Undressing Emmanuelle: A memoir

Undressing Emmanuelle: A memoir
Sylvia Kristel

The candid and heartbreakingly honest memoir of Sylvia Kristel, the cinema icon of the 1970s who played the lead role in the worldwide sensation erotic Emmanuelle films.1974: After a year of wrangling with the censors, the erotic film, Emmanuelle, is a blockbuster sensation on release in France and a box office triumph around the world from Japan to the States. The image that adorned cinemas across the world was of an unknown 20 year old posing naked, innocent and vulnerable on a wicker chair. Overnight Sylvia Kristel was propelled into international superstardom (at the height of her fame she was invited to address the Brazilian parliament) and turned into an icon of sexual liberation.Sylvia Kristel was born of a dysfunctional family and an impossibly strict religious education. But having won the Miss TV Europe competition in 1973 she was driven by her own ambition to be an actress on the world stage and auditioned for the part of the innocent seductress in Emmanuelle. Through the phenomenal success of the three Emmanuelle films she starred in, she became the darling of Hollywood, as she seduced and was seduced by the rich and the beautiful of the golden age of cinema. But she found herself typecast as Emmanuelle and often played roles that capitalized upon that image, most notably starring in an adaptation of ‘Lady Chatterly's Lover’, and a nudity-filled biopic of World War I spy, Mata Hari, in which she played the title role. Almost inevitably she became the victim of her own innocence as it was Emmanuelle people wanted, not Sylvia. The price that she paid for her meteoric rise was an equally rapid descent into an excess of alcohol and drugs as her tempestuous family life threatened to fall apart all together.Naked, candid and heart-breakingly honest, ‘Undressing Emmanuelle’ tells the story of one of Europe's most celebrated cinema icons and the price she paid for her beauty and innocence.

UNDRESSING EMMANUELLE

A memoir

SYLVIA KRISTEL

with

JEAN ARCELIN

For Arthur

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS (#uc2f878fe-b6cf-5fe5-b702-b8b39062d1aa)

Contents

Title Page (#u6dc28449-b629-578f-97ee-e5e9151841b8)Dedication (#u9594402f-6420-59e8-a0b7-c6f6c9f9e334)List of Illustrations (#uce337bc6-edfd-532d-828a-3f7488ceec1e)Chapter One (#u9dd12230-a709-5007-a653-49f4312b3128)Chapter Two (#u2a426905-ed27-5847-98db-bedb74a6eb27)Chapter Three (#uf4845c8c-4b5c-5297-a930-3c4e33a068e3)Chapter Four (#uefdba68d-6981-501b-a117-04cfe3daa0eb)Chapter Five (#ud0d365dc-01b7-56c8-ba47-8a49f4e1e052)Chapter Six (#udc9014d2-78d0-5e98-8d60-c2f74e4ee0f6)Chapter Seven (#u0f9ade3a-30c2-5b22-9852-97582ec032c6)Chapter Eight (#u412d4d9b-4586-50c9-a989-00faca274a7a)Chapter Nine (#ueb12ffe8-d432-5ff8-a076-c0f6edb0ee78)Chapter Ten (#u091d5585-6143-55cb-8d05-11351f4c2ab9)Chapter Eleven (#u816e1f9d-7fcf-544b-9953-6458cf2f3358)Chapter Twelve (#u9b059418-0bac-5f37-8e82-d728999a8a7d)Chapter Thirteen (#ufb0a7631-fabb-5c40-b578-622e0c874c4e)Chapter Fourteen (#ud7f09e10-d01e-5f2e-8cfa-83c514c8e666)Chapter Fifteen (#u7ec0834a-8acb-529c-b22a-2384222c915a)Chapter Sixteen (#ubb163d69-3dd8-5165-9f8b-6f5fee10ff89)Chapter Seventeen (#uc572bd92-5c99-5f51-b883-769d3b025e33)Chapter Eighteen (#ua759d162-4c18-5d24-ae0f-4686a95ef74f)Chapter Nineteen (#uf35cae59-f444-59cc-8512-82e735835130)Chapter Twenty (#u66fd1eed-4005-5a6b-8dac-01d8cc96328f)Chapter Twenty One (#u2664b874-a3ff-53bd-b853-fa2f60379f11)Chapter Twenty Two (#u94b1c19d-c35d-5ad2-be80-cf4cf88ae9d7)Chapter Twenty Three (#udb7389f2-1b5f-57d2-8ffe-bbbdc8cf81f8)Chapter Twenty Four (#ua81cf468-99ea-5665-a12b-48baef44f7a8)Chapter Twenty Five (#u6c914197-a776-53d2-9217-741c950a4cb2)Chapter Twenty Six (#u6025c8a8-e1cc-574d-be56-29acf7372a86)Chapter Twenty Seven (#uc31ff64a-de1b-529f-af02-b2624e36fbbe)Chapter Twenty Eight (#ue4869095-2699-5798-9246-e471d7779630)Chapter Twenty Nine (#u62de3dd9-d8ef-50f9-91f9-3e206594cae6)Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixty Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixty Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixty Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixty Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventy (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventy One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventy Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventy Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventy Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventy Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventy Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventy Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventy Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventy Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighty Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighty Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighty Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighty Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

1 (#uc2f878fe-b6cf-5fe5-b702-b8b39062d1aa)

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 (#uc2f878fe-b6cf-5fe5-b702-b8b39062d1aa)

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:

‘Bravo, Sylvia! Do it again, both legs together this time!’

That’s how it usually turns out, but not tonight. I am alone and I won’t be doing a show for anyone. I decide to go back up to my room.

The lounge door opens, letting in a patch of bright light. I jump.

‘Ah, you’re here, Sylvia! You came. Is it only me? Come over here, Peter! Sylvia’s going to do her show, just for us.’

I nod slowly, minimally. I can’t refuse, can’t say no to ‘Uncle’ Hans. I’m already wearing my performance outfit – the short wool skirt and a slightly faded pink T-shirt matched to my tights.

Peter is still wearing his apron. He’s the sous-chef. He has a red, puffy face and large, deep-set, glittering eyes. ‘Uncle’ Hans always wears the same grey suit, unironed and too short, revealing spotless white socks. His face is round. His hair is greasy and plastered back. I can’t tell the length of ‘Uncle’ Hans’s hair. Is it long, under all the Brylcreem? As long as the hair concealed in severe buns which in the rooms at night cascades free and soft right down the backs of the women I sometimes glimpse?

‘Come on then! Start! We’ve no time to lose, sweetheart!’

‘Uncle’ Hans turns on a table lamp so he can see me better. I get on my bike and go round once in their silence, I don’t want any music. I stretch out a leg, not looking at them. I can feel their gaze. Settled on my body like a boil. It bothers me and makes me feel tired but I carry on, neither sad nor happy, I will not stop. I twirl around, I’m an acrobat, an agile cat, a beautiful lady. I pedal around the bar. ‘Uncle’ Hans puts out a hand each time I pass, trying to catch me as if I were a fairground attraction. I skid a little but regain control. One more and I’ll stop, I’ve decided. That will be it for tonight.

‘Uncle’ Hans has stood up. And Peter. They’re suddenly in front of me, blocking my circular route. They wedge my front wheel with their feet, grab my shoulders and put a hand over my mouth. I don’t cry out. I knew it. Peter pulls my hands behind my back, takes a forgotten napkin from a table and ties them together, pulling hard, wanting me to wince but I won’t. I stand motionless, waiting. I want to see ‘Uncle’ Hans’s hair come loose, to feel his sticky hands soaked with fear. Let him sweat his desire over me, exposing himself as no one knows him. I want the boil to burst. I’m waiting.

‘Uncle’ Hans sticks out his thick, blotchy, pinky-brown tongue, waggling it like a hissing snake. He takes hold of my face – smaller than his hands – tilts it, and leans over so that his tongue can reach every part of my skin. He is slobbering, licking me slowly from neck to temple, from bottom to top, then starting again. His tongue is a thick, hot body, with a hard, pushing tip, so close but so foreign, so unknown. I don’t move. I leave my hands knotted in the napkin, leave my face to be smeared with his saliva, let him do it.

‘What’s going on here?’ shrieks Aunt Alice as she comes into the lounge.