Butterflies in Heat

by Darwin Porter

  "I don't believe you." Ralph said smugly. "You're mad at me all of a sudden."

  "I'm not mad at you. It's just I'm always meeting guys like you. I'd better get back to Tortuga." A tougher, more familiar shell was encasing Numie. He smiled sardonically. "For an appointment with a queen."

  "I didn't know you had anything left," Ralph said. "Wasn't I sufficient?"

  "You were terrific. This date's with a different type queen."

  Chapter Four

  Pearl Street was the dividing line between the western and eastern halves of Tortuga. Pearl Street was also the dividing line between the two ways of life: The rich and poor. Unlike most towns, the island didn't have a middle-class section to separate the two extremes. Most of the houses Numie passed on his way to Leonora's were boarded up for the summer. Deserted by the wintering wealthy, they were a sad and neglected lot on this hot, sticky afternoon.

  His pace quickened, as sacre-Coeur rose like a jagged mountain of volcano out of the sea. It stood on the edge of a short canal. Like a gaudy, many layered birthday cake, it glistened with Easter egg colors. The house was high and square, with open grillwork. At least a dozen staircases twisted outside, their steps leading to towers and balconies.

  Numie was stunned. Tropical vegetation was going to devour the house. It looked as if nothing were ever cut—not even weeds.

  After crossing through the garden, he walked up a layer of tiled steps to a massive carved oak door. It was wide open. Going inside, he entered a square central hall, three stories high, rising to the roof and exposing the balconies on the second and third floors.

  In the center of the hall stood a fountain of four cherubs. One spat water from its mouth. Another dripped water through a horn of plenty. The third played a leaking flute. And a fourth, like the famous statue in Brussels, passed water in nature's more conventional way.

  Numie pivoted at the sound of footsteps.

  Anne stood there silently. In the afternoon sun, she looked more beautiful somehow. Her soft brown hair was closely cropped, and she gave off a clean fragrance. Barefoot, she wore nothing but shorts and a blouse which effectively showed off her trim, creamy body. Under thin dark brows, her green eyes seemed to see too much At first, she didn't speak. Finally, she said, "So, you finally showed up. I bet Leonora last night you'd split."

  "Goes to show what a poor judge of character you are."

  "No, my statement still stands. Only my timing was off. Come on in and have a seat in the patio."

  Trailing her, he was shown to a wrought-iron chair.

  "Let me fix you a drink," she said.

  "No thanks—not at this time of day."

  "I'm going to have a beer." Opening a refrigerator behind the bar, she took out a bottle. "Sure you won't join me?"

  "You've persuaded me."

  Handing him the beer, she paused. Those penetrating green eyes were staring at the watch on his wrist. Awkwardly, he tried to conceal it. She backed away from his chair. "I see you've met my husband."

  "You know." Silently he cursed his stupidity for wearing it. "The watch?"

  "Yes, it was my anniversary gift to him."

  "You asking for it back?"

  "I couldn't stand to touch it," she said, turning away. " I f you don't mind my being personal, why did he give you the watch? He usually pays cash."

  "He was short, I guess." Acute embarrassment overcame him and he wasn't a man to embarrass easily.

  "Probably got rolled earlier in the night," she said. "He loves rough trade."

  The beer was cooling his body. He leaned back in his chair, feeling the danger of an explosive confrontation was over. "When it happened, I can't pretend to you I didn't know he was your husband. I did know." He paused. "I saw the two of you outside the bar last night."

  "If you saw that, then, it'd be foolish for me to pretend that Ralph and I have anything approaching a marriage—so let's drop the subject."

  "I didn't mean to come between you."

  "You already have, but I'm not blaming you. You're what you said you were, a hustler. You didn't pretend. But I know that if there's a hustler floating around town, he's bound to meet Ralph sooner or later. I'm surprised it happened so soon—that's all."

  After a long silence, he asked, "Do you work for Leonora—or are you just a friend?"

  "Leonora has no friends—other than professional ones. I'm sort of a secretary."

  "Are you on duty now?"

  "Yes."

  "What does she want with me?" Another long pause. "Sex?"

  "Don't flatter yourself. Besides, you've got the wrong equipment. She's got to be with somebody new all the time. She's starved for an audience, having exhausted everybody in town. You're different. She'll want to amuse herself with you for a while."

  "Like a cat with a mouse?

  "Call it what you like. You're broke, Said so yourself and hustling is rough in this town. My husband is the best-paying customer you'll find, and he wants it only once. Or did you know that?'

  "He spelled it out."

  "Leonora will make it worth your while—whatever she wants from you. What do you have to lose?"

  "Was she serious? I mean, about offering the job?"

  "Perhaps, she needs help. She fires left and right. Blood transfusions are always sought after."

  "I could be her chauffeur. I noticed you didn't have one last night."

  "She had this Cuban, but she called him day and night. He was a family man and couldn't take her demands. He quit last week."

  "When am I going to see her?"

  "She knows you're here. Her bedroom overlooks the patio, and she sees everything going on. She believes in keeping her callers waiting for a respectable time. But you must never keep her waiting. She's probably had time to reach her study by now. Come this way."

  He followed her to a set of French doors. Anne rapped lightly, then turned the knob. She smiled at him before walking away.

  "Show the young man in," came a voice from the far side of the room.

  The study was actually a picture gallery. Its walls were covered with photographs of Leonora in the gowns of the thirties and forties. Other framed photographs—some quite large—adorned every table and the entire mantel. They were overshadowed by paintings of the designer in many of her originals.

  Red-velvet draperies kept out the late morning sun. And two cutout brass globe lamps with bulbs enclosed in pink cellophane cast a soft, forgiving light.

  Leonora sat in a five-foot-high, Venetian sedan chair on a tufted upholstered seat of red silk. She never crossed her long legs, but planted them solidly on the floor. Most of her face was in shadow. All Numie could see clearly was her outfit: blue, aqua, and violet Turkish pants, with a matching, loosely fitting blouse. She was smoking a pastel-colored cigarette from a carved ivory holder.

  At this moment, Leonora was not thinking of Numie. She had become acutely aware of the smallness of Sacre-Coeur. Granted, it was the largest house on the island, but diminutive compared to many of the private palaces and manors of Europe to which she had been invited in her life.

  She needed a large stage, and the walls of Sacre-Coeur were growing smaller, threatening to enclose her on a tiny island within an island. She was a tall and elegant woman, and she needed the space in which to be, to create her own theater of life.

  Suddenly, she was struck by the presence of a guest. At first, she had forgotten she'd invited him. What possible purpose on this troubling day did she have talking to this young drifter? Still, he was here; and, if nothing else, Leonora de la Mer, that old lioness of the sea herself, was a lady.

  "Sit down, dear heart," she said, motioning to a big gilt armchair ten feet away from her.

  The chair smelled musty to Numie. Its gilt had cracked from the dampness of the air. He sat in it, anyway—until she extended her bare hand. He got up and walked across the floor to kiss it, remembering the night before.

  Her knuckles were enormous. They protruded as if trying to break free of
her green-tinged, chalky hands. The hands seemed to weigh down her cadaverous arms.

  As Numie's lips touched her hand, Leonora smiled benignly. Many people on this island made fun of her for insisting on hand-kissing. After all, they asked, why should a common shrimper's daughter insist on having her hand kissed? But crowned princes, deposed kings, certainly prime ministers, had kissed her hand on occasion. When she returned to Tortuga, she did not know why she should abandon the custom. Besides, she considered her hands one of her most attractive features, and she welcomed any opportunity to call attention to them.

  "Thanks for having me here," Numie said. "How are you?"

  "Fine." She studied him coldly. What possible interest could he have in her health? "Are you really a friend of Tangerine's?"

  "Yeah," he said. "She seemed nice."

  Leonora frowned. "If you like Tangerine, then you like the typically southern woman—the hog-calling, knees-apart, big-mouthed broad!"

