappeared, slamming the door behind him.

She knew that he would be spying on her from the other side of the one-way mirror. The treatment she got at the hands of Varneroy made it impossible to take him on too frequently. Varneroy arrived pleased as Punch. He was a pink little man, paunchy, well turned out, and amiable. He took off his hat, laid his jacket down carefully, and kissed Eve on either cheek before opening his bag and producing his whip.

Richard observed these preliminaries with satisfaction, his hands tightly clasped around the armrests of the rocking-chair and his face rife with tics. The whip cracked. Richard clapped his hands. He laughed uproariously. But then, suddenly overcome by nausea, he could no longer abide the spectacle. Stunned by this apparition, Varneroy froze, his jaw slack, his arm aloft.

Lafargue snatched the whip from his grasp, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and ejected him into the hallway. Richard and Eve were alone.

She had fallen to her knees. Richard helped her up, then helped her wash. She got back into the sweatshirt and jeans she had been wearing when she was taken aback by his voice booming through the intercom. Without a word, he drove her back to the house, undressed her, and laid her on her bed.

Considerately, tenderly, he applied ointment to her wounds and made her very hot tea. He held her to him, bringing the cup to her mouth and letting her take tiny sips. Then he drew the sheet up over her chest and stroked her hair. He had dissolved a sleeping tablet in her tea, and she quickly fell asleep.

The two swans slept side by side, heads beneath their wings, the female, so graceful, nuzzled against the more imposing body of the male.

He wept bitter tears. He had snatched Eve from the hands of Varneroy, and he knew full well that this pity—for that is what he called it—had abruptly destroyed the hate, the limitless, unrestrained hate that was his only reason for living.

Mygale often played chess with you. He would think for a long time before risking a move that you never anticipated. Sometimes he improvised attacks without regard for his own defenses; he was impulsive, yet invincible. The day came when he did away with your shackles and replaced your mat with a sofa. On this you slept and lolled all day long amid silky cushions. Mygale gave you candy and Virginia cigarettes. He inquired about your tastes in music. Your conversations took on a playful cast bordering on small talk.

He had provided a videocassette player and brought movies for the two of you to watch together. He made tea, plied you with herbal decoctions, and, if you seemed depressed, he would uncork a bottle of champagne.

You were no longer naked: Mygale had given you an embroidered shawl, a gorgeous piece of fabric beautifully wrapped. Swathed in the shawl, you would snuggle among the cushions, smoking the imported cigarettes or sucking on sugary bonbons, and await your daily visit from Mygale, who would never arrive empty-handed. His generosity toward you was seemingly boundless. Yes, you had been a captive for ten months, and today you were twenty-one. You hammed it up then, prancing around the giant package, clapping your hands and laughing.

Mygale helped you untie the ribbon. You already knew from the shape that it was a piano—but not that it was a Steinway!

The performance was hardly brilliant, but you shed tears of joy. That was when he slapped you for the second time. It was chilling to see him in action sometimes. He kept me wondering what was truly on his mind? Has he gone mad as Eve perceived him to be or is his hatred really that all consuming?

How far could one go driven by hatred? When will it be enough to quench his thirst for justification? I could understand Eve's confused state of mind whenever it comes to Lafargue as he was never truly constant especially in the beginning of their relationship. He would hurt her at one time and dotes on her the next. When Eve tries to lean on his tenderness, she would be promptly slapped away only to be comforted again when she slips into depression.

In my humble opinion, the writing was beautiful and refine albeit chilling and disturbing at the same time. I shudder often thinking of all those irreversible physical and psychological scarring on the victim. To be so forcefully changed forever. How could one forgave another for causing such grievous harm on them for whatever justification at all? I am in total agreement with Mizuki Genshou's review that this is a tale of suffering of the body and soul, domination and submission, hurt and comfort, love and hate.

An intriguing twisted relationship between predator and prey, prisoner and jailer.

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I especially like this remark by Mizuki on her review, "I found it to be very bold and imaginative, even kind of sexy in a twisted way. I have already mentioned right at the beginning of this review that the ending has taken me by surprise and left me amazed in a shocked way as it wasn't what I have expected to happen at all.Once you get used to using it, you'll be able to find your way around with little trouble, but initially it can be a little off-putting.

He had left his own car door unlocked so he could start up as quickly as possible should the doctor suddenly appear. Alex made himself as comfortable as he could, using just one room.

You have been adequately warned. The sheets covered all but a small part of her face, and her thick curly brown hair was a dark patch on the mauve satin. A pitcher! He would bring girls over to the bar and introduce them to Alex. He plunged one hand into the bowl, grabbing your hair and pulling your head back with the other. The surgery planning meeting lasted just over an hour.