  "Wha ... "

  Leonora was mildly shocked at her own words. Sometimes her tongue assumed a life of its own. But having said the words, she was in no mood to retract them. It would be better to defend her statement. "Don't apologize for your lack of taste."

  "I assure you, I'm not."

  "I keep Tangerine around because she is a constant reminder of the gross vulgarity of the world," Leonora said.

  "Do you need to be reminded of that?"

  "A good question, and very penetrating. I find hustlers usually are dumb."

  "I don't pretend to be smart," he said. "If I was, I wouldn't be a hustler."

  "I see." She paused for dramatic effect. "Some of the young people Tangerine introduces me to don't bother to show up." She felt the time was at hand for her to appear more vulnerable to Numie. To reveal in some small way that she didn't control everything on this island. "But I knew you'd visit Sacre-Coeur."

  "It's great," he said. "Besides, you promised me a job."

  She was struck by his abruptness. At least, he was honest. Of all the excuses he could have come up with, including a suggestion he was dazzled by her beauty, he preferred this direct route. "I promised you a job?"

  "You need a new chauffeur."

  "As a matter of fact, I do. But I think you're far too ambitious to settle for a chauffeur's job."

  "I don't mind starting at the bottom and working my way to the top," he said.

  She smiled. "That's my philosophy, too," she agreed.

  "But it's been so long since I've seen bottom, I can hardly remember what it was like." She knew all too well what bottom was like. Every morning at four o'clock was bottom to her. But she didn't want to admit that.

  "I felt pretty low last night when I was invited to your table and wasn't asked to stick around for the champagne. You knew I was broke."

  "I knew," she said. Learning to eat and drink before the impecunious was a task she'd long ago mastered. "I must have appeared cruel to you. I'm not, actually. I am probably the kindest woman on this island, but I have to protect myself. If I befriend just one person, the floodgates would open. Every drifter who comes to town would know me for an easy mark."

  "I didn't know that."

  "It's true." She settled back in her chair. Her voice was sounding desperate, even to herself. "When I first came back here, I was besieged by people wanting favors, usually money. You can't cast your gems before beggars on the street. I've had to pretend they don't exist. Otherwise, my philanthropic instincts would take over and destroy me."

  "I hope you can help me get started."

  "Why should I?" she asked. She was suddenly feeling pressure from him, and was sorry she'd ever invited him here. "No one ever helped me get anything ... ever."

  "Because I need help."

  "What could you possibly offer me in exchange?" she asked.

  "Companionship."

  "That is condescending."

  "I didn't mean it that way."

  "I'm not embarrassed to be lonely." There, she'd said it and felt better for it. To be really strong, one had to admit certain weaknesses.

  "I'm not either," he said quickly, "and I've been lonely all my life."

  She eyed him as if he were a rock just fallen from the sky. The subject was dangerous, and she'd have to change it quickly. 'Why don't you move closer to the light? It does interesting things to your face."

  "No one ever told me that."

  "Your face is a mask," she went on. "Masks always reveal more than they hide. It's as if you had taken your face, gone out and exposed it to the wind. The wind blew too hard and stung you. So, you rushed back and found the mask."

  "Don't we all do that?"

  "Of course," she said. "But the mask won't keep the wind from biting you again."

  "No," he said, "but it'll help. I'd feel really naked without it. " He shifted in the armchair, crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. "Do you mind if I have one of your cigarettes? Marijuana, isn't it?"

  She moved her hand through the air like a swan lifting its wing. "Yes, it is," she said. "Take one of the blue ones. Blue is your color."

  He laughed. "You don't know me well enough to know my color."

  "You're wrong! I know you very well. Most of the night I spent thinking about you." An obvious lie, she knew, but she liked the sound of the words.

  He inhaled the smoke. Choking, he put the cigarette down. "You were a surprise when I met you. Totally out of place in this rundown town. When you arrive on the scene, people sit up and take notice."

  "That wasn't always so," she said, her interest rising.

  "I mean, you're really stunning looking." He was saying this not only because he believed it; but because he knew she wanted to hear it.

  "I wasn't always," she said. "When I was just a girl, braces covered my teeth, and, worse, I started to grow tall and gangly."

  "You certainly turned your tallness into an asset," he said. "Tall women are just great."

  "But children, especially one Ruthie Elvina, used to make fun of me. They even called me 'the ugly duckling'."

  "They called me a lot of things, too, but that's gone now."

  "Not for me it isn't. I still haven't forgiven them."

  "But you became glamorous," he said. "What does it matter now what some kids thought a long time ago?"

  "Showing them, especially Ruthie Elvina, what I really was has been one of the most important goals of my life. I knew I would one day rise above them. Even then, I knew."

  "So, you got back at them." He wanted to change the subject, but there was a sudden fierceness and determination in her eyes. He knew she wouldn't let go.

  "I knew," she said, raising her voice. "That's why I was able to take their abuse. That doesn't mean I didn't have my heart broken time and time again. Now my poor heart has so many scars I can't feel with it sometimes. I want to. But a lifetime of betrayals has left me immune."

  "Is that why you can't accept me?"

  "I want to. You intrigue me. But I'm afraid of you at the same time. You're a self-admitted hustler. I know you're out to get something from me."

  "Whatever I take from people, I give them something in return."

  "I wish I could believe that. Are you really interested in me?"

  "Yes, I am. I think you're one of the most fascinating women I've ever seen."

  His words set her off, her head spinning—almost in reverie. He was right. She was fascinating! She chose a role, and became that role. She showed the women of America what they could do with themselves creatively. To do that, she had to don many costumes. Her clothes were in demand—by everybody. She was now fully caught up, remembering, barely aware of Numie. Whatever she had felt, she became. Why, once she dressed up like a man and walked down Fifth Avenue. Of course, she created a scandal. She had created scandals all her life. But she wasn't rejected. She was in her power then. Women all over America adopted her styles. Never had she followed other styles or conventions. She had set them. Leaning forward, she looked full face at Numie—blinking
her wild, almond eyes. "If I am fascinating, as you say I am, it's because I went out in the world to make my wildest dreams come true. Whatever I wanted, I reached out and tried to capture. Many times I came up empty-handed, but I never stopped reaching." She crushed out her cigarette, shifted her position, and reached for a bamboo fan.

  He blended his fingers together, then cracked his knuckles.

  "An irritating habit you have."

  "Forgive me," he said.

  She emerged from the darkness just enough for the light to capture the outline of her face. Her violet lipstick glowed in the shadows. "Am I grotesque to you?"

  "Not at all."

  "You're lying—that's good. Never tell the truth to anyone—just to yourself. Of course, you consider me a freak, unfairly, but I know what you're thinking. You're not bright enough to distinguish me from that show at Commodore Philip's bar."

  "I don't think I understand."

  "That awful drag creature who calls herself Lola La Mour, a cheap imitation of my own name. You obviously have had more experience around garbage than around ladies."

  Too bad you feel that way." He couldn't comprehend this sudden attack. "If I've not behaved right, I'm sorry."

  "And well you should be." She didn't know why she was attacking him. An impulse. Perhaps she was afraid of him as she was afraid of all strangers. "I must warn you" I'm not rushing into any relationship with you, chauffeur or whatever. We'll meet again in a few days ... perhaps. By then, your manners may have improved. Good day." Her disappearance from the study left a lingering trail of intoxicating perfume.

  He paused. Then he picked up one of her blue marijuana cigarettes and put it in his pocket.

  The sounds of a typewriter led him to a downstairs office, off the parlor. Behind a desk, Anne was answering a letter.

  "I'm afraid I struck out with the boss lady," he said, standing at the doorway.

  She looked up. "That's very predictable. She likes to test people. See how much abuse they can take. If she attacks without provocation, and sees that you don't fight back, then she knows you're material for her stable